Tales of Royalty: Notions of Kingship in Visual and Textual Narration in the Ancient Near East 9781501506895, 9781501515552

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Tales of Royalty

Tales of Royalty

Notions of Kingship in Visual and Textual Narration in the Ancient Near East Edited by Elisabeth Wagner-Durand and Julia Linke

ISBN 978-1-5015-1555-2 e-ISBN (PDF) 978-1-5015-0689-5 e-ISBN (EPUB) 978-1-5015-0685-7 Library of Congress Control Number: 2020933125 Bibliografic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliografic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2020 Walter de Gruyter Inc., Boston/Berlin Printing and binding: CPI books GmbH, Leck www.degruyter.com

Acknowledgments All discussions, both those we had envisioned and those that actually took place, were only possible because of the acceptance of our workshop for the 61st Rencontre in Bern (and Geneva). We’d like to thank the organizers for accepting our proposal and for providing both the space and place for our meeting and our lively exchange of ideas. Our special thanks go to Sabine Ecklin, who was open to our scheduling needs and provided us with any help needed. Our warm thanks also go to Mirko Novák and Susanne Rutishauser, who made us feel very welcome at their conference venue in Bern. We would also like to thank Marlies Heinz (Vorderasiatische Archäologie, University of Freiburg) as well as Lars Börner, Wolfgang Leitmeyer, and Alexander Schubert (all Historisches Museum der Pfalz, Speyer) for providing us with the organizational and scholarly freedom to organize and to attend our workshop. That is by no means natural and thus very much appreciated from our side. Any workshop is kept together by those who participate in it. Hence, we would like to sincerely thank the speakers: Claus Ambos, Nicole Brisch, Barbara Couturaud, and Carlos Langa Morales; the respondents: Dominik Bonatz, Marlies Heinz, and Frauke Weiershäuser; and the chairs: Cory Crawford, Natalie N. May, and Davide Nadali. All of them have been more than willing to engage with our theme and provided interesting insights, productively contributed to the discussions, and simply brought life to the subject matter. As it was an open workshop, we were delighted that many other RAI participants took part in it and contributed constructively to the discussions. It is not possible to name all of them here, but we would like to especially thank Irene J. Winter and Frances Pinnock for taking such a lively, interesting, and productive part in all discussions.

https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501506895-001

Table of Contents Part I: Introduction Elisabeth Wagner-Durand, Julia Linke Bound by Stories?! Narration as a Strategy of Royal Legitimation: An Introduction 3

Part II: The Righteous Guided King: Tales of the Wise, the Pious, and the Lawful One Elisabeth Wagner-Durand “Pious Shepherd” and “Guardian of Truth”: In Search of the Narrative 19 Visualization of the Kings’ Piety and Righteousness Nicole Brisch The Literate King Reconsidered: Self-representation, Wisdom, 49 and Learnedness Frauke Weiershäuser Response: Das Narrativ vom guten König

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Part III: Tell Me How to Live – Narrating Royal Building Activities in the Ancient Near East Julia Linke Building, Arts, and Politics: Narrative Elements in the Depiction of “Building Kings” 77 Claus Ambos Narratives of Building Activities as an Element of Royal Legitimation Marlies Heinz Response 101

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Part IV: Warrior Tales: The Royal Hero in the Ancient Near East Barbara Couturaud Kings or Soldiers? Representations of Fighting Heroes at the End of the Early Bronze Age 109 Carlos Langa-Morales Der Feldzugsbericht in Šū-Sîns Königsinschriften im Vergleich zu Verwaltungsurkunden: Die Grenze zwischen Erzählung und Geschichte im Rahmen der Königsdarstellung 139 Dominik Bonatz Response: Two Tales of Royalty, Or the Intermediality of Image and Text in 155 the Third millennium BCE

Part V: Case Studies Herbert Niehr Strategies of Legitimation of the Aramaean Kings in Ancient Syria: Three 165 Case Studies on Damascus, Hamath and Yādiya/Samʾal Natalie N. May “The True Image of the God…:” Adoration of the King’s Image, Assyrian Imperial Cult and Territorial Control 185

Part VI: Categories and Concepts: Legitimacy and Narration Put to Test Seth Richardson Down with “Legitimacy”: On “Validity” and Narrative in Royal Tales

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Elisabeth Wagner-Durand Narratology: Selected Terms and Concepts with a Focus on the Ancient Near East 261

Table of Contents

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Part VII: Conclusion Elisabeth Wagner-Durand, Julia Linke Why Study “Narration” in Ancient Near Eastern Archaeology and Assyriology? – Potentials and Limitations 289 List of Contributors Indices

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Part I: Introduction

Elisabeth Wagner-Durand, Julia Linke

Bound by Stories?! Narration as a Strategy of Royal Legitimation: An Introduction Preface

Narration clearly represents a phenomenon of transcultural and transmedial significance. Therefore, storytelling can be perceived as some kind of anthropological constant comprehensible in most cultures, both modern and ancient. Thus, the question arises whether narratives, both visual and textual, may have been used to create and legitimate royal authority in the Ancient Near East. Ancient Near Eastern studies have been concerned with very different media. Some of them may have potentially served to legitimize kingship, and others most certainly have been extensively used to do so. Thus, while their political usage seems beyond doubt, we focus on one specific potential quality of both media; namely, whether these media took the form of narratives to fulfill specific aims of royal legitimation. Cultural scholars may agree on the fact that narratives constitute fundamental components in the production, negotiation, communication, and storage of social meaning and identity,¹ but we still have to explore whether this also applies to the specific matter of royal legitimation.

Approaching Royal Narratives and their Legitimating Qualities Without question, narration and narrative are buzzwords that have received scholarly attention from a wide range of disciplines both in recent years and during the last decades. For this reason, one has to ensure that any new research on narratives becomes not l’art pour l’art but a productive venture revealing that the subjects of narration and narrative are matters of immediate interest also in Ancient Near Eastern Studies. While issues of legitimation somehow need no further justification for scholarly research, narratives require a little more illustrative attention. Momentarily neglecting the difference between factual and

 Wagner-Durand, Fath, and Heinemann, oral communication: “Introduction,” given to the conference: Image. Narration. Context – Visual Narratives in Old World Cultures and Societies, held in Freiburg, March 2015. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501506895-002

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fictional storytelling and the subject of literariness, one can superficially state that narratives have a strong impact on the memorability of the events told. This is often enhanced by special aspects of certain narratives such as the inherent suspense and the transmitted emotions: These qualities implant the story told and the implicit meta-narrative ² (for example the king’s legitimation or validation) in the recipients’ minds. The narratologist Marie-Laure Ryan wrote that narratives are about several issues that may not be included in the definition but are still valid. These include, among others, issues of “problem solving,” “conflict,” “human experience,” and “the temporality of existence.”³ It is therefore no wonder that stories have certain effects on the recipients, effects that might explain if and which stories may have been created and used for different purposes, in our case, for the purpose of royal legitimation. Interested in the matters of royal legitimating narratives, we planned the workshop Tales of Royalty: Notions of Kingship in Visual and Textual Narration in the Ancient Near East, held during the 61th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale in Bern (and Geneva). In this vein, we first intended to link two different spheres: the world of visual culture(s) and the institution of kingship, each represented by one of the two organizers whose fields of research seemed to be wide apart but nevertheless were closely connected. Therefore, the workshop aimed to merge two broad and known scholarly issues: royal legitimation strategies that have been the focus of research since the first days of Ancient Near Eastern studies and visual narration which – once again – has become increasingly important in our research. Very quickly, however, we realized that written narratives complemented the visual ones, encouraging a holistic approach to the subject matter, which led to both the title and the final form the workshop took (see below). This joint venture had both the risk of turning into a huge failure and – at the same time – the worthwhile opportunity to create new and productive insights. By linking our interests into one combined subject related to a specific but broad set of questions, we hope to have started a lively discussion concerning the matter of royal narratives. By combining those issues with one common set of questions and by searching for corresponding aspects, we trust that new insights may be revealed. While we, as the organizers of the workshop, aimed to open new debates and horizons for ourselves and for all active as well as passive participants, the matter of royal narratives in the Ancient Near East, especially in Mesopota We do not refer to the term meta-narrative in the sense of the grand récits as it is used according to Jean-François Lyotard (1992). The meta-narratives we refer to, however, can form or be part of these legitimizing overarching explanations of the world and world order.  Ryan 2007, 24.

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mia, has been dealt with by several scholars. Potential written narratives have formed the subject of many philological studies on Ancient Near Eastern textual sources, mainly of so-called literature, including debated text types such as epics and myths. In many cases, however, the question of what exactly constitutes a narrative seems not to be discussed (as is the case with many, but not all studies on Mesopotamian visual culture). Similarly, Mesopotamian kingship and royal legitimation have been extensively discussed in the scholarly literature,⁴ including sociological treatments on power, authority, and leadership. Many of these scholarly treatments of kingship and written narratives will be cited in the papers presented here. Thus, we refrain from any further mention of them here. Visual narratives of the Ancient Near East and beyond were the subject of a conference held in 1955, whose contributions have been published in the American Journal of Archaeology,⁵ forming one of the bases of contributions to the matter of visual storytelling.⁶ Looking at early visual representations of authorities, Zainab Bahrani connected the performative power of the Uruk Vase with narration and representation.⁷ Claudia Suter’s approach to the same object also led us to the potential beginning of both institutionalized rulership and of visual narratives,⁸ depending on which defining aspects⁹ are applied to them. Davide Nadali has drawn upon the question of narratives in the visual world of Mesopotamia several times.¹⁰ Recently, he argued that the rise of visual narratives is connected to the emergence or consolidation of royal powers in the third millennium BCE.¹¹ Fittingly, Irene J. Winter has also considered the narrative qualities and representational powers of the so-called Stela of the Vultures, one of the best known but surely also of the most complicated objects of third millennium BCE visual culture.¹² Much attention has been drawn to Neo-Assyrian art in respect to narrative visual culture and kingship.¹³ Needless to say, Ju-

 E. g. Cancik-Kischbaum 1995; Gundlach and Weber 1992; Linke 2015; Maul 1999; Panitschek 2008; Porter 2005; Lanfranchi and Rollinger 2010; Larsen 1979; Selz 1998; Sigrist 2004.  Cf., e. g., Kraeling 1957; Güterbock 1957; Perkins 1957; Hanfmann 1957; and Weitzmann 1957.  Earlier, Henri Frankfort had considered narrative art in his famous book on Art and Architure of the Ancient Orient. Frankfort 1954.  Bahrani 2002.  Suter 2014.  On the question of what defines a narrative, see below and the papers presented, as well as the discussion.  Cf., e. g., Nadali 2006.  Nadali 2019.  Winter 1985.  For an analysis of the narrative potential of the White Obelisk as a Middle-Assyrian predecessor of the Neo-Assyrian reliefs see Pittmann 1996.

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lian E. Reade’s thorough considerations of Neo-Assyrian orthostat reliefs always considered both narrative qualities of visual culture and kingship.¹⁴ Therefore, he also more or less explicitly touched upon the question of royal legitimation.¹⁵ Winter has also greatly contributed to the field of Neo-Assyrian visual narratives and royal legitimation, giving written and visual sources equal weight.¹⁶ Chikako Watanabe has conducted very thorough ananylses of narrative modes in royal Assyrian Art.¹⁷ At the very same conference during which Nadali gave his talk on the power of narratives, one of the organizers of this workshop took a deeper look at potential narratives of the Neo-Assyrian royal hunts, taking into consideration their impact on royal legitimation.¹⁸ Apparently, the individual issues and some of their combinations are all but new, but their explicit association and this holistic approach promises further insights into the subject of narration¹⁹ and why some matters are told while others are not. During the planning of of the workshop as well as during the presentation of the papers and the accompanying discussion many questions came up, like: Are some legitimating aspects of Ancient Near Eastern kingship bound by or in stories? And if the power of narration, mentioned above, was used to legitimate kingship, which aspects of kingship were chosen and which media were used to convey the corresponding stories? As will be shown, there is no single answer to these questions, but we hope to have found some deeper insights into these matters.

The Issue of Narration and Narrative Of both core terms, narration is surely the one that needs the most attention.²⁰ One of the oldest attempts by literary scholars and linguists to define what a “story” is and what a “plot” is stems from the author Edward M. Forster well known from his novels such as Howard’s End and A Room with a View. Interestingly, his example specifically deals with royalty: Forster understood the sen-

 Cf., e. g., Reade 1979a.  Cf. also Reade 1979b.  Cf., e. g., Winter 2010.  Cf., e. g., Watanabe 2004; Watanabe 2008; and Watanabe 2014.  Wagner-Durand 2019.  Karen Sonik announced a “larger study on the relationship between visual art and written narrative in Mesopotamia.” Sonik 2014, 266.  For a challenge of this assumption see Richardson, this volume, esp. 245 – 249.

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tence “The king died and then the queen died” as a story, which was enhanced to a plot by explicit causality in saying “the king died, and then the queen died out of grief.”²¹ Gérard Genette, the structural narratologist, later even stated that “the king died” – which implies a course of events: the king lived, the king died, the king is dead, plus additional implications – may be enough to be called a story.²² One will not be surprised by the fact that these minimal definitions have been subject to highly controversial discussions, many of which focus on textual encounters, leaving out any other media that may be potentially narrative.²³ Marvelling at the world of narratology the reader gets exposed to an almost unmanageable quantity and range of attempts to define narrative. Marie-Laure Ryan has succeeded in giving a broad and insightful survey of these attemps²⁴ of which those of Forster and Genette have been cited above and will be cited in some of the papers following. Both Ryan’s own so-called “fuzzy-set” definition²⁵ as well as her detailed, but already outdated, account of definitions illustrated that there is no shared understanding in what a narrative defines. Thus, it is neither asthonishing nor objectionable that there is no agreement in this volume or beyond. Yet, defining narrative is not about being restrictive in terms of forms and of what constitutes a narrative but about creating a mutual language to communicate on this subject matter.

Working Definition Provided Therefore, in order to create common ground for the participants of this workshop, we started with José A. García Landa‘s and Susana Onega Jaén’s definition of narrative. This definition states: A narrative is the semiotic representation of a series of events meaningfully connected in a temporal and causal way. Films, plays, comic strips, novels, newsreels, diaries, chronicles and treatises of geological history are all narratives in the wider sense. Narratives can therefore be constructed using an ample variety of semiotic media: written or spoken language,

 Forster 1927, 82– 83.  Genette 1983, 15, 18 – 19.  For further definitions, such as those of Paul Ricoeur, Gerald Prince Abbot, and Peter Brooks, see Ryan 2007. See also Wagner-Durand,this volume (“Narration”).  Ryan 2007, 23.  Ryan 2007, 29 – 30; see also Linke, this volume, 78; and Wagner-Durand and Linke, this volume (Why Study “Narration”?), 293.

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visual images, gestures and acting, as well as combination of these…Therefore we can speak of many kinds of narrative texts: linguistic, theatrical, pictorial, filmic.²⁶

For the purpose of a transmedial approach to “narrative,” this definition includes an amplitude of media that enables to integrate any kind of media with narrative potential. We stated a priori that there should be neither a decisive definition concerning either linguistic or visual classifications nor a universal idea of what a narrative constitutes, irrespective of the media used.²⁷ As such, some of the papers presented focused on the story told – that is on content – while others took a deeper look at grammar or at discourse. Some concentrated on the (questionable) narrative aspects, others on legitimating issues. What we were and are still looking for is not homogeneity and mutually exclusive agreement but an exchange of methodology and content.

The Topics Selected and the Approach Chosen Topics In order to generate specific and issue-oriented discussions, we broadly but also somewhat restrictively selected three main session topics; one panel was devoted to each. These topics do not constitute the only ideas of kingship and legitimation. Rather, they are subjectively selected topics that we personally relate to Mesopotamian kingship and that are frequently found in the scholarly discourse. These topics include “The Righteous Guided King: Tales of the Wise, the Pious and the Lawful One,” “Tell Me How to Live: Narrating Royal Building Activities in the Ancient Near East,” and last but not least “Warrior Tales: The Royal Hero Fighting the Evil in the Ancient Near East.” There is no doubt that legitimating strategies in the Ancient Near East go far beyond these three topoi.²⁸ During the preparation of the workshop we discussed many other aspects such as “the king and his family” and “the divine king.” We selected the named three topics due to the material that is available for analyses in context with narration. This is why we decided to restrict our workshop to “the king as a wise man/shepherd,” “the

 Onega Jaén and García Landa 1996, 3.  The discussion of defining narrative, especially visual narrative, was also an issue at the conference Image. Narration. Context – Visual Narratives in Old World Cultures and Societies, held in Freiburg, March 2015. During this conference, there was no consensus on what a visual narrative constitutes or on whether definitions are of any help at all.  Cf., e. g., Linke 2015, 65 – 105.

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king as a builder,” and “the king as a warrior.” We are very well aware that the borders between these aspects are all but clear and their separation is somewhat artificial. Nevertheless, we considered the chosen topics to be necessary for a structured approach and a focused discussion. We further refrained from imposing a local or temporal frame,²⁹ as we wanted to focus on the general motifs and aspects in connection to narration and royal legitimation beyond these limits to reach a broader idea of legitimation strategies via narrative elements in the Ancient Near East. In the course of the preparation of the workshop – due to the papers the speakers chose to present – more or less a local focus on Mesopotamia emerged unintentionally.

The Dual Approach To give equal weight to both texts and images, the workshop was based on a dual approach. With reference to certain narrative themes, both philological and archaeological material was presented. Those aspects selected by the organizers allow a consistent approach to and a mutual discussion of legitimizing narration. Every session consisted of two talks utilizing either a philological or an archaeological/iconographical approach as well as a response paper discussing these very approaches, methods, and the potential amount of new information we can acquire via these specific methodologies. The workshop ended in an open discussion of all issues raised throughout the three preceding panels. All those spheres were considered broadly by taking into account both a philological point of view as well as a mainly archaeologically or visually oriented one. Via this dual approach, we hope to gain diverse and complementary insights into the question of narratives of legitimation. Holding on to this dual approach, the following arrangement of the papers will be according to the order of the workshop. The discussions will not be entirely and of course not literally reproduced, but certain recurring questions and aspects will be revived, analyzed, and debated. The workshops’ contributions are thus only a selection of what came into the focus of our research when considering Tales of Royalty. To broaden the thematic array, we invited further scholars to contribute to this volume. Thankworthy, Natalie May, Herbert Niehr, and Seth Richardson have kindly agreed to broadly add

 Except for the exclusion of any prehistoric period, due to the general idea of comparing texts and images.

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to the issue of royal narratives by considering further methodological, hermeneutic, and epistemic issues, and by discussing not yet mentioned sources.

The Papers Presented, the Themes Selected, and the Approaches Chosen As explained above, every presenter was free to choose the material, the time frame, and the specific matter within the framework of the particular panel. This in turn led to a certain plurality of approaches, themes selected, and particularly views on narration and their meaningfulness with respect to royal legitimation.

The Righteous Guided King: Tales of the Wise, the Pious, and the Lawful One Elisabeth Wagner-Durand prefers to take a diachronic view to approach the issue of the pious king and its possible visual narration. By taking selected examples starting from the late fourth millennium BCE and deliberately ending with the Neo-Assyrian Empire’s visual culture, she aims at retracing potential recurring themes in the visual narratives of the pious, wise, and righteous king. Applying a comparably narrow definition of visual narratives, Wagner-Durand critically investigates the narrative quality of some well-known Mesopotamian images relating to the ruler as pious, wise, and righteous. Nicole Brisch takes a differentiating look at the topos of the kings’ literatacy. In this respect, she turns to the aspect of royal “literacy” that does not per se belong to the realm of wisdom in respect to Mesopotamian kingship. Thus, she investigates the reasons why some kings’ abilities of writing eclectically got into the focus of royal narrative sources from the Ur III period to Neo-Babylonian times.

Tell Me How to Live: Narrating Royal Building Activities in the Ancient Near East Julia Linke focuses on the depiction of the building kings, namely on the king carrying a basket with mud-bricks that is found in the third millennium BCE and undergoes some kind of renaissance in Neo-Assyrian times. This depiction mostly occurs on figurines that are – according to the definition provided by Linke – not narrative. Still, on the Urnanše-plaque, two scenes can be found –

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one of them including the “building king” – that are connected and refer to a storyline of temple building that reoccurs in the related inscriptions and therefore can be judged as narrative – although they are not explicit. Claus Ambos concentrates on royal duties taken over by non-royal individuals, focusing on the Neo-Babylonian period. Thus, he approaches possible narratives of deeds that primarily should have been fulfilled by the ruling authority but were taken over by non-royal agents enhancing their own reputation and saving or dishonouring the kingdom’s integrity with respect to building and restorations tasks.

Warrior Tales: The Royal Hero in the Ancient Near East Barbara Couturaud’s theme is the visual representation of warriors in the third millennium BCE. She separates her paper into the pre-Akkadian and the Akkadian period. Although war and fights are major duties of the king, the visual image of the fighting hero is not restricted to royal figures before the Akkadian empire – often the king does not even appear on the images, a phenomenon that, according to Couturaud, also depends on the media used. With the new form of rulership that emerges with the kingdom of Akkad, the only fighting hero left is the king himself. Carlos Langa Morales investigates the inscriptions of the Ur III dynasty, namely Šū-Sîn’s campaign inscriptions in comparison to the administrative documents and Grenzziehungsinschriften during the reign of this king. By this comparative approach, he reveals the propagandistic aspects of the campaign inscriptions as well as the extent of their historical truth. The papers presented during the initial workshop had been discussed in response papers given by Frauke Weiershäuser, Marlies Heinz, and Dominik Bonatz. They all raised new questions, gave new insights, stimulated broad discussions, and prompted new research topics.

Case Studies To broaden the perspective by more detailed case studies, we decided to invite two colleagues who had been working on questions of kingship and legitimation in the past. Herbert Niehr deals with written sources from three Aramaean kingdoms of first millennium BCE Syria, namely Damascus, Hamath, and Yādiya/ Samʾal, that inform us about legitimation strategies. Niehr reminds us that nar-

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ratives might very well be the subconscious expressions of distinct wold views. The royal inscriptions of his study realm often enage in very specific topoi: the ideal king, the enemy, the account of a battle, the rightious war, the miraculous deliverance from a siege, and inferior past as well as superior present. Due to the scarcity of royal inscriptions, Niehr also takes a look at the royal names to get insights in royal legitimation strategies. Thus, he argues that the theophoric elements in these royal names hint towards a divine sonship of the kings. The royal inscriptions illustrate the divine interference to kingship as the kings in question regularly state that a god has elected them to kingship. Natalie May argues for the existence of a royal cult in the Neo-Assyrian period, presupposing that in periods of imperial expansion royal legitimation is especially needed and might very well be expressed by worshiping a mortal ruler. According to May, this can be detected by the adoration of the king’s image in Neo-Assyrian times. Although the depictions on royal stelae (ṣalam šarri / šarrūtija) of the kings are technically not narrative, they can allude to a narrative as they represent one scene part of or related to a well-known narration. In addition, certain texts that are not narrative in themselves can create an allusion to a broader verbal narration and therefore “provoke” narrative in a viewer or reader.

Categories and Concepts: Legitimacy and Narration Put to Test A very welcome and valuable addition has been made by Seth Richardson who rightly questions and discusses the application of the term legimation / legitimacy in respect to ancient Mesopotamia and its kings. Richardson entangels “tales of royalty” with validity, instead of legitimacy, by enlightening the relation between the readers’ expectances and his narrative inclusion into the events of a more or less distant past as examples of the “empathic bond” that may have been established “between audience and authority.” The author also evocates another recursive link between narrative and authority: Narratives do not only validate authorities, they also form “mental templates for the reception of authorative accounts.” He also stresses the importance of re-iteration and re-evocation of those tales as transformative force that shaped power into authority. In her essayistic paper on narratological terms and concepts, Elisabeth Wagner-Durand seeks to reintroduce some of the more recent terms and debates in narratological research to the studies of the Ancient Near East. She selects special terms and their associated concepts to illustrate the potential of a joint venture between narratological agendas and material as well as written sources of past cultures. In vein of the workshop’s dual approach, Wagner-Durand especial-

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ly zooms in on issues of mediality and stresses the assumption that narratives can be mediated by material media beyond texts and images.

Bibliography Bahrani, Zainab. 2002. “Performativity and the Image: Narrative, Representation, and the Uruk Vase.” In Leaving no Stones Unturned. Essays on the Ancient Near East and Egypt in Honor of Donald P. Hansen, edited by Erica Ehrenberg, 15 – 22. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. Cancik-Kischbaum, Eva. 1995. “Konzeption und Legitimation von Herrschaft in neuassyrischer Zeit. Mythos und Ritual in VS 24,92.” Die Welt des Orients 26: 5 – 20. Forster, Edward M. 1927. Aspects of the Novel. London: Edward Arnold. Frankfort, Henri. 1954. The Art and Architecture of the Ancient Orient. Pelican History of Art 7. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Genette, Gérard. 1983: Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method. Ithaca, NY: Cornell Univ. Press. Gundlach, Rolf and Herman Weber, eds. 1992. Legitimation und Funktion des Herrschers. Vom Ägyptischen Pharao zum neuzeitlichen Diktator. Stuttgart: Steiner. Güterbock, Hans, G. 1957. “Narration in Anatolian, Syrian, and Assyrian Art.” American Journal of Archaeology 61: 62 – 71. Hanfmann, George M. 1957. “Narration in Greek Art.” American Journal of Archaeology 61: 71 – 78. Kraeling, Carl H. 1957. “Introduction.” American Journal of Archaeology 61: 43. Lanfranchi, Giovanni B. and Robert Rollinger, eds. 2010. Concepts of Kingship in Antiquity. Proceedings of the European Science Foundation Exploratory Workshop held in Padova, November 28th – December 1st, 2007. Padova: Sargon. Larsen, Mogens Trolle, ed. 1979. Power and Propaganda. – A Symposium on Ancient Empires held at Univ. of Copenhagen, 19th–21th Sept., 1977. Mesopotamia 7. Kopenhagen: Akad. Forl. Linke, Julia. 2015. Das Charisma der Könige. Zur Konzeption des altorientalischen Königtums im Hinblick auf Urartu. Phillipika 84. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Lyotard, Jean-François. 1992. The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge. Theory and History of Literature 10. Manchester: University Press of Manchester. Maul, Stefan M. 1999. “Der assyrische König. Hüter der Weltordnung.” In Priests and Officials in the Ancient Near East, edited by Kazuko Watanabe, 201 – 214. Heidelberg: Winter. Nadali, Davide. 2006. Percezione dello spazio scansione del tempo: studio della composizione narrativa del rilievo assiro di VII secolo a.C.. Contributi e Materiali di Archeologia Orientale XII. Rome. Nadali, Davide. 2019. “The Power of Narrative Pictures in Ancient Mesopotamia.” In Image. Narration. Context – Visual Narratives in Old World Cultures and Societies, edited by Elisabeth Wagner-Durand, Barbara Fath, and Alexander Heinemann, 63 – 80. Freiburger Studien zur Archäologie und Visuellen Kultur 1. Heidelberg: Propyleum. Onega Jaén, Susana and José Angel García Landa. 1996. Narratology. An Introduction. London et al.: Longman.

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Panitschek, Peter, ed. 2008. LUGAL – šarru – βασιλεύς. Formen der Monarchie im Alten Vorderasien von der Uruk-Zeit bis zum Hellenismus. Teil 1: Von der Uruk-Zeit bis Ur III. Grazer Altertumskundliche Studien. Frankfurt: Lang. Perkins, Ann. 1957. “Narration in Babylonian Art.” American Journal of Archaeology 61: 54 – 62. Pittman, Holly. 1996. “The White Obelisk and the Problem of Historical Narrative in the Art of Assyria.” Art Bulletin 78 (2): 334 – 355. Porter, Barbara. 2005. Ritual and Politics in Ancient Mesopotamia. American Oriental Series 88. New Haven, Conn.: American Oriental Society. Reade, John E. 1979a, “Narrative Composition in Assyrian Sculpture.” Bagdader Mitteilungen 10: 52 – 110. Reade, John E. 1979b. “Ideology and Propaganda in Assyrian Art.” In Power and Propaganda. – A Symposium on Ancient Empires Held at Univ. of Copenhagen, 19th–21th Sept., 1977, edited by Mogens Trolle Larsen, 329 – 344. Mesopotamia 7. Kopenhagen: Akad. Forl. Selz, Gebhard. 1998. “Über mesopotamische Herrschaftskonzepte. Zu den Ursprüngen mesopotamischer Herrscherideologie im 3. Jahrtausend.” In Dubsar anta-men : Studien zur Altorientalistik; Festschrift für Willem H. Ph. Römer zur Vollendung seines 70. Lebensjahres, edited by Manfred Dietrich and Oswald Loretz, 281 – 344. Münster: Ugarit Verlag. Sigrist, Christian, ed. 2004. “Macht und Herrschaft.” Veröffentlichungen des Arbeitskreises zur Erforschung der Religions- und Kulturgeschichte des Antiken Vorderen Orients und des Sonderforschungsbereichs 5; Alter Orient und Altes Testament 493. Münster: Ugarit Verlag. Sonik, Karen. 2014. “Pictorial Mythology and Narrative in the Ancient Near East.” In Critical Approaches to Ancient Near Eastern Art, edited by Brian Brown and Marian Feldman, 265 – 294. Boston: de Gruyter. Suter, Claudia. 2014. “Human, Divine or Both? The Uruk Vase and the Problem of Ambiguity in Early Mesopotamian Visual Arts.” In Critical Approaches to Ancient Near Eastern Art, edited by Brian Brown and Marian Feldman, 545 – 568. Boston: de Gruyter. Wagner-Durand, Elisabeth. 2019. “Narration. Description. Reality: The Royal Lion Hunt in Assyria.” In Image. Narration. Context -Visual Narratives in Old World Cultures and Societies, edited by Elisabeth Wagner-Durand, Barbara Fath, and Alexander Heinemann, 235 – 272. Freiburger Studien zur Archäologie und Visuellen Kultur 1, Heidelberg: Propyleum. Watanabe, Chikako E. 2004. “The ‘Continuous Style’ in the Narrative Scheme of Assurbanipal’s Reliefs” Iraq 66: 103 – 114. Watanabe, Chikako, E. 2008. “The Classification of Methods of Pictorial Narrative in Assurbanipal’s Reliefs” In Proceedings of the 51st Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale Held at the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, July 18 – 22, 2005. Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilizations 62, edited by Robert D. Biggs, Jenny Myers, and Martha T. Roth, 321 – 331. Chicago: The Oriental Institute. Watanabe, Chikako E. 2014. “Styles of Pictorial Narratives in Assurbanipal’s Reliefs.” In Critical Approaches to Ancient Near Eastern Art, edited by Brian Brown and Marian Feldman, 345 – 368. Boston: de Gruyter. Weitzmann, Kurt. 1957. “Narration in Early Christian and Byzantine Art.” American Journal of Archaeology 61: 83 – 91.

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Winter, Irene J. 1985. “After the Battle is Over: The Stele of the Vultures and the Beginning of the Historical Narrative in the Art of the Ancient Near East,” In Pictorial Narrative in Antiquity and the Middle Ages. Studies in the History or Art 16, edited by Herbert L. Kessler and Marianna Shreve, 11 – 32. Washington: National Gallery of Art. Winter, Irene J. 2010. “Royal Rhetoric and The Development of Historical Narrative In Neo-Assyrian Reliefs.” In On Art in the Ancient Near East. Volume I: Of the First Millenium BCE. Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 34.1, edited by Irene J. Winter, 1 – 70. Leiden/Boston: Brill.

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“Pious Shepherd” and “Guardian of Truth”: In Search of the Narrative Visualization of the Kings’ Piety and Righteousness How sweet is the shepherd’s sweet lot! From the morn to the evening he strays; He shall follow his sheep all the day, And his tongue shall be filled with praise. For he hears the lambs’ innocent call, And he hears the ewes’ tender reply; He is watchful while they are in peace, For they know when their shepherd is nigh. William Blake (1757 – 1827), The Shepherd

Storytelling by images – namely, visual narratives – are an intriguing feature adopted by very diverse cultures with diverse social forms and structures throughout different periods.¹ Beyond the not yet definitively answered question of what constitutes a visual narrative and how to strictly define this,² we also do not know exactly which stories were visualized as narrative images and which were not. Thus, several issues will be addressed here: first, the definition of visual narrative applied in this paper; second, the specific topoi I am looking for in possible narrative imagery; and finally, the imagery itself. By doing so, I will explore the messages that narrative and non-narrative images were meant to communicate in respect to the subject of the pious king. I will further distinguish between the ontological status of both modes of images, making a case for their different lifeworldly conceptions as powerful, omnipresent, and active agents (non-narrative) on the one hand and as potent, yet spatially and timely bound (hi)stories (narrative) on the other hand.

 In title, shortened form from “guardian of truth who loves justice”: Novotny 2012, e. g. no. 3, 4 and 8.  Definitions and a discussion will be provided later. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501506895-003

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Theoretical assumptions I: Definitions What constitutes a visual narrative is far from common sense, even in linguistics and literary studies, fields that have been deeply concerned with these questions.³ Although the linguistic definition of José Angel García Landa and Susanna Onega Jaén, also given in the introductory note, embraces both a wide range of media and the narratologically important matters of sequence and causality, it does not quite pinpoint the specific narrative quality of non-moving imagery:⁴ A narrative is the semiotic representation of a series of events meaningfully connected in a temporal and causal way. Films, plays, comic strips, novels, newsreels, diaries, chronicles and treatises of geological history are all narratives in the wider sense. Narratives can therefore be constructed using an ample variety of semiotic media: written or spoken language, visual images, gestures and acting, as well as combination of these…Therefore, we can speak of many kinds of narrative texts: linguistic, theatrical, pictorial, filmic.⁵

Based on further observations and several definitions provided from visual and textual studies,⁶ I will present my own definition of visual narratives.⁷ This def-

 See, e. g., Stanzel 1982; Ryan 2004; Fludernik 2008; Schmid 2008; Klein and Martínez 2009; Genette 2010; Fludernik 2010; Olson 2011; Martínez and Scheffel 2012.  For visual culture studies concerning narratives, both ancient and modern, see, among others, Güterbock 1957; Chatman 1978; Reade 1979; Winter 1981 (= Winter 2010); Brilliant 1984; Dehejia 1990; Karpf 1994; Dehejia 1997; Jäger 1998; Stansbury-O’Donnell 1999; Giuliani 2001; Giuliani 2003; Nadali 2006; Kemp 1989; Scheuermann 2005/2009; Cohn et al. 2014, Watanabe 2014; Sonik 2014; Wagner-Durand, Fath, and Heinemann 2019.  Onega Jaén and García Landa 1996, 3.  For definitions, both visual and linguistic, see, e. g., the definition given above Jaén and Landa 1996, 3; “(1) Narrative must be about a world populated by individuated existent… (2) This world must be situated in time and undergo significant transformations. (3) The transformations must be caused by non-habitual physical events… (4) Some of the participants in the events must be intelligent agents who have a mental life and react emotionally to the states of the world. (5) Some of the events must be purposeful actions by these agents… (6) The sequence of events must form a unified causal chain and lead to closure. (7) The occurrence of at least some of the events must be asserted as fact for the storyworld. (8) The story must communicate something meaningful to the audience…” (Ryan 2007, 29 – 30); “We can broadly define a pictorial narrative as a picture of an action that leads to a change in the situation of the participants” (Stansbury-O’Donnell 2015, 212); for Luca Giuliani’s definition see below (Giuliani 2003, 36); “… narrative art, strictly speaking, could be identified as such only where the purpose of the artist was to represent a specific event, involving specific persons, an event, moreover, that was sufficiently noteworthy to deserve recording. The action and the persons might be historical but would not always necessarily be so. They might belong also to the realm of myth or legend” (Kraeling 1957, 43); “While ‘story’ is a major component in narrative, the terms are not synony-

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inition puts a heavy emphasis on the narrative quality of the visual content. That by no means suggests that other images may not refer to or imply stories; they simply do not tell the story by themselves. I consider their narrative quality as being referential, but not as narrative in and of itself. This differentiation emphasizes the degree of narrativity of the story-communicating medium; it does not target the existence of a plot (either in other media or in the observer’s mind). Thus, my definition is as follows: A visual narrative is the visual representation of a series of events belonging to one causally related story which is – either completely or in parts – told by several iconic sign representations referring to different events, irrespective of the precise narrative structure applied. Furthermore, the story is bound to a particular time and/or space.

My definition differs from that of Luca Giuliani,⁸ in particular with regard to his understanding of visual narratives. He somehow dismisses the idea of narrative qualities of images as such,⁹ stating that a narrative image does not narrate but refers to a given narrative with specific persons and events. If the image does not

mous. Story evokes content. Narrative, however, demands that one address oneself at the same time to both content and structure… Narrative, then, is structured content, ordered by the ‘telling’ which is a necessary condition of the form” (Winter 2010, 3).  This constitutes a revised definition of the so-called true narrative provided by the author at the 8th ICAANE and revised again due to the conference Image. Narration. Context – Visual Narratives in Old World Cultures and Societies, held in Freiburg, March 2015. Cf. Wagner-Durand 2019 and Wagner-Durand 2016.  Giuliani 2003, 36. “Als Narrative werden wir eine Darstellung… bezeichnen, wenn in ihr handelnde Subjekte als Protagonisten auftreten und den Gang der Ereignisse bestimmen; die Ereignisfolge muss auf plausible Weise begrenzt sein durch einen Anfang und ein Ende; notwendiger Bestandteil des Anfangs ist ein Spanungsmoment, das die Handlung auslöst und am Laufen hält, zum Ende gehört umgekehrt, die – glückliche oder unglückliche – Auflösung der Spannung.” In Giuliani‘s opinion, narratives are causally limited visual representations with active and decisive protagonists, consisting of an initial momentum of tension as well as of closure. The description, in contrast, releases no tension and raises no questions: “Die Beschreibung erweckt beim Rezipienten keine Erwartungen und versetzt ihn auch nicht in einen Zustand der Spannung: Sie beschränkt sich darauf, das vor Augen zu führen, was in der Welt – im Großen oder im Kleinen – der Fall ist, ohne Anlass zu geben für Fragen, warum etwas geschieht oder was es zur Folge haben wird” (Giuliani 2003, 36). The dichotomy between descriptive and narrative focuses on special qualities of images but is not distinct from and does not cover all modes images may take. For example, images may also constitute factualizing images – in Wulf’s terminology, magic presences (German Magische Präsenzen: Wulf 2004) – losing their representing character. Wagner-Durand 2014; Wagner-Durand 2019; Wagner-Durand 2015.  Giuliani also emphasized this again in the conference Image. Narration. Context – Visual Narratives in Old World Cultures and Societies, held in Freiburg, March 2015.

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refer to specific stories, Giuliani uses the mode of description, a term that can also be found with Wolf Schmid in literary studies.¹⁰ This in turn is challenged by Matías Martínez’ and Christian Klein’s notion of so-called Wirklichkeitserzählungen, narratives of reality, which can be descriptive.¹¹ Whether an image of more generic character depicting events that are not specific in time and place, not discernible as such, or polysemous should better be classified as descriptive, depends on one’s definition.¹² Restrictive definitions such as the one provided here may not generally omit alleged descriptive images but only referential ones such as both monoscenic¹³ and culminating pictures.¹⁴ The following sections will discuss whether the images selected both constitute visual narratives and address the looked-for topoi.

Theoretical Assumptions II: The Topoi While it seems quite easy to look for images with narrative qualities in the visual world of Mesopotamia, identifying specific abstract topoi in the narrative imagery is much more challenging. Most importantly, what we are looking for in this volume are abstract concepts, which mostly are textually transmitted. How might these concepts and qualities – specifically royal piety, righteousness, and wisdom – have been visualized? And if they were present in images, do these images qualify as narratives? And do these narratives very specifically deal with the qualities of the wise, pious, and lawful king, including their appropriation, their defense, or their loss? Or do these concepts form some kind of visual background noise? Furthermore, the assumption is made that Mesopotamian kings derived their legitimation from the gods.¹⁵ Everything they did to keep the empire going, to keep their rule stable, or to keep their power expanding, added to their

 Schmid 2008, esp. 7– 9.  Klein and Martínez categorize Wirklichkeitserzählungen as temporally organized successions of events with reference to reality, dividable into the three categories: descriptive, normative, and projective. Klein and Martínez 2009, 6.  Focusing on the narrative quality of the image itself, those assumed descriptive images may still qualify as narratives in the sense given above. Schmid notes that narrative and descriptive text modes can be very difficult to separate. See Schmid 2008, 7– 8.  On different modes of potential visual narration, such as monoscenic images, see Dehejia 1990 and Dehejia 1997.  For the so-called “culmination” method/scene, see Perkins 1957, 55.  See, e. g., Selz 1998b; Cancik-Kirschbaum 1995; Novák 1999 and others. For an overview of the literature, see Linke 2015 (not covering Babylonia).

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piousness. In this broad view, everything told about what the king did, is intrinsically linked to his piousness. Since this approach would be too general to be useful, I will focus on those images considered to be mostly engaging with direct matters of royal law, piety, and wisdom. Without doubt, in periods and in societies in which those issues are intrinsically linked, the thematic and visual borders may blur until they are inseparable.

Whatever May Be Wise, Pious, and Righteous To come close to the abstract notions of piousness, wisdom, and righteousness, the use of cuneiform sources is mandatory.¹⁶ Written sources of any kind, many of them non-narrative, but others very elaborate stories,¹⁷ which are to be differentiated from discourses or sujets,¹⁸ broach the issue of the wise, the lawful , and the pious king. Those texts emphasize specific aspects or manifestations of piety, righteousness, and wisdom; some of these obviously recur in Mesopotamia’s history over millennia and constitute fundamental concepts of royalty. One of these topoi, or rather sub-topoi, concerns the king as the temple builder (Fig. 1).¹⁹

 While this may superficially strengthen the assumption that some concepts rely more on written source than others, I do follow Claudia Suter, who states: “Visual images do not simply illustrate, but transmit messages in their own right. They have their own discourse when they depict stories in parallel to a text” (Suter 2014, 547). Further on, she also correctly states: “To deny a relation between image and text throws us back into a situation, in which the interpretation of images is open to unrestrained speculation” (Suter 2014, 548).  For written references to the abstracta of royal wisdom, piety, and lawfulness, see below. Whether they are classified as narrative or non-narrative may also depend heavily on the classification of some texts (genres ) as narrative or not: many texts contain both descriptive and non-narrative sections. Some texts would also be best classified by the term of Wirklichkeitserzählungen (Klein and Martínez 2009, 6).  See, e. g., Winter 2010; Schmid 2008; Chatman 1978.  Examples of this topic in Mesopotamian visual and textual culture(s) throughout different periods are numerous. Images: e. g., the seated statue of Gudea Statue B (AO 2, Louvre) (Suter 2000, 328; Steible 1982: Gudea Statue B); the foundation figurine from Nippur showing UrNamma wearing the brick basket (OIM 30553) (Rashid 1983, fig, 122); the Stela of Ur-Namma (Penn Mus.) (Börker-Klähn 1982, no. 94); the stelae of Šamaš-šum-ukīn and Ashurbanipal from Borsippa (BM 90866/90865) (Börker-Klähn 1982, no. 226 – 225; Frame 1995, B.6.33.3 and 6.32.14. Notable is also a text mentioning a stela of Nabopolassar, where he is wearing the brick basket (Langdon 1912: Nabopolassar no. 1: Col. II v. a. 56, 62– 63). Texts: ESEM 393 (Steible 1982, 81: Urnanše 8); so-called date form D-30 (Gelb and Kienast 1990, 55), IM 77823 (Gelb and Kienast 1990, 81– 83: Naram-Sîn 1); e. g., Ur-Ningirsu votive plaque (YBC 2128) (Steible 1991, 127– 132: Ur-Ningirsu I.6; Luckenbill 1930: no. 44); the Ebabbar cylinder (BM 91140) (Schaudig 2001,

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Fig. 1: The king or the ruler as the builder. Detail of the plaque of Urnanše of Lagaš (Louvre AO 2344).

Since this highly important duty of the king is treated in a section of its own in this volume, it will be left out in this paper, with the awareness that it also relates to the king’s piety and wisdom. Other concepts faintly derive from the one of the pious ruler but are not closely related enough to be considered here. These are the king as the hunter (Fig. 2b)²⁰ and the king as the warrior and emperor (Fig. 2a);²¹ both are strongly linked to the king as the shepherd (Fig. 2c).²² Thus, we come down to several, often intrinsically linked sub-topoi. Those topoi can be taken broadly or broken down into more detailed sub-classifications. Following this preliminary classification, we basically meet the ruler,

no. 2.9). For an analysis, see also Waerzeggers 2011; for the relationship between house building and wisdom, see van Leeuwen 2010.  See Wagner-Durand 2019.  This constitutes the topos of a separate panel of the workshop and will not be considered here.  Selz 2001, 14: “Der Schutz vor den wilden Tieren verbindet sich dann mit dem Typus des Jägers – die Löwenjagd z. B. bleibt über Jahrtausende zentrales Herrscherritual.” Furthermore: “Den Schutz vor den feindlichen Bestien verbindet analoges Denken dann mit der Ideologie des Krieges, der Abwehr des Feindlichen insgesamt.”

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Fig. 2: The royal warrior, hunter, and shepherd: a) Slabs 5 – 4, room B, NW-palace, Kalḫu (BM 124549 – 48); b) the hunting stela of Uruk (National Museum Bagdad); c): modern impression of the seal PML 236 showing Etana, the royal shepherd flying with the eagle.

who is chosen and sometimes even given kingly attributes by the gods.²³ This is a topos that – as Irene J. Winter (has vividly shown for Gudeaand the Neo-Assyrian kings²⁴ – clearly finds its reflection in the visual world; whether these images have distinct narrative qualities is debatable. Furthermore, there is the faithful or pious king:²⁵ a sub-topos that refers to the king as the praying man, the ruler in communication with the gods, which

 See, e. g., Grayson 1991, 147: A.0.99.2: Col. I 5 – 7. Cf. Winter 1997, 374: The king’s appearance may be given, altered resp. perfected by the gods. This example also shows that wisdom could be given by the gods.  Winter 1989; Winter 1997.  See, e. g., the elaborate “description” of Nabonidus at the very beginning of the so-called Ebabbar cylinder: “Nabonaid, der König von Babil, der verlässliche Mann, der auf den Bescheid der Götter achtgibt, der Demütige, der Unterwürfige, der die großen Götter fürchtet, der weise

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I will separate artificially from the next topos – the king as part of rituals, and mainly in Assyria, also as a priest.²⁶ Finally, there is the ruler “giving”²⁷ and protecting the law.²⁸

Visual Culture through Time: A Diachronic Selection The evidence is both meager and numerous: numerous because many images may potentially deal with matters of royal righteousness, wisdom, and piousness and meager because their narrative quality seems quite limited. Thus, we’ll concentrate on selected media, moving diachronically through the history of Mesopotamia’s visual world, starting with the famous Uruk Vase and ending with Neo-Assyrian images. Such a diachronic approach both provides opportunities and has disadvantages. The diachronic view can be somewhat superficial and suggests possible homogeneities that might be due to the selections used. Nevertheless, it also gives us the opportunity to discover and follow central themes diachronically, emphasizing peculiarities of Mesopotamia’s cultures throughout time.

The Fourth Millennium: The Uruk Vase There are few objects of Mesopotamian visual culture that received as much attention as the Uruk vase(s). The footed alabaster vessel, excavated in level III of the Eanna precinct during the 1930s (W 14873) , is to be dated sometime before

Fürst, der, was es auch sei, versteht, der erhabene Stadtfürst, der erneuert alle Kultstätte, der was es auch sei, versteht, der erhabene Stadtfürst, der erneuert alle Kultstätte, der tatkräftige Herrscher, der die Heiligtümer vollkommen, die Regelopfer üppig macht, der Hirte der die zahlreichen Menschen, der Gerechtigkeit liebt, Wahrheit gründet…” (simplified translation based on Schaudig 2001, 391: no. 2.9).  For the priestly office of Neo-Assyrian kings see, e. g., Tadmor and Yamada 2011. Tiglath-pileser III, 53: 27, or Leichty 2011, 108: Ash 48: line 22; for the king as priest of Anu in the Sargonic period, see, e. g., Frayne 1993, 10: E.2.1.1.1: line 7, or 13: E. 2.1.1.2: line 7. There is no doubt about the difference between Babylonia and Assyria with respect to kingship and its relationship to priesthood. Cf. Waerzeggers 2011, 734.  No better example can be mentioned than the Codex Hammurabi, but the ruler “giving” and enforcing the law by virtue of the gods is also known from older codices and similar texts.  For an example, see the so-called Ebabbar cylinder quoted above.

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(or around) 3000 BCE.²⁹ The vase, now hosted in the Archaeological Museum in Bagdad, Iraq (IM19060), reaches a height of almost one meter and is divided into several zones: the undecorated foot and the cylindrical body, which is paneled into three larger registers³⁰ and the straight, yet stepped rim. Edith Porada once considered the vase (Fig. 3 – 4) as “history’s first narrative presentation.”³¹ Denise Schmandt-Besserat called it a “sequential narrative.”³² Zainab Bahrani understood it as referring to a performative narrative-spectacle.³³ Kathleen McCaffrey called it a “continuous narrative.”³⁴ Claudia Suter recently called the vase “the most extended visual narrative of its time.”³⁵ Narrativity, however, – as Winter once stated³⁶ – is a quality strongly dependent on both content and structure.³⁷ In this vein, Kathleen McCaffrey offered an interpretation focusing on the temporality and succession of events.³⁸ By recognizing the naked men as being the very same person, the ruler, fulfilling dif Cf. Lindemeyer and Martin 1993. The antique repair of the vase with the help of a metal wire in the upper register gives hint to the significance the vase once bore, and that is probably predates the surrounding layers of level III.  The author is refraining from giving an intensive description and a new interpretation of the Uruk Vase, both are enterprises that have been done extensively by many distinguished authors. The counting of registers is of course up to the interpretation of the author, differing from a single counting of the waters, fields, and husbandy. While the registers of water, fields, husbandry (1), and gift bringing (2) seem quite clear, the upper register (3) is much more open to discussion and interpretation. Suter (2014) very convincingly argued that that the female person is human and not divine, as is her counterpart, the man in the so-called net-skirt, whose image is unfortunately heavily broken. The whole setting in the back of the “lady” of unknown status is said to be part of the divine precinct, maybe the Eanna. For an overview of literature on the Uruk Vase, see most recently Suter 2014.  Porada 1995, 135.  Schmandt-Besserat 2007, 41.  Bahrani 2001, esp. 138 – 140; see also Bahrani 2002.  McCaffrey 2013, 238.  Suter 2014, e. g., 550, 555. She rightly denounces the permanent repetition of unproven but obviously well-accepted interpretations in Ancient Near Eastern archaeology.  Winter 2010, 3.  Narration is often assumed a priori, but is by no means always discussed or proven: Schmandt-Besserat (2007), e. g., defines neither the term sequential nor narrative. Looking at Vidja Dehejia’s often cited definitions (Dehejia 1990; Dehejia 1997) of visual narrative strategies in Buddhist Indian art, the so-called sequential narrative (first called linear narrative by Dehejia) contains several episodes of the story: the protagonist is repeated during these episodes in different frames in a linear order (cf. Brown 2001, 355). This seems not to be the case with the Uruk Vase, where the alleged protagonists are only found in the upper registers. Furthermore, it is questionable whether we observe any different frames of multiple episodes in the Uruk vase, since the registers may be due to the form rather than the content.  McCaffrey 2013, mainly 238.

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Fig. 3: The Uruk Vase (IM 19060).

ferent duties in a temporal succession, she understands the protagonist as repeated in different events. Although I am not following this interpretation, her account reveals her consideration of temporality, sequence, and even of spatial connections. As Claudia Suter does,³⁹ however, I reject McCaffrey’s and many others’ interpretation of the relief as the sacred marriage. Nonetheless, to reveal the distinct degree of narrativity, the surrounding content is of utmost importance.⁴⁰

 Arguing strongly and in great detail against this: Suter 2014, 554– 560, esp. 558 – 560.  Still partly escaping our understanding, the images’s narrativity is only touched upon tentatively.

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As stated before, a visual narrative needs several events. Although the Uruk Vase, as Suter wrote, constitutes an example of the “culminating scene”⁴¹ – that is, the monoscenic narrative image⁴² – it does not classify as narrative according to my definition (Fig. 4). While the use of registers tempts us to see narratives, there is no cogent reason to do so in the case of the Uruk Vase. Only one event can be clearly seen: the bringing of goods to a (most likely) holy precinct led by a ruler-like figure, received or watched by a woman (Fig. 4). Gebhard Selz has recently argued that the Uruk Vase may be narrative in the sense of a generic story about the world.⁴³ While I do not consider this imagery truly as a narrative, I would classify it as a description, even better as a factualization of how the world – both the heavenly and the earthly order – should be.⁴⁴ The ruler’s piety and wisdom lie in the completion of his duty by providing gifts for the gods,⁴⁵ the obligation for which humankind has been created; this is the reason why Suter calls him the provider.⁴⁶ Therefore, the Uruk Vase forms a normative description⁴⁷ of reality, in which the ruler is shown as intrinsically wise and pious.

The Third Millennium The visual imagery of the third millennium BCE is neither more understandable nor more easily readable. Among the diverse contemporary visual media, only a

 Suter 2000, 212. For the culminating scene in general, see Perkins 1957.  Dehejia 1990, 374: “…a single, easily identifiable scene…is presented to stimulate the viewer’s recognition of the story”; Brown 2001, 355.  Selz, during his talk “Erzählen jenseits von Sprache” during the conference Image. Narration. Context – Visual Narratives in Old World Cultures and Societies, held in Freiburg, March 2015. See Wagner-Durand, Fath and Heinemann 2019.  Referring to Selz’s notion that “jene sumerische Herrschaftsform, die die Rolle des Herrschers als die eines irdischen Repräsentanten der Götter konzipierte dessen Hauptaufgabe der funktionellen Einbindung in die sumerische Tempelwirtschaft unterlag,” Selz 1998a, 158.  “Along these lines, I see in the Uruk Vase first and foremost an image of Late Uruk economy, social hierarchy, and royal ideology, an image that expressed power relationships.” Suter 2014, 560.  Suter 2014, 560: “The Uruk Vase focuses on the provider aspect of the ruler. Due to his special relationship with the goddess, he brings about abundance and prosperity signified by the repetition of crops, livestock, and carriers of goods (Winter 2007).”  Since Klein’s and Martínez’ term Wirklichkeitserzählung has inherent in it the idea of narrative, the linguist Schmid’s term, description, may be better here.

Fig. 4: Dissolution of the registers into a non-temporal depiction.

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few can be commented on,⁴⁸ e. g., the so-called Beterstatuetten, the statues of worshipping individuals representing elite pious women and men, set up in the very presence of the gods to venerate them endlessly.⁴⁹ The image may be bound intrinsically to the pious individual, and in some cases even to the pious ruler, but they are by no means narrative. They are presences that perform actions, carrying out duties in front of the divinity. While the images clearly relate to faith, they do not narrate it. In this respect, they are related to the later statues of Gudea, which show so many features of – in Winter’s words – the chosen, the wise, and the able ruler.⁵⁰ While these statues might be talking objects,⁵¹ they do not strictly tell about the king’s wisdom, righteousness, and piety, since they are not narratives, based on the definition given here. Another complex group of objects consists of the so-called votive plaques.⁵² Since their forms and topoi are quite broad, ranging from temple-building and shipping to fighting and dancing, and from agricultural and pastoral activities to banquet scenes, and since many of them are still open to debate,⁵³ we’ll focus on selected aspects. One peculiarity has already been observed with regard to the Uruk Vase: The registers tempt us to perceive sequences and therefore a visualized narrative, but that might be deceiving. Some examples⁵⁴ suggest that we might also read these events as contemporaneous. This is the case with an Early Dynastic plaque found in the Sîn-temple of Khafajah (Fig. 5).⁵⁵ The square (20 x 20 cm) stone plaque, now hosted in the Oriental Institute Museum (OIM 12417), iconographically follows the tradition of the Diyala region and

 Other categories, mainly stelae, such as the Blau’sche Steine and the Stela of Ušumgal, are monoscenic, a kind of depiction I do not understand as narrative. Further, other media, such as the Stela of Urnanše and the plaque of Enḫeduanna are known. They are all of interest, but a discussion of these other categories is beyond the scope of this paper.  For intensive interpretations of such early dynastic stone statutes see Evans 2012. Evans, however, strongly argues for a more “dynamic view” on the statues, “taking into account the entire life cycle.” Evans 2012, 208.  Winter 1989.  For talking objects, cf. Hans Peter Hahn 2019. Hahn refers primarily to Daston 2004.  German Weihplatten. Interestingly, similar to the Early Dynastic statuary, and clearly demonstrating that the use of media was not limited to a particular social group, the plaques were not restricted to the ruler but were also used by the elite.  Oscar Kaelin, for example, has argued for an Egyptian model, understanding the plaques as related to the dead and their rites (Kaelin 2006, esp. 44); for older discussions see also Moortgat 1949; Moortgat 1982–1984; Boese 1971, esp. 12; Selz 1983.  For example, Boese 1971, CT2 (or AS2 or AG 1, or AG 2). Other plaques, however, do hint at a sequence.  Boese 1971, CS7, Pl. IX.

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Fig. 5: Early Dynastic plaque from Khafajah, Sîn-temple (OIM: A.12417. Rearrangement includes a further fragment to be found in Boese 1971, Taf. 9: K7.)

is to be dated into Early Dynastic period III(a).⁵⁶ It is formally subdivided into three registers, the lower one showing musicians, probably singers, and an agṓn-like sub-scene, the middle register depicts the bringing of gifts / food for the banquet, and the upper one actually visualized the protagonists of the banquet, most likely the male and female heads of the ruling family. In this case, all registers can also be understood as depicting one event, one banquet,⁵⁷ without

 See also: Evans 2014.  The exact purpose of the banquet and whether all scenes refer to the same event or rite remain debatable. (For a possible interpretation, see also note 53.) Looking at Morgan’s (2005, esp. 61– 64) considerations of human and divine visual encounters, one might tentatively classify these events as a communion with the divine. In a lifeworld in which the sacred and the profane are interconnected and in which the Sitz im Leben of these plaques is clearly the sacral sphere, a purely profane banquet seems unlikely. Since the plaques were found in temples, a purely profane meaning seems unlikely. Whatever is the message the Early Dynastic votive plaques should transport/convey, it may not be connected exclusively with the reign of one specific

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Fig. 6: Plaque of Urnanše of Lagaš (Louvre AO 2344).

any temporal succession. Yet, other examples hint at a sequence like the plaque of Urnanše of Lagaš, uncovered by Ernest de Sarzec in Tello in 1888 (Louvre AO 2344, Fig. 6).⁵⁸ More than double in the size (39 x 46,5 cm) than the OIM plaque, the limestone artefact represents the southern iconographic tradition of the region of Lagaš and Girsu. The monument itself is neither clearly conceptualized with nor without registers. We observe the ruler twice, in a shifted axially-symmetric position: wearing the brick-basket and holding a cup. Each time he is accompanied by standing, much smaller visualized members of his family. The inscription explains, among other things, that Urnanše built the Abzubanda and states that the ruler brought wood from foreign countries.⁵⁹ While the pious king as a temple builder is not our main concern here, the scene evokes an interesting dilemma: Either we observe the king fulfilling two royal duties, the temporal order ignored or irrelevant, or we witness a narrated story, subdivided into three events. First, the king obtains the building material; second, the king engages in the temple building; and third, all these efforts end in a ritual banquet

ruler. This reminds us of the still existing balance between the elite and the ruler that comes to an end in the following centuries.  Boese 1971, T4, pl. 29  Steible 1982, Urn 20 .

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Fig. 7: a) The Codex Hammurabi, detail (Louvre SB 8); b) the altar of Tukultī-Ninurta (VAM 8146).

or drinking. Thus, while we might state that many of the plaques relate to the rulers’ piety, their narrativity is much more difficult to determine. In case of the plaque of Urnanše, the textual and visual content possibly combine to produce a transmedia narrative.

The Second Millennium The second millennium BCE in Mesopotamia produced several images related to our main issues. Two selected images with an at least scenic character immediately come to my mind when thinking of the pious or lawful king. The first artifact is the Codex of Hammurabi (Fig. 7a).⁶⁰ The famous stele was found in Susa in the excavations of Jacques de Morgan in the early days of the 20th century. The object had arrived in Elam as booty of the Elamite conquerors and thus its place of erection in Babylonia remains subject to speculation. The 2.25 m high diorite stela, on display in the Louvre (SB 8), bears not only the

 For an overview of the Codex and its meaning, see Slanski 2012, for an introduction, see also André-Salvini 2008; for a profound discussion of the artifact’s iconography and iconology, see Elsen-Novák and Novák 2006.

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laws of Hammurabi, but also shows the seated god of justice, Šamaš, holding the ring and rod – at that time signs of divinity and righteousness,⁶¹ but probably formerly symbols of building activity, presented to the king, to whom is given law and legal surveillance. Thus, the former building device – canon in Greek, as used by Jan Assmann – became the symbol of norms and laws.⁶² Though Douglas van Buren objects that these are actually never given to the mortal king,⁶³ the sight of it and the king’s exposure to it might have been sufficient. The image itself refers to some kind of meta-narrative,⁶⁴ verbalized in the prologue written below: Hammurabi, the pious and righteous one, was destined by the gods to bring justice to mankind.⁶⁵ Although the prologue is narrative because it vividly tells the achievements of the king, the image is not; instead, it is the monoscenic depiction of one event that is somehow infinite. The king is righteous until eternity, which virtually prohibits narrativity, which would link the image to a particular time and place. The second example is the so-called altar of Tukultī-Ninurta I (VAM 8146, Fig. 7b),⁶⁶ which according to the inscription is dedicated to the god Nusku. The altar or cult pedestal was found reused in the brick flooring of room 6 of the Ištar-temple in Aššur (Ass. 19869)⁶⁷ and shows two men, most likely Tukultī-Ninurta I: one time standing and the other time kneeling in front of a monument with the exact same form than the alter itself. Both times he uses the ubana taraṣu gesture and holds a mace-head scepter in the other (right) hand. On the altar, an object is placed which has been object to scholarly debate several times, and most likely is to be identified with the tablet and stylus representing

 Slanski 2007.  Cf. Assmann’s discussion of the term canon: Assmann 2007, 103 – 129.  van Buren 1949. After van Buren’s discussion, the finding of the wall paintings in Mari has added to our knowledge. In the so-called investiture of Zimri-Lim (Parrot 1958), the king of Mari actually grasps ring and rod.  The term meta-narrative is not used in the (strict) sense of the grand récits according to JeanFrançois Lyotard (1992). Still, these meta-narratives can form part of these grand narratives that are also meant to explain and consolidate established world orders.  “…at that time, the gods Anu and Enlil, for the enhancement of the well-being of the people, named me by name: Hammurabi, the pious prince who venerates the gods, to make justice prevail in the land, to abolish the wicked one and the evil, to prevent the strong from oppressing the weak, to rise like the sun-god Šamaš over all humankind, to illuminate the land.” Roth 1995, 76 – 77.  For the inscription see Grayson 1987, 279 – 280; for a description and an analysis, see Bahrani 2003, 192– 202.  Herles 2006, 259.

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the god Nabû, and thus contradicting the votive inscription to the gods Nusku.⁶⁸ Since Zainab Bahrani has written extensively about the monument, only selected aspects will be considered here. It is piety that lies at the very heart of the scene: The king is in communication with and prayer to the divinity, probably Nabû, symbolically portrayed on the pedestal. Thus, the ruler reveals to the deity the appropriate place to appear among humankind. Narrativity seems to be found in the potential sequentiality: Either this image shows no sequence but two different kinds of communication with the divine, which both have to be conducted by the king and which are now to be seen for eternity,⁶⁹ or there is an actual sequence, where the king fulfills two duties, but in a temporal order. These events, however, may have been understood as eternally repeated without any boundary in time and place. Therefore, the image reveals no clear narrativity. Most modern observers are simply used to sequential visual storytelling, and so assume that there is a temporal sequence.

The First Millennium In the first millennium BCE there is no doubt that the Neo-Assyrian elite produced the most narrative imagery known from Mesopotamia. Besides the military campaigns and hunting scenes⁷⁰ – neither of which are discussed here – we know of scenes with debatable narrative qualities. I have previously argued⁷¹ that those images that show only one individual in communication with the gods (Fig. 8a–b, d)⁷² can be considered as non-narrative and universally valid “abbreviations” of more complete scenes revealing the individual in communication with the gods,⁷³ an observation that is also

 See Herles 2006.  Temporal laws might not be applicable to images and their perception.  For a discussion of the royal lion hunt with respect to its narrative potential, see Wagner-Durand 2019.  Wagner-Durand 2016.  Kurba’il-statue (IM 60497), Room NE50/Fort Shalmaneser/Kalḫu (Wilson 1962; Grayson 1996, 58 – 61: A.0.102.12); statue of Ashurnasirpal II (BM 118871), temple of Šarrat-Nipḫi/Kalḫu (Strommenger 1970, 13 – 14, Fig. 2, Pl. 1: An1; Grayson 1991, 305 – 306: A.0.101.39). Statues represent those examples that de facto show only the king. The statue itself could communicate with the gods, e. g., by physically being placed in front of the cult statue.  The gods visible in anthropomorphic form: see, e. g., Ḫinnis/Bavian: Börker-Klähn 1982: no. 206 – 207, no. 187; Bachmann 1927 (Reprint 1969), 5, 7– 13, Fig. 8 – 9, pl. 8 – 12; Maltai: Börker-Klähn 1982, 210 – 211: no. 209; the gods taking the form of divine symbols: see, e. g., Ashur-

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Fig. 8: The ruler communicating with the divine: a) Kurba’il-statue: Shalmaneser III in front of the (invisible) divine; b) Nimrud Monolith: Ashurnasirpal II in front of the divine (symbols); c) Nabonidus (Ḫarrān stela) in front of the divine (symbols); d) stela of Adad-guppi in front of the divine (statue).

valid for many later Neo-Babylonian images (Fig 7c).⁷⁴ While the overall topos of those images is surely connected to piety and the royal ability to communicate with the gods, they lack virtually any characteristics of being narrative by themselves. A devergency is to be seen in the Zincirli-type stelae (Fig. 9),⁷⁵ of which the best known is the one hosted in the Vorderasiatische Museum, Berlin. The basalt stela found in Zincirli is of considerable height (3.22 m) and width (1.35 m); its worn counterparts from Til Barsib are even larger (3.8 m and 3.3 m height). They all show several individuals: Esarhaddon himself and the much smaller depicted subordinates on the front side as well as his sons Šamaš-šum-ukin and Ashurbanipal on the narrow sides. A spatio-temporal link is demonstrated by the subdued ruler which in turn suggests a narrative or descriptive-narrative nasirpal II’s Nimrud Monolith (BM 118805) (Börker-Klähn 1982, 182: no. 136; Grayson 1991, 237– 254: A.0.101.17).  Cf. Wagner-Durand 2016; see there for Neo-Babylonian examples as well.  Zincirli stela (VA 2708) (Börker-Klähn 1982: no. 219); Til Barsib stelae (Aleppo NM 31+47) (Börker-Klähn 1982, 212– 213: no. 217– 218).

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Fig. 9: The Zincirli-stela of Esarhaddon with his sons and the defeated enemies (VAM 2708).

character, revealing a certain degree of scenic composition. Still, while the scene may be understood as the moment of closure, there is no series of events observable. The image’s placement on the spectrum from universal validity – referring to the king’s eternal power given by the venerated gods whom he is obeying by using the appa labānu-gesture⁷⁶ – to a historic event is to be debated. However, it exemplifies the tension in the visual world of Assyria during these centuries. All those images portray the king performing his obligations and relation to the gods, and thus belong to the realm of the pious and therefore wise ruler. The lack of narrativity seems to be due to the general validity that would be lost or

 For the appa labānu-gesture and its meaning, see Magen 1986, 55 – 65.

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Fig. 10: The ritual center scene (slab 23, BM 124531) of throne room B, arrangement of the slabs in the northern part of the throne room.

weakened by any temporal and spatial connection. Thus, they do not tell the story of the wise king; they visualize or represent it as a fact, existing in the world. Ritual scenes may seem like narratives at first glance, but they are not quite narrative. They should be separated into two subgroups: those scenes that can stand alone⁷⁷ and those connected to military⁷⁸ or hunting events;⁷⁹ the latter ones belong to the king as the war hero and the king as the hunter and are therefore intentionally excluded here. Some scenes like the throne room slab B23⁸⁰ of the Northwest Palace/Kalḫu (Fig. 10) exhibit a proportionally active character.

 E. g. Ashurnasirpal II’s orthostat slabs 7– 8/room G/Northwest palace/Kalḫu (MMA 32.143.4 +6) (Meuszyński 1981, 45, Pl. 8; Grayson 1991, 268 – 276: A.0.101.23); or Ashurnasirpal’s slap 23 in the throne-room B of the Northwest Palace/Kalḫu (BM 124561) (Meuszyński 1981, Pl. 1). Ritual scenes should not be defined based on the images of the individual, mainly the ruler, in communication with the gods that were mentioned first, which also possess an immanent ritualistic character.  E. g. the bronze door-band/Balawat (BM 124667) (Börker-Klähn 1982, no. 146).  E. g. relief orthostats from throne room B, Northwest palace/Kalḫu: Lion hunt in the upper register, libation poured on the lion in the lower register (BM 124534– 5) (Meuszyński 1981, 27 + pl. 1; Winter 2010, Fig. 4– 5; Magen 1986, Anp II, 12 + 15, Pl. 2.7+12.5; Gadd 1936, 133: 4 A–B; Schmidt-Colinet 2005, Fig. 9; Albenda 1972, Fig. 3, 9 – 13; Watanabe 2002, Fig. 9, Fig. 11).  Meuszyński 1981, 23.

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This slab, on display in the British Museum (BM 123531), shows the king twice, as does its “twin”-slap in the same room B13. The apparitions of the king are shown in front of a so-called tree of life, each time accompanied by a winged genie with bucket and cone. One tends to describe them as axial or better “rotational”⁸¹ symmetric at first glance. Yet, they are neither, since the gestures of the king do considerably differ.⁸² Chikako Watanabe⁸³ argued that we observe the king moving around the tree of life. During such a ritual movement, he could and should change his postures and gestures. At first glance, those scenes might be perceived as narrative but they actually represent rather standardized and repetitive ritual acts.⁸⁴ They are non-narrative, lacking “the specificity of time or place required for the truly historical narrative”⁸⁵ but visualizing the fulfilling of the royal šangutu-duty, discussed by Mehmet Ali Ataç.⁸⁶ The fulfillment of such a duty in turn is essential to the king’s wisdom and piousness.

Visual Narratives Classified Overall, it is piety that constitutes the most prominent concept among those visual narratives that seem to have been intended to legitimate the king.⁸⁷ Royal piety is related to royal wisdom, which has its requirements when to be portrayed in visual media. Righteousness, mainly in the sense of the lawful king, is attributed to the king throughout different periods in verbal forms and may also have been visualized once in a while, but it rarely constitutes the theme of a narrative in visual form. Some images can qualify as narratives of reality, yet their narrativity is often limited. Since piety was a quality the kings simply possessed – or at least should

 Watanabe 2014, 350 – 52, 362– 63. Contra: Selz 2018, 372.  Selz notes that the royal attire also changes. Selz 2018, 372. This view is not shared here.  Watanabe 2014 (s.a.) and 2004.  “Their protective and apotropaic function relies on their quality of being perpetual, factual as well as eternal, and therefore not on being narrative. Thus, they might have been perceived as magic presences.” Wagner-Durand 2016 and 2019.  Winter 2010, 11.  Ataç 2010, esp. 272– 275.  The summary only refers to the media and topics touched upon in this article. For example, cylinder seals with their special distribution, function, and usage and with the act of sealing itself that has a deep impact on possible narrative qualities have not been looked at. Because visual topoi such as the stories of Etana and Gilgamesh appear on seals, such seals might also reveal visual narratives concerning the wise and the pious ruler, the warrior, the shepherd, and so on.

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possess –, there was no intention to depict its approbation. If the kings did not dispose of any or sufficient piety, they wouldn’t have gotten as far as to be kings or would have failed as such.⁸⁸ Since royal wisdom, piety, and righteousness constitute qualities that should be ever present and eternal, it is hardly astonishing that those qualities were bound in non-narrative images. They were part of active images that virtually made these royal qualities omnipresent. Surely, tales communicated the virtues of the kings, whether real or not; still, there is an ontological difference between images that communicate as media of informative value or images that act as social agents in a network of active entities.

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 Concerning the possible failure attributed to a king by later generations, see also Waerzeggers 2011, 739 – 740. Surely in our context most are familiar with the so-called Strophengedicht (see Schaudig 2001, 563 – 578). For a similar interpretation with respect to the hunting king, see Wagner-Durand 2019.

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Lyotard, Jean-François. 1992. The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge. Theory and History of Literature 10. Manchester: University Press of Manchester. Magen, Ursula. 1986. Assyrische Königsdarstellungen, Aspekte der Herrschaft: Eine Typologie. Baghdader Forschungen 9. Mainz: von Zabern. Martínez, Matías, and Michael Scheffel. 2012. Einführung in die Erzähltheorie. 9., aktualisierte und überarb. Aufl. München: Beck. McCaffrey, Kathleen. 2013. “The Sumerian Sacred Marriage: Texts and Images.” In The Sumerian World, edited by Harriet Crawford, 227 – 245. London, New York: Routledge. Meuszyński, Janusz. 1981. Die Rekonstruktion der Reliefdarstellungen und ihrer Anordnung im Nordwestpalast von Kalḫu (Nimrūd): Räume: (B.C.D.E.F.G.H.L.N.P). With the assistance of S. M. Paley and R. P. Sobolewski. Baghdader Forschungen 2. Mainz: von Zabern. Moortgat, Anton. 1949. Tammuz. Der Unsterblichkeitsglaube in der altorientalischen Bildkunst. Berlin: de Gruyter. Moortgat, Anton. 1982 – 1984. Die Kunst des alten Mesopotamien. Überarb. Neuausg. DuMont-Dokumente Archäologie. Köln: DuMont. Morgan, David. 2005. The Sacred Gaze: Religious Visual Culture in Theory and Practice. Berkeley: University of California Press. Nadali, Davide. 2006. Percezione dello spazio scansione del tempo: studio della composizione narrativa del rilievo assiro di VII secolo a.C. Contributi e materiali di archeologia orientale XII. Rom: Universita` degli studi di Roma “La Sapienza.” Novák, Mirko. 1999. Herrschaftsform und Stadtbaukunst: Programmatik im mesopotamischen Residenzstadtbau von Agade bis Surra-man-ra’ā. Schriften zur Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 7. Saarbrücken: SDV. Novotny, Jamie R. 2012. The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704 – 681 BC). Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 3/1. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. Olson, Greta. 2011. Current Trends in Narratology. Narratologia. Contributions to Narrative Theory 27. Berlin: de Gruyter. Onega Jaén, Susana, and José Angel García Landa. 1996. Narratology: An Introduction. London, New York: Longman. Parrot, André. 1958. Mission archéologique de Mari II. Le Palais – Peintures Murales. Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 69, Paris: Geuthner. Perkins, Ann. 1957. “Narration in Babylonian Art.” American Journal of Archaeology 61 (1): 54 – 62. Porada, Edith. 1948. Corpus of Ancient Near Eastern Seals in North American Collections: Vol 1: The Collection of the Pierpont Morgan Library. Washington: Pantheon Books. Porada, Edith. 1995. Man and Images in the Ancient Near East. Wakefield, R.I., Emeryville, CA: Moyer Bell. Rashid, Subhi Anwar. 1983. Gründungsfiguren im Iraq. Prähistorische Bronzefunde. Abteilung I Bd. 2. München: Beck. Reade, Julian Edgeworth. 1979. “Narrative Composition in Assyrian Sculpture.” Baghdader Mitteilungen 10: 52 – 110. Roth, Martha Tobi. 1995. Law Collections from Mesopotamia and Asia Minor. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Ryan, Marie-Laure, ed. 2004. Narrative Across Media: The Languages of Storytelling. Frontiers of Narrative. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press.

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Ryan, Marie-Laure. 2007. “Toward a Definition of Narrative.” In The Cambridge Companion to Narrative, edited by David Herman, 22 – 35. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schaudig, Hanspeter. 2001. Die Inschriften Nabonids von Babylon und Kyros’ des Grossen samt den in ihrem Umfeld entstandenen Tendenzschriften: Textausgabe und Grammatik. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 256. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Scheuermann, Barbara. 2005/2009. Erzählstrategien in der zeitgenössischen Kunst: Narrativität in Werken von William Kentridge und Tracey Emin. Onlineausgabe: https://dnb.info/99666601X/34. Köln: Universität. Schmandt-Besserat, Denise. 2007. When Writing Met Art: From Symbol to Story. Austin: University of Texas Press. Schmid, Wolf. 2008. Elemente der Narratologie. 2., verb. Auflage. Berlin/New York: de Gruyter. Schmidt-Colinet, Constanze. 2005. “König und Nachfolger – Zu den Löwenjagd-Reliefs aus Raum S des Nordpalastes in Ninive und nocheinmal zur Bankettszene Assurbanipals.” Mesopotamia 40: 31 – 79. Selz, Gebhard J. 1998a. “Die Etana-Erzählung. Ursprung und Tradition eines der ältesten epischen Texte in einer semitischen Sprache.” Acta Sumerologica 20: 135 – 178. Selz, Gebhard J. 1998b. “Über Mesopotamische Herrschaftskonzepte. Zu den Ursprüngen Mesopotamischer Herrscherideologie Im 3. Jahrtausend.” In Dubsar anta-men: Studien zur Altorientalistik: Festschrift für Willem H. Ph. Römer zur Vollendung seines 70. Lebensjahres, edited by Manfred Dietrich and Oswald Loretz, 281 – 344. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Selz, Gebhard J. 2001. “‘Guter Hirte, Weiser Fürst‘ – Zur Vorstellung von Macht und zur Macht der Vorstellung im altmesopotamischen Herrschaftsparadigma.” Altorientalische Forschungen 28: 8 – 39. Selz, Gebhard J. 2018 “Aesthetics.” In A Companion to Ancient Near Eastern Art, edited by Ann C. Gunter, 359 – 381. Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World. Hoboken: Wiley Blackwell. Selz, Gudrun. 1983. Die Bankettszene. Freiburger Altorientalische Studien 11. Wiesbaden: Steiner. Slanski, Kathryn E. 2007. “The Mesopotamian ‘Rod and Ring’: Icon of Righteous Kingship and Balance of Power between Palace and Temple.” In Regime Change in the Ancient Near East and Egypt: From Sargon of Agade to Saddam Hussein, edited by Harriet E. W. Crawford, 36 – 59. Proceedings of the British Academy 136. Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press for the British Academy. Slanski, Kathryn E. 2012. “The Law of Hammurabiand Its Audience.” Yale Journal of Law & the Humanities 24/1.3, https://digitalcommons.law.yale.edu/yjlh/vol24/iss1/3, last accessed 11. 9. 2019. Sonik, Karen. 2014. “Pictorial Mythology and Narrative in the Ancient Near East.” In Critical Approaches to Ancient Near Eastern Art, edited by Brian A. Brown and Marian Feldman, 265 – 294. Berlin: de Gruyter. Stansbury-O’Donnell, Mark. 1999. Pictorial Narrative in Greek Art. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Stansbury-O’Donnell, Mark. 2015. A History of Greek Art. Malden, MA: Wiley. Stanzel, F. K. 1982. Theorie des Erzählens. 2., verb. Aufl.. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

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Steible, Horst. 1982. Die altsumerischen Bau- und Weihinschriften. Freiburger Altorientalische Studien 5/1. Wiesbaden: Steiner. Steible, Horst. 1991. Die neusumerischen Bau- und Weihinschriften Freiburger Altorientalische Studien 9/2. Stuttgart: Steiner. Strommenger, Eva. 1970. Die Neuassyrische Rundskulptur. Abhandlungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft 15. Berlin: Mann. Suter, Claudia. 2014. “Human, Divine or Both? The Uruk Vase and the Problem of Ambiguity in Early Mesopotamian Visual Arts.” In Critical Approaches to Ancient Near Eastern Art, edited by Brian A. Brown and Marian Feldman, 545 – 568. Boston: de Gruyter. Suter, Claudia. 2000. Gudea’s Temple Building: The Representation of an Early Mesopotamian Ruler in Text and Image. Cuneiform Monographs 17. Groningen: STYX Publications. Tadmor, Hayim, and Shigeo Yamada. 2011. The Royal Inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser III (744 – 727 BC) and Shalmaneser V (726 – 722 BC), Kings of Assyria. The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 1. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. van Buren, Douglas. 1949. “The Rod and the Ring.” Archiv Orientálni XVII (2): 434 – 450. van Leeuwen, Raymond. 2010. “Cosmos, Temple, House: Building and Wisdom in Ancient Mesopotamia and Israel.” In From the Foundations to the Crenellations: Essays on Temple Building in the Ancient Near East and Hebrew Bible, edited by Mark J. Boda and Jamie Novotny, 399 – 421, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 366. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Waerzeggers, Caroline. 2011. “The Pious King: Royal Patronage of Temples.” In The Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture, edited by Karen Radner and Eleanor Robson, 725 – 751. Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press. Wagner-Durand, Elisabeth. 2014. Bilder im Kulturvergleich – Vorkommen und Verwendung von Bildern in verschiedenen Gesellschaften des Orients und Okzidents im 1. Jt. v. Chr. (900 – 450 v. Chr.), Inaugural-Dissertation Freiburg 2009. Freiburg i. Brsg.: Univ. Freiburg. Online-Ausgabe: urn:nbn:de:bsz:25-opus-96124. Wagner-Durand, Elisabeth. 2015. “Mehr als (Ab‐)Bilder! – Bildwahrnehmung in der ersten Hälfte des ersten vorchristlichen Jahrtausends in Mesopotamien.” Visual Past 2.1: 347 – 388. Wagner-Durand, Elisabeth. 2016. “Visual Narration in Assyria Versus ‘Static Art’ in Babylonia – Making a Difference in the First Millennium B.C.” In Proceedings of the 9th ICAANE 2014, Basel, edited by Oscar Kählin et al., 269 – 279. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Wagner-Durand, Elisabeth. 2019. “Narration. Description. Reality: The Royal Lion Hunt in Assyria.” In Image. Narration. Context – Visual Narratives in Old World Cultures and Societies, edited by Elisabeth Wagner-Durand, Barbara Fath, and Alexander Heinemann, 235 – 272. Freiburger Studien zur Archäologie und Visuellen Kultur 1. Heidelberg: Propyleum. Wagner-Durand, Elisabeth, Barbara Fath, and Alexander Heinemann, eds. 2019. Image. Narration. Context – Visual Narratives in Old World Cultures and Societies. Freiburger Studien zur Archäologie und Visuellen Kultur 1. Heidelberg: Propyleum. Watanabe, Chikako E. 2002. Animal Symbolism in Mesopotamia: A Contextual Approach. Wiener offene Orientalistik 1. Wien: Institut für Orientalistik der Universität Wien. Watanabe, Chikako E. 2004. “The ‘Continuous Style’ in the Narrative Scheme of Assurbanipal’s Reliefs.” Iraq 66: 103 – 114.

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Watanabe, Chikako E. 2014. “Styles of Pictorial Narratives in Assurbanipal’s Reliefs.” In Critical Approaches to Ancient Near Eastern Art, edited by Brian Brown and Marian Feldman, 345 – 368. Boston: de Gruyter. Wilson, J. V. Kinnier. 1962. “The Kurba’il Statue of Shalmaneser III.” Iraq 24 (2): 90 – 115. Winter, Irene J. 1981. “Royal Rhetoric and the Development of Historical Narrative in Neo-Assyrian Reliefs.” Studies in Visual Communication 7/2: 2 – 38. Winter, Irene J. 1989. “The Body of the Able Ruler: Toward an Understanding of the Statues of Gudea”. In Dumu-e₂-dub-ba-a: Studies in Honor of Åke W. Sjöberg, edited by Hermann Behrens, Darlene Loding, and Martha T. Roth, 573 – 584, Occasional Publications of the Samuel Noah Kramer Fund 11. Philadelphia: Samuel Noah Kramer Fund, University Museum. Winter, Irene J. 1997. “Art in Empire. The Royal Image and the Visual Dimensions of Assyrian Ideology.” In Assyria 1995: Proceedings of the 10th Anniversary Symposium of the Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, Helsinki, September 7 – 11, 1995, edited by Simo Parpola and Robert M. Whiting, 359 – 381. Helsinki: The Project. Winter, Irene J. 2007. “Representing Abundance: The Visual Dimension of the Agrarian State.” In Settlement and Society: Essays dedicated to Robert McCormick Adams, edited by Elizsabeth Stone, 117 – 138. Los Angeles: University of California. Winter, Irene J. 2010. “Royal Rhetoric and The Development of Historical Narrative in Neo-Assyrian Reliefs.” In On Art in the Ancient Near East. Volume I: Of the First Millenium BCE. Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 34.1, edited by Irene J. Winter, 1 – 70. Leiden/Boston: Brill Wulf, Christoph. 2004. Anthropologie: Geschichte, Kultur, Philosophie. Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt.

Figures Fig. 1: Fig. 2:

Fig. 3: Fig. 4: Fig. 5:

Fig. 6: Fig. 7: Fig. 8:

The king or the ruler as the builder. Detail of the plaque of Urnanše of Lagaš (Louvre AO 2344), adapted from Boese 1971, Taf. XXIX. The royal warrior, hunter, and shepherd: a) Slabs 5 – 4, room B, NW-palace, Kalḫu (BM 124549 – 48), adapted from Meuszyński 1981, Pl. 2; b) the hunting stela of Uruk (National Museum Bagdad) (Börker-Klähn 1982, no.1); c): modern impression of the seal PML 236 showing Etana, the royal shepherd flying with the eagle (Porada 1948, 236E, Pl. XXXVII). The Uruk Vase (IM 19060), drawing Lindemeyer and Martin 1993, Pl. 25k. Dissolution of the registers into a non-temporal depiction, based on the drawing in Lindemeyer and Martin 1993, Pl. 25 l. Early Dynastic plaque from Khafajah, Sîn-temple (OIM: A.12417), courtesy of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Rearrangement includes a further fragment to be found in Boese 1971, Taf. 9: K7. Plaque of Urnanše of Lagaš (Louvre AO 2344), after Boese 1971, T4, pl. 29. a) The Codex Hammurabi, detail (Louvre SB 8), photo: MBZT © CC; b) the altar of Tukultī-Ninurta (VAM 8146), photo courtesy of Klaus Wagensonner. The ruler communicating with the divine: a) Kurba’il-statue: Shalmaneser III in front of the (invisible) divine (Strommenger 1970, Fig. 4); b) Nimrud Monolith: Ashurnasir-

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pal II in front of the divine (symbols) (Börker-Klähn 1982, no. 136); c) Nabonidus (Ḫarrān stela) in front of the divine (symbols) (Börker-Klähn 1982, no. 26); d) stela of Adad-guppi in front of the divine (statue) (Börker-Klähn 1982, no. 261). Fig. 9: The Zincirli-stela of Esarhaddon with his sons and the defeated enemies (VAM 2708), after Börker-Klähn 1982, no. 219. Fig. 10: The ritual center scene (slab 23, BM 124531) of throne room B, arrangement of the slabs in the northern part of the throne room, based on Meuszyński 1981, pl. 1 + plan 3.

Nicole Brisch

The Literate King Reconsidered: Self-representation, Wisdom, and Learnedness The topic of this workshop on “Tales of Royalty: Notions of Kingship in Visual and Textual Narration in the Ancient Near East” is a wide field, in particular when it pertains to the textual record. The ancient Mesopotamian textual corpus abounds with narratives on kings and kingship. The following represents a brief discussion on how kings in ancient Mesopotamia used the ability to read and write to legitimize their aptness and legitimacy to rule and how this was embedded in their narratives of royal legitimization. It will be necessary to preface my remarks with a few words relating to genre. Text narratives can appear in many genres of the literary record, including but not limited to hymns, so-called epics, and other tales, but narratives also appear in myths, royal inscriptions, and literary letters.¹ This point that narratives transcend the boundaries of literary genres is also recognized by narratology,² a finding that is particularly relevant for ancient Mesopotamia, where textual genres often do not conform to the traditional Western genres of prose, poetry, and drama. However, I would like to emphasize in the beginning that it is important when discussing royal narratives to distinguish compositions that were written during a king’s lifetime, and probably with the king’s approval, from works of literature that were composed after the end of a king’s reign or a dynasty’s end. In very general terms, it is probably fair to say that piety and a good relationship to the gods, bringing justice to his people, and wisdom in making the right decisions are qualities that can be found in almost all textual representations and self-representations of kings throughout Mesopotamian history, beginning I would like to thank the organizers of this workshop for bringing our attention back to narration and narratives, a topic that recently seems to experience a revival in various disciplines, among others in sociology (see, e. g., Selbin 2010). I will not dwell here on theoretical aspects of narrations. For a pioneering study on narratives in text and art in the ancient Near East see Winter 2010 (originally published in 1981).  The question of identifying genres in the literary record is part of a still ongoing debate which has predominantly focused on the Sumerian literary record. On genres see, among others, the following contributions: Vanstiphout 1999; Michalowski 1999; Veldhuis 2004; Wasserman 2003; Brisch 2010.  See, e. g., Hühn and Sommer 2009. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501506895-004

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with the Early Dynastic rulers and ending with rulers that were not native to Mesopotamia, such as the Achaemenid or Seleucid kings.³ Virtually all kings of ancient Mesopotamia claimed in their own narratives that they were wise, just, and pious. This is not to say that there existed no critical descriptions of kings in ancient Mesopotamia, yet such descriptions are usually found in texts written about kings and well after their lifetimes.⁴ Though one could imagine that wisdom might have had a close relationship to learnedness, and hence to writing, this seems not to have been the case in ancient Mesopotamia.⁵ There were only very few kings in Mesopotamian history, who considered the mastery of writing (and scholarship) important enough to be included in their narratives.⁶ That there were only few kings who boasted with the mastery of writing is in and by itself interesting and indicates that this was probably not one of the foremost qualities that Mesopotamians looked for in a just and successful ruler. The first king in Mesopotamian history to lay claim to being able to write was Šulgi of Ur (r. 2094– 2047), who in the second millennium BCE was followed by Lipit-Eštar of Isin (r. 1934– 1924). In the first millennium Ashurbanipal (r. 668 – 627) asserted that he had mastered writing, and it is likely that he had indeed undergone a scribal education.⁷ It is possible that Nabonidus (r. 556 – 539) has to be added to the list of literate kings as well, and he may indeed have received scribal training as part of his education as a courtier before he became king.⁸ Other kings, who may have claimed literacy among their accomplishments, were Išme-Dagan of Isin,⁹ Sîn-iddinam of Larsa,¹⁰ and the Neo-Assyrian king

 This is visible in the Cyrus and Antiochus cylinders, which partly adopt a rhetoric known from Mesopotamian royal inscriptions. On the Antiochus cylinder see most recently Stevens 2014.  As, e. g., the Curse of Agade, see Michalowski 2004, 221– 222; for later examples see Frahm 2011, 525.  Frahm 2011.  Charpin 2010, 52– 59; Frahm 2011.  Livingstone 2007; Zamazalová 2011; Frahm 2011.  Beaulieu 1989, 79.  The claim can be found in a fragmentary passage in the hymn Išme-Dagan V fragment A (Ludwig 1990, 166 ll. 1– 4). The hymn is too fragmentary for a narrative analysis.  Sîn-iddinam’s possible claim can be found in Sîn-iddinam B = UET 6/1: 99, col. V ll. 28’-30’: š u s a ₆ - s a ₆ ḫ i -l i n a m - d u b - ⌈ s a r ⌉ - r a ( ? ) s ag- ⌈ e ⌉ - ⌈ e š ⌉ ⌈ ù ⌉ - ⌈ m u ⌉ - n i - ⌈ i n ⌉ - ⌈ r i g ₇ ⌉ “she [sc. Nidaba] will bestow beautiful hands, the joy of scribal arts, upon him.” (Brisch 2007, 134– 135). The text is too fragmentary for a narrative analysis.

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Esarhaddon,¹¹ yet the evidence is rather tenuous and these kings will therefore not be considered here.¹² In the following, the narrative emplotment of individual royal texts will be compared in order to distinguish where the commonalities as well as the differences lay. The overall goal here is to show that, although the arguments for royal legitimization are the same throughout Mesopotamian history, the way in which this argument is emplotted in narratives changed and was adapted to the shifting ideological needs of a given time period. Moreover, because kings were endowed with wisdom regardless of their ability to read and write, at least according to their own inscriptions, the wisdom that characterized a successful ruler was dissociated from the learnedness and scholarship visible in the written corpus. Thus, the inclusion of the “royal literacy” motif must have had other reasons, to be briefly discussed below. Wisdom (or a “broad understanding” as it is often phrased)¹³ was, at least in the case of kings, likely seen as a quality that was independent of scribal knowledge.¹⁴ More often than not, when these qualities are mentioned in royal texts they are gifts that the gods bestowed upon the just king, which made him fit to rule, but none of the texts considered here foregrounds or emphasizes this gift from the gods.

 See Charpin 2010, 58; Frahm 2011, 512; Frame and George (2005, 179). The text which mentions that Esarhaddon may have been able to write is Ass. A (Borger 1956, 1– 6) = Esarhaddon 57 (Leichty 2011, 119 – 129). Two passages make reference to writing: 1) col. iii ll. 3 – 4, 2) col. vii ll. 35 – 39. In this text writing is mentioned incidentally and not presented as an accomplishment. There are other indications that Esarhaddon may have been capable of writing (Zamalazová 2011, 323 – 324).  According to Charpin 2010, 58, and Frahm 2011, 512, Enlil-bani also claimed to be a literate king. Both refer back to Veldhuis (1997, 25) whose discussion of the “Edubba’a motif” in royal hymns may not have necessarily implied that Enlil-bani did claim he was able to write. According to the published sources, there is no such claim in Enlil-bani A, only the very end of the hymn mentions that the scribes of the Edubba’a may never stop praising the king (also see ETCSL 2.5.8.1). I would like to thank Gonzalo Rubio and Piotr Michalowski for their help in clarifying this point.  In Sumerian the words g é š t u g g a l are often used to describe royal wisdom, which is translated into Akkadian as uznātu rapšātu.  It is possible that one has to distinguish this kind of wisdom from the one that is expressed with the Sumerian term n a m - k ù - z u and the Akkadian word nēmequ, both of which seem to indicate an expertise in magic and incantations, the āšipu’s lore, and are therefore strongly connected to writing (Lambert 1960, 1; Beaulieu 2007).

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Narratives about Šulgi exist mainly in the form of hymns. More than 20 hymns are known to have been composed for him, ranging in length from 50 to 600 lines. The majority of these were royal hymns in the actual sense of the word, that is hymns that were exclusively written in praise of a king (as opposed to divine hymns that included prayers for a king). The well-known hymn Šulgi A will serve as the first example here. The composition is attested in numerous school texts from the Old Babylonian period and describes the heroic run from Nippur to Ur and back in a single day so that the king could celebrate religious festivals in both cities. The event was also celebrated in a year name (year 7), thus one can conclude that the topos of Šulgi’s extraordinary achievement already existed in the Ur III period. The attestation of the incipit to this hymn in an Ur III catalogue indicates that the narrative may originally have been composed during that time, but we lack the social context for it in the Ur III period.¹⁵ The plot of Šulgi A, a hymn written in the first person, begins with a statement that the king was already predestined to rule before he was born and continues with descriptions of the various favors the major gods of the Mesopotamian pantheon bestowed upon him. This is followed by a description of the king’s accomplishments and physical strength, which enable him to run like no other. Brief passages extolling his abilities as a scribe and his wisdom are inserted then, before the text launches into the continuation of Šulgi’s prowess at running. The purpose for this run is that the king should establish an eternal name for himself through these deeds. A detailed narration of his journey from Nippur to Ur and back ensues, in which the king overcomes inclement weather and other obstacles. Feasts in these two cities are described, but only towards the end do we learn that the actual purpose of this extraordinary journey was to celebrate the Ešeš festivals in both cities on the same day. This offers Šulgi the opportunity to emphasize his closeness to the gods, with whom he drinks and celebrates. The second narrative to be discussed here is the composition referred to as LipitEštar B. Lipit-Eštar of Isin was only the second king in Mesopotamian history who claimed to have mastered writing. According to Vanstiphout, some of his hymns were considered to have been the paradigm of royal hymnography in the Old Babylonian school curriculum. In fact, hymn Lipit-Eštar B may have been specifically composed for the school curriculum.¹⁶

 This is the Ur III catalogue from Yale, see Vacin 2011, 13.  Vanstiphout 1978.

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The hymn begins with extolling the king as the proud one, one who is favored by the gods. In contrast to Šulgi A, Lipit-Eštar B is not narrated in the first but in the second person. Lipit-Eštar is worthy of praise and has the support of the divine couple Enlil and Ninlil, and it is Nidaba, the goddess of writing, who taught the king how to write and enabled him to gain insights into wisdom and knowledge.¹⁷ The narrative of the panegyric continues with praising the king’s abilities to make manifest justice and righteousness, perhaps an allusion to Lipit-Eštar’s lawcode. He is a just king, punishes the wicked, and helps the righteous obtain justice. The composition concludes by referring to the king as the “scribe for Nippur” (l. 40), and elaborates on the favors various deities (from Nippur, Ur, Keš, Eridu, Uruk, and Isin) conferred upon him. In the end Išme-Dagan, the king’s father, is also mentioned, followed by a prayer that his fame may never cease to be proclaimed by the scribes in the Eduba’a, the scribal schools. One point is noteworthy here in a comparison to Šulgi A: The motifs elaborated in Lipit-Eštar’s praise poem revolve around wisdom and justice, while physical strength and the super-human qualities that were prevalent in Šulgi A are not present at all. While this may indicate a change in royal ideology, it also shows that similar (or the same) motifs can be embedded in different narratives depending on the particular contexts and ideological needs. In the first millennium BCE different media were used as vehicles for royal selfrepresentation; the media are often lengthy inscriptions on cylinders, prisms, and other objects, some of which are only preserved as copies on cuneiform tablets. In the early second millennium BCE our evidence indicates that royal hymns mainly originated in the milieu of scribal schools, at least in the form, in which they are preserved today. Royal hymns were discontinued as a literary genre , perhaps being replaced with royal inscriptions. Some of these may have been used in schools,¹⁸ though others were inscribed upon monuments or, if preserved on a clay object, may have been a Vorlage for such a monumental inscription. Thus, the context in which these texts are preserved, differed in some cases considerably.

 In line 24, Lipit-Eštar receives, among others, the: l e - u m i g i - g á l š ú m - m u “the writing board, which grants wisdom” from Nidaba.  Gesche 2001, 72– 74.

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An example for the narrativization of the royal legitimacy of Ashurbanipal is the inscription L4, recently re-edited by Novotny.¹⁹ The text is a dedicatory inscription to the god Marduk that was supposed to have been set up in the Esagil in Babylon on the occasion of the return of Marduk’s statue to his temple.²⁰ The inscription was written on a multi-column tablet that was to have served as a Vorlage for a statue inscription. I chose this particular text here mainly because it makes reference to the king’s scholarly abilities. The text was perhaps composed during the first year of Ashsurbanipal’s reign,²¹ or at least very likely early in the king’s reign.²² The narrative is also composed in the first person, like Šulgi A, and begins with Ashurbanipal’s enumerations of his titles, including his genealogy, and continues with a list of all the gods that made him predestined to be king, first and foremost, of course, the god Aššur. The narrative continues with a description of Ashurbanipal’s scholarly abilities, and in particular the interpretation of omens and the ability to read old scripts and obscure texts are mentioned here. The next part lauds the king’s prowess in battle and then his general abilities as a king to govern. A description of how he was selected among his older brothers ensues; it was necessary to seek divine approval²³ for this selection, which was presumably given (the passage is fragmentary here). Ashurbanipal then entered the House of Succession (bīt redûti). After he enters the palace as king, everyone, from the gods, to the eunuchs and his enemies, rejoices and expresses their happiness. The narrative then moves on to the actual topic of the inscription, namely the return of Marduk’s statue to Babylon. This passage begins with a prayer to Marduk, in which his anger and his abandonment of Babylon are mentioned as the cause for the destruction of that city.²⁴ The remainder describes the rituals and celebrations surrounding the return of Marduk’s statue, and it concludes with a statement that the text was to be inscribed on a statue to be set up in the temple. The much-discussed self-laudatory description of Ashurbanipal’s scholarly abilities is remarkable,²⁵ not least because of the learned details the narrative

 Novotny 2014, text no. 18.  Villard 1997; Zamazalová 2011.  Villard 1997, 136; Zamazalová 2011, 314.  Novotny 2014, xvi.  The deities invoked were Aššur, Mulissu, Šerua, Šamaš, Adad, Nabû, and Marduk, see col. I 36 – 40.  With this the agency of Babylon’s destruction is shifted away from Sennacherib.  This passage and its translation have been treated extensively, see the remarks in Livingstone 2007, 100 – 101 with further references.

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provided, yet this emphasis on learnedness and scholarship may also be related to historical specificities of the Sargonid kings²⁶ and also found an expression in the large royal library that the king collected.²⁷ While wisdom and a broad understanding were presented to the king as divine gifts, Ashurbanipal appears to have acquired his scholarly abilities on his own.²⁸ This is a difference to earlier narratives, where the ability to write was given to the king as a gift from the gods. The final narrative to be discussed here is an inscription by Nabonidus. He is perhaps one of the most complicated kings in Mesopotamian history and the following has to be considered somewhat superficial. This is not the place to discuss the problems surrounding Nabonidus’s long exile in Teima, the possible co-regency with his son Belšazar, nor his supposed slight of Marduk’s worship. As Nabonidus was probably not of royal descent and therefore did not inherit the throne from an ancestor, one presumes that especially in the beginning of his reign persuasive ways of legitimization had to be found. The inscription chosen here is one that makes brief reference to Nabonidus’s ability to write; it is referred to as the E’igikalamma cylinder²⁹ and probably was composed between the third and the tenth year of Nabonidus’s reign, i. e. the time that the king most likely spent in exile in Teima.³⁰ The cylinder inscription begins in a third person account of all the gifts the gods have given to Nabonidus, with Marduk being mentioned in first place. The scribal arts are only mentioned further on and the king is said to have acquired them as a gift from Nabû. The narrative then switches, somewhat abruptly, to a first-person perspective, in which Nabonidus emphasizes his piety and reverence of the gods. This is followed by an enumeration of all the temples and sacred places the king built, beginning with Šamaš’s Ebabbar temple in Sippar, for which he had allegedly unearthed Naram-Sîn’s foundations.³¹ The enumeration of his pious deeds concludes with the appointment of his daughter to the position of the high-priestess of the moon god in Ur, an old custom that Nabonidus prided himself in having revived. The cylinder’s narrative finishes with a dedication to the god Lugal-Marada and describes the building of his temple as well as

 Fales and Lanfranchi 1997; Zamazalová 2011, 328.  Fincke 2003–2004.  The beginning of line 13 reads: [š]i-pir ap-kal-li a-da-pà a-ḫu-uz “I learnt the lore of the wise sage Adapa” (Livingstone 2007, 100).  In Beaulieu 1989 this is inscription no. 7, in Schaudig 2001 this is inscription no. 2.5.  Beaulieu 1989, 26 – 27. Also see Schaudig 2003, 492.  A detailed study of Nabonidus’s alleged and actual uncovering of older foundations can be found in Schaudig 2003.

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the fashioning of a chariot for the god’s temple in Marad. In this passage the martial aspects of Lugal-Marada are praised. The text ends with the final prayer that the god may help Nabonidus defeat his enemies. What is remarkable, not only for Nabonidus but also for other Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian kings, is what has been termed an “antiquarian” interest in the past that manifested itself with references to the distant past. The abovementioned appointment of Nabonidus’s own daughter to the office of the high priestess of the moon god is but one example here.³² Three of the texts discussed here were composed in a first-person narrative, with the kings appearing as the first-person narrators, only one was composed in the second person. Narrating an event in the first person has some implications for the perspective from which these stories are told. The perspective of the tale is immanent in that of the narrator and the events are recounted as if they were personal experiences of the narrator. In a first-person narrative the narrator is by default someone that is inside the story, whereas in a third-person narrative, the narrator remains outside the story. This suggests that a first-person account, for example, of the super-human abilities of a king or of other achievements, could not be easily transposed to a different medium (e. g. an iconographic representation of a king) without at least some explanation or common understanding. An adequate study of narrative perspective needs to take the audience of the textual narratives into consideration. Winter suggested that some narrative elements in the representational art of Ashurbanipal may have been read as firstperson sentences,³³ yet the perspective of narration is essential here as well. A third-person account can assume a perspective of someone that is inside a story. How a first-person text narrative was perceived may also depend on the audience, i. e. was a story/text read out aloud or performed or was the story read or copied silently? Ashurbanipal’s inscription L4 was to have been inscribed upon a statue and placed in Marduk’s temple, thus conveying the message of the text continuously to the deity. Therefore, the first-person narrative mode was necessary in this particular instance. One should consider therefore, whether a firstperson narration is to be found in sculpture rather than reliefs. In a third-person account the narrator can act as an observer to the events recounted. This could give the events recounted a certain amount of objectivity or authority: It is not just the king, who claims achievements and divine favors, but this is an objective “fact.” That the Nabonidus cylinder switches from a third-

 See, for example, Schaudig 2003 and Beaulieu 2013, with further references.  Winter 2010, 23.

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person to a first-person perspective is an unusual narrative strategy in a royal inscription and creates a certain dynamic in the narrative. The predominantly first-person narrative perspective was perhaps expected of a Mesopotamian king, who should not lack in self-confidence and charisma, with the support and gifts of the gods. Moreover, in all the narratives discussed here, the ability to write only figures as one of many other skills the king boasted of. In some cases, this ability is only mentioned in passing, in other cases, like in Šulgi’s and Ashurbanipal’s narratives, the ability to read, write, and interpret other languages or complex scholarship is elaborated upon and more details are given, while the Lipit-Eštar and Nabonidus texts seem to be content with presenting just the ability to write as an accomplishment. As stated in the beginning, a good relationship to the gods is an argument that all narratives about kings, at least those that the king likely would have approved of, built into the emplotment of their legitimacy to reign. Whether it is the divine selection among the many or the divine selection from before a king was born, these are details that can change from king to king. Divine selection and approval are important, but they are framed in different narrative contexts. For example, Šulgi’s emplotment used the celebration of a religious festival in two cities on the same day as a vehicle to display his super-human physical abilities. The Ashurbanipal and Nabonidus texts, on the other hand, incorporate the growing antiquarian interest in the past to serve as a legitimization and the creation of a tradition that showed a continuation of imperial aspirations. The gods that are mentioned in the texts reflect likely those members of the pantheon that were important at a given time and place (for example, Enlil and Ninlil in texts that come from the Old Babylonian school curriculum, or Marduk and Lugal-Marada, among others, in the case of the Nabonidus text). Thus, an emplotment of royal legitimacy is phrased according to the changing needs of ideological factors.³⁴ While the argument of divine approval of any given king is prevalent throughout royal narratives in Mesopotamian history, the way in which this argument was emplotted changed. That divine approval and divine gifts may have been a distinctively Mesopotamian mode of expression has recently been shown by Stevens³⁵ in her study of the Antiochus cylinder. That cylinder, though embedded in a Mesopotamian mode of expression, has to be viewed as part of a Seleucid imperial ideology,

 I use the term ideology here in a combination of the Marxist sense of ideology and a more neutral sense of ideology as a belief system; see the discussion in Brisch 2007, 6 – 7.  Stevens 2014.

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in which a king’s achievements and accomplishments were more independent of divine approval. What remains unclear is why some kings included the ability to write in their narratives, while others, such as Esarhaddon, who may have been literate as well, did not (or did so only in passing). It is possible that the inclusion of the “literacy” motif ultimately related to personal preference. There are strong indications that kings did approve at least some of their narratives in royal inscriptions,³⁶ so it is not unlikely that the accomplishment of writing was something that some kings actually wanted included in their narratives. However, it is unlikely that all the kings elaborated upon their scholarly abilities for the same reasons. Modern discussions of literate kings have often revolved around questions of authenticity with a focus on adducing proof for a king’s ability to write. For the earlier periods such proof is absent. Yet, the veracity of such claims is ultimately irrelevant.³⁷ The question of why these kings were depicted as literate, when the ability to read and write was never foremost among the qualities that were included in royal narratives, is still open (and more interesting). Weiershäuser (this volume) suggests in her response that the kings that did claim to be literate may not have originally been destined to be successors to the throne and may have therefore been able to lay claim to literacy in their inscriptions. This is certainly the case for Ashurbanipal, who may have been trained as a scribe because he was not originally the crown prince. Nabonidus, as mentioned above, may also have been trained as a scribe before he knew he was destined to become king. Yet, we should not exclude the possibility that there were more kings that were able to read and write but simply did not choose to emphasize this in their inscriptions. Thus, we are still left with the question of why these particular kings choose to add literacy to their accomplishments as part of their self-representation. As mentioned above, Ashurbanipal’s literacy could be related to a change in royal ideology of the Sargonid kings, who may have had to adapt to the changing ideological needs of the expanding Neo-Assyrian empire.³⁸ Nabonidus’s claim to literateness may in turn be owed to Ashurbanipal, albeit by very indirect

 Charpin 2006, 153– 154; Frahm 2011, 521– 522. Whether this was always the case is unclear; one would think that in some cases, perhaps Nabonidus, not all royal inscriptions were actually approved by the king himself. Thus far, there is no evidence for royal approval of hymns, where the situation is more complicated.  This is a point that Selbin (2010) has made in regard to the “truth” of stories; it is also what distinguishes history from the collective memory , as explained by Maurice Halbwachs.  Charpin 2006, 153– 154; Frahm 2011, 521– 522.

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means,³⁹ though, as Frauke Weiershäuser points out, like Ashurbanipal, he was not destined for the throne from birth. The cases of Šulgi and Lipit-Eštar are less straight-forward in this regard, we simply lack the evidence in their cases to say that they were or were not the original crown-princes. A way forward could be to consider the historical context of those compositions that do include motifs of royal literacy. The literacy of Šulgi is an interesting case here. Most of the manuscripts for hymn Šulgi A, which was discussed above, date to the Old Babylonian period and were school tablets.⁴⁰ One manuscript has been dated to the Ur III period.⁴¹ However, the motif of Šulgi’s abilities to be able to read and write is not preserved on the, admittedly fragmentary, Ur III manuscript. Neither do the numerous royal inscriptions make mention of the king’s literacy. The motif of the literate king is also absent from Lipit-Eštar’s royal inscriptions, though the inscriptions do make mention of achievements as a king of justice. It is possible that the absence of the motif of the literate king in royal inscriptions can be explained through differences in genre : Royal inscriptions of the late third and early second millennium BCE may not have been an appropriate medium for conveying monarchical literacy. However, it is also possible that the insertion of the motif may have been an innovation of the Old Babylonian schools: The recent publication of an Ur III version of the Sumerian King List⁴² shows that Ur III compositions could be heavily redacted in the Old Babylonian period, thus it is not impossible to suggest that royal literacy was a motif that the scribes of the Old Babylonian period added in to embellish royal accomplishments and thus increase the social and cultural importance of literacy, and hence the scribe. The historical and functional setting of Ashurbanipal’s and Nabonidus’s literacy is rather different. Ashurbanipal’s literacy is mentioned on a statue inscription destined for Marduk’s temple in Babylon. Moreover, the king most likely had himself depicted wearing the scribal implement on one of his reliefs, the “calamus.”⁴³ The royal libraries at Niniveh were already founded by Ashurbanipal’s father, Esarhaddon, who, as is well known, developed an interest in scholarship, perhaps in part due to his own physical ailments, but in part we also know that scholarship and scholarly advice became increasingly important dur-

 Michalowski 2014.  Vacin 2011 with further literature.  Alster 1991, 5 n. 12; Rubio 2000, 216 and n. 55.  Steinkeller 2003.  Ashurbanipal is depicted with a “calamus” (writing instrument) in several reliefs, see Charpin 2010, 58 Fig. 13, where the king is depicted wearing a writing instrument while on the hunt. Also see Frahm 2011, 514 and Zamazalová 2011, 326 – 327.

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ing the Neo-Assyrian period.⁴⁴ The increased importance of writing and scholarship may also have made it more acceptable for a king to be depicted as literate and learned. In this instance, Ashurbanipal even references his learnedness in divination, thus alluding to a sense of wisdom that approaches at least one notion of wisdom in ancient Mesopotamia.⁴⁵ Nabonidus’s literacy may be an epiphenomenon, yet surely multiple factors, such as antiquarianism, will also have played a role in Nabonidus’s boasts. If Nabonidus’s cylinder inscription discussed above was indeed composed during the king’s exile in Teima, the question arises how much knowledge of and influence on the inscription’s content he may have had. Speculative as all of these deliberations are, it is likely that the actual reasons were more complex, and no single factor contributed to the creation of motif of the learned king. Even when this motif was included as part of a narrative plot that served royal legitimization, it was never a key element but just one of many other qualities that these kings were endowed with by the gods to help them govern their realm successfully. Whether these narrative strategies were successful is a different question for another paper. The rarity of iconographical presentations showing a literate king also underlines the marginality of this motif: to date Ashurbanipal remains the only king who was depicted with a writing implement.

Bibliography Alster, Bernd. 1991. “Some Ur III Literary Texts and Other Sumerian Texts at Yale and Philadelphia.” Acta Sumerologica 15: 1 – 10. Beaulieu, Paul-Alain. 1989. The Reign of Nabonidus, King of Babylon 556 – 539 B.C. Yale Near Eastern Researches 10. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Beaulieu, Paul-Alain. 2007. “The Social and Intellectual Setting of Babylonian Wisdom Literature.” In Wisdom Literature in Mesopotamia and Israel, edited by Richard E. Clifford, 3 – 19. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Beaulieu, Paul-Alain. 2013. “Mesopotamian Antiquarianism from Sumer to Babylon.” In World Antiquarianism – Comparative Perspectives, edited by Alain Schnapp et al., 121 – 139. Getty Research Institute, Issues and Debates. Los Angeles: Getty Publications.

 Radner 2003; 2011; Pongratz-Leisten 2013.  A sense of royal wisdom can be seen in compositions such as the “Advice to a Prince,” also called “Fürstenspiegel,” which formulate royal behavior in the form typical for divination. To elaborate on the different notions of wisdom would go beyond the scope of this article. I elaborate on these notions in a forthcoming article on Mesopotamian wisdom literature.

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Brisch, Nicole. 2007. Tradition and the Poetics of Innovation: Sumerian Court Poetry of the Larsa Dynasty (c. 2003 – 1763 BCE). Alter Orient und Altes Testament 339. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Brisch, Nicole. 2010. “A Sumerian Divan: Hymns as a Literary Genre.” In: Musicians and the Tradition of Literature in the Ancient Near East, edited by Regine Pruzsinszky and Dahlia Shehata, 153 – 169. Wien: LIT Verlag. Borger, Rikele. 1956. Die Inschriften Asarhaddons Königs von Assyrien. Archiv für Orientforschung, Beihefte 9. Graz: Selbstverlag des Herausgebers. Charpin, Dominique. 2006. “Cronique bibliographiques 7: Les inscriptions royale suméro-akkadiennes d’époque paléo-babylonienne.” Revue d’assyriologie 100: 131 – 160. Charpin, Dominique. 2010. Reading and Writing in Babylon. Translated by Jane Marie Todd. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Fales, Frederick Mario and Giovanni B. Lanfranchi. 1997 “The Impact of Oracular Material on the political utterances and political action in the royal inscriptions of the Sargonid dynasty.” In Oracles et Prophéties dans l’Antiquité. Actes du colloque de Strasbourg, 15 – 17 juin 1995, edited by J.-G. Heintz, 99 – 114. Paris: De Boccard. Fincke, Jeanette. 2003 – 2004. “The Babylonian Texts of Niniveh. Report on the British Museum’s Ashurbanipal Library Project.” Archiv für Orientforschung 50: 111 – 149. Frahm, Eckhard. 2011. “Keeping Company with Men of Learning: the King as Scholar.” In The Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture, edited by Karen Radner and Elinor Robson, 508 – 532. Oxford: OUP. Gesche, Petra. 2001. Schulunterricht in Babylonian im 1. Jahrtausend v. Chr. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 275. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Hühn, Peter and Roy Sommer. 2009. “Narratives in Poetry and Drama.” In Handbook of Narratology, edited by Peter Hühn, Jan C. Meister, John Pier, and Wolf Schmid, 228 – 241. Berlin et al.: de Gruyter. Lambert, Wolgang G. 1960. Babylonian Wisdom Literature. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Leichty, Erle. 2011. The Royal Inscriptions of Esarhaddon, King of Assyria (680 – 669 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 4. Winona Lake, Indiana: Eisenbrauns. Livingstone, Alasdair. 2007. “Ashurbanipal: Literate or Not?” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 97: 98 – 118. Ludwig, Marie-Christine. 1990. Untersuchungen zu den Hymnen des Išme-Dagan von Isin. SANTAG. Arbeiten und Untersuchungen zur Keilschriftkunde 2. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Michalowski, Piotr. 1999. “Commemoration, Writing, and Genre in Ancient Mesopotamia.” In The Limits of Historiography: Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts, edited by Christina S. Kraus, 69 – 90. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Michalowski, Piotr. 2004. “The Ideological Foundations of the Ur III State.” In 2000 v. Chr. Politische, wirtschaftliche und kulturelle Entwicklung im Zeichen einer Jahrtausendwende, edited by Jan-Waalke Meyer and Walther Sommerfeld, Colloquien der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft 3, 219 – 235. Saarbrücken: SDV. Michalowski, Piotr. 2014. “Biography of a Sentence: Assurbanipal, Nabonidus, and Cyrus.” In Extraction and Control. Studies in Honor of Matthew W. Stolper, edited by Michael Kozuh, Wouter F.M. Henkelman, Charles E. Jones, and Christopher Woods, 203 – 210. Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 68. Chicago: The Oriental Institute.

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Novotny, Jamie. 2014. Inscriptions of Assurbanipal. L3, L4, LET, Prism I, Prism T, and Related Texts. State Archives of Assyria Cuneiform Texts, 10. Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Pongratz-Leisten, Beate. 2013. “All the King’s Men: Authority, Kingship, and the Rise of the Elites in Assyria.” In Experiencing Power, Generating Authority: Cosmos, Politics, and the Ideology of Kingship in Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia, edited by Jane A. Hill, Philip Jones, and Antonio Morales, 285 – 310. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Radner, Karen. 2003. “The Trials of Esarhaddon: The Conspiracy of 670 BC.” In Assur und sein Umland. Im Andenken an die ersten Ausgräber von Assur, edited by Peter Miglus and Joaquín Maria Córdoba, 165 – 184. ISIMU, 6. Madrid: UAM Ediciones. Radner, Karen. 2011. “Royal Decision Making: Kings, Magnates, and Scholars.” In The Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture, edited by Karen Radner and Elinor Robson, 358 – 379. Oxford: OUP. Rubio, Gonzalo. 2000. “On the Orthography of the Sumerian Literary Texts from the Ur III Period.” Acta Sumerologica 22: 203 – 225. Schaudig, Hans-Peter. 2001. Die Inschriften Nabonids von Babylon und Kyros’ des Großen samt den in ihrem Umfeld enstandenen Tendenzschriften. Textausgabe und Grammatik. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 256. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Schaudig, Hans-Peter. 2003. “Nabonid, der ‘Archäologe auf dem Königsthron’. Zum Geschichtsbild des ausgehenden neubabylonischen Reiches.” In Festschrift für Burkhardt Kienast, edited by Gebhard Selz, 447 – 497. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 274. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Selbin, Eric 2010. Revolution, Rebellion, Resistance: The Power of the Story. London/New York: Zed Books. Steinkeller, Piotr. 2003. “An Ur III Manuscript of the Sumerian Kinglist.” In Literatur, Politik und Recht in Mesopotamien. Festschrift für Claus Wilcke, ed. Walther Sallaberger, Konrad Volk and Anette Zgoll, 267 – 292. Orientalia Biblica et Cristiania 14. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Stevens, Kathryn. 2014. “The Antiochus Cylinder, Babylonian Scholarship and Seleucid Imperial Ideology.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 134: 66 – 88. Vacin, Ludek. 2011. Šulgi of Ur: Life, Deeds, Ideology and Legacy of Mesopotamian Ruler as Reflected Primarily in Literary Texts. PhD dissertation, School of Oriental and African Studies. Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 1978. “Lipit-Eštar’s Praise in the Edubba.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 30: 33 – 61. Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 1999. “I can put anything in its right place. Generic and Typological Studies as Strategies for the Analysis and Evaluation of Mankind’s Oldest Literature.” In Aspects of Genre and Type in Pre-Modern Literary Cultures, edited by Bert Roest and Herman L.J. Vanstiphout, 79 – 99. COMERS Communications vol. I, Groningen: Styx Publications. Veldhuis, Niek. 1997. Elementary Education at Nippur. The List of Trees and Woods Objects. PhD Dissertation University of Groningen. Veldhuis, Niek. 2004. Religion, Literature, and Scholarship: The Sumerian Composition Nanše and the Birds, with a Catalogue of Sumerian Bird Names. Cuneiform Monographs 22. Leiden/Boston: Brill.

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Villard, Pierre. 1997. “L’éducation d’Assurbanipal.” Ktema 22: 135 – 149. Wasserman, Nathan. 2003. Style and Form in Old Babylonian Literary Texts. Cuneiform Monographs 27. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Winter, Irene J. 2010. On Art in the Ancient Near East, vol. I. Of the First Millennium B.C.E. Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 34.1. Leiden: Brill. Zamazalová, Silvie. 2011. “The Education of Neo-Assyrian Princes.” In The Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture, edited by Karen Radner and Elinor Robson, 313 – 330. Oxford: OUP.

Frauke Weiershäuser

Response: Das Narrativ vom guten König

Was macht einen guten König aus? Diese sehr allgemeine Frage wird wohl je nach Kultur und Epoche recht unterschiedlich beantwortet werden. Doch welche Qualitäten musste ein mesopotamischer Herrscher aufweisen, um als guter König wahrgenommen zu werden? Wie sollte sich die Weisheit eines Herrschers äußern? Wie wurden die positiven Qualitäten in der Präsentation des Herrschers, sowohl im Bild als auch im Text, dargestellt? Finden sich diese Darstellungen in statischer Form oder werden sie in der Form eines Narrativs präsentiert? Und welche Form, welche Elemente müssen bei einer Darstellung gegeben sein, um von einem Narrativ in der Darstellung des guten, weisen, gerechten Königs zu sprechen? Verschiedenen Aspekten dieser Fragen gehen Nicole Brisch und Elisabeth Wagner-Durand in ihren Beiträgen nach und konzentrieren sich dabei auf zwei Hauptfragen: a) die Frage, welche Bedeutung die Beherrschung der Schreibkunst in der (Selbst‐)Repräsentation mesopotamischer Könige einnahm (Brisch), und b) ob Narrative vom guten und gerechten König in der mesopotamischen Bildkunst anzutreffen sind (Wagner-Durand). Beide Beiträge verfolgen dabei einen diachronen Ansatz und betrachten Quellen vom 3. bis zum 1. Jahrtausend. Wagner-Durand setzt sich intensiv mit der Frage auseinander, wie der Begriff „narrative“ bzw. „visual narrative“ definiert werden kann, während Brisch selber keine explizite Definition formuliert, aber von „narrative plot“ spricht. Sosehr die möglichen Definitionen für ein Narrativ auch im Detail voneinander abweichen mögen, lässt sich doch als gemeinsamer Nenner festhalten, dass sowohl in den Text- wie in den Bildquellen für das Vorhandensein eines Narrativs zu erwarten ist, dass a) eine Serie von Ereignissen vorliegt und b) eine Entwicklung im Gang dieser Ereignisse zu verfolgen ist. Brisch geht der Frage nach, wie die Beherrschung der Keilschrift durch einen König in den Texten thematisiert wird und ob diese besondere Fähigkeit auch als Mittel zur Legitimation der Herrschaft verwendet wurde. Da nur sehr wenige Könige in den Textquellen überhaupt als schreibkundig genannt werden, ist diese Fähigkeit generell nicht als herausragende Quelle für die Legitimation von Herrschaft, sondern höchstens als bemerkenswerte Zusatzqualifikation anzusehen, wobei dann zu fragen ist, warum für einzelne Könige diese Fähigkeit herausgestellt wird und ob diese als ein besonderer Ausweis ihrer Weisheit gesehen wurde. Generell lassen sich auf die ganz allgemeine Frage nach der Legitimation von Herrschaft verschiedene Möglichkeiten nennen, wobei zwischen der praktischen und der ideologischen Ebene zu unterscheiden ist. So sind auf der praktischen https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501506895-005

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Ebene prinzipiell verschiedene Szenarien denkbar, wie ein Herrscher an die Macht kommt: a) Die wohl häufigste Form der Machtübernahme für die Könige Mesopotamiens war es, das Amt vom Vater oder einem anderen Familienmitglied zu erben. b) Eine andere Möglichkeit, die Herrschaft zu erlangen, war die Machtübernahme nach militärischem Erfolg als Eroberer, als ein Beispiel wäre hier Sargon von Akkade zu nennen. c) Die Möglichkeit, den Herrscher in demokratischen Wahlen zu bestimmen, hatte für Mesopotamien noch keine Bedeutung. Dies bedeutet, dass ein mesopotamischer Herrscher entweder der legitime Erbe seines Vorgängers oder aber ein erfolgreicher Eroberer sein musste. In beiden Fällen waren die Könige bestrebt, die Rechtmäßigkeit ihrer Herrschaft auf der ideologischen Ebene dadurch zu unterstreichen, dass sie auf eine göttliche Legitimation hinwiesen und sich selbst als von den Göttern geliebt und für das hohe Amt erwählt darstellten. Alle mesopotamischen Herrscher unterstrichen, dass ihre Herrschaft die Zustimmung der Götter gefunden hat, wobei sich die Formen unterscheiden konnten, wie sich dieses göttliche Wohlwollen und die göttliche Bestimmung im Einzelfall manifestierte. So reklamierten unter anderem Šulgi und Aššurbanipal für sich, dass sie schon vor ihrer Geburt von den Göttern zur Herrschaft erwählt worden seien,¹ während Asarhaddon, der ursprünglich nicht als Nachfolger seines Vaters vorgesehen war, betonte, dass er von den Göttern unter seinen Brüdern erwählt wurde.² Zumeist nennen die Könige eine ganze Reihe von Gottheiten, welche ihnen ihr Wohlwollen geschenkt, sie mit besonderen Fähigkeiten ausgestattet und somit für die Ausübung der Herrschaft bestimmt haben. Mitunter wurde auch die besondere Nähe zu bestimmten Göttern hervorgehoben, welche als Vater oder Mutter des Herrschers oder als göttliche Ahnen stilisiert wurden.³ So bezeichnete sich Gudea von Lagaš wiederholt als leibliches Kind der Göttin Gatumdug, was seinen Herrschaftsanspruch unterstrich und seine Herrschaft legitimierte.⁴ Die besondere Nähe zu den Göttern betonte unter anderem auch Šulgi, wenn er, wie in der Hymne Šulgi A beschrieben, an einem Tag mit den Göttern in Nippur und jenen in Ur das Ešeš-Fest feierte.⁵ Es sind also verschiedene Ausformungen des Motivs der besonderen Nähe des Königs zu den

 Šulgi A, 1– 2, Klein 1981, 188; Šulgi B, 11– 12, Castellino 1972, 30; Ashurbanipal Prisma 1, ii 28’– 32’, Text 18, 9 – 10, Novotny 2014, 50 und 77.  Asarhaddon 1, i 8 – 16, Leichty 2011, 11– 12.  Šulgi bezeichnet sich als Kind, geboren von der Göttin Nin-sumun, Šulgi A, 7.  Gudea Statue B ii 16 – 17 und Statue F i 12–ii 1, Edzard 1997, 31 und 47.  Šulgi A, 78, s. Brisch, in diesem Band, 52.

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Göttern zu beobachten, wobei diese Nähe den Herrscher in seinem Amt legitimierte. Von den vier Königen, welche Brisch als schreibkundig nennt, Šulgi, LipitEštar, Aššurbanipal und eventuell auch Nabonid, war nur Nabonid nicht der Sohn eines Königs, konnte also seinen Herrschaftsanspruch nicht auf seinen Vater zurückführen und musste andere Wege finden, seine Bevorzugung durch die Götter zu zeigen. Dies tat er unter anderem dadurch, dass er wiederholt davon berichtete, wie er bei Bautätigkeiten die Gründungsinschriften früherer Herrscher gefunden hat. Diese normalerweise nicht sichtbaren, in den Türschwellen, den Fundamente oder an anderer Stelle verborgen angebrachten Bauinschriften, richteten sich an die Götter sowie an nachfolgende Könige. Durch das Auffinden dieser Inschriften bewies Nabonid folglich, dass er das besondere Wohlwollen der Götter besaß und als legitimer König regierte, denn ohne das Wohlwollen und die Zustimmung der Götter zu seiner Herrschaft wäre ein Auffinden der an einen späteren König gerichteten Inschriften früherer Herrscher nicht möglich gewesen.⁶ Der Erwerb der Herrschaft durch militärischen Erfolg steht nicht im Fokus der von Brisch genannten Inschriften, doch wäre hier Sargon von Akkade als ein prominentes Beispiel eines Königs zu nennen, der, obwohl nicht als Sohn eines Königs geboren, dennoch durch militärische Erfolge aufgrund der Unterstützung durch die Göttin Ištar zur Macht gekommen ist.⁷ Anzumerken ist allerdings, dass Sargon sich als Sohn einer En-Priesterin bezeichnete und dass diese Priesterinnen häufig die Töchter der Herrscher waren. Somit kann die Angabe, dass die Mutter eine En-Priesterin gewesen ist, durchaus auf eine Herkunft aus dem Königshaus oder zumindest aus der obersten Gesellschaftsschicht hindeuten.⁸ Sargons Enkel Naram-Sîn hatte im Gegensatz zu seinem Großvater nach der Überlieferung das Wohlwollen der Götter verloren, was ihn als Herrscher scheitern ließ.⁹ Nach der Frage, wie ein König die Herrschaft erlangen konnte, stellt sich die Frage, wie es ihm gelang, Herrscher zu bleiben und diese Herrschaft auch erfolgreich zu gestalten. Für die mesopotamischen Könige war der militärische Erfolg sicher ein herausragendes Element bei der Sicherung und Verteidigung ihrer Herrschaft. Dieser Erfolg im Krieg konnte sich jedoch nach der Überzeugung ihrer

 Nabonid, Elugalmalgasisa-Zylinder i 5 – 18, Ebabbar-Zylinder i 34– 40, Schaudig 2001, 351– 52 und 386.  Sargon Geburtslegende 12– 13, Westenholz 1997, 40.  Sargon Geburtslegende 2, Westenholz 1997, 38. Zu den En-Priesterinnen der Akkadezeit s. Weiershäuser 2008, 249 – 259.  Der Untergang des Reiches von Akkad wurde auch in einem literarischen Text verarbeitet, s. Glassner 1986.

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Zeit nur einstellen, wenn die Götter dem König ihr Wohlwollen und ihre Unterstützung nicht versagten. Dies bedeutet, dass der Erfolg im Krieg immer auch eine Folge der Frömmigkeit des Königs war, denn ohne den Respekt und die Achtung vor den Göttern von Seiten des Herrschers würde dieser die göttliche Zustimmung und Hilfe verlieren und wäre folglich nicht mehr in der Lage, militärisch erfolgreich zu agieren. Der Erfolg im Krieg war auch abhängig von der physischen Kraft und Stärke des Herrschers, weshalb sich Šulgi als heroischer, mit übermenschlichen Fähigkeiten ausgestatteter König darstellte, der schon im Mutterleib ein Krieger war.¹⁰ Doch auch hier ist festzuhalten, dass sich bei allen herausragenden Fähigkeiten als König und Krieger der Erfolg nur einstellen konnte, wenn die Götter dem Herrscher ihr Wohlwollen nicht entzogen, wenn es der König also nicht an Frömmigkeit fehlen ließ. Lipit-Eštar, der sich in seinem Preisgedicht ebenfalls als physisch stark und als Liebling und Erwählter der Götter darstellte, betonte darüber hinaus auch noch seine Tätigkeit als Gesetzgeber, als Garant von Recht und Gerechtigkeit.¹¹ Das gleiche Motiv findet sich auch im Prolog zum Kodex Lipit-Eštar, wo der König, ebenso wie Ur-Namma und Hammurabi im Prolog zu ihrem jeweiligen Gesetzeswerken, sich als guter und gerechter Herrscher stilisierte. Neben dem Erfolg im Krieg war die geübte Gerechtigkeit des Königs folglich ein weiterer Garant für die Sicherung seiner Herrschaft. Der König musste militärisches Geschick, Macht, Stärke und Gerechtigkeit zeigen, um sich so das Wohlwollen der Götter zu erhalten und seine Herrschaft zu sichern. Ungerechtigkeit und Gewalt gegenüber der eigenen Bevölkerung konnte zwar möglicherweise auch für eine bestimmte Zeit die Herrschaft sichern, stellten jedoch kein weises und rechtschaffenes Verhalten dar und würden folglich nicht zu göttlichem Wohlwollen und göttlicher Unterstützung führen, sondern zu einem Verlust der Hilfe der Götter und am Ende zu einem Verlust der Herrschaft. Damit bildeten Frömmigkeit, Weisheit und Rechtschaffenheit des Königs die Grundlagen für eine erfolgreiche und von den Göttern unterstützte Herrschaft. Ein wesentliches Kennzeichen der Weisheit des Königs war folglich seine Fähigkeit, so zu handeln, dass die Götter ihm wohlgesonnen blieben und seine Herrschaft weiterhin unterstützten. Die Fähigkeit zu lesen und zu schreiben war jedoch keine Voraussetzung für den Besitz von Weisheit, wie sie von einem König erwartet wurde, und somit nicht zwingend erforderlich, um ein guter und erfolgreicher König zu sein. Folglich war Lese- und Schreibkundigkeit auch kein gängiges Motiv bei der Präsentation königlicher Fähigkeiten und Leistungen.

 Šulgi A, 1.  Lipit-Eštar A, 88 – 97, Römer 1965, 36.

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Ebenso wie bei den europäischen Königen des Mittelalters galt die Alphabetisierung nicht als notwendig, um das Amt eines Königs oder Kaisers auszuüben. Dem mittelalterlichen wie dem mesopotamischen Herrscher standen Gelehrte zur Seite, welche ihm Briefe und Berichte vorlesen und die erforderlichen schriftlichen Arbeiten abnehmen konnten. Die Weisheit des Königs hatte sich dann darin zu zeigen, die richtigen Schlüsse aus dem Rat seiner Gelehrten zu ziehen und in der Folge angemessen zu handeln. Die Beherrschung der Keilschrift war eine Fähigkeit, die bei einem mesopotamischen König zwar als Zeichen besonderer Gunst der Nisaba oder des Nabû gelten konnte und die daher sicher erwähnenswert war,¹² doch für die erfolgreiche Ausübung der Herrschaft nicht als erforderlich angesehen wurde. In diesem Zusammenhang ist zu fragen, ob nachgeborene Prinzen in der Schreibkunst ausgebildet wurden, möglicherweise, um dem Vater, Onkel oder älteren Bruder auf dem Thron mit ihrem Wissen zur Seite zu stehen.Von Aššurbanipal ist bekannt, dass er nicht der ursprünglich von Sanherib zum Thronerben bestimmte Sohn war. In diesem Zusammenhang wäre es denkbar, dass es sich nicht nur bei Aššurbanipal, sondern auch bei Šulgi und LipitEštar, also bei den Königen, welche sich rühmten, lesen und schreiben zu können, nicht um die ursprünglich bestimmten Thronerben handelte. In diese Reihe würde dann auch Nabonid passen, von dem zwar nicht sicher bekannt ist, ob er eine Ausbildung als Schreiber erhalten hat, für den die Annahme einer solchen Ausbildung jedoch nicht ganz unwahrscheinlich ist.¹³ Zumindest ist festzuhalten, dass das Motiv des weisen Herrschers in Mesopotamien nicht mit dem des schreibkundigen Herrschers gekoppelt war. Die Beherrschung der Schreibkunst wurde von Šulgi lediglich erwähnt als ein Geschenk der Nisaba und als besonderes Zeichen seiner Weisheit, gleiches gilt für Nabonid, der dieses Geschenk von Nabû erhielt. Auch in der Hymne Lipit-Eštar B wird berichtet, dass Nisaba den König mit der Schreibkunst beschenkte, ebenso wie sie ihm Messleine und Messtab überreichte, also genau jene Symbole der Herrschaft, die Hammurabi auf dem Bildfeld seiner Gesetzesstele von Šamaš gereicht bekam. In beiden Fällen bildet die Übereignung von Fähigkeit und Herrschaftssymbol durch eine Gottheit selber kein Narrativ, sondern formuliert jeweils ein Motiv der Eigenschaften eines guten Herrschers aus. Aššurbanipal beschrieb seine Fähigkeiten zu lesen und das Gelesene zu verstehen zwar deutlich ausführlicher, doch auch in seiner Inschrift bleibt es bei einer Beschreibung der Fähigkeit an sich, es handelt sich nicht um ein Narrativ über den Weg, den der

 Šulgi B , 18 – 19, Nisaba schenkt Weisheit; Nabonid, Eʾigikalamma-Zylinder, 10 Nabû schenkt die Schreibkunst, Schaudig 2001, 364.  S. Brisch in diesem Band, 50.

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König als Schüler zurücklegen musste, sondern um eine Ausformung des Motivs der königlichen Weisheit. Anders als in seiner Rolle als kriegerischer Held, als Jäger oder als frommer Beter wird der König niemals in der Rolle eines Schreibers in der Bildkunst dargestellt. Ein König konnte sich dieser Fähigkeiten in seinen Texten rühmen, was selten genug geschah, in den Kanon der bildlichen Darstellung fand das Motiv des lesenden oder schreibenden Königs keinen Eingang. Elisabeth Wagner-Durand geht der Frage nach, ob und in welcher Form das Narrativ des frommen und rechtschaffenen Königs in der Bildkunst zu finden ist. Hier ist zuerst festzuhalten, dass auch ein bildlich präsentes Narrativ als Text anzusehen ist, da in der heutigen Kunst- und Medienwissenschaft der Textbegriff von der Schriftlichkeit entkoppelt und auch auf visuelle und auditive Medien angewendet wird.¹⁴ Zugleich liegt auch bei bildlich präsenten Narrativen stets ein gedachter, gesprochener oder geschriebener Text zugrunde, welcher von einem Betrachter des Bildwerkes unbewußt aktualisiert wird. Wenn es sich bei einem visuellen Narrativ um eine bildliche Repräsentation einer Reihe von Ereignissen handelt, welche zu einer Geschichte (story) gehören, und welche durch verschiedene Bildzeichen repräsentiert werden, wobei die Geschichte in Zeit oder Raum oder in beidem verankert ist,¹⁵ so stellen sich hierzu verschiedene Fragen: Handelt es sich nur dann um ein visuelles Narrativ, wenn der Betrachter die zugrundeliegende story verstehen kann, ohne diese vorher zu kennen? Dies ist zum Beispiel der Fall bei modernen Comics, bei denen in wenigen Bildern eine Geschichte erzählt wird, welche der Betrachter zuvor nicht kennen muss, um den Comic zu verstehen. Kann auch dann von einem visuellen Narrativ gesprochen werden, wenn sich dem Betrachter, welcher die zugrundeliegende Geschichte nicht kennt, diese allein durch die Betrachtung der bildlichen Darstellung nicht erschließt? Dies ist für viele heutige Betrachter mittelalterlicher Wandmalereien in Kirchen der Fall, wo biblische Geschichten in oftmals großer Detailfülle dargestellt werden, sich einem Betrachter, welcher die dargestellte biblische Szene oder Geschichte nicht kennt, jedoch zumeist nicht erschließen. Den des Lesens unkundigen Menschen des Mittelalters wurden die zugehörigen Geschichten von einem Geistlichen nahegebracht, die visuelle Repräsentation dieser Geschichten in der Malerei war dann von den Gläubigen ohne Schwierigkeiten zu verstehen. Die gleichen Schwierigkeiten ergeben sich für den Betrachter von bildlichen Darstellungen aus fremden Kulturen. Hier kann zwar eine Interpretation der Bilder versucht werden, doch bleibt die Richtigkeit des jeweiligen Bildverständnisses

 Berndt and Tonger-Erk 2013, 8 – 9.  S. Wagner-Durand in diesem Band („Pious Shepherd“ and „Guardian of Truth“…).

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unsicher, sofern sich keine parallele schriftliche Fassung des hinter dem Bild liegenden Textes findet. Eine visuelle Präsentation kann auch nur einen Hinweis auf ein Narrativ geben, ohne die gesamte story in der Bildkunst auszuformulieren. Dies ist der Fall, wenn beispielsweise eine Schlüsselszene einer story bildlich dargestellt ist, was bei dem kundigen Betrachter wiederum die gesamte story im Gedächtnis abruft. Gleiches ist auch für Schlüsselsätze einer story möglich. So ruft der Satz „Huston, we’ve had a problem.“ bei allen, die die Ereignisse um die Mondmission Apollo 13 im Jahr 1970 kennen, die dramatische Geschichte wach. Für alle anderen bleibt dieser Satz unverständlich. Der Satz alleine bildet folglich noch kein Narrativ, ebenso bildet die visuelle Präsentation einer einzelnen Szene kein Narrativ, sondern allenfalls ein bestimmtes Motiv, das in einem größeren narrativen Kontext verortet werden kann. Zu der Frage der bildlichen Präsentation der Frömmigkeit und Rechtschaffenheit mesopotamischer Könige hat Wagner-Durand darauf hingewiesen, dass es sich eher um ewige, allgemeingültige Qualitäten des Herrschers als um besondere Ereignisse handelt, also um etwas Statisches. Entsprechend statisch gestalten sich folglich auch die bildlichen Darstellungen königlicher Frömmigkeit, wie dies zum Beispiel im Relieffeld der Hammurabi-Stele zu beobachten ist. Das bedeutet, die besondere Qualität des guten, weisen und gerechten Herrschers bildet allein noch kein Narrativ. Von einem Narrativ kann dagegen gesprochen werden, wenn erzählt wird, wie der König seine besonderen Qualitäten eingesetzt hat, beziehungsweise wie sich seine Qualitäten als guter Herrscher in konkreten Ereignissen manifestiert haben. Betrachtet man die Geburtslegende des Sargon von Akkade, so ist zu erfahren, wie der zukünftige König die Liebe der Göttin Ištar und mit ihrer Hilfe später den Thron gewonnen hat. Eine Statue des Königs zeigt dann das Ergebnis dieser Ereignisse. Eine Narrativität der Statue selber ist also nicht gegeben, da sie selber nicht auf eine bestimmte story verweist, sie ist vielmehr eine bildliche Repräsentation der überzeitlichen königlichen Qualitäten wie Frömmigkeit und Weisheit. Anders liegt der Fall dagegen beispielsweise in den neuassyrischen Darstellungen von Kriegszügen und von königlichen Jagden. So zeigt die Bildsequenz der Schlacht am Ulai den König als im Krieg erfolgreichen Herrscher. Diesen Erfolg konnte er nur deshalb feiern, weil er das Wohlwollen der Götter besaß, welche ihn in der Schlacht unterstützt haben und weil er über die königlichen Qualitäten von Frömmigkeit und Weisheit verfügte, welche ihn zu einem erfolgreichen Feldherrn werden ließen. Die primäre story bildet hier also der militärische Konflikt und sein für den assyrischen König erfolgreicher Ausgang. Gleiches gilt für die Darstellungen von königlichen Jagden, in denen auch eine die Jagd beschließende Li-

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bationsszene über der erlegten Beute enthalten sein kann. Auch hier werden die königlichen Eigenschaften wie Mut, Kraft und Frömmigkeit im Bild thematisiert, wobei die Bildfolge primär die story der erfolgreichen königlichen Jagd wiedergibt. Dahinter liegt jeweils das Narrativ von der konkreten Ausübung eines guten und gerechten und daher auch erfolgreichen Königtums. Da Frömmigkeit, Weisheit und Gerechtigkeit Eigenschaften sind, die ein guter König per Definition besitzt, kann hinsichtlich der Repräsentation dieser Eigenschaften keine Folge von Ereignissen oder Entwicklung erwartet werden. Folglich bilden dies zeitlosen Eigenschaften, die eine Herrschaft legitimieren, selber kein Narrativ. Vielmehr handelt es sich bei der Erwartung, dass ein König gut, weise und gerecht sein sollte, ein von den Göttern erwählter und von ihnen unterstützter Herrscher, um ein durch die Zeiten fest etabliertes Motiv der mesopotamischen Herrscherideologie. Die Frage, mit welchen Narrativen dieses Motiv des guten Herrschers unterlegt und aktualisiert wurde, konnte dagegen je nach Medium und Epoche variieren. Bei bildlichen wie textlichen Darstellung, die zeigen, wie ein Herrscher diese Eigenschaften einsetzte, wie er die Herrschaft gewinnen und erfolgreich gestalten konnte, sei es im Krieg, im Kult, in der Rechtsprechung oder bei Bauprojekten, handelt es sich um Narrative, in denen gezeigt wird, wie königliche Frömmigkeit, Weisheit und Gerechtigkeit zur erfolgreichen Ausübung der Herrschaft führen.

Literatur Berndt, Frauke and Lily Tonger–Erk. 2013. Intertextualität. Eine Einführung. Grundlagen der Germanistik 53. Berlin: Erich Schmidt Verlag. Castellino, Giorgio. R. 1972. Two Šulgi Hymns (BC). Studi Semitici 42. Rom: Istituto di studi del Vicino Oriente. Edzard, Dietz Otto. 1997. Gudea and His Dynasty. The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia 1. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Glassner, Jean-Jacques. 1986. La chute d’Akkadé. L’événement et sa mémoire. Berliner Beiträge zum Vorderen Orient 5. Berlin: Reimer. Klein, Jacob. 1981. Three Šulgi Hymns. Sumerian Royal Hymns Glorifying King Šulgi of Ur. Bar-Ilan: University Press. Leichty, Erle. 2011. The Royal Inscriptions of Esarhaddon, King of Assyria (680 – 669 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period 4. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. Novotny, Jamie. 2014. Inscriptions of Assurbanipal. L3, L4, LET, Prism I, Prism T, and Related Texts. State Archives of Assyria Cuneiform Texts, 10. Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Römer, Willem H. Ph. 1965. Sumerische ‘Königshymnen’ der Isin-Zeit. Leiden/Boston: Brill.

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Schaudig, Hanspeter. 2001. Die Inschriften Nabonids von Babylon und Kyros’ des Grossen samt den in ihrem Umfeld entstandenen Tendenzschriften: Textausgabe und Grammatik. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 256. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Weiershäuser, Frauke. 2008. Die königlichen Frauen der III. Dynastie von Ur. Göttinger Beiträge zum Alten Orient I. Göttingen: Universitätsverlag. Westenholz, Joan Guralnick. 1997. Legends of the Kings of Akkade. Mesopotamian Civilizations, 7. Winona Lake, Ind: Eisenbrauns.

Julia Linke

Building, Arts, and Politics: Narrative Elements in the Depiction of “Building Kings” The importance of building projects in the royal ideology of the Ancient Near East becomes obvious in the emphasis that royal inscriptions put on the construction of buildings, amongst others, temples, structures for irrigation, fortifications, and store rooms. In this respect, the construction of buildings is a basic aspect in the royal propaganda, in the communication of the king’s power. Besides this ideological effect, meaning the gaining of royal prestige, we also have to consider the actual, huge amount in man-labor, material, and time that illustrates how many resources a state or a king respectively can draw out of substantial needs and invest in such building projects.¹ Via his building activities, the king shows his wealth and properties, both in resources and in his very own capability, to all of his people. The building activities of the king are rooted in his divine mandate to create, manage, and secure the earthly order: Completed buildings and a provided infrastructure show the king’s ability to fulfill the task the gods have assigned him; they are a visual marker of his capability and acquittal.² As a result, it is no surprise that building projects are frequently mentioned in the royal inscriptions throughout the Ancient Near East. The constant reference to construction works is likewise an expression for the pressure to succeed that rests upon the kings: By documenting their buildings in a written or visual form the kings make them public, not only for the humans but also for their divine principals.³

Narrating Royal Building Activity? My paper deals with questions of the relations between actual royal building activity – as we know it from the inscriptions – and what details of it the kings ac-

 Ristvet 2007, 198; Linke 2015, 62– 63.  Linke 2015, 60 – 64.  Linke 2015, 61. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501506895-006

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tually depict in visual media. In this respect, I want to outline which aspects of “building” are important for the royal ideology. Furthermore, it should be considered if these visual depictions of “building kings” contain narrative elements, and if yes: what kinds of, and if no: why not? Narration should be defined for this purpose according to Marie-Laure Ryan: (1) Narrative must be about a world populated by individuated existents. […] (2) This world must be situated in time and undergo significant transformations. (3) The transformations must be caused by non-habitual physical events. […] (4) Some of the participants in the events must be intelligent agents who have a mental life and react emotionally to the states of the world. (5) Some of the events must be purposeful actions by these agents. […] (6) The sequence of events must form a unified causal chain and lead to closure. (7) The occurrence of at least some of the events must be asserted as fact for the storyworld. (8) The story must communicate something meaningful to the audience. […].⁴

Key elements of this definition are the fixed time-aspect, the agency of the individuals involved, and the meaning to the audience. In general, we would expect that the “building king” is presenting himself in narrative elements also of visual media as narration was clearly attributed a legitimizing effect as well as a fundamental meaning in the creating of a collective memory .⁵ Given the focus on building projects we find in the written media, especially in the early periods of the Ancient Near Eastern History,⁶ it would be surprising if not at least a similar effort would be put into the visual media, using all available propagandistic elements, consequently also narrative ones.

The King Carrying a Basket with Mud-Bricks As a case study for the visual representation of the “building king” I will focus on the depiction of the king carrying the basket with mud-bricks and thus being very personally involved in the building process. This kind of depiction is a common motif especially in Southern Mesopotamia in the third and the beginning of the second millennium BCE and is mostly found with figurines made of metal. In general, figurines of basket bearing kings are one type of depiction within the group of mostly peg-shaped⁷ foundation fig-

 Ryan 2007, 29.  Cf. Wagner-Durand and Linke, this volume (“Why Study ‘Narration’?”), 308 – 309.  Linke 2015, 94– 105.  There are some examples, especially of Ur-Namma, that are actual statuettes disposing of a base, e. g. OIM A30553.

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Fig. 1: Foundation figure of Ur-Namma holding a basket.

urines that are often – together with inscribed bricks – deposited in boxes set into the walls or floors of the temples.⁸ The figures shown in this context are in general bold, smoothly shaved, and wearing only a long skirt. They are standard objects in the Sumerian history⁹ from the time of Gudea until the end of the Isin-Larsa period (Rim-Sîn I, r. 1822– 1763 BCE), and they often bear an inscrip Porter 1993, 84; Tsouparopoulou 2014, 19 – 24. One example are the figurines found in the walls of the temple of Aššur, cf. Klengel-Brandt and Rittig 1982.  Ellis (1968, 23) lists 22 basket-bearing figurines from the Ur III period, from Ur, Nippur, Uruk, and Lagaš, and even in Susa one was found; the kings represented on these are: Ur-Namma, Šulgi, Amar-Sîn, Šu-Sîn.

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tion stating the temple-building activities of the ruler depicted. For instance, the text on a figurine of Ur-Namma today in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (Fig. 1) reads “To Inanna the lady of Eanna, his lady, Ur-Namma, the mighty king, king of Ur, king of Sumer and Akkad, her temple he built, to its place he restored it.”¹⁰ This inscription can be directly transferred to the visual depiction of Ur-Namma carrying a basket with mud-bricks to the construction site of the Eanna. In Aššur, too, exits this way of depiction of the king, at least some similar figurines were found there.¹¹ Latest in the 13th century BCE, this tradition seems to vanish, and such figurines were no longer deposited in the temple foundations. Still, during restoration works, when the foundation deposits were unearthed, the foundation figurines get anointed once again and reburied. By this act the ritual was kept in mind over the generations in which the original ritual itself obviously was not performed anymore. The ritual of carrying mud-bricks to the construction site has a quite special meaning in the Ancient Near East. The temple-building inscriptions of Gudea describe this action in detail: the king is carrying the laborer’s basket to initiate the temple building. We are dealing with a ritual action that shows the king’s piety, depicting him as the servant of the gods. By this act, the king wins the gods’ acceptance and support, not only for himself and his rule but also for the state as a whole. The brand-new basket and the auspicious brick-mold that had been firmly promised (to him) [he carried] to the Eninnu. …, proudly he walked “King who makes the mountains tremble” going ahead of him while Ig-alim cleared the way for him (and) Ningišzida, his (personal) god, held him by his hand all the time. He libated propitious water in the shed of the brick-mould while drums and kettle-drums(?) accompanied an adab song for the ruler. As for the clay pit, he uncovered the top for the brick (to be made). He hoed in syrup, butter, and cream, mixed ambergris and essences from all kinds of trees into a paste. He raised the brand-new carrying-basket and set it before the mould. Gudea put the clay in the mould, acted precisely as prescribed, and he succeeded in making a most beautiful brick for the House. At that, the bystanders sprinkled oil, sprinkled cedar essence. (Cyl. A, XVIII, ll. 10 – 28)¹²

Gudea’s inscription states that Gudea is entering the temple carrying the “brandnew basket” and is accompanied by the gods. Gudea then molds the symbolic first brick and thus symbolically starts the building process himself. After that, this king-made brick finds the acceptance of the sun god (XIX, l. 8 – 9),

 Muscarella 1988, 306.  Porter 1993, 84– 86.  Translation: Edzard 1997, 80.

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then “(Gudea) raised the brick out of the shed of the mould, he carried the brick – a lovely tiara rising heavenwards – around among his people” (XIX ll. 13 – 16). The royal building actions of Gudea are summarized by the lines “Gudea the House-builder had the carrying-basket for the House on his head like a pure crown, he laid the foundations, set the walls into the ground” (XX, ll. 24– 26). Obviously, in a secondary meaning, the basket serves as a symbol for the “pure crown” that marks Gudea’s legitimate rule.¹³ This image that is created in a written form is also transcribed into a visual form, namely various figurines of Gudea carrying the basket.¹⁴ Finally, in Neo-Assyrian times under the rule of Esarhaddon, the ritual of the basket bearing king seems to have experienced a renaissance. This reawakening can be seen in connection to Esarhaddon’s political program to renew Babylonian traditions to strengthen his position in the South (after the reign of Sennacherib who had sacked Babylon which was followed by revolts of the Southern parts of the Assyrian kingdom). Esarhaddon personally came to Babylon for the construction of the Esagil and conducted the ritual of the basket-bearing to show his piousness. The Babylon account begins with a reference to the destruction of Babylon; Esarhaddon had been made king by the Babylonian gods and got the task to repair the city of Babylon, omen confirm that he should do the repairs, the day comes where the works start, and then the inscription states: With good oil, honey, ghee, kurunnu-beer (and) mutinnu-wine, pure drink of the mountains, I (the king) sprinkled the scarp of the excavation. In order to show the people his (the god Marduk’s) great godhead and to cause them to fear the lordship, I lifted the kudurru ¹⁵ basket onto my head, and I myself carried it. (Babylon A, C, D, and E, Ep. 20 – 21)¹⁶

The political effect of the basket-bearing-ceremony for Esarhaddon is, according to Barbara Porter, that it “presents Esarhaddon in an important public event as a legitimate successor of ancient kings, as a benevolent ruler personally active in the care of his people, and as the religious leader of each nation.”¹⁷

 Porter 2003, 50 – 51.  Suter 2000, 61.  A kudurru basket is a special laborer’s basket, and usually not used for ritual or ceremonial purposes (cf. CAD *kudurru.). In Neo-Assyrian times it is a metaphor for corvée labor performed for the state. Consequently, by carrying this basket the king shows solidarity with the people and workers, and also respect for Marduk as he is doing actual corvée work for this god. See Porter, 1993, 92.  Translation: Porter 1993, 92.  Porter 1993, 94.

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There are a few other Neo-Assyrian evidences for the depiction of the basketbearing ruler: Esarhaddon’s son Ashurbanipal completed the reconstruction of the Esagil and dedicated at least one marble stela that depicts him bearing the basket with mud-bricks (BM 90864). And also in the Ezida in Borsippa, there have been two stelae depicting the basket bearing king: one of Ashurbanipal and one of Šamaš-šuma-ukīn (BM 90865 and BM 90866). Like in Babylon, the inscriptions on these stelae do not mention the performance of the ritual but describe the titles, qualities, and achievements of the respective king on the image, also mentioning the construction of the Ezida.¹⁸

The Urnanše-plaque This act of the king carrying mud-bricks on his head is put into some kind of narration or broader context respectively on the votive plaque¹⁹ of Urnanše from Girsu (Fig. 2).²⁰ Here, the picture of the basket carrying ruler appears together with a banquet. But how are the different scenes shown on the plaque related to each other and why are precisely these themes picked out and shown on the image, while the inscriptions give us abundant insights in all the various aspects of royal building activity? The Urnanše-plaque is separated in two registers that show two different scenes, both commemorating religious actions of Urnanše, the founder of the First Dynasty of Lagaš. On the upper register Urnanše is depicted carrying the basket with mud-bricks. The mud-bricks are most probably being used for construction works, namely for the temple of Ningirsu that is mentioned in the inscriptions of the plaque. The king is wearing a tufted woolen skirt and is recognizable through his mere size, much bigger than the other persons on the relief

 Porter 2003, 51– 56.  Votive plaques are defined as rectangular or square stone plaques that dispose of a central hole. Their time range is mainly the Early Dynastic period, though some rare examples might date to the Neo-Sumerian period. Mostly, these plaques constitute temple inventory and are decorated with reliefs or incisements. The motifs that can be found on votive plaques are not strictly defined and range from festive scenes to processions with chariots, adorations scenes, and animal fights. For the object category of votive plaques see e. g.: Romano 2010, Braun-Holzinger 1991, Boese 1971.  A very similar plaque also showing Urnanše carrying a basket with mud-bricks is today in the Istanbul Arkeoloji Müzeleri (EŞ 1633, see: Braun-Holzinger, 2008, W; Boese 1971, T4). In contrast to the Louvre plaque, on the Istanbul plaque Urnanše only appears once, together with his sons and some functionaries. The inscription also records various building projects, but the context of the depicted scene is all but clear.

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Fig. 2: Plaque of Urnanše.

who are his wife and his sons, as well as high functionaries, each one identified by his name written on his garment. In the lower register, again, Urnanše is depicted surrounded by his sons and high functionaries. He is sitting on a throne, holding a goblet in his hand. It appears that we are dealing with some kind of feasting or banquet-scene. Obviously, both scenes share the same actors, Urnanše being the center of both depictions. The presence of the family is an interesting detail. From king Nabopolassar in Neo-Babylonian times we know that his sons took part in the royal building rituals, too: I bent my neck before the god Marduk. I girt up skirts of my royal garment and carried bricks and clay on my head. I had baskets covered with gold and silver and I had Nebuchadnezzar, the first-born, beloved of my heart, carry clay that was mixed with wine, oil, and cuttings (of fragrant substances). Along with my workmen I had Nabu-šuma-lišir,

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his younger brother, my own small child, the second-born, my favorite, wield the hoe and the spade; I laid a basket made of gold and silver on him.²¹

If these hints proof to be true, via the building rituals not only the legitimation of the ruling king is strengthened but also the dynastic succession through the involvement of the heirs to the throne, first in the rituals and secondly in the records that tell about them, be it the Early Dynastic plaque or the Neo-Babylonian text. The securing of the dynastic line can be seen as one major goal of rulership. The inscription on the votive plaque of Urnanše deals with the construction works of this king: Ur-Nanše, king of Lagaš, son of Gu-NI.DU, (Gu-NI.DU was) ‘son’ of (the city of) Gursar, built the temple of the god Ningirsu; built Apzu-banda (and) built the temple of the goddess Nanše. […] Ur-Nanše, king of Lagaš had ships of Dilmun submit timber as tribute from foreign lands (to Lagaš).²²

The text mentions the completed building projects of king Urnanše as well as the obvious great achievement to import precious materials for the construction, here being wood from Dilmun. There is an ideological as well as political symbolism in the acquisition of material of special value, because of its rareness or origin, by the king. Kings are in general defined by their ability to provide their land and people with desirable and special things as this ability shows that the kings are capable of manipulating and transforming also lands outside their own kingdom.²³ Interestingly, the depiction on the plaque itself does not show the import of the wood from distant places, the very detail that is stressed in the inscription, but is concentrating on the act of the king carrying the basket with mud-bricks and celebrating a feast.

Banquet Scenes With the Urnanše-plaque we detect the connection of the motif of the basketbearing ruler with a banquet-scene. So-called “banquet” plaques have been found in both northern and southern Mesopotamia. Banquet scenes appear

 Translation: Ellis 1968, 25 – 26, App. A, No. 26.  Translation: Frayne 2008, 83 – 84.  Helms 1993, 160 – 163.

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alone, but also – quite frequently – together with animals, servants, offers, musicians and dancers, wrestlers, a boat or a chariot etc. shown in the second or third register of the plaque.²⁴ It has been suggested that these banquets illustrate a ceremony common to all the Sumerian city-states, such as for instance the New Year’s festival. Also, it could be a more common festival to celebrate different events. Actually, some of the plaques might depict the king and the goddess celebrating the Sacred Marriage, as for instance a plaque from Tell Asmar.²⁵ On the other hand, some plaques clearly show two men or two women what makes us exclude the Sacred Marriage as event. Other interpretations thus encompass the celebration of a military event, for instance with the Standard of Ur, or even a connection with the funeral theme and with Tammuz returning from the other world, like the Syrian funerary stelae of the ninth to eighth centuries BCE.²⁶

The Storyline of Royal Building Projects As the interpretation of the banquet and its occasion is not entirely clear, we might ask the question: Could there be a contextual connection between the banquet and the basket-bearing scene? Maybe some kind of shortened narration, thus implicating the building activity prior to the depicted banquet scene? In this case, the decoration of the Urnanše-plaque would sum up the ceremonies of the foundation and inauguration of the temple, symbolized by the pile of bricks and the ritual banquet. Temple building is an exclusive royal task as the king is responsible for the prosperity of his kingdom and the people living in it. This prosperity is granted by the gods, and in return, men were expected to serve them and maintain their temples. The basket bearing itself is a static depiction that only shows the king carrying a basket with mud-bricks but the contextual frame is very obvious: the king conducted the ritual of the making of the first mud-brick, he is a pious servant to the gods, and perceived as a personally involved lord by his people. On the votive plaque of Urnanše, the context in not only implicated but actually depicted: the foundation ritual involving the carrying of mud-bricks is followed by a banquet that is attended by the royal family and high functionaries. Of course, these

 Romano 2010, 974.  Boese 1971, 171; Romano 2010, 974; Selz 1983, 7– 13.  Cf. Romano 2010, 974.

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events are only two small acts of the whole ritual process that took place when constructing a new temple. From textual evidence²⁷ we know more or less exactly what other kinds of rituals are performed during the different stages of the building process and thus get an insight of the general “storyline” of royal buildings activities. At the beginning stands the decision to build: omen or dreams initiate the building projects and act as some kind of reassurance for the constructing king that the gods approve of his building project.²⁸ It follows the preparation of the building site: quite well recorded are purification rituals in this vein, maybe through fire and/or the filling with clean soil or sand respectively.²⁹ When it comes to the rebuilding of older temples, a ritual with a kalû-priest takes place in which he removes a brick from the old temple and sets it aside, offerings are made and the kalû sings lamentations while the old temple is demolished. Then the foundations of the new temple are laid. The ritual performed by the kalû closes the gap between the two temples. If the older temple is completely gone and no longer visible, some effort is made to find the old foundations that the new one can be built exactly on top of the older one.³⁰ As the purification is mentioned in royal building inscriptions, we might conclude that the king was taking part in it – although this is not explicitly stated. After the purifications, the building material is prepared, the bricks are molded, and the mortar is mixed. At this stage we can clearly proof a royal involvement again. The king is probably molding the symbolic “first brick”³¹ and

 The texts dealing with royal building activities, above all building inscriptions, show clear narrative elements, amongst others in outlining the process of a respective building project conducted by a historical known king. Cf. for instance Gudea Cylinder A, cited above, just to name one example.  E. g. with Gudea (Cyl. A, column I, ll. 20 ff.) or Nabonidus (Eḫulḫul-cylinder, column I, ll. 15 ff.).  E. g. the text of the statue of Ur-Bau of Lagaš: “He dug out a foundation-pit(?) (to a depth) of x cubits; he heaped up the earth from it like stone and purified it with fire(?) like precious metal. As with a measuring-vessel he brought it to the broad place. He put the earth back and filled in the foundation with it. On it he built a kišû of ten cubits, and on the kišû he built ‘The House of Fifty Gleaming Anzu Birds’, thirty cubits high.” According to Ellis 1968, App.A, No. 3.  E. g. in Nabonidus’s Eḫulḫul-cylinder, column I, ll. 46 ff. See also the curses for the ones who would remove the name or puts his own name there (e. g. the text on the bricks of the Šamaštemple from Tiglath-pileser I: “Let him inscribe his own name by the side of mine” ARAB 1, 90, par. 265). Ellis 1968, 12– 16.  For the discussion see e. g., Ellis 1968, 26 – 29.

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– shown in the visual representations – he is carrying bricks to the construction site.³² The probably most important ritual act of the building process is the laying of the foundations. It is the most frequently mentioned event in the building inscriptions, e. g. with Gudea (Cyl. A XX 26) and Esarhaddon.³³ At times an exorcist (āšipūtu) is involved in the foundation ceremonies and various precious materials are mentioned in Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian building inscriptions in this vein.³⁴ The final ceremonial act of the construction process is the opening and dedication of the new temple; an event that might be connected to a banquet that in this case would mark the festive event that celebrates the opening of the temple.³⁵ Now, if we consider the opening of the temple as probably the most important step in the different stages of the building process, it seems a little stunning that this act is not depicted in visual media. But I would like to put up the idea for discussion that it actually is, being the banquet-scene. This festive act is until now not comprehensively determined, as I showed earlier, but it is at least on the plaque of Urnanše clearly connected with the king carrying the basket with mudbricks and thus conducting some construction work – or rituals associated with them. So, what I would like to suggest is that also the banquet-scenes without the “prelude”-depiction of the king carrying the basket with mud-bricks allude to this ritual sequence or storyline and implicate the royal act of the construction of an official building, most often a temple. In this case, we would be dealing with some kind of shortened or “meta-level” narration in respect both to the banquet-scenes that implicate the mud-brick-bearing prior, as well as to the image of the king bearing the basket with mud-bricks that in turn implicates the festive act of the feast afterwards.

Conclusion: One Picture for the Whole Story? The textual evidence describes several acts referring to royal building activity (like preparations, the construction process, rituals, and ceremonies) and thus in many cases offers a true narrative in the very sense of the definition proposed in the beginning. In contrast, the visual representations show only very few de   

Ellis 1968, 17– 31. Ellis 1968, App. A, No. 19 Ellis 1968, 31– 32. Cf. Ellis 1968, 33.

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tails connected to construction works – one of them being the king with the basket of mud-bricks. But why is this very motif chosen? This long-established motif of the king carrying the basket with mud-bricks that is settled especially in the Babylonian south summarizes – as I would like to suggest – all steps of royal building activity. In the visual representation of the king carrying the basket with mud-bricks he is obviously personally and physically involved in the building process. It is a quite clear visual metaphor for the person of the king working at the construction, personally taking care of it, and thus fulfilling his tasks with all his – also physical and human – power. In this way of depiction, the underlying symbolism becomes very clear: The king is shown in his official role, acting for the whole state and all the people living in it. By carrying the mud-bricks on his head just like any ordinary workman, he expresses his role as a “workman for the gods,” piously and humbly fulfilling their service. In addition, we can clearly learn from the renewal of this way of depiction in Neo-Assyrian times that visual representations of the king building something are intentionally used in the political program. The main goal in depicting the king carrying the basket with mud-bricks, i. e. as a builder, is to preserve a record of the king’s pious efforts. As especially the figurines that show the king carrying the basket with mud-bricks cannot be seen by a broader public, the message of the pious king is addressed to the gods or to the posterity – or both. Regarding the communication with the gods, it is interesting that also prayers are involved in the inscriptions of the foundation deposits. These tell the gods that the king is fulfilling his tasks. Regarding the communication with the posterity, the finding of the foundations and most likely also the foundation deposits of the older builders obviously had a special meaning that sets the recently building king in a longer tradition and perpetuates the name and also the fame of the king that originally built the temple. The rebuilder or restorer of the temple can put his own name and/or tablet down in the course of the restoration but must (and will) respect the older one(s).³⁶ In this vein, commemorative aspects of this static representation of the king carrying the basket with mud-bricks become very obvious. The visual representation of the king personally engaged in building activities most certainly has legitimizing aspects but also, as the motif is repeated quite standardized and regarding the usage of the figurines in question as foun-

 See also the curses for the ones who would remove the name or put their own name there (e. g., the text on the bricks of the Šamaš-temple from Tiglath-pileser I: “Let him inscribe his own name by the side of mine” ARAB 1, 90, par. 265). Ellis 1968, 12– 16.

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dation deposits, commemorative ones. And this is just the point where we reach the main topic: in terms of royal building activity, are narratives or narrative elements used for creating a memory and/or the legitimization of royal power? Explicitly, the depiction of just one human figure with a basket on his head is not narrative. Still, behind it stand the whole process and the ritual of temple building that we know from the texts. These texts certainly contain narrative elements and – as the depiction of the basket bearing ruler alludes to the whole ritual process the king is conducting when constructing a new temple that must have been very familiar to everyone seeing the figurines – this motif implicates a narrative on a symbolic, or “meta-level,” even if this emerges only in the mind of the observer, be it the modern or the ancient one. This connection of the motif to all the acts of royal building becomes obvious on the already abundantly mentioned votive-plaque of Urnanše. Completing the depiction of the king Urnanše bearing his basket with mud-bricks, we have several more actors, namely his family and some officials, and in addition, another, second scene that takes place at a different time than the basket-bearing-ceremony: the banquet. These are per definition hints to narration. Additionally, the inscription accompanying the visual representations mentions historical building projects, being the foundation of the temple of Ningirsu, the Apzu-banda, and the temple of Nanše. Thus, the scene is both locally and temporarily fixed, and this is another point that corresponds to the definition of “narration” brought up by me at the beginning. Nevertheless, in respect to the figurines of the basket bearing king, they only show one event. In this case, the mere visual depictions of “building kings” are not narrative in the very definition of narration, but imply a narrative on a “metalevel,” being the various ritual acts the king must conduct during the construction of the temple for which this image was made.

Bibliography Braun-Holzinger, Eva M. 1991. Mesopotamische Weihgaben der frühdynastischen bis altbabylonischen Zeit. Heidelberger Studien zum Alten Orient 3. Heidelberg: Heidelberger OrientVerlag. Boese, Johannes. 1971. Altmesopotamische Weihplatten: Eine sumerische Denkmalsgattung des 3. Jahrtausends v. Chr. Untersuchungen zur Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 6. Berlin / New York: de Gruyter. Edzard, Dietz Otto. 1997. Gudea and His Dynasty. The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia 1. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Ellis, Richard S. 1968. Foundation Deposits in Ancient Mesopotamia. Yale Near Eastern Researches 2. New Haven: Yale University Press.

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Frayne, Douglas. 2008. Presargonic Period, 2700 – 2350 BC. Royal inscriptions of Mesopotamia. Early Periods 1. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Helms, Mary W. 1993. Craft and the Kingly Ideal: Art, Trade, and Power. Austin: University of Texas Press. Klengel-Brandt, Evelyn and Dessa Rittig. 1982. “Korbträgerfigurinen aus Assur.” Forschungen und Berichte 22, Archäologische Beiträge, 97 – 114. Linke, Julia. 2015. Das Charisma der Könige: Zur Konzeption des altorientalischen Königtums im Hinblick auf Urartu. Phillipika 84. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Muscarella, Oscar White. 1988. Bronze and Iron: Ancient Near Eastern Artifacts in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. New York: The Museum. Porter, Barbara N. 2003. Trees, Kings, and Politics: Studies in Assyrian Iconography. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 197. Fribourg / Göttingen: Acadamic Press; Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Porter, Barbara N. 1993. Images, Power, and Politics: Figurative Aspects of Esarhaddon’s Babylonian Policy. Memoirs of the American Philosophical Society 208. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. Ristvet, Lauren. 2007. “The Third Millennium City Wall at Tell Leilan, Syria: Identity, Authority and Urbanism.” In Power and Architecture: Monumental Public Architecture in the Bronze Age Near East and Aegean, edited by Joachim Bretschneider, Jan Driessen and Karel van Lerberghe, 183 – 211. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 156. Leuven: Peeters. Romano, Licia. 2010. “The Barber’s Gift: Votive Plaques as Expression of Elite’s pietas.” In Proceedings of the 6th International Congress of the Archaeology of the Ancient Near East: 5 May-10 May 2009, “Sapienza,” Universita di Roma, edited by Paolo Matthiae and Licia Romano, 973 – 981. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Selz, Gudrun. 1983. Die Bankettszene: Entwicklungen eines “überzeitlichen” Bildmotivs in Mesopotamien von der Frühdynastischen bis zur Akkad-Zeit. Freiburger Altorientalische Studien 11. Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag GmbH. Suter, Claudia E. 2000. Gudea’s Temple Building: The Representation of an Early Mesopotamian Ruler in Text and Image. Cuneiform Monographs 17. Groningen: STYX publications. Tsouparopoulou, Christina. 2014. “Hidden Messages under the Temple: Foundation Deposits and the Restricted Presence of Writing in 3rd Millennium B.C.E. Mesopotamia.” In Verborgen, unsichtbar, unlesbar: Zur Problematik restringierter Schriftpräsenz, edited by Tobias Frese, Wilfried Keil, and Kristina Krüger, 17 – 31. Materiale Textkulturen 2. Berlin et al.: de Gruyter.

Figures Fig. 1: Foundation figure of Ur-Namma holding a basket (Metropolitan Museum of Art, 47.49), photo: http://www.metmuseum.org/collection/the-collection-online/search/ 329067. Fig. 2: Plaque of Urnanše (Musée du Louvre, Paris, AO 2344), photo: Julia Linke.

Claus Ambos

Narratives of Building Activities as an Element of Royal Legitimation The renovation and maintenance of the temples by the king was an important element of Mesopotamian royal ideology. When the gods had created the universe, they themselves had built their temples as their divine domiciles of eternal pleasure. Mankind had been created by the gods specifically to maintain the shrines and to feed the gods. The gods had then created the king as a kind of superhuman being and had assigned to him the task of supervising and coordinating the maintenance of the gods and their sanctuaries. Thus, by renovating and maintaining the temples, the ruler fulfilled the duty which was allotted to him by the gods.¹ When reconstructing or rebuilding a temple, the royal builder left inscriptions in the foundations or walls for posterity. The king as builder in general and particularly the importance of temple building for royal ideology have been treated many times in the scholarly literature.² Interestingly, there is a small and heterogeneous corpus of foundation inscriptions composed by non-royal builders, such as local officials and dignitaries.³ For example, the very last cuneiform foundation inscriptions known to date were commissioned by local magnates from Uruk, Anu-uballiṭ=Nikarchos and Anu-uballiṭ=Kephalon during the thrid century BCE.⁴ Both Anu-uballiṭs present themselves as builders of the rēš-temple of Anu in Uruk. In the scholarly literature, it is often assumed that the rulers of the Seleucid dynasty contributed

I am grateful to Dr. Jon Taylor (London) for correcting my English. Research for this article was conducted in the framework of a project “Die Wahrnehmung und Rekonstruktion der Vergangenheit im Alten Orient: Fallbeispiel Uruk” as part of a Heisenberg fellowship funded by the German Research Council (Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft, DFG).  Ambos 2004, 50 – 52.  Hurowitz 1992; Hruška 1999, 217– 228; Lackenbacher 1982; Porter 1993; Suter 2000.  Ambos 2004, 37– 39; Schaudig 2010, 142– 143. See also Blocher 2001, specifically on Assyrian officials of the ninth and eighth centuries BCE acting (and building) autonomously. On officials from the Old Babylonian period see Fitzgerald, 2010, 45 – 47.  The inscription of Nikarchos is extant on a clay cylinder. See for an edition Falkenstein 1941, 4– 5. The inscription of Kephalon is extant on several bricks. It has been treated by Falkenstein 1941, 6 – 7 and van Dijk 1962, 47– 48. A study of both inscriptions and a new edition of Kephalon’s brick inscriptions is prepared by me in a forthcoming publication (see in the meantime Ambos 2013, 59 – 63). https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501506895-007

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to the funding of the temple building in Uruk.⁵ In the inscriptions no royal participation is mentioned. However, Nikarchos and Kephalon dedicate their pious building work to the life of Seleucid kings. Remarkably, other dignitaries who were active in temple building in Babylonia during the first millennium BCE very frankly criticize the lack of royal interest in temple renovation. This article derives from a talk delivered at a session with the topic “Narrating royal building activities in the Ancient Near East” which took place at the workshop “Tales of Royalty: Notions of Kingship in Visual and Textual Narration in the Ancient Near East” during the Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale at Bern in 2015. In this contribution, on the one hand I want to modify this subject slightly to the topic “Narrating non-royal building activities in the Ancient Near East.” However, on the other hand, I will also tackle the question of how nonroyal builders refer to the king, who after all was the one who was actually supposed to act as builder according to Mesopotamian worldview and ideology. Thus, was there a narrative about the absence or failure of royal building activities? The subject of narratology has seen an ever-increasing number of publications during the last decades. Theoretical frameworks have been developed. The usefulness of these theories, however, has also been contested. The British writer Christine Brooke-Rose discussed already in 1990 the “initial excitements and fairly rapid disappointments of narratology.”⁶ A definition of narrative which could be useful for the scope of this article can be found in Susana Onega Jaén and José Angel García Landa: “A narrative is the semiotic representation of a series of events meaningfully connected in a temporal and causal way.”⁷ Thus, does the non-royal temple builder develop a narrative which connects his own building activities in a temporal and causal way to the absence of the royal builder? Does the non-royal builder mention the fact that the renovation or rebuilding of a temple or sanctuary had been rather the task of the king, and is the king’s absence as builder evaluated, e. g. as failure or negligence? If so, is royal failure explicitely referred to as justification of the non-royal builder’s temple renovation? During the reign of the Babylonian king Nabonassar (r. 747– 734 BCE), some local magnates from Uruk, Bēl-ibni and Nabû-zēra-ušabši, the sons of Bulluṭu, renovated the akītu house of the goddess Uṣur-amāssu. The builders in their

 Lenzi 2008, 158; Downey 1988, 45; Kuhrt & Sherwin-White 1991, 85; Kessler 2005, 286.  Brooke-Rose 1990, 283.  Onega Jaén and García Landa 1996, 3.

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foundation inscription explicitly point to the blatant failure of all higher authorities, including the king himself, which had eventually led to the decline of akītu house (ll. 4– 13):⁸ With regard to the akītu house, which long ago had become old, whose name had been forgotten, and which (now) stood in ruins, its walls had buckled and their foundations collapsed. Its ground-plan had been forgotten and its (the groundplan’s) shape had changed. No king (or) commissioner (or) prince (or) city ruler had turned his attention to do this work and to renovate the akītu house. Finally, Bēl-ibni and Nabû-zēra-ušabši, sons of Bulluṭu of Uruk, turned their attention to do this work and to renovate the akītu house. Hoe and basket were taken up by them wholeheartedly and they had an abode of pure riches built for the goddess.

The builders explicitly criticize the king and those who follow in the chain of command as having neglected their duty. However, they acknowledge the kingship of Nabonassar by dating the building inscription according to the regnal years of this ruler. The king himself, however, was apparently not involved in the construction project. Following the dating formula there is a reference that the building work was accompanied by the governor of a region which cannot be identified (l. 19 f.): “5th year of Nabonassar, king of Babylon. In the presence of Nabû-mukīn-zēri, son of Nabû-apkal-ilī, governor of KUR.UG.UDki.” In the passage that contains the dedication of the building, Bēl-ibni and Nabû-zēra-ušabši, the sons of Bulluṭu, implore divine blessing for themselves and their offspring. The king, however, is not considered at this point. While the sons of Bulluṭu, in spite of their critique, still recognize the authority of the Babylonian king, a ruler is practically unmentioned in the foundation inscription of Nabû-šuma-imbi, governor of Borsippa during the reign of Nabûšuma-iškun (r. ca. 760 – 748 BCE).⁹ Like the builders in Uruk, the governor of Borsippa emphasizes the failure and negligence of the responsible authorities, which had eventually led to the decline of a storehouse of the Ezida-temple of Nabû (i 5’ – i 15’a): this storehouse […] a praiseworthy structure … (…) [which] had buckled and become weak […] … […] which from time immemorial, from long before me, no governor (or) commissioner of B[orsippa] had done, he (Nabû) charged me with this work and entrusted (it) to me – me, Nabû-šuma-imbi, son of Ēda-ē[ṭir], (…). I began that work and ordered that it be done.

 Frame 1995, 127– 129.  Frame 1995, 123 – 126.

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The enumeration of failures is very similar to that in the above-mentioned inscription of the sons of Bulluṭu of Uruk. However, Nabû-šuma-imbi does not even mention the king among those who were responsible for the maintenance of temple and cult. The passage in which Nabû-šuma-imbi presents himself is followed by a historical account describing the chaotic times during which the governor of Borsippa was active. Thanks to his energetic actions he was able to maintain control of the city despite adverse conditions resembling a civil war. Only in this historical section is the king Nabû-šuma-iškun referred to briefly, in order to date the deeds of Nabû-šuma-imbi. The reader of the inscription perceives the reign of Nabûšuma-iškun as an era of chaos and time of lawlessness, while the governor is characterized as an assertive personality. In the formula with the dedication of the building, the gods are invoked to bless the governor Nabû-šuma-imbi. The king, however, is not included here. It seems that the governor of Borsippa had a point in simply ignoring the ruler and denying him divine blessing. King Nabû-šuma-iškun is in fact known from other sources not only as a negligent ruler, but also as an evildoer with criminal intent and actions. He committed terrible sacrileges in the cult, transferred the treasury of Esagil to his own private property and suppressed with cruel violence the inhabitants of the venerable cult centers.¹⁰ In general, it becomes clear that local magnates who restored a temple tend to point to the failure of the king and his subordinates. Those whose duty it was to renovate and maintain the temple had failed to do so. Thus, local dignitaries had virtually been compelled to intervene. The governor Nabû-šuma-imbi of Borsippa explicitly stresses the fact that the god Nabû himself had ordered him to renovate the storehouse of his temple. Quite different from the above-mentioned foundation documents is an inscription of Iddin-Nergal, governor of Kiš and a contemporary of king Mardukapla-iddina II (r. 721– 710 BCE).¹¹ It is a text composed by a loyal subject, acting for the benefit of his king. The first section of the text suggests that the king himself had carried out the building work and written the inscription. Only from the second part does it become clear that the construction project and the composition of the inscription were apparently carried out rather by the local dignitary himself. The inscription expresses no criticism against the ruler and asks explicitly for divine blessing for the king (ll. 2– 6):

 Frame 1995, 117– 122.  Frame 1995, 141– 142.

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Marduk-apla-iddina, of Babylon, king of the land of Sumer and Akkad, had baked bricks made (for) the bridge over the Nār-Bānītu canal (…). He had (the bridge) built in order to ensure his good health and his life, and he presented (it to the goddess Ninlil). On account of this, when [the goddess Ninlil (…)] looks at this temple with pleasure, […] of/which Iddin-Nergal, governor of Kiš, the servant who reveres you (…) to live in safety, to have a long life (and) years of plenty and abundance, for the king, his lord, to that man […] may she give him as a present! (…)

An interesting case is that of Sîn-balāssu-iqbi, governor of Ur. He reigned in a quite autonomous way and left several building inscriptions.¹² In these inscriptions he presented himself as the builder of shrines in Ur. At this time, Šamaššuma-ukīn was king of Babylon (r. 667– 648 BCE). However, in most of his inscriptions, Sîn-balāssu-iqbi does not refer to any king at all. In a few of his inscriptions he dedicates his pious work at the temples of Ur to the life of the Assyrian king Ashurbanipal (r. 668 – 627 BCE). In fact, Šamaš-šuma-ukīn was only a puppet king installed by the Assyrians in Babylon. The actual power was in the hands of Ashurbanipal. Sîn-balāssu-iqbi considered this fact of Realpolitik in those few of his inscriptions where he actually mentions a ruler. A royal builder could well be aware of the likelihood that the kings who succeeded him would be negligent with regard to the maintenance of the buildings constructed by him. Very informative in this respect is a passage in a building inscription of Marduk-apla-iddina II. (r. 721– 710 BCE) referring to the Eanna-temple, in which he addresses the future builder:¹³ Anyone in the future – whether king, or son of a king, or commissioner, or [govern]or, or chief administrator (of a temple), or mayor – who, appointed by the great lord, the god Marduk, decides to (re)build Eanna, let him see this inscription and let him place (it) with his own inscription for the future!

The wording makes clear that Marduk-apla-iddina II was anticipating that the building would be possibly renovated in the future not by a royal successor, but rather by an official or local magnate who would then discover his inscription. I had introduced this article with the inscriptions of Nikarchos and Kephalon from Uruk from the Seleucid period. Both dignitaries acted in a way that local magnates and officials had done already centuries before them, when a king was unable or did not want to fulfil his duty as builder.

 Frame 1995, 230 – 247.  Frame 1995, 136 – 138 ll. 38 – 40.

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Both Nikarchos and Kephalon present themselves as builders of the rēš-temple of Anu; there is no royal participation mentioned. However, Nikarchos and Kephalon do not criticize the Seleucid kings; rather they present themselves as loyal subjects by dedicating their construction projects for the life of the ruler. The following picture emerges: The king as the one who is, at least in theory, responsible for temple building is sometimes not mentioned at all by the local dignitary active in temple building (so in the inscription of Nabû-šuma-imbi from Borsippa, and at least often in the inscriptions of Sîn-balāssu-iqbi from Ur). The king and/or other responsible authorities can be openly criticized by the local magnate (in the inscriptions of the sons of Bulluṭu from Uruk, and of Nabûšuma-imbi from Borsippa). In all these cases, the local magnate justifies his temple building activities with the failure of the king or other responsible persons. Thus, there are two interwoven strands which constitute the narrative of the non-royal temple builder: The failure of the king or other authorities, which consequently necessitates building activities of the local official or magnate. A remarkable example is offered by the foundation inscription of Iddin-Nergal from Kiš: It contains a building narrative where the identity of the actual builder, king or governor, remains ambiguous; however, in any case the king receives divine blessing in the dedication formula. Nikarchos and Kephalon from Uruk (as well as Sîn-balāssu-iqbi from Ur) neither suggest royal participation nor do they criticize its absence; in their inscriptions, they themselves are the protagonists of the building narrative. The king as the one actually responsible for such work is integrated into the narrative in the dedication formula as recipient of divine blessing (however, in the case of Sînbalāssu-iqbi only a few times). Up to now I have discussed the building activities of non-royal builders by using foundation inscriptions by magnates and dignitaries as first-hand evidence. According to the scholarly secondary literature, allusions to building activities of non-royal builders are believed to be found in omen texts such as šumma ālu or iqqur īpuš. ¹⁴ It has been speculated that these compositions contain omens which possibly refer to activities of non-royal builders with the aim to discourage them. In this view, temple building and placing foundation deposits were prerogatives of the king; builders other than the king had to be deterred from appropriating these assumed royal prerogatives.

 Guinan 1996; Ambos 2004, 37– 39.

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However, we should bear in mind that non-royal builders were active when in fact no king was available to perform his duties towards temple and cult. Many examples for magnates as builders are from the eighth and seventh century BCE, when Babylonian kingship was extremely weak.¹⁵ During the eighth century, reigns were usually quite short and the ruler was occupied rather with the task of securing his wavering kingship or even just staying alive. Also, the growing Assyrian supremacy reduced the Babylonian monarch to a puppet king – sometimes Assyrian rulers also took over Babylonian kingship or even abolished it temporarily. The situation of Nikarchos and Kephalon is more complex: Seleucid kings participated in cultic events and festivals in Babylonia and contributed to their funding. There is a foundation inscription from Antiochos I from Borsippa dealing with the renovation of the Ezida-temple.¹⁶ This is actually the last known royal foundation inscription. In spite of all participation and funding, the ideological motif of the king as temple builder was not continued by Seleucid kings, leaving open this place for local dignitaries. Thus, non-royal builders did not appropriate assumed royal prerogatives. Rather, they stepped in when the king could not do, or did not want to do, his duty towards temple and cult. Sometimes these non-royal builders explicitly criticize the king for his behaviour, characterizing it as negligence. But it is also attested that non-royal builders remained loyal to their kings and dedicated their building work to the well-being of their lord. In conclusion it can be stated that the corpus of non-royal building inscriptions is indeed rather small and hetergeneous – but nevertheless this group of texts is an interesting source for our knowledge of Mesopotamian worldview, ideological concepts – and narratives of building activities.

Bibliography Ambos, Claus. 2004. Mesopotamische Baurituale aus dem 1. Jahrtausend v. Chr. Dresden: ISLET. Mit einem Beitrag von Aaron Schmitt. Dresden. Ambos, Claus. 2013. “Überlegungen zu den Voraussetzungen für göttliche Präsenz im Alten Orient und zu den Gefahren ihrer Beeinträchtigung.” In Divine Presence and Absence in Exilic and Post-Exilic Judaism, edited by Nathan MacDonald and Izaak J. d. Hulster, 55 – 65. Studies of the Sofja Kovalevskaja Research Group on Early Jewish Monotheism 2. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

 Brinkman 1984, 16.  Kuhrt & Sherwin-White 1991; Stevens 2014.

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Blocher, Felix. 2001. “Assyrische Würdenträger und Gouverneure des 9. und 8. Jh. Eine Neubewertung ihrer Rolle.” Altorientalische Forschungen 28: 298 – 324. Brinkman, John A. 1984. Prelude to Empire: Babylonian Society and Politics, 747 – 626 B.C. Occasional Publications of the Babylonian Fund 7. Philadelphia: Philadelphia Univ. Museum. Brooke-Rose, Christine. 1990. “Whatever Happened to Narratology?” Poetics Today 11 (2): 283 – 293. Dijk, van Jan. 1962. “Die Inschriftenfunde.” 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 = UVB 18: 39 – 62. Downey, Susan B. 1988. Mesopotamian Religious Architecture: Alexander through the Parthians. Princeton, NJ: Princeton Univ. Pr. Falkenstein, Adam 1941: Topographie von Uruk. 1. Teil: Uruk zur Seleukidenzeit. Ausgrabungen der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft in Uruk-Warka 3. Leipzig. Fitzgerald, Madeleine. 2010. “Temple Building in the Old Babylonian Period.” In From the foundations to the crenellations: Essays on temple building in the Ancient Near East and Hebrew Bible, edited by Mark J. Boda and Jamie Novotny, 35 – 48. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 366. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Frame, Grant. 1995. Rulers of Babylonia: From the Second Dynasty of Isin to the End of Assyrian Domination (1157 – 612 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia Babylonian Periods 2. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Guinan, Ann. 1996. “Social Constructions and Private Designs: the House Omens of Šumma Ālu.” In Houses and Households in Ancient Mesopotamia: Papers Read at the 40e Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Leiden, July 5 – 8, 1993, edited by Klaas R. Veenhof, 61 – 68. Uitgaven van het Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut te Istanbul 78. Istanbul: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Inst. Hruška, Blahoslav. 1999. “Zum Gründungsritual im Tempel Eninnu.” In Munuscula Mesopotamica: Festschrift für Johannes Renger, edited by Barbara Böck et alii, 217 – 228. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 267. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Hurowitz, Victor. 1992. I Have Built You an Exalted House: Temple Building in the Bible in Light of Mesopotamian and North-West Semitic Writings. The Library of Hebrew Bible / Old Testament Studies v.No. 115. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Kessler, Karlheinz. 2005. “Zu den ökonomischen Verhältnissen von Uruk in neu- und spätbabylonischer Zeit.” In Approaching the Babylonian Economy: Proceedings of the START Project Symposium Held in Vienna, 1 – 3 July 2004, edited by Heather D. Baker and Michael Jursa, 269 – 287. Veröffentlichungen zur Wirtschaftsgeschichte Babyloniens im 1. Jahrtausend v. Chr 2. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 330. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Kuhrt, Amélie, and Susan Sherwin-White. 1991. “Aspects of Seleucid Royal Ideology: The Cylinder of Antiochus I from Borsippa.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 111: 71 – 86. Lackenbacher, Sylvie. 1982. Le roi bâtisseur. Les récits de construction assyriens des origines à Teglatphalasar III. Paris: Ed. Recherche sur les civilisations. Lenzi, Alan. 2008. “The Uruk List of Kings and Sages and late Mesopotamian Scholarship.” Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions 8 (2): 137 – 169. Onega Jaén, Susana, and José Angel García Landa. 1996. Narratology: An Introduction. London, New York: Longman.

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Porter, Barbara N. 1993. Images, Power, and Politics: Figurative Aspects of Esarhaddon’s Babylonian Policy. Memoirs of the American Philosophical Society 208. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society. Schaudig, Hanspeter. 2010. “The Restoration of Temples in the Neo- and Late Babylonian Periods: A Royal Prerogative as the Setting for Political Argument.” In From the Foundations to the Crenellations: Essays on Temple Building in the Ancient Near East and Hebrew Bible, edited by Mark J. Boda and Jamie Novotny, 141 – 164. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 366. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Stevens, Kathryn. 2014. “The Antiochus Cylinder, Babylonian Scholarship and Seleucid Imperial Ideology.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 134: 66 – 88. Suter, Claudia. 2000. Gudea’s Temple Building: The Representation of an Early Mesopotamian Ruler in Text and Image. Cuneiform Monographs 17. Groningen: STYX Publications.

Marlies Heinz

Response Annotation in Advance The following text matches, slightly modified, my verbal commentary to the lectures of Julia Linke und Claus Ambos. At first, I would like to thank Dr. WagnerDurand and Dr. Linke for inviting me to this workshop and I thank Dr. Linke and Dr. Ambos for their stimulating lectures. Both lectures inspired me to consider the following aspects: Firstly, the textual evidence: The cuneiform texts presented reveal highly diverse tales of royalty and notions of kingship – which leads to my first question: Was there at all something like the legitimating strategy and the kingship in Mesopotamia? As diverse as the contents are the categories of texts presented by Ambos that transmit the self-perceptions of the political actors of that time. Especially non-verbal communication risks of being misunderstood. Therefore, it should be even more important to ensure that the contents, the contexts and the textcategories – narrative, non-narrative or mixtures of both – were well harmonized. Still, the question remains: was there any regularity in interrelating text contents and categories? Secondly, I would like to consider the topic visual narration of Linke’s lecture. In this regard/respect I wonder if images can be narrative at all. The questions risen above and following below do of course not at all query the inspiring thoughts of Linke and Ambos. Far from it: particularly the stimulating presentations and the creative approaches of both colleagues allowed the rising of new ideas and new research questions. This, in turn, characterizes in my opinion actually creative contributions – as those given by Linke and Ambos.

The Textual Evidence I start with my comments on the textual evidence given by Ambos.¹ The notions of kingship that the written records foster for southern Mesopotamia in the third millennium BCE and for Babylonia around 700 BCE could not be any more diverse – and yet, they are both based on the same religious concept and normative ideal, namely: gods own and rule the world, gods nominate their  For the texts analyzed see the contribution of Claus Ambos. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501506895-008

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earthly representative. This earthly representative has to take care of all divine requests, among them the building and restoring of temples. He is the key-figure in protecting “heaven on earth.” The well-being of the gods is at the same time the precondition as well as the assurance of the survival of humankind. According to this religious ideology the survival of a community entirely depends on the acquittal of the nominated. The actual situation in the third millennium BCE, so the impression, was that it is only the king who receives this nomination from the gods. This exclusivity in turn was one of the distinctive elements in the notion of kingship at that time. It legitimized the ruling order and should have been formative for the identity of the collective. It was this procedure that constituted a significant element in the legitimating strategy as well. Moreover, it was this notion of kingship that constituted a remarkable part of the identity-generating “grand narrative” of the time: The bond between the god and the king was the key-factor that safeguarded and guaranteed the prosperity of the community and the well-being of humankind – at least according to the king’s inscriptions. The reality in Babylonia during the first millennium BCE seems to have been an entirely different one. Unlike during the third millennium BCE, the care for the gods seems to have occurred quite randomly. As shown by Ambos, this is reflected by the fact that building temples is no longer a royal privilege but can also be undertaken by local magnates and officials. According to my interpretation of the texts presented the securing of the survival of humankind was more or less uncertain – depending on the will and ability of men, who could and would, in terms of Pierre Bourdieu², transform their economical capital or rather their administrative function into a political resource while they took over the duty of building – a duty of existential importance. We get the impression that the core elements of the religious order – in turn being one of the core elements of the grand narrative itself – had been sacrosanct, while the application of the religious ideology to the worldly practice followed the local worldly needs of political acting. If we consequently assume that the notions of kingship and the tales of royalty had not only been a part, but – in conjunction with religion – were a forming element of the “grand narratives,” part of the identity-generating base of communal life and the divine legitimation of the ruling worldly order, then, my question for our discussion is: What was the identity-generating “grand narrative” in

 Bourdieu 1982.

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Babylonia during the first millennium BCE? What was the legitimating strategy, if 1. the royal fulfillment of substantial aspects for securing the orderly life occurred unreliable?, and 2. if the mediation between the gods and humankind was not the essential element of kingship and was neither solely part of the king’s function nor part of the regular duties of an established officeholder? Moreover, if kingship and royalty constituted such an importance in the “grand narrative,” the dialectic of content and structure should have been very carefully handled in order to transmit the essential of the correct message My following questions, inspired by the valuable impulses of Ambos’ lecture, can be a starting point for the ongoing research on this subject: – Were there any defined connections between the structures – narrative, nonnarrative, or a mixture of both and the contents of the notions and tales? – If so, what had the writers’ determined to compose their texts correspondingly? – Under what circumstances was either the narration or the non-narrative text the adequate category to retain the transmitted message in the collective memory ? – When and why did the authors consider it necessary, possible or optional to choose the communicative form of a narration or the concise style of a nonnarrative information to convey one and the same message? – Additionally, had that “choice” at all been an intentional and consciously made decision? And last but not least, what had, historically seen, triggered above all the need, demand or option to compose narrations when the simple non-narrative information transmits the same content – as the text of Marduk-apla-iddina II³ has shown?

Can Visual Representations be Narrative? At least two definitions of what a “narrative” is or what “narrative” means form the basis of our workshop: First, Susana Onega Jaén – José A. García Landa: “A narrative is a semiotic representation of a series of events meaningfully connected in a temporal and causal way.”⁴ And second, the definition used by Linke joins in one more aspect where it says “The sequence of events must form a uni-

 Frame 1995, 136 – 138 ll. 38 – 40.  Onega Jaén and García Landa 1996, 3.

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fied causal chain and lead to a closure”⁵. In this matter, I do not entirely agree with Linke and her conclusions concerning the narrative potential of the votiveplaque of Urnanše. My thesis is: Pictorial representations, unlike texts, can never be narrative! I wrestle with two complexes of arguments that “rule” my view. The first complex is: Pictorial representations have no temporal dimension. Therefore, they lack the option to visibly and meaningfully connect the presented events in a temporal and causal way. When we say, in a colloquial way, “the picture narrates” – it means, according to my current understanding of narration, that we project a narration into a picture, and thus, that we interpret the picture. This interpretation can occur in two ways: Either we, the observers, invent a narration and project this invention into the picture, or, as Linke has shown in her very detailed reference to the texts, we know the narration, by education and by habitus that is culturally connected to the picture, and we are thus able to decode the picture according to the claims of our definitions as “a semiotic representation of a series of events meaningfully connected in a temporal and causal way”⁶ and “leading to a closure”⁷. My consideration is: Texts can explicitly be composed by the author as a narrative which connects “a series of events meaningfully in a temporal and causal way,” whereas a picture lacks any meanings that manifestly show a fixed and unique sequence or a series of events, meaningfully and causally connected in time and space. Thus, unlike a text, a pictorial representation never narrates. But what happens when we look at a picture? In simple terms: – We have – in our mind / in our memory – either the narration that, culturally determined, belongs to the picture or the one we invent. – Looking at the picture releases this narration. – In our mind we establish the connection between the already existing narration and the picture. – In our mind we thus connect the series of events – meaningfully in a temporal and causal way. Unlike a text, a picture does not present this connection. According to the above quoted definitions it is this connection that is one essential imperative for a text or a picture to be categorized as narrative.

 Ryan 2007, 29.  Onega Jaén and García Landa 1996, 3.  Ryan 2007, 29.

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And this aspect of categorization leads me to my second justification: A picture is not a text – and a picture cannot be structured and thus not be analyzed by the methods used for analyzing and structuring a text. When texts are structured and categorized as narrative and non-narrative, we actually generate a classification criterion of the medium. According to my reflections on “what happens, when we observe a picture…” the narration does not occur in the medium “picture” but emerges in our mind. In this regard, narration is consequently a concept that refers to the interpretation which takes place in the mind of the observer. The term and concept “narration,” developed for structuring categories of texts, can thus, according to my actual consideration, not be used as a regulative concept for analyzing pictures. These considerations that occurred to me concerning the tales and notions of kingship and the subject “narration” have been triggered by the inspiring lectures of Julia Linke and Claus Ambos – thank you both very much for this challenge.

Bibliography Bourdieu, Pierre. 1982. Die feinen Unterschiede: Kritik der gesellschaftlichen Urteilskraft. 1. Aufl. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Frame, Grant. 1995. Rulers of Babylonia: From the Second Dynasty of Isin to the End of Assyrian Domination (1157 – 612 BC). Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Onega Jaén, Susana, and José Angel García Landa. 1996. Narratology: An Introduction. London, New York: Longman. Ryan, Marie-Laure. 2007. “Toward a Definition of Narrative.” In The Cambridge Companion to Narrative, edited by David Herman, 22 – 35. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Barbara Couturaud

Kings or Soldiers? Representations of Fighting Heroes at the End of the Early Bronze Age Introduction The rise of the Akkadian dynasty marks a transition during the second half of the third millennium BCE in the Ancient Near East. Although today one still may not fully understand how Sargon was capable of dominating the entire territory between the Mediterranean Sea and the Persian Gulf, one cannot deny that this period consisted in real upheavals whose effects were noticeable in the economic, religious, and social aspects of life.¹ Among these upheavals, the iconography was not excluded, including the image of the warrior and that of the fighting king. The latter figure was not created during the Akkadian period, nor did the “iconographic revolution” reside in its intensive use; rather, the real change lay in the absence of ambiguity as to the character of the warrior when played by the king. Certainly, one can argue that there is a lack of iconographic data, since images of Akkadian rulers are relatively rare.² Nevertheless, it is important to point out that during the period prior to the Akkadian dynasty, the image of the fighting hero was neither exclusive to the king nor the only way to represent him; this will be the main focus of this paper. Apart from recognized evidence in both the composition and the modes of representation, we would like to open the debate on the following issues: the precise definition of the representation of the fighting king, the question of the objects bearing such images, and the relationship between text and image, especially the delicate issue of visual narrative when it is conceived as the narration of an event. In order to consider these matters, we would like, first, to reexamine a few known images on various objects such as stelae, figurative inlaid panels and cylinder-seals dating from the Early Bronze Age before the AkkadiI would like to thank Dr. Julia Linke and Dr. Elisabeth Wagner-Durand for kindly inviting me to participate in this collective reflection on visual narrative in the Ancient Near East. With this contribution, I hope to bring new insights to the exciting and enriching discussions and debates held in Bern.  Foster 1977; Glassner 1986; Liverani 1993.  Amiet 1976; Aruz 2003, 187– 233. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501506895-009

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ans, which are supposed to depict the fighting king. The objective is neither to review nor to thoroughly study all the images of the fighting hero belonging to that time and period but to use them in order to shed light on the following problems: Were images created in order to narrate an event, and thus to replace the text? Could the text essentially have a visual meaning when it was associated with pictures? What role did the object containing the image play on its structure, as the representation on a cylinder-seal differs from that on a larger stela? Is it possible to determine if certain categories of artefacts were meant to represent specific images? With these issues in mind, we will examine, second, the way visual narrative is related to the image of the fighting hero, and more generally to the iconography of the military theme.

Some Representations of the Fighting Hero Although the soldier is an important iconographic figure during the Early Bronze Age, it is rare to see the king depicted as a fighting warrior. Indeed, the king seems to have an ambiguous position since his figure is not always easy to recognize. Moreover, when he is clearly identified as the sovereign, he is more often represented in a victorious situation than in a fighting one. In an attempt to delineate the figure of the king, we shall re-examine a few well-known examples and highlight some features that will be discussed below.

The King as a Hunter The Lion Hunt Stela, made of basalt and dating to the late fourth millennium BCE, depicts a bearded man wearing a headband and a skirt in a lion-hunting scene (Fig. 1). He is represented twice facing the lion he is killing, each time with a different weapon: a bow in the top register and a spear in the bottom one. This figure was usually interpreted as the “priest-king,”³ who is recognizable in all representations by of the round shape of his beard, the headband tied around his head, and his skirt, which is sometimes represented with a pattern of crossed lines. He is often depicted in scenes of high symbolic content, as the one who provides food for – and therefore is the benefactor of – the herd⁴ or as a

 Amiet 1953; Falkenstein 1974.  Amiet 1980, pl. 43, 636 – 637– 638, pl. 44, 639 – 640.

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Fig. 1: The Lion Hunt Stela (Uruk).

warrior holding a spear and standing in front of naked and bound kneeling prisoners.⁵ The man depicted here is not specifically featured for his hunting or fighting skills but for his ability to eliminate and reduce his prey to captivity. The fact that they are represented as already defeated highlights the symbolic struggle, as does the spear he holds, which is not used for the fight but in order to symbolize his strength. These images tell us that, at some point, it is necessary not only to give prominence to a man who is recognizable by some accessories such as the

 Amiet 1980, pl. 47, 660 – 661.

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Fig. 2: The Stela of the Vultures, mythological and historical sides (Girsu).

headband or the spear but also to convey his image in activities that have an obvious parallel, hunting, and warfare.⁶ One last thought concerning this object must be raised in regard to the superimposed registers and visual narration, as it can depict two different men or the same one in two different moments of an action.

The Stela of the Vulture Found in several fragments in a temple in Girsu and dated to around 2450 BCE, this incomplete limestone stela is carved on both sides (Fig. 2) and is associated with a text describing in detail the victory of the king Eannatum, ruler of Lagaš, over the city of Umma, with the help of his god Ningirsu.⁷ The mythological side is divided into two uneven registers on which appear two protagonists. In the upper register, a tall bare-chested bearded man whose hair is bound at the back in a chignon holds a mace with one hand and the

 Watanabe 2000.  Cooper 1983.

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mythological bird Anzu with the other. From the bird hangs a net filled with small, naked, and bald men who are obviously prisoners. Among them is one who is slightly taller than the others; his head is emerging out of the net and is being hit with the mace. From his size and the fact that he is being attacked, the figure can be interpreted as the defeated king of Umma. Behind the man stands another figure, much smaller in size. Only the head remains on the fragment. The latter is interpreted as a deity, recognizable by the horned and feathered crown as well as the arrows on the shoulders. In the lower register, the same divinity stands in front of a chariot driven by a bare-chested man whose skirt is all that remains on this fragment. The identification of these characters has generated much debate: the tall character on the upper register could be Ningirsu, tutelary god of the city whose symbol is the bird Anzu, accompanied by his mother, Ninhursag;⁸ he could also be the king.⁹ Similarly, the identity of the character standing on the chariot in the lower register is also debated, whether he is the sovereign¹⁰ or the god Ningirsu.¹¹ The historical side of the stela is divided into four registers. The lower one is only preserved in its upper part, which shows a spear brandished by one hand and hitting a head. The man holding the spear is probably the king Eannatum.¹² In the upper register, two characters are covering naked corpses with heaps of earth, next to a pile of dead animals, ready to be sacrificed, on top of which a naked priest is performing a libation. A taller figure is also represented on this register; only the bottom of the skirt and the feet resting on a platform remain on the fragment. This man could be the king Eannatum¹³ or a god; deities are typically represented with their feet not resting on the ground.¹⁴ In the register above, the king is depicted with certainty at the head of his troops, shown so as to express their large number, not reality. The ruler is standing on a chariot and brandishes a spear over himself, echoing the first register. He holds different symbols of power, such as the helmet adorned with a chignon and the harpé. He wears a skirt and a garment on his chest, which hangs diagonally, covering the left shoulder but leaving both arms free. Finally, on the last register, the king, identically represented as in the previous register, is still depicted at the head of his troops, organized in phalanxes and marching on the lifeless bodies of

 Frankfort 1954, 34; Winter 1985; Romano 2007.  Perkins 1957, 58; Becker 1985, 283 – 286.  Becker 1985; Romano 2007.  Winter 1985.  Winter 1985.  Winter 1985.  Frankfort 1954, 58.

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their enemies. They are moving towards a group of vanquished enemies represented as smaller and naked; above them vultures are flying, some of them holding human heads in their beaks. This object fully presents the king as a warrior, whose identity on the historical side is undoubted as he is recognizable by the obvious symbols of royalty, such as the prestigious weapons or the helmet adorned with a chignon; in addition, he is depicted on a chariot at the head of his troops. However, the religious dimension of the sovereign is less obvious on the mythological side. The difficulty in identifying the king or the divinity on this side is highlighted by the confusion caused by some of the features such as the chignon, which is not represented on a helmet, the mace, the Anzu bird, and the taller size of the character. This confusion between the figures of the king and the god and the uncertainty regarding the identity of that character¹⁵ could be intended to highlight that the king is symbolically the armed wing of the divinity, as the text describes.¹⁶ Finally, the way the enemies are represented should be noted, as it shows the iconographic norms in the depiction of the vanquished: naked, deformed, often trampled, and physically attacked, here by a weapon and vultures. This way, the enemy appears as the perfect opposite of the sovereign, who is standing up, holding the symbols of power, and showing physical integrity.

The Standard of Ur This object, much like the Stela of the Vultures, is considered as one of the most characteristic representations of the warrior king. It should be noted that when it was discovered, the excavator Leonard Woolley hypothesized that the object was a ceremonial standard, carried in triumph on top of a flagpole during military parades to celebrate a royal victory – a commemorative object with a narrative iconography.¹⁷ This hypothesis is based on the way it was found, over the shoulder of a man buried in the grave PG779 of the alleged royal cemetery. This functional theory of the standard has almost never been questioned, despite the fact that it is not based on any serious archaeological or functional element. The object has two large sides, one called the “War Side,” the other the “Peace Side” (Fig. 3), each one inlaid with shell figures. A battle is represented on the “War Side,” starting with the lower register where soldiers are riding cha-

 Barrelet 1970.  Cooper 1983  Woolley 1934, 266.

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Fig. 3: The Standard of Ur, “Peace” and “War” sides (Ur).

riots and rolling over their enemies. On the middle register, soldiers and prisoners are walking toward a man interpreted as the king of Ur, who is positioned centrally on the upper register. He is slightly taller than the others and possesses a chariot placed behind him. Despite the excellent state of preservation of the whole object, the figure of this man is not well-preserved. If one refers to the illustration of the object in the publication of the excavation,¹⁸ it can be seen that the man is wearing a simple helmet and is holding in his left hand what appears to be a spear resting on the ground. In his right hand he holds an object with a handle, perhaps an axe like the three men who follow him. His garment, al-

 Woolley 1934, pl. 92.

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though not well-preserved, does not distinguish him from the figures who stand behind him. The upper register on the other side is interpreted as the representation of the banquet organized to celebrate the victory, to thank the gods and possibly to honour the dead ones. The banquet seems to be given by a man standing at the head of his guests. All are bare-chested, bald and beardless; the figure is distinguished only by his skirt, which is more decorated than those of the guests, and his taller size. Like the guests, he holds a cup in his right hand and seems to be holding in his left hand an object that is not preserved.¹⁹ His seat is the same as that of his guests. Scenes interpreted as the preparation of the banquet are shown in the lower two registers, with figures leading cattle and bearing loads. According to this view, one would see here a narrative composition, which allows the viewer to “read” it from bottom to top, representing a logical sequence between the various events on each side, whose central character would be the king. The Stela of the Vultures and the Standard of Ur have more in common than simply being contemporary. They both show a male figure, taller than the other figures represented. This figure would be that of the king, depicted in two different contexts, the one of victory as the military chief and the other of celebration within a ceremonial context. Moreover, the representation of the enemies on both the “War Side” of the Standard of Ur and the historical side of the Stela of the Vultures follow the same principle: they are all naked, bound, physically attacked, and trampled. This type of representation allows the figures of the soldiers to be highlighted and enhanced. However, an important difference has to be pointed out: if there is no doubt about the identification of the king on the Stela of the Vultures, one can ask if the main figure on the Standard is actually the king.²⁰ Indeed, there are no symbols of royalty attributed to him, such as the helmet adorned with a chignon, prestigious weapons or any other accessories that might distinguish him from any other man accompanying him. The only characteristic that he shares with the figure on the stela is the fact that he is taller than the others, which is highlighted by his central position.

 Woolley 1934, pl. 91.  Although the majority of scholars seem to think so: Woolley 1934; Dolce 1978; Hansen in Zettler & Horne 1998, 47; Nadali 2007. Others are more cautious: Marchesi and Marchetti 2011, 202– 203.

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Fig. 4: Drawing of the impression of a seal belonging to the king Išgi-Mari (Mari).

The King Išgi-Mari’s Seal Several seal impressions were found in the palace of Mari, allowing the restoration of the pattern of the cylinder seal belonging to the king Išgi-Mari, whose reign is dated to the early 24th century BCE (Fig. 4). The seal is composed of two registers. The upper one shows a cartouche bearing the name of the king, a hero holding one lion in each hand and the sovereign. He is bearded and his hair is bound at the back in a chignon. His garment covers his body, leaving one free arm in which he holds a mace. In his other hand he holds an unidentifiable object that could be a cluster of dates or a branch.²¹ Behind the king stands a bald and bearded man who protects him with a parasol. In front of him, a man performs a libation. The first part of the lower register depicts four men fighting. Although they are all bare-chested and wear skirts, the distinction is clear between the victorious soldiers and the enemies because the soldiers are bearded and carry weapons, perhaps javelins, with which they are killing the opponents. Beneath the men who are fighting, two others are naked; each one’s head is being attacked by a bird. In the second part of this lower register, a chariot carries a severed head, perhaps that of the enemy king. A naked prisoner and an armed soldier follow the chariot.

 Beyer 2007, 195.

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Despite the apparent disorganization of this composition, the interpretation of its subject is rather clear. In the lower register, two stages of a battle are depicted: the combat and the victorious return of the parade, escorted by captives and emphasized by the severed head in the chariot. The upper register is specifically dedicated to the king’s triumph, accompanied by a libation to the gods. Although the king is not represented at the heart of the battle, nevertheless his military and victorious qualities are portrayed. This representation of IšgiMari could be compared with a statue discovered in the temple of Ištar at Mari (Fig. 9), where he is more or less depicted in the same way: he is bearded, his hair is held in a chignon, and he is wearing a garment covering his left shoulder and arm, leaving the right side bare; an inscription there formally identifies him. The images on cylinder-seals are interesting because they show the minimum number of visual codes necessary in order to express the theme of battle and more specifically of victory: the sovereign standing in the centre of the composition, usually recognizable by his weapons, perhaps even his hairstyle, and here formally identified by a cartouche; the offering to the gods marking the recognition of victory; naked enemies, bound, beaten, and physically attacked – again by birds. However, one should note a rather interesting detail in the way this seal depicts not only the battle itself with the portrayal of combat between soldiers and enemies but also the image of enemies who are not solely seen as dominated and vanquished but as fighting opponents, since one of them is holding a weapon resembling an adze.

The Inlay of the Warrior Holding an Adze This inlay is called the Guerrier à l’herminette and was perhaps intended to decorate the handle of a dagger. It represents a man dressed as a warrior (Fig. 5). He is bearded and wears a helmet adorned with a chignon. He is wearing a skirt but also a garment covering his left shoulder and arm, exactly like the statue of IšgiMari (Fig. 9). He is holding an axe and a harpé. Although there is no cartouche or inscription to identify him, the image is most probably that of a sovereign, as the helmet and weapons he carries point to his royal nature. Although André Parrot published this object with the discoveries of the temple of Ištar of Mari,²² it was actually purchased from a merchant. Moreover, its

 Parrot 1956, 135– 136.

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Fig. 5: Inlay of the Guerrier à l’herminette (unknown provenance).

origin from Mari is debatable after the discovery of its almost exact replica by Leonard Woolley at Ur.²³

Interpretive Problems: The Figurative Inlaid Panels The king can be depicted in several ways, depending on the object on which the image appears. Although many accessories can be used as visual codes, a single accessory is not always enough to indicate that the figure is the king, and it is  Dolce 1978 vol. 2, pl. XXXIII.

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Fig. 6: Restoration of a figurative inlaid panel by André Parrot, called the Standard of Mari (Mari).

sometimes the combination of these accessories that allows the identification of the royal status of the depicted warrior. The combination of these accessories is illustrated in the examples mentioned above: the cartouche of the sovereign IšgiMari leaves no doubt as to whom is figured (Fig. 9); conversely, the taller size of the man on the Standard of Ur is not enough to indicate he is the king (Fig. 3). The study of figurative inlaid panels allows us to reflect more on these issues.

When Soldiers Are Not Kings… Mari has the most important ensemble of inlays found in the Ancient Near East, consisting of more than 600 fragments produced between 2500 and 2300 BCE.²⁴ These inlays, made of shell or mother of pearl, are mostly figurative and were fixed on wooden boards with bitumen. The background was generally composed of shapeless pieces of schist. At Mari, the panels were violently destroyed during the sacking of the city by the Akkadian armies. In fact, none of them was found fully preserved, but only fragments of inlays were unearthed. Consequently, the exact shape of the panels, their dimensions and their internal organization remain unknown. However, we know they portrayed military scenes with chariots,

 Parrot 1956; Parrot 1967; Couturaud 2014; Couturaud 2019.

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Fig. 7: Inlays depicting a soldier and a prisoner (Mari).

soldiers and naked prisoners (Fig. 6 and 7). Some religious ceremonies conducted by priests, prayers and rituals including sacrifices, and social ceremonies such as the banquet scenes were also depicted. The panels decorated with inlays were displayed in two types of buildings, temples and administrative buildings. All the sanctuaries excavated in Mari have yielded fragments of inlays, mainly in the most sacred rooms. Administrative buildings in which the inlays were found are the palace and an administrative and religious centre located in an area between the palace and the terrace of the Massif Rouge. This area could correspond to the place where members of the clergy or people closely related to the king used to work or live. The iconography of these panels has two main themes, military and ceremonial. The military theme, the main purpose of this paper, essentially portrays victory through the demonstration of superiority, parades of soldiers and prisoners, and the humiliation of enemies (Fig. 7). In other words, the inlays represent many motifs illustrated on other objects – especially those mentioned above –

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Fig. 8: Inlays depicting the king Akurgal and the king Urnanše (Girsu).

such as weapons; naked enemies trampled on the ground; chariots, whether they are ridden or not; and soldiers dressed, armed and wearing a helmet, either parading or fighting. An interesting point needs to be raised here: among all these figures of soldiers, none can be identified with certainty as a sovereign by obvious symbols such as the helmet adorned with a chignon, the mace, or the harpé. This lack of representation of the sovereign can be explained in two ways: either it is an unfortunate coincidence of the excavation or it means that it is not the victorious battles fought by a sovereign that are represented and consequently there is no commemoration of a victory or a narration of a historical event. We shall come back to this point later, but it is important to underline the relative difficulty in identifying the sovereign on the figurative inlaid panels of Mari.

… And When Kings Are Not Soldiers Among all the inlays found in the Ancient Near East during the Early Bronze Age, only three representing a sovereign have been found. The king is clearly identified thanks to an inscription engraved on the inlay. Two of them were discovered

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at the site of Girsu (Fig. 8). The best-preserved one portrays the sovereign Akurgal who is depicted as a worshipper, bald, beardless, bare-chested, and wearing a skirt on which the inscription is engraved. He is shown with his hands clasped in front of his chest in a sign of prayer or respect to the gods. The second inlay, less well preserved, shows the king Urnanše. What remains visible is the bottom part of a beardless masculine face, the chest on which the inscription is engraved, and the hands clasped in a sign of prayer. A third inlay was discovered at Kiš and represents the king Lugal-Mu, but nothing remains of it except for the inscription engraved on the chest.²⁵ It is clear that no visual attribute indicates they are kings; the only thing that distinguishes them from other men praying is the inscription. Obviously, other objects can bear inscriptions as a mark of distinction or privilege specifically reserved for those who are living or working in the palatial and religious circles, such as statues depicting kings (Fig. 9) or high ranking people such as Ebih-Il, the superintendent of the palace of Mari (Fig. 10) or even perforated plaques such as the one representing the king Urnanše.²⁶ In the case of the inlays, however, and unlike statues or perforated plaques, the inscription appears to be the undisputed privilege of the king. Should it therefore be concluded that it is primarily the privileged status of the individual that the inscription is supposed to enhance? Would it therefore mean, in return, that anonymity represents individuals of lesser status? These questions need to be asked, despite the small amount of material available. Needless to say that in the case of inlays, the presence of the inscription is the sole indication of the identity of the sovereigns. Consequently, beyond the indication of the identity of the individual, the graphic signs – which also raise the question of the intended audience and its ability to decipher the writing – could act here as visual codes, additional symbols intended to indicate the importance of the depicted person, e. g. the king on the inlaid panels shown with symbols such as the helmet adorned with a chignon or prestigious weapons. After reviewing these different objects, whether they bear actual or alleged depictions of rulers, it can be said that the identification of the king is made possible through precise iconographic motifs that are sometimes combined: the helmet decorated with a chignon, the bow, the central position that is accentuated in the scene, etc. An inscription sometimes confirms these identifications, such as the case of the cylinder-seal of the king Išgi-Mari (Fig. 4); the inscription also accompanies the representation of the sovereign when he has no other royal attrib-

 Mackay 1929, pl. XXXV.  Aruz 2003, 31, Fig. 16.

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Fig. 9: Inscribed statue of the king Išgi-Mari (Mari).

ute, as is the case on the inlays of Girsu (Fig. 8) or on the perforated plaque of Urnanše.²⁷ But it has to be noted that it is not always the king that is represented fighting.

Reflections on Visual Narrative These different examples show how war, especially victory, is particularly well developed on images at that time. It also shows that, most of the time, the iconographic combination of war and the sovereign raises the question of narration: If

 Aruz 2003, 31, Fig. 16.

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Fig. 10: Statue of the superintendent of the palace of Mari, Ebih-Il (Mari).

it is indeed the king who is represented, by extension, is it then the depiction of a historical event? In other words, is the victory of a sovereign clearly represented?

The Image and the Historical Event The first interpretations of visual narrative in the Ancient Near East were developed by Ann Perkins, based on the Standard of Ur (Fig. 3).²⁸ Although Perkins

 Perkins 1957.

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did not clearly define what she meant by “narration,” she nonetheless proposed dividing it into two categories: first, choosing one image to depict the whole; second, selecting a series of different images in order to recount an event. If this distinction seems relevant, shouldn’t the first option rather be considered as allusive or suggestive as opposed to the second? The concept of visual narrative should be clear when it is used: either the point is to tell an accurate story, an event, through images or it is to portray a meaning through a thoughtful organization of images. Visual narrative probably falls under the first option since it relies on images to depict a historical fact or event. It should also be understood that the problem of defining narration draws attention to a methodological bias, still very present in iconographic studies, where one is seeking in the images the representation of an event, probably in order to compensate for the lack of textual data: “[…] we need to consider the Mesopotamian work of art as something more than a vehicle for historical documentation, or a window onto a past event.”²⁹ The image should not be seen solely as an illustration, but as a mode of communication and expression: narration should not be confused with figuration. Many images from the Ancient Near East were interpreted as narratives relating the glorious deeds of the sovereign. However, it still remains relatively rare that the figures are clearly identified as sovereigns. Additionally, in order to narrate an event, it is important to locate the action in space and time; if it is related to a specific event, it must provide sufficient details to identify the protagonists, the subject, and the context in order to convey that this is the transmission of an actual event. Yet in many images, one must take into account the complete lack of spatial or temporal context that would situate the event and connect the action to a specific reality.³⁰ Finally, one must mention the iconographic subjects that suggest some specific situations but do not portray the whole scene in detail. In the military theme, for example, it is not all the different stages of a battle in a given location that are presented but only few of them, organized in order to emphasize the superiority of an army (Fig. 11), mostly through the celebration of the triumph. It is therefore not a narration but an allusion, a suggestion based on repetitive and contiguous iconographic motifs. Thus, taking into account these different parameters, is it really appropriate to speak of visual narrative concerning the Standard of Ur (Fig. 3), for example? If this object was intended to represent the commemoration of a victory as a historical event, it would have been based on a narrative composition, involving not

 Bahrani 2002, 22.  Marcus 1995.

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Fig. 11: Inlay depicting a siege scene (Mari).

only a “reading direction” from bottom to top, but also a logical sequence between the various events represented on each side, with the king as the central character. However, one cannot help but notice that the two panels are back to back and are not intended to be seen simultaneously.³¹ In addition, on each side, the bottom two registers show men parading to the right, while the upper register shows a clear break in the direction of the parade. Although the central figure is taller than the others, he has no specific iconographic symbols that identify him as a sovereign. Finally, if this object had a memorial meaning and were laid in a

 Margueron 1996.

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tomb, the occupant would probably be a king. But nothing has been formally found to confirm it. Thus, if the person represented appears to be indeed the one who is commemorated, it is perhaps more likely a person of high rank involved in military activities. As for the organization of the sides, there is no evidence to confirm that it is a narrative composition: the registers show no element that could guide us into a clear identification of the scenes. All that can be seen are seated figures participating in a possible banquet for an unknown cause of celebration; men in procession, carrying or bringing objects or animals; and a procession of prisoners, which we cannot determine if it is held after the battle or during a victory parade. These ambiguities lead us to think that this is an allusion, based on repetitive and contiguous iconographic motifs that punctuate the composition, in a symbolic expression of power, and it is not linked to the king himself. In this way, this object is not comparable to the Stela of the Vultures where some very specific and unusual details, such as the erection of the heaps of corpses, can be considered as the representation of a form of reality (Fig. 2). Similarly, the central character is clearly identified as the king. These elements go in the direction of a visual narrative directly related to the text. Furthermore, the very presence of the text could also – like the inlays depicting kings – play the role of a visual code in order to emphasize the reality of the event described. That being said, the question of narration concerning this composition has also been raised, mainly through the question of the reading direction of the historical side. Indeed, it can be “read” from the top to the bottom:³² the two upper registers would show the troops advancing, ready for the battle; the two lower registers would represent the outcome of the battle. But it can also be understood from bottom to top:³³ the lower register would be the one that presents the battle, the male figure holding the spear would be the king defeating an enemy; above them would be the rites after the battle; the two upper registers, finally, would represent the victorious return of the troops and the parade with vanquished enemies. The spear brandished here would be a victory gesture in order to magnify the ruler rather than a gesture of attack. The question of narration with regard to the mythological side is also debated: either it is not considered as narrative because it can only be related to a historical event³⁴ or it has to be seen as the idealized version of an event, helping to support the idea that the alleged historical side is not presented as reality but, as the text that accompa-

 Hamblin 2007, 56.  Winter 1985.  Winter 1985.

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nies the images says, as the representation of the dream where Ningirsu announces his victory to the king Eannatum.³⁵ This raises again the question of the narration’s meaning on images: is it a depiction of reality or an allusion to an ideal? One final remark has to be made concerning the narrative representation of the royal battle with respect to the size of the object bearing the image: A cylinder-seal such as the one of Išgi-Mari (Fig. 4), which is smaller in size, cannot provide the same detailed organization as a stela. Thus, to depict military battles and the victory of the sovereign, it can only use a limited number of iconographic motifs. Indeed, rather than a complex visual development, these cylinders present the basic forms that are used to suggest war. But even if this image refers to a battle that really existed, as it has been proposed,³⁶ can we consider it as a visual narrative?³⁷ From our perspective, it is difficult to speak of a narrative composition, first, because the iconographic motifs are not numerous enough and, second, because there is no certainty that the representation refers to an event, despite the fact that the central character is well recognized as a sovereign.

Is War the Privilege of the King? As mentioned above concerning the figurative inlaid panels, there are many images of war where the figure of the sovereign is completely absent. If this lack is not due to mere coincidence, it is worth asking if the image of victory is exclusive to the sovereign and might refer to a historical event and, by extension, if it is not the king and the commemoration of victorious battles, who and what is then represented in these images? From the Mari inlays, several observations can be made (Fig. 6 and 7). The relative anonymity of the figures represented is the first point that must be taken into account. Assuming that, as it has been postulated, these images were intended to celebrate the great deeds of glory of a sovereign, it is surprising that no figure of this type has been clearly identified by symbols or by the obvious attributes of the king at that time. The same can be said concerning enemies, at least their leader. The total lack of context is a second consideration. The technique used in the inlays does not allow any physical context to be portrayed (Fig. 12). Far from being a constraint, it could be an advantage instead: timeless and devoid of context, the inlays could refer to a broad

 Hamblin 2007.  Archi and Biga 2003.  Bretschneider, Van Vyve and Jans 2009.

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Fig. 12: Inlays depicting the execution of enemies (Ebla).

universe and would not be restricted to a specific situation. Finally, one must mention the iconographic subjects suggesting some specific situations and not depicting the whole scene in detail. In the military theme, for example, it is not the different stages of the battle in a given location that are presented, but only a few sequences, arranged in order to emphasize the superiority of an army. The figures who are represented are most probably high-ranking individuals who are a part of the urban oligarchy, featured not in scenes that are meant to narrate or commemorate a specific episode but in situations meant to show the importance they have in society. For the military activities, for instance, the scenes evoke, using high symbolic content, the question of domination on the one hand but also that of the legitimation of power and protection of the people from enemies on the other. There is strong textual and archaeological evidence for the presence of a powerful and wealthy oligarchy, as substantiated, for example, by the cemeteries of Kiš and Ur.³⁸ It seems that through images on relatively small objects, such as figurative inlaid panels or perforated plaques, this elite found a way to highlight and glorify itself through military victory scenes. The goal is not to narrate an event, but to show how a certain category of persons is able to ensure the safety of the people by winning victories. By extension, the scenes of social or religious ceremonies on these objects could be intended to show how these people managed to maintain the protection given by the gods by performing sacrifices and other religious rites and to preserve the social order by conducting banquets or other social ceremonies (Fig. 13). These images highlight an ideal vision of society and especially of those potentates who stress the importance of their contribution to the social order. It is also noteworthy that the objects on which they are depicted are relatively small ones, which might suggest that large stelae were perhaps intended to tell the glorious deeds of the sover-

 Mackay 1929; Woolley 1934.

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Fig. 13: Perforated plaque depicting a banquetscene (Khafajah).

eign, while smaller artefacts were meant to glorify the elite and were placed in palaces, temples, and administrative buildings, essentially buildings that hosted their activities and made them important in the system of the third millennium city-states. In any case, it seems that the king was not the only one, at that time, to appear in the costume of the fighting hero. Interestingly, the image of war has a social function that should not be overlooked: to get people to accept violence as being legitimate and to justify the profoundly unequal order in society. Indeed, it is very important to understand the interest in images of war and, consequently, what such images were likely to communicate to those who saw them: to show victory and military supremacy on images must strongly attest to the

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concept of legitimate violence. Those at the head of the city who protect the people are therefore distinguished from others: first, the king at the top of the social pyramid can use force, but also military leaders. They must preserve the security of the people, not out of duty and respect, but because it is necessary to maintain the society as it is. A second obvious use of force is related to protection against external enemy threats. This is probably one of the aims behind the images: war has a meaning only through its victorious outcome that maintains the world order, that is to say, order in society. More precisely, in the images, it is the victory that is staged, not the reasons for the conflict. For example, on the Stela of the Vultures the origins of the conflict are reported in the text; they are not on the images, for the interest of the images lies elsewhere (Fig. 2): “[…] visual images and objects can be the most effective tools to legitimate the authority of a dominant social group.”³⁹ Let’s add that the representation of religious scenes is just as full of symbols; cultic and ceremonial practices are sacred events, but also social ones. Through the images of religious or ceremonial rites such as sacrifices or banquet scenes, the omnipotence of the elite is clearly expressed through its special relationship to the deities and their importance inside the social group.

Conclusion It could well be that the elites preferred some types of media such as the inlaid panels and even to some extent the perforated plaques for their depictions, whereas the stelae might be reserved for use by the king. Displayed in places where power is exercised, these images could have been designed to strengthen the role of those who were working behind the scenes in the city’s administration: clergy, administrators, military leaders, merchants, etc. These persons are not clearly identified in textual sources; they are nevertheless undeniably present if we are to believe the archaeological remains found in cemeteries. They attest to how the powerful elite used prestigious goods gathered in long-distance trade and network exchange to produce objects showing their images and stature. Hence, when considering the image of the fighting hero, a differentiation should be made between two types of representations: one that represents the sovereign unequivocally through clear signs and one that depicts those who participate anonymously in a symbolic victory. In the first case, it can, but does not always involve visual narrative. In the second case, it is unlikely that visual nar-

 Marcus 1995, 2504.

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Fig. 14: Narām-Sîn stela (Susa).

rative, in the sense of the narration of a historical event, is conveyed; it is more probable that it is an allusion to victory, often in order to serve the interests of a dominant social group by legitimizing them. It then conveys the figurative evocation of an ideal social order and the symbolic representation of the leaders of a social group. Depicted on prestigious objects, these images become social markers, and their audience is essentially the members of precisely this social group. When the Akkadians came to power, the king’s image not only changed significantly, but the motif of the fighting hero that was used exclusively by the sovereign for a deliberately commemorative and glorifying purpose appeared on much larger objects, thus allowing a more detailed composition and introducing perhaps the first visual narratives. The stela of Narām-Sîn (Fig. 14), for instance,

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is emblematic of the early visual narrative, because there is no doubt that this is a depiction of an actual event.⁴⁰ Indeed, many details set the action in a specific place, the mountain and the forest, and show characterized and identified enemies. In addition, it highlights the sovereign and commemorates an accurate victory. The latter is the emergence of the historic event, fully described and narrated – which existed only rarely before this time. When depicted, the Akkadian king is magnified and seems to overshadow the rest of the hierarchical group that governs with him; being the only one at the centre of the world, he relegates gods and men to a lower level. This aspect is far from being incidental when one knows that Narām-Sîn was actually the first leader to institute the practice of self-divinization. The power of the temples, clergy, and administrative managers was also reduced. This desire for total and undivided rule and the diminution of the elites may have had a significant impact on the iconographic production, attested by the disappearance of a whole category of artefacts, including figurative inlaid panels, perforated plaques, and small votive statues which were designed to portray these elites. In an effort to reduce the effective power of the elites, all the media that portrayed their importance disappeared at the same time, and the image of the warrior was used, from that moment on, exclusively by the king.

Bibliography Amiet, Pierre. 1953. “Ziggurats et ‘culte en hauteur’ des origines à l’époque d’Akkad.” Revue d’assyriologie et d’archéologieorientale 47: 23 – 33. Amiet, Pierre. 1976. L’art d’Agadé au Musée du Louvre. Paris: Musées Nationaux. Amiet, Pierre. 1980. La glyptique mésopotamienne archaique. 2. éd. rev. et corr. Paris: Éd. du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique. Teilw. zugl. Paris, Univ., Diss, 1957. Archi, Alfonso, and Maria Giovanna Biga. 2003. “A Victory over Mari and the Fall of Ebla.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 55: 1 – 44. Aruz, Joan and Roland Wallenfels, eds. 2003. Art of the First Cities. The Third Millennium B. C. from the Mediterranean to the Indus. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art. Bahrani, Zainab. 2002. “Performativity and the Image: Narrative, Representation, and the Uruk Vase.” In Leaving No Stones Unturned: Essays on the Ancient Near East and Egypt in Honor of Donald P. Hansen, edited by Donald P. Hansen and Erica Ehrenberg, 15 – 22. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. Barrelet, Marie-Thérèse. 1970. “Peut-On Remettre en Question la “Restitution Matérielle de la Stèle des Vautours”?” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 29 (4): 233 – 258. Becker, Andrea 1985. “Neusumerische Renaissance? Wissenschaftsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zur Philologie und Archäologie.” Baghdader Mitteilungen 16: 229 – 308.

 Kantor 1966; Winter 1999.

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Beyer, Dominique. 2007. “Les sceaux de Mari au IIIe millénaire: Observations sur la documentation ancienne et les données nouvelles des villes I et II.” Akh Purattim (1): 231 – 260. Bretschneider, Joachim, Anne-Sophie Veyve, and Greta Jans. 2009. “War of the Lords. The Battle of Chronology. Trying to Recognize Historical Iconography in the 3rd Millennium Glyptic Art in Seals of Ishqi-Mari and from Beydar.” Ugarit Forschungen 41: 5 – 28. Cooper, Jerrold S. 1983. Reconstructing History from Ancient Inscriptions: The Lagash-Umma Border Conflict. Sources from the Ancient Near East 2,1. Malibu: Undena Publ. Couturaud, Barbara. 2014. “L’image et le contexte: nouvelle étude des panneaux figuratifs incrustés de Mari” Syria 91: 79 – 99. https://halshs.archives-ouvertes.fr/halshs-01141752. Couturaud, Barbara. 2019. Les incrustations en coquille de Mari. Turnhout: Brepols. Dolce, Rita. 1978. Gli intarsi mesopotamici dell’epoca protodinastica 1. Roma: Istituto di studi del Vicino Oriente, Università. Falkenstein, Adam. 1974. The Sumerian Temple City. Sources and Monographs on the Ancient Near East 1/1. Los Angeles: Undena Publ. Foster, Benjamin R. 1977. “Commercial Activities in Sargonic Mesopotamia.” In Trade in the Ancient Near East: Papers Presented to the 23 Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, University of Birmingham, 5 – 9 July, 1976, edited by John D. Hawkins, 31 – 43. London: British School of Archaeology in Iraq. Frankfort, Henri. 1954. The Art and Architecture of the Ancient Orient. Pelican History of Art 7. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Glassner, Jean-Jacques. 1986. La chute d’Akkadé: L’événement et sa mémoire. Berliner Beiträge zum Vorderen Orient 5. Berlin: Reimer. Zugl. Paris, Univ., Diss., 1980. Hamblin, William James. 2007. Warfare in the Ancient Near East to 1600 BC. Holy Warriors at the Dawn of Histoy. (Warfare and History). London: Routledge. Hansen, Donald. 1998. “Art of the Royal Tombs of Ur: a Brief Interpretation.” In Treasures from the Royal Tombs of Ur, edited by Richard Zettler and Lee Horne, 43 – 72. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Kantor, Helena. 1966. “Landscape in Akkadian Art.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 25 (3): 145 – 152. Liverani, Mario. 1993. Akkad: The First World Empire: Structure, Ideology, Traditions. History of the Ancient Near East. Studies 5. Padova: Sargon. Mackay, Ernest J.H. and Stephen Langdon. 1929. A Sumerian Palace and the “A” Cemetery at Kish, Mesopotamia. Chicago: Field Museum Press. Marchesi, Gianni and Nicolo Marchetti. 2011. Royal Statuary of Early Dynastic Mesopotamia. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. Marcus, Michelle I. 1995. “Art and Ideology in Ancient Western Asia.” In Civilizations of the Ancient Near East, edited by Jack M. Sasson, 2487 – 2506. New York: Scribner. Margueron, Jean-Claude. 1996. “L’Étendard D’Ur’: Récit Historique Ou Magique.” In Collectanea Orientalia: Histoire, Arts De L’espace Et Industrie De La Terre; Études Offertes En Hommage À Agnès Spycket, edited by Hermann Gasche and Barthel Hrouda, 159 – 169. Civilisation du Proche-Orient Série 1, Archéologie et environnement 3. Neuchâtel: Recherches et publ. Nadali, Davide. 2007. “Monuments of War, War of Monuments: some Considerations on Commemorating War in the Third Millenium BC.” Orientalia 76: 336 – 367.

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Parrot, André. 1956. Mission archéologique de Mari, Tome 1: Le temple d’Ishtar. Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 65. Paris: Geuthner. Parrot, André. 1967. Mission archéologique de Mari, Tome 3: Les temples d’Ishtarat et de Ninni-Zaza. Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 86. Paris: Geuthner. Perkins, Ann. 1957. “Narration in Babylonian Art.” American Journal of Archaeology 61 (1): 54 – 62. Romano, Licia. 2007. “La Stele degli Avvoltoi: una rilettura critica.” Vicino Oriente 13: 3 – 23. Watanabe, Chikako E. 2000. “The Lion Metaphor in the Mesopotamian Royal Context.” Topoi Suppléments 2: 399 – 409. Winter, Irene J. 1985. “After the Battle is Over: The Stele of the Vultures and the Beginning of the Historical Narrative in the Art of the Ancient Near East,” In Pictorial Narrative in Antiquity and the Middle Ages. Studies in the History or Art 16, edited by Herbert L. Kessler and Marianna Shreve, 11 – 32. Washington: National Gallery of Art. Winter, Irene J. 1999. “Tree(s) on the Mountain: Landscape and Territory on the Victor Stele of Narām-Sîn of Agade.” In Landscapes: Territories, Frontiers and Horizons in the Ancient Near East: Papers Presented to the XLIV Rencontre assyriologique internationale, Venezia, 7 – 11 July 1997, edited by Lucio Milano, 63 – 72. History of the Ancient Near East: Monographs 3. Padova: Sargon. Woolley, Leonard. 1934. Ur Excavations II: The Royal Cemetery. London: British Museum.

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

Fig. 4: Fig. 5: Fig. 6:

Fig. 7: Fig. 8:

Fig. 9:

The Lion Hunt Stela (Uruk; basalt; Iraq Museum, IM 23477); after Aruz 2003, 22, Fig. 15. The Stela of the Vultures, mythological and historical sides (Girsu; limestone; Louvre Museum, AO 50, 2346, 2347 &2348), photo: © RMN. The Standard of Ur, “Peace” and “War” sides (Ur; shell, lapis lazuli, red limestone, bitumen, wood; British Museum, WA 121201), photo: © Trustees of the British Museum. Drawing of the impression of a seal belonging to the king Išgi-Mari (Mari), after Beyer 2007, 198, Fig. 17. Inlay of the Guerrier à l’herminette (unknown provenance; shell; Louvre Museum, AO 18215), photo: © RMN. Restoration of a figurative inlaid panel by André Parrot, called the Standard of Mari (Mari; mother of pearl, schist, red limestone, bitumen, wood; Louvre Museum, AO 19820), photo: © B. Couturaud 2009. Inlays depicting a soldier and a prisoner (Mari; mother of pearl, schist, bitumen, wood; National Museum of Aleppo, 1968), photo: © B. Couturaud 2009. Inlays depicting the king Akurgal (Girsu; shell; H. 9,7 cm; W. 3 cm; Louvre Museum, AO 11249) and the king Urnanše (Girsu; shell; Louvre Museum, AO 4109), photo: © RMN. Inscribed statue of the king Išgi-Mari (Mari; gypsum; National Museum of Aleppo, 10406), after Parrot 1956, pl. XXV–XXVI.

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Fig. 10: Statue of the superintendent of the palace of Mari, Ebih-Il (Mari; gypsum, shell, bitumen and lapis lazuli for the eyes; Louvre Museum, AO 17551), photo: © RMN. Fig. 11: Inlay depicting a siege scene (Mari; shell; National Museum of Der-ez-Zor, 3746), after Aruz 2003, 158. Fig. 12: Inlays depicting the execution of enemies (Ebla; limestone; National Museum of Idlib, 3297 / 3292 / 3245 / 3269), after Aruz 2003, 176 – 177. Fig. 13: Perforated plaque depicting a banquetscene (Khafajah; limestone; Thickness 3,8 cm; Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, A 12417). after Aruz 2003, 73. Fig. 14: Narām-Sîn stela (Susa; limestone; Louvre Museum, Sb 4), photo: © RMN.

Carlos Langa-Morales

Der Feldzugsbericht in Šū-Sîns Königsinschriften im Vergleich zu Verwaltungsurkunden: Die Grenze zwischen Erzählung und Geschichte im Rahmen der Königsdarstellung Einleitung Walther Sallaberger stellt die Frage, ob „[die] literarische Erzählung [im Frühen Mesopotamien] ,historiographische Elemente‘ aufweist oder nicht.“¹ Die Absicht meines Beitrags ist es, diese Frage in Bezug auf den Feldzugsbericht, der thematisch eine Untergliederung des Königsinschriftentyps² „Rechenschaftsbericht“³ darstellt, zu beantworten. Dafür eignet sich insbesondere ein Vergleich zwischen den Feldzugsberichten Šū-Sîns der Historical Collection A und Historical Collection B und den Verwaltungsurkunden der III. Dynastie von Ur. Da die Verwaltungsurkunden aus der Alltagspraxis stammen, stellen sie eine vertrauenswürdige Quelle zur Überprüfung der Grenze zwischen Erzählung und Realität dar. Ein weiteres Problem liegt in der Definition von Narration und in der Differen-

Für die Durchsicht des Artikels und hilfreiche Anmerkungen sei Prof. Dr. Hans Neumann herzlich gedankt. Ich bedanke mich bei Frau M.A. Lynn-Salammbô Zimmermann (Oxford) und Frau M.A. Jennifer Götz (RKU) für die Sprachkorrektur meines Texts. Für Fehler und Ungenauigkeiten trägt der Verfasser selbst die Verantwortung. Der vorliegende Beitrag ist eine bearbeitete Fassung meines am 26. 06. 2015 in Bern gehaltenen Vortrages im Rahmen des Workshops „Tales of Royalty. Notions of Kingship in Visual and Textual Narration in the Ancient Near East“ in der 61. RAI Genf & Bern-Tagung, dafür mochte ich mich hier bei Dr. Julia Linke (Badisches Landesmuseum, Karlsruhe) und Dr. Elisabeth WagnerDurand (Tübingen / Freiburg) für die Organisation des Workshops und dessen Herausgabe bedanken.  s. Sallaberger 2005, 66.  Für eine Definition der Königsinschriften als Gattung s. Edzard 1980 – 1983, 1959, und Seminara 2004, 541– 545.  Die Rechenschaftsberichte wurden von Edzard (1980 – 1983, 59 – 65) in seiner Klassifikation der Königsinschriften unter „Sonstiges“ erfasst, da sie sich nicht unter einem Muster (wie z. Bsp. „Standard-“, „Bau-“, „Weih-“, „Gewicht-“, „Siegelinschriften“, „Denkmälerbeinschriften“ [Siehe Anm. 6.]) einordnen lassen. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501506895-010

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zierung zwischen einer einfachen Schilderung eines Ereignisses und dessen Erzählung. In Bezug auf diese Problematik ist zwischen Inschrift zur Grenzziehung⁴ und Feldzugsbericht zu unterscheiden. Während die Inschrift zur Grenzziehung ein militärisches Ereignis in knapper Form ohne die Nutzung von narrativen Elementen schildert, beschreibt der Feldzugsbericht das Ereignis ausführlich. Schließlich geht es um die Geschichtlichkeit des Texts, um dessen Nutzung als Geschichtsquelle und um die Differenzierung zwischen Selbstdarstellung des Königs und historischem Ereignis.

Der Feldzugsbericht im 3. Jt. v. Chr. Feldzugsberichte wurden in der Neusumerischen Zeit in Königsinschriften wiedergegeben.⁵ Diese militärischen Erzählungen gehören zu der allgemeinen Gattung jener Königsinschriften, die Dietz O. Edzard⁶ als „Rechenschaftsberichte“ bezeichnet. Er definiert „Rechenschaftsberichte“ als: „Inschriften […], in denen mehrere vollendete Vorhaben des Herrschers zusammengefasst sind.“ Die frühesten erhaltenen „Rechenschaftsberichte“ entstammen dem Frühdynastikum III B und wurden von Urnanše⁷ von Lagaš⁸ erstellt bzw. beauftragt. Von den 15 Inschriften von Urnanše, die zu diesem Inschriftentyp gehören, gibt es nur eine Inschrift⁹, in der ein Feldzug thematisiert wird. Die Inschrift, mit der sich zuletzt Stefano Seminara (2014)¹⁰ beschäftigte, hat nicht nur den Feldzugsbericht zum Inhalt, sondern auch Berichte über Tempelbau, Kanalarbeiten und die Herstellung von Götterstatuen. Daher scheint in Urnanšes Zeit der Feldzugsbericht keine selbständige Untergliederung¹¹ des „Rechenschaftsberichtes“ zu sein. Man muss bis zur Regierungszeit seines Enkels Eanatum¹² warten, bis der Feldzugsbericht die Hauptrolle in drei „Rechenschaftsbericht“-Inschriften übernimmt. Obwohl die Inschrift der Geierstele¹³ in den Kontext einer Auseinander-

 Edzard 1980 – 1983, 61– 63. Vgl. mit idem, 2004, 81– 87.  S. Sallaberger 2002, 118 – 119 für eine Definition von Geschichtsschreibung.  Edzard 1980 – 1983, 62– 63.  Frayne 2008, 89 – 110: Ur-Nanše RIME 1: E.1.9.1.6b , .9, .10, .11, .12, .13, .14, .15, .16, .17, .18, .20, .21, .22 und .23.  Sallaberger 2002, 119 ff.  Frayne 2008, 89 ff.: Ur-Nanše RIME 1: E.1.9.1.6b .  Seminara 2014, 23 – 46.  Seminara 2014, 39: „Der Kriegsbericht [in U-N 6b] […] ist als selbstverständliche Fortsetzung des Bauberichts zu betrachten.“  Frayne 2008, 145 – 149: Eanatum RIME 1: E.1.9.3.5; 149 – 152: .6; 159 – 161: .11.  Frayne 2008, 126 ff.: Eanatum RIME 1: E.1.9.3.1 und Romano 2007, 3 – 23.

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setzung wegen einer Grenzziehung und der folgenden Eidleistung zur Friedensschließung zu setzen ist, lässt sie sich nicht sicher den „Rechenschaftsberichten“ zuordnen. Während ihre äußere Form ein Feldzugsbericht ist, entspricht ihre Funktion wahrscheinlich einer Inschrift zur Grenzziehung. Der Feldzugsbericht erreicht seinen Höhepunkt mit der 4. Inschrift Utu-Ḫeĝals¹⁴, des Bruders des Begründers der III. Dynastie von Ur, die von der Vertreibung der Gutäer aus Sumer handelt.

Feldzugsberichte und Inschriften zur Grenzziehung Die Königsinschriften, die sich mit Feldzügen befassen, lassen sich sehr gut von Königsinschriften, die im Zusammenhang mit Grenzziehungen stehen, abgrenzen. Am interessantesten ist hierbei der Vergleich, wie in diesen beiden Inschriftentypen die gleichen militärischen Ereignisse geschildert werden. Ein typisches Beispiel dafür ist der Grenzstreit zwischen Lagaš und Umma in seinen verschiedenen Episoden.¹⁵ Die Königsinschriften zu diesem Thema lassen sich gut vergleichen, um anhand der Unterschiede zwischen ihnen ihre unterschiedlichen Funktionen festzustellen. Sie unterscheiden sich außerdem in Länge,¹⁶ Ausführlichkeit und in der Nutzung von narrativen Elementen. Diese umfassen meines Erachtens die Nutzung von finiten Verbalformen, einen bestimmten Textaufbau, der aus Einleitung, Hauptteil und Abschluss besteht, und die Einführung des/der Antagonisten bzw. des/der Gegenspieler/s in den Text. Während die Inschriften zur Grenzziehung das militärische Geschehen lediglich in knapper Form wiedergeben, beschreiben die Feldzugsberichtsinschriften ausführlich dessen Ablauf. Die Unterschiede zwischen den beiden Typen sind durch ihre Funktion bedingt: Der Hauptzweck der Inschrift zur Grenzziehung besteht darin, eine dauerhafte Beziehung zwischen der Grenzziehung oder einem Grenzziehungskanal und dem Grenzzieher herzustellen. Sie ist typologisch nicht weit entfernt vom Königsinschriftentyp der „Bauinschrift“ und sie benötigt folglich keine narrativen Elemente, da sie sich auf eine knappe Schilderung des Ereignisses beschränkt. Mit

 Frayne 1993, 283 – 293: Utu-Ḫeĝal RIME 2: E.2.13.6.4. s.a. zuletzt Sallaberger 2013, 88 – 95.  Pettinato 1970 – 1971, 281– 320 und Cooper 1983.  Seminara 2014, 41 „Vor der Zeit Ur-Nanšes war der Text der Königsinschriften sehr kurz. In dieser Hinsicht ist die Regierung von Ur-Nanše als innovative Zeit zu betrachten. Seine Nachfolger […] nahmen sich seine längste Inschrift (U-N 6b) zum Vorbild für ihre ausführlicheren Texte.“

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dem „Rechenschaftsbericht“ hingegen legt der Herrscher im Tempel vor der Gottheit Rechenschaft ab. Das bedeutet, dass dieser dem Herrscher dazu dient, der Gottheit die Erfüllung seiner Königsaufgaben nachzuweisen.

Erzählen und Darstellen Erzählung¹⁷ wurde von Johann Knobloch definiert als: „Sprachliche Darstellung, die den Hörer oder Leser die Ereignisse miterleben lässt, indem sie bei den einzelnen Etappen der Handlung verweilt.“¹⁸ Meines Erachtens gehört auch die „bildliche“ Darstellung dazu, sodass sich die Texterzählung und die Bilderzählung bei der Übermittlung der Königsbotschaft an die Gottheit ergänzen. Die Gegenstände, auf denen sich die Inschriften dieser Gattung befinden, sind vorwiegend Stelen, teilweise auch Statuen, es sei denn sie befinden sich als altbabylonische Abschriften in jüngeren babylonischen Sammlungen. Der „Rechenschaftsbericht“ und die dazugehörige Stele oder Statue, d. h. „der Text und das Bild,“¹⁹ sind ein einheitliches Ganzes, das den König vor der Gottheit präsentiert. Der Schriftträger enthält nicht nur den Text, sondern er ist ein Grundbestandteil der Königsdarstellung, in der er Rechenschaft über seine Taten ablegt. Die Darstellung eines Feldzuges impliziert immer eine parteiische und bewusste Auswahl der Details, die man erzählen möchte. Diese Auswahl entspricht natürlich dem Interesse des Auftraggebers. Vergleicht man einen Feldzugsbericht mit zeitgenössischen Verwaltungsurkunden, so werden fehlende Übereinstimmungen²⁰ offenkundig. Da die Verwaltungsurkunden in der Alltagspraxis entstanden sind, gelten sie prinzipiell als eine verlässliche Geschichtsquelle. So sind gemäß Eva Cancik-Kirschbaum:

 Es ist dem Verfasser bewusst, dass es keine allgemein akzeptierte Definition von Narration, Narrativ und Erzählung gibt, und dass die Gleichsetzung von Narration und Erzählung problematisch sein könnte. Die hier ausgewählte Definition spiegelt die Meinung des Verfassers wider, es ist jedoch nicht beabsichtigt, die Gültigkeit anderer Definitionen je nach Fach oder Wissensbereich zu bestreiten. Vgl. eine Kurzfassung der wichtigsten Definitionen über Narration in Ryan 2007 (2010), 22– 35.  Knobloch 1986, 840: Erzählung.  Dies war das Thema der 61. RAI Genf & Bern „Text and Image“ und bildet somit auch den Rahmen für den vorliegenden Beitrag.  Über das Interessante dieser Fragestellung: Sallaberger 2005, 64: „Diese Diskrepanz zwischen den Fakten, nämlich den gesamten Aufgaben und Taten des Herrschers, und die Darstellung des Königtums in den Texten verdient genauere Betrachtung.“

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[a]dministrative Texte […] zugleich Bestandteil und Spiegel königlicher Herrschaft: sie dokumentieren die Akte politischen Handelns, zeremonieller Repräsentation und kultischen Engagements in ihrer unmittelbarsten Form, jenseits von rhetorischen oder ideologischen Einkleidungen.²¹

In der Inszenierung eines Feldzuges als „Rechenschaftsbericht“ spielen die narrativen Elemente eine sehr wichtige Rolle. Um diese Elemente und die Mechanismen der Übertragung der militärischen Ereignisse auf die narrativen Inschriften zu analysieren, eignen sich – wie bereits erwähnt – die „Rechenschaftsberichte“ Šū-Sîns mit Feldzugsthematik.

Šū-Sîns „Rechenschaftsberichte“ mit Feldzugsthematik Dietz O. Edzard hat 1959 – 1960 die altbabylonischen Sammeltafeln, die diese Königsinschriften enthalten, in der Zeitschrift „Archiv für Orientforschung“ 19 veröffentlicht.²² Später bezeichnete Miguel Civil (1969) beide Sammlungen von Königsinschriften im „Journal of Cuneiform Studies“ 21 als Historical Collection A und Historical Collection B und editierte die Sammlung B mit neuen Textvertretern.²³ Beide Sammlungen haben in weiteren Veröffentlichungen neue Fragmente dazugewonnen. Eine Zusammenfassung über den Forschungsstand jener Inschriften findet sich sowohl bei Douglas Frayne²⁴ als auch bei Sallaberger.²⁵

Historical Collection B Der sumerische „Rechenschaftsbericht“ mit Feldzugsthematik von Sammlung B entspricht dem Text Šū-Sîn 1 und dem dazugehörigen Fragment Šū-Sîn 2 in RIME 3/2²⁶. Die Inschrift behandelt eine Zeitspanne von sechs Jahren, das heißt vom dritten bis zum achten Jahr von Šū-Sîns Regierungszeit. Die vier Berichte, die die Inschrift umfasst, wurden von Frayne mit vier Ereignissen aus Šū-Sîns Regierungszeit in Verbindung gebracht: dem Feldzug gegen Simānum im Jahr ŠS 3, dem

     

Cancik-Kirschbaum 2012, 33. Edzard 1959 – 60, 1– 32. Civil 1969, 24– 38. Frayne 1997, 295 – 320. Sallaberger 1999, 169, Anm. 165 und 168. Frayne 1997, 295 – 301.

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Bau der Martu-Mauer in den Jahren ŠS 4 und 5, der Errichtung der Stele von Enlil und Ninlil im Jahr ŠS 6 und die Anfertigung von Enlils und Ninlils Boot im Jahr ŠS 8. Die Statue, auf der sich diese Inschrift befand, hieß wahrscheinlich dInannaKA.ĜÌR-dŠu-dSîn.²⁷ Diese Göttin scheint eine persönliche Kriegsgottheit von Šū-Sîn gewesen zu sein, die nur von ŠS 4 bis zu Ibbī-Sîns ersten Jahr belegt ist. Es gibt eine Opfergabenliste²⁸, auf der der Schreiber eine Opfergabe für dInanna-kaskal-dŠū-dSîn registriert hat, was uns zeigen könnte, dass dInanna-KA.ĜÌR-dŠu-dSîn eine Erscheinungsform von dInanna-kaskal ist, die seit Šulgis 48. Jahr bekannt ist. Wie Sallaberger (1993) bemerkt, gehören kaskal „Weg, Feldzug“ und KA.ĜÌR „Weg, Pfad“ zu demselben Wortfeld, ein weiterer Grund weshalb beide Göttinnen miteinander in Verbindung gesetzt werden können. Die Einleitung der Inschrift stellt uns dInanna-KA.ĜÌR-dŠu-dSîn als eine mächtige und bedeutende Göttin vor. Im Gegensatz dazu steht sie auf den Opferlisten in einer niedrigen Position und erhält nur Kleinvieh von schlechter Qualität. In diesem Fall scheint die narrative Behandlung des Themas nicht der kultischen Realität zu entsprechen. Der Hintergrund für diesen Feldzugsbericht war die Wiedereinsetzung der Kunšī-mātum, der Tochter von Šū-Sîn, auf den Thron von Simānum, die entweder zu Šulgis Zeit gemäß Piotr Michalowski (1975, 716 – 719) oder zu Amar-Suenas Zeit gemäß Daniel T. Potts (1994, 132) als é-gi₄-a „Schwiegertochter“ zu Pušam, dem Herrscher von Simānum, geschickt wurde. Durch den Bericht erfahren wir, dass Kunšī-mātum aus Simānum vertrieben wurde, und dass Šū-Sîn Simānum und Ḫabura wieder unter die Autorität von Kunšī-mātum stellte. IV 4’-10’) Simānum, Ḫabūra und deren Länder standen gegen den König [Šū-Sîn] feindlich. Sie vertrieben seine Tochter von ihrem Wohnsitz. IV 21– 33) Die Köpfe von Simānum, Ḫabūra und deren Länder schlug er (=Šū-Sîn). Er (=ŠūSîn) ließ seine Tochter in ihrem Wohnsitz zurückzukehren. Simānum, Ḫabūra und deren Länder hat er (=Šū-Sîn) ihr zu ihrem Sklavendienst zugewiesen.²⁹

Im Gegensatz dazu zeigen uns die Verwaltungsurkunden gemäß Frauke Weiershäuser (2008), dass für Kunšī-mātum niemals die Bezeichnung d a m „Ehefrau“ eines der Söhne von Pušam, dem Herrscher von Simānum, verwendet wurde. Sie kam in den Texten nur als é - g i ₄ - a „Schwiegertochter“ vor. Das könnte man so interpretieren, dass sie, obwohl sie am Hof ihres Schwiegervaters lebte, noch nicht geheiratet hatte, weil sie zu jung dafür war. Das hieße wiederum, dass Šū-Sîn Pušam oder einen seiner Söhne auf den Thron von Simānum gesetzt hatte und

 Sjöberg 1975, 232, Anm. 118; Sallaberger 1993, Tl. 103, Anm. 103 u. Frayne 1997, 295.  Nisaba 8, 32.  Ich folge hier Frayne, 1997, 298: Šū-Sîn: RIME 3/2: E.3/2.1.4.1.

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nicht seine Tochter, weil sie in diesem Moment diese Position noch nicht einnehmen konnte. Folglich war die narrative Behandlung des Themas nicht deckungsgleich mit der politischen Realität. Es gibt sieben³⁰ Verwaltungsurkunden aus dem Jahr ŠS 8, die den Einsatz einer Arbeitstruppe von Simānum³¹ beim Ackerbau in Nippur dokumentieren. Die Arbeitstruppen erhalten allerdings nur die Hälfte eines normalen Lohns, was darauf hinweisen könnte, dass es sich um unfreie Arbeiter³² handelt. IV 34– 41) Er (=Šū-Sîn) siedelte die feindlichen Leute, seine Beute, (nämlich) Simānum für Enlil und Ninlil ins Grenzgebiet von Nippur um und baute ihnen [eine Siedlung],“ IV 47-V 6) Seit den Tagen der Schicksalsentscheidung besiedelte kein König eine Siedlung für Enlil und Ninlil im Grenzgebiet von Nippur mit den Leuten, die er (=Šū-Sîn) gefangen hat;³³

Eine Sammeltafel³⁴ über abgeschlossene Prozesse aus Girsu informiert uns im Jahr ŠS 6 über gekaufte Männer aus Simānum, die als Ersatz für die éren als érenTruppe eingesetzt wurden. Diese Urkunden bestätigen, dass Šū-Sîn Leute aus Simānum gefangen nahm und in der Region Nippur, sowie gemäß Hans Neumann (1992)³⁵ in anderen Provinzen, ansiedelte, wie es in der Inschrift beschrieben wurde. Daher deckt sich die narrative Behandlung des Themas mit der Besiedlungs- und Deportationspolitik Šū-Sîns, wie sie aus den Verwaltungsurkunden hervorgehen. Das Einsetzen von Kriegsgefangenen und Deportierten als Arbeitskräfte³⁶ im Ackerbau ist in der Ur III-Zeit zu diesem Zeitpunkt bereits mehrfach in anderen Provinzen belegt. Eine Urkunde³⁷ aus dem Jahr AS 5 beinhaltet die Abgaben von 61 Feldern (a - š à ) in der Provinz von Lagaš-Girsu. Zwei von diesen trugen die Namen „Feld von Simurrum“ (PPAC 5, 601: I. 17) und „Feld von Lulubum“ (PPAC 5, 601: I. 19), was wahrscheinlich auf den Feldzug Šulgis in seinem 45. Jahr oder sogar früher zurückzuführen ist. Š 48 ist auch durch einen Garten mit dem Namen

 NATN 450, THM NF 1– 2 300, 301, 302, 303, 304, 305.  Neumann 1992, 273, Anm. 56 u. 57.  Diakonoff 1987, 1– 3.  Ich folge hier Frayne 1997, 298: Šū-Sîn RIME 3/2: E.3/2.1.4.1.  NGU 2, N 190, 302 ff. s.a. NGU 1, 97 f. 5.  Neumann 1992, 273.  Neumann 1992, 275: „Abschließend sei festgestellt, daß der Erwerb von Arbeitskräften im 3. Jt. nicht das Ziel der militärischen Unternehmungen der mesopotamischen Herrscher gewesen ist. Trotzdem bildeten die Mitnahme von Kriegsgefangenen und die Deportation von Teilen der Bevölkerung der besiegten Gebiete durchaus eine willkommene Ergänzung des einheimischen Arbeitskräftepotentials.“  PPAC 5, 601 (BM 026951).

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„Nanše (von) Simurrum“ ( ĝ e š k i r i ₆ d N a n š e S i - m u - u r ₄ - u m k i )³⁸ in LagašGirsu belegt. Ob Šū-Sîn der erste Ur III-König ist, der eine Siedlung für Enlil und Ninlil in Nippur mit Kriegsgefangenen und Deportierten angelegt hat, ist sehr fraglich. Man hätte erwartet, dass schon Šulgi diese Politik begonnen hätte, allerdings weisen die Verwaltungsurkunden nur darauf hin, dass Leute aus Lulubum und Simurrum zu Šulgis Zeit in Feldern aus der Provinz von Lagaš-Girsu angesiedelt waren. Angenommen, dass der Mangel an Belegen für eine Besiedlung von Deportierten in Nippur vor Šū-Sîns Zeit nicht an der Quellenlage liegt, sollte die narrative Behandlung des Themas als deckungsgleich mit der Realität und nicht als künstlerische Freiheit betrachtet werden.

Historical Collection A Der sumerische „Rechenschaftsbericht“ mit Feldzugsthematik aus Sammlung A, bekannt als „Statueninschrift 1,“ entspricht den Texten Šū-Sîn 3 und 4 in RIME 3/ 2³⁹. Die zwei Inschriften unterscheiden sich nur durch den Adressaten der Widmung: eine Inschrift ist Enlil und die andere Ninlil gewidmet. Ein anderer „Rechenschaftsbericht,“ bekannt als „Statueninschrift 2,“ entspricht der Inschrift ŠūSîn 5, die in RIME 3/2⁴⁰ in akkadischer Fassung vorliegt. Beide handeln von dem Feldzug Šū-Sîns gegen Zabšali⁴¹ im Osten von Šimaški und dem Feldzug gegen Šimaški im Jahr ŠS 6. IV 32- V 4) Ihre Rinder, Schafe, Ziegen (und) Esel [für] er (=Šū-Sîn) [fort]; [in] den Tempeln des Enlil (und) [der Ninlil] [und in] [den Tempeln der großen Götter] [opf]erte er (=Šū-Sîn) sie.⁴²

Es gibt zwei Verwaltungsurkunden aus ŠS 6 über Kriegsbeute, die dieses Ereignis veranschaulichen: Eine Urkunde⁴³ dokumentiert die Aufnahme von 721 Stück Kleinvieh aus Šimaški in Puzriš-Dagān, die andere Urkunde⁴⁴ belegt, dass ḪunŠulgi, der Militärstatthalter von Umma, dem König Kleinvieh aus Šimaški lieferte, und dass er wahrscheinlich am Feldzug teilnahm. Die Erzählung über die Ausbeute an Kleinvieh passt perfekt zu der durch die Verwaltungsurkunden belegten

      

Vgl. Greco 2015, 150 (STA 19) und Focke 2015, 660, Anm. 6373 und 655, Anm. 6337. Frayne 1997, 301– 308: Šū-Sîn RIME 3/2: E.3/2.1.4.3 und RIME 3/2 E.3/2.1.4.4. Frayne 1997, 308 – 312 . Neumann 2005, 22 ff. Ich folge hier Neumann 2005, 24: Šū-Sîn RIME 3/2: E.3/2.1.4.3. ASJ 3, 192. BPOA 7, 2480.

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Realität. Leider gibt es keine Information zur selben Zeit über Kriegsbeute, die entweder Rinder oder Esel enthielt. Der dann folgende Absatz berichtet über die Versklavung von Leuten aus zwei Bevölkerungen, die auf Grund einer Bruchstelle nicht erhalten sind, für die Bergarbeit in Zabšali. Obwohl es keine Verwaltungsurkunden gibt, die mit dieser Episode der historischen Sammlung A in Verbindung gebracht werden können, kann man diese Episode mit anderen Verwaltungsurkunden vergleichen, die aus anderen Epochen der Ur III-Zeit stammen, und einen ähnlichen Vorgang behandeln: VI 8 – 18) [Die Be]völ[kerung] von Ḫa-[x(x)]x und [x‐]x-man⁴⁵ hat Šū-Sîn, der [Kö]nig, Hirte der Schwarzköpfigen, zum Sklavendienst aufgeboten; … . Um nach Gold (und) Silber zu graben, versetzte er sie von dort (zur Arbeit in Zabšali) dorthin⁴⁶

Eine dieser Urkunden⁴⁷ wurde 1996 von Lafont⁴⁸ veröffentlicht. Sie handelt von der Getreidereisezuteilung an Schmiede / Bergarbeiter (é r e n s i m u g - ḫ u r - s a ĝ b a - a l - m e ), die sich von Lagaš aus auf dem Weg nach Adamsul (Tepe Surkhegan)⁴⁹ befanden. Die Urkunde gibt nicht klar an, ob es sich hier um Kriegsgefangene und Deportierte handelt, allerdings belegt sie, dass die Könige der III. Dynastie von Ur Metallspezialisten zum Bergbau in die Peripherie schickten, und, dass dieses Unternehmen gefährlich sein konnte. Daher wurde die Urkunde von einem Königsgefolgsmann (à g a - u š l u g a l ) bzw. einem Waffenmann (l ú - ĝ e š t u k u l ) gesiegelt. Jedoch lassen die Anwesenheit eines Militärangehörigen und die niedrige Zahlung vermuten, dass sie keine Freiarbeiter waren. Die Hülle einer anderen Urkunde⁵⁰ belegt, dass eine éren-Truppe im Jahr AS 6 von Schmieden aus Madga (in der Nähe von Kirkuk)⁵¹ in Lagaš mit Gerste versorgt wurde. Wie im vorherigen Fall kann man nicht sicher bestimmen, ob es sich hier um Kriegsgefangene und Deportierte handelt. Schmiede aus Šimurrum sind in Lagaš II⁵² belegt, und es gibt während Gudeas⁵³ Regierungszeit Metallarbeiter im Einsatz für Bergbau in Kimaš und Adamsul. Zabšali liegt wahrscheinlich auf dem

 Neumann 2005, 25, Anm. 138.  Ich folge hier Neumann 2005, 25: Šū-Sîn RIME 3/2 E.3/2.1.4.3.  TCTI 2, 3859 (L. 3859).  Lafont 1996, 87– 93.  Schrakamp 2014, 14.  TCTI 2, 3449 (L. 3449). Für eine andere Interpretation dieses Texts s. Heimpel 2009, 36: 5.4.6.  Für eine andere Meinung und die Gleichsetzung zwischen Magda = Hīt s. Heimpel 2009, 25 – 60.  RTC 249 u. MVN 10, 92 Vgl. Steinkeller 2013, 299 – 301.  Potts 2010, 245 – 248.

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Plateau von Anarak-Talmessi, deren Region reich an Kupfer⁵⁴ war. Die Erzählung im Rechenschaftsbericht entspricht damit den Fakten, die aus den Verwaltungsurkunden ohne legitimatorischen Hintergrund zu entnehmen sind. Die „Statueninschrift 1“ berichtete uns auch, dass Šū-Sîn Ziringu,⁵⁵ den König von Zabšali, gefangen (lugal LÚxKÁR, „gefesselter König“⁵⁶) nahm. In dieser Inschrift wurde Ziringu auch als Fürst (énsi) bezeichnet. III 24-IV 1) Die großen Fürsten aller Länder von Zabšali und die Fürsten der Städte, die sich von ihm (= Šū-Sîn) abgewandt hatten, [ergriff er (= Šū-Sîn)] und zusammen mit denen, die er (= Šū-Sîn) in Fesseln gelegt hatte, [nach Nippur] vor Enlil (und) [Nin-lil] br[achte er sie]. Beischrift 2. VII 31– 34) Ziringu, Fü[rst] des Lan[des] Zabša[li] Kolophon 3. VII 35 – 37) Inschrift neben Ziringu, dem gefesselten König⁵⁷

Ein „Adalal, [ein]Mann aus Ziringu“ (A-da-làl lú Zi-rí-ĝu₁₀ki) ist in zwei Botentexten zur Zeit von Šulgi (48/xii/‐)⁵⁸ und Amar-Suena (1/iv/‐)⁵⁹ belegt. Das fünfte Jahr der Regierungszeit von Ibbī-Sîn⁶⁰ wird benannt als „The year the governor of Zabšali married Tukīn-ḫaṭṭi-migrīša, the daughter of the king.“⁶¹ Ein einziger Text⁶² gibt uns im fünften Jahr der Regierungszeit⁶³ von Ibbī-Sîn Auskunft über den Namen der Prinzessin. Der Text handelt von Weihgaben aus Rotgold von Ibbī-Sîn und Geme-Enlila an Nanna und seinen(?) Tempel. Frauke Weiershäuser stellte folgende These über den Anlass der Weihegeschenke auf: [V]orstellbar wäre ein Zusammenhang mit der in diesem Jahr geschlossenen Ehe zwischen der Prinzessin Tukīn-ḫaṭṭi-migrīša und dem Ensi von Zabšali, doch ist ebenso auch ein anderer Grund für diese Gaben denkbar.⁶⁴

 Potts 2010, 250 – 252.  Über den Namen s. Notizia 2010, 276, Anm. 40.  Neumann 2005, 25.  Ich folge hier Neumann 2005, 24– 25: Šū-Sîn RIME 3/2: E.3/2.1.4.3 u. Anm. 126.  HSS 4, 87.  Nisaba 22, 75 (BM 25754).  Stolper 1982, 52– 53; Steinkeller 1982, 243 – 44; Weiershäuser 2008, 168, 264, u. Anm. 1219 u. 1220.  Frayne 1997, 363.  UET 3, 376.  Carter / Stolper 1984, 19: „His fifth year is named for the marriage of his daughter to a ruler of Zabshali, over which Shu-Sin had claimed decisive victory seven years earlier.“  Weiershäuser 2008, 168.

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Dass der Name der Prinzessin nur aus dieser Urkunde bekannt ist, weist meines Erachtens darauf hin, dass der Anlass mit ihr direkt zu tun hat. Tukīn-ḫaṭṭi-migrīša bedeutet „sie hat das Zepter ihres Favoriten beständig gemacht.“⁶⁵ Ihr Amtsname deutet darauf hin, dass sie die Position ihres Ehemannes bestätigen sollte. Dies würde passen, falls ihr Ehemann Ziringu war. Der ehemalige Fürst von Zabšali, der seit dem siebten Jahr von Šū-Sîn als Geisel am Königshof der III. Dynastie von Ur gewesen war, wurde jetzt vermutlich auf Grund der schwierigen Militärlage als eine passende Marionette für den Thron von Zabšali betrachtet. Ibbī-Sîn hatte in seinem dritten Jahr einen Feldzug gegen Simurrum, das wie Zabšali zum Staatenbund von Šimaški⁶⁶ gehörte, durchgeführt. Piotr Michalowski⁶⁷ zweifelt an dem Erfolg dieses Feldzuges und bezeichnet diesen Jahresnamen (IS 3) als reine Propaganda. Er vermutet, dass die Eheschließung von Tukīn-ḫaṭṭimigrīša mit dem Stadtfürsten Zabšali ein Versuch war, einen militärischen Misserfolg auf diplomatischer Ebene auszugleichen. Dieses Szenario ist durchaus plausibel, doch ebenso wäre es vorstellbar, dass Ibbī-Sîns Kanzlei für den dritten Jahresnamen einen kurzlebigen Erfolg des Königs wählte. Ab dem dritten Jahr seiner Regierungszeit begann der Abfall der Provinzen, die nicht mehr in den Archiven des Ur III–Reiches erscheinen.⁶⁸ Ibbī-Sîn nutzte vielleicht den Erfolg gegen Simurrum, um seine Tochter mit dem ehemaligen Herrscher von Zabšali, Ziringu, zu verheiraten, um einen Alliierten zu gewinnen. Er strebte mit diesem diplomatischen Schachzug vermutlich an, einen Ersatz für Ebarat⁶⁹ von Yabrat⁷⁰ zu finden, der von Š 44 bis zum Ende von Šū-Sîns Regierungszeit diesem ein treuer Verbündeter war. Die potenzielle Gefahr einer Rebellion von Seiten Ziringus war wahrscheinlich nicht so wichtig wie die Tatsache, dass er die beste Legitimation für den Thron von Zabšali hatte, weshalb er die günstigste Wahl angesichts der dahinschwindenden Ressourcen der Ur IIIDynastie war. Falls, wie ich annehme, diese Vermutung richtig ist, könnte die Eheschließung im fünften Jahr von Ibbī-Sîns Regierungszeit bestätigen, dass Ziringu für eine gewisse Zeit Gefangener der Könige der III. Dynastie von Ur war. Die narrative Behandlung des Themas wäre in diesem Fall deckungsgleich mit der politischen Realität.

 Weiershäuser 2008, 264.  Steinkeller 2007, 215 – 232.  Michalowski 2011, 179 ff.  Sallaberger 1999, 174 ff.  Steinkeller 2014, 287: „Ebarat’s state counterbalanced and provided a check on other Šimaškian principalities in western and central Iran, which posed a threat to the political and commercial interests of the House of Ur.“  Steinkeller 2007, 221 ff.

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Schlussfolgerung Mit diesem Beitrag habe ich versucht zu zeigen, zu welcher Untergliederung des „Rechenschaftsberichtes“ in der Gattung der Königsinschriften der Feldzugsbericht gehört, und welche Funktion er im Vergleich mit Inschriften zur Grenzziehung hat. Die Gegenüberstellung von Verwaltungsurkunden und „Rechenschaftsberichten“ mit Feldzugsthematik erlaubt uns, zwischen beurkundeter Realität und fiktiver Ausschmückung zu unterscheiden. Anhand dieses Vergleichs kann man erkennen, dass die historischen Königsinschriften von Šū-Sîn, obwohl sie einen großen Teil von „Königsprahlerei“ enthalten, deckungsgleich mit der historischen Realität waren. Diese Inschriften hatten das Hauptziel, die Handlungen des Königs in Bezug auf dessen militärische Unternehmungen vor Enlil und Ninlil zu rechtfertigen, als der König Rechenschaft für seine Herrschaft ablegte. Man kann dem Vergleich mit den Verwaltungsurkunden entnehmen, dass das in den Inschriften dargestellte Herrscherbild nicht stark vom „historischen“ Geschehen abweicht, jedoch beinhaltet dies nicht, dass bestimmte unerwünschte Geschehnisse nicht ausgeblendet wurden. Damit konnte der König die Gunst der Gottheit gewinnen. Folglich ging es nicht nur um das Schicksal eines einzigen Souveräns, sondern um die Legitimation der Herrschaftstätigkeit zum Gewinn des göttlichen Schutzes für dessen Dynastie und dessen Land.

Bibliographie Die im vorliegenden Beitrag verwendeten Abkürzungen richten sich nach den Abkürzungen des Reallexikons der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie (Stand Januar 2013) und Attinger Pascal und Markus Wäfler, Hrsg. 1999: Mesopotamien. Akkade-Zeit und Ur III-Zeit; Annäherung 3. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 160/3 Freiburg, Schweiz.

Abgekürzt zitierte Literatur ASJ 3, 192 = Maeda, Tohru. 1981. „An Ur III Administrative Text in the Toyama Memorial Museum.“ Acta Sumerologica 3: 192. BPOA 7 = Sigrist, Marcel, and Tohru Ozaki. 2009. Neo-Sumerian Aministrative Tablets from the Yale Babylonian Collection. Part Two. Biblioteca del Próximo Oriente Antiguo 7. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. HSS 4 = Hussey, Mary I. 1915. Sumerian Tablets in the Harvard Semitic Museum. II: From the Time of the Dynasty of Ur. Harvard Semitic Series 4. Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Pr.

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NATN = Owen, David I. 1982. Neo-Sumerian Archival Texts Primarily from Nippur in the University Museum, the Oriental Institute, and the Iraq Museum (NATN). Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. NGU 1 = Falkenstein, Adam. 1956. Die Neusumerischen Gerichtsurkunden. Erster Teil: Einleitung und systematische Darstellung. Abhandlungen / Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Philosophisch-Historische Klasse; N.F. 39 = Veröffentlichungen der Kommission zur Erschließung von Keilschrifttexten 2,1. München: Bayer. Akad. d. Wiss. NGU 2 = Falkenstein, Adam. 1956. Die Neusumerischen Gerichtsurkunden. Zweiter Teil: Umschrift, Übersetzung und Kommentar. Abhandlungen / Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Philosophisch-Historische Klasse; N.F. 40 = Veröffentlichungen der Kommission zur Erschließung von Keilschrifttexten 2,2. München: Bayer. Akad. d. Wiss. Nisaba 22 = Notizia, Palmiro. 2009. Titel I testi dei messaggeri da Ĝirsu-Lagaš della terza dinastia di Ur. Nisaba / Dipartimento di Scienze dell’Antichità dell’Università di Messina 22. Messina: DiScAM. Nisaba 8 = Politi, Janet, and Lorenzo Verderame. 2005. The Drehem Texts in the British Museum. Nisaba / Dipartimento di Scienze dell’Antichità dell’Università di Messina 8. Messina: DiScAM. PPAC 5 = Sigrist, Marcel, and Tohru Ozaki. 2013. Administrative Ur III Texts in the British Museum [2 Vol.]. Periodic Publications on Ancient Civilizations 5 / Supplement to Journal Ancient Civilizations 3. Changchung: The Institute for the History of Ancient Civilizations. RTC = Thureau-Dangin, François. 1903. Recueil de Tablettes Chaldéennes. Paris: Leroux. TCTI 2 = Lafont, Bertrand, and Fatma Yıldız. 1996. Tablettes cunéiformes de Tello au Musée d’Istanbul: Datant de l’époque de la IIIe Dynastie d’Ur, II (ITT II/1, 2544 – 2819, 3158 – 4342, 4708 – 4713). Uitgaven van het Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut te Istanbul 77. Istanbul/Leiden: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Inst. UET 3 = Legrain, Leon. 1947. Business Documents of the Third Dynasty of Ur. Ur Excavations Texts 3. London.

Literatur Cancik-Kirschbaum, Eva. 2012. „Verwaltungstechnische Aspekte Königlicher Repräsentation: Zwei Urkunden über den Kult der verstobenen Könige im Mittelassyrischen Assur.“ In Organization, Representation, and Symbols of Power in the Ancient Near East: Proceedings of the 54th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale at Würzburg, 20 – 25 July 2008, edited by Gernot Wilhelm, 33 – 49. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. Carter, Elizabeth, and Matthew W. Stolper. 1984. Elam: Surveys of Political History and Archaeology. University of California Publications Near Eastern Studies 25. Berkeley, Cal. Univ. of California Press. Civil, Miguel. 1969. „Šū-Sîn’s Historical Inscriptions: Collection B.“ Journal of Cuneiform Studies 21: 24 – 38. Cooper, Jerrold S. 1983. Reconstructing History from Ancient Inscriptions: The Lagash-Umma Border Conflict. Sources from the Ancient Near East 2,1. Malibu: Undena Publ. Diakonoff, Igor M. 1987. „Slave-Labour vs. Non-Slave Labour: The Problem of Definition.“ In Labor in the ancient Near East: [ … All the Essays Prepared for the Ancient Near Eastern

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Sect. of the Edinburgh Econom. History Congress …], edited by Marvin A. Powell, 1 – 3. American Oriental Series 68. New Haven, Conn.: American Oriental Society. Edzard, Dietz Otto. 1959 – 1960. „Neue Inschriften zur Geschichte von Ur III unter Šūsuen.“ Archiv für Orientforschung 19: 1 – 32. Edzard, Dietz Otto. 1980 – 1983. „Königsinschriften A. Sumerisch.“ In Reallexikon für Assyriologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 6, edited by Dietz O. Edzard et al., 59 – 56. Berlin: de Gruyter. Edzard, Dietz Otto. 2004. „LKA 62: Parodie eines assyrischen Feldzugsberichts.“ In From the Upper Sea to the Lower Sea: Studies on the History of Assyria and Babylonia in Honour of A. K. Grayson, edited by Grant Frame and Linda Wilding, 81 – 87. PIHANS 101. Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten. Focke, Karen. 2015. Der Garten in neusumerischer Zeit. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 53. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Frayne, Douglas. 1997: Ur III Period (2112 – 2004 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia, Early Periods 3/2. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Frayne, Douglas. 1993. Sargonic and Gutian periods, 2334 – 2113 BC. The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia. Early Periods 2. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Frayne, Douglas, and William W. Hallo. 2008. „New Texts from the Reign of Ur-Namma.“ In On the Third Dynasty of Ur: Studies in Honor of Marcel Sigrist, edited by Piotr Michalowski, 53 – 62. Journal of Cuneiform Studies Supplemental Series 1. Boston: American Schools of Oriental Research. Greco, Angela. 2015. Garden Administration in the Ĝirsu Province During the Neo-Sumerian Period. Biblioteca del próximo Oriente Antiguo 12. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Heimpel, Wolfgang. 2009. „The Location of Magda.“ Journal of Cuneiform Studies 61: 25 – 60. Knobloch, Johann, and Olʹga S. Achmanova, eds. 1986. Sprachwissenschaftliches Wörterbuch. Indogermanische Bibliothek Reihe 2, Wörterbücher. Heidelberg: Winter. Lafont, Bertrant. 1996. „L’extraction du minerai de cuivre en Iran à la fin du IIIe millénaire.“ In Tablettes et images aux pays de Sumer et d’Akkad: mélanges offerts à Monsieur H. Limet, edited by Önhan Tunca, 87 – 93. Mémoires 1. Liège: Assoc. pour la Promotion de l’Hist. et de l’Archéol. Orientales. Michalowski, Piotr. 1975. „The Bride of Simanum (Brief comunication).“ Journal of the American Oriental Society 95: 716 – 719. Michalowski, Piotr. 2011. The Correspondence of the Kings of Ur: An Epistolary History of an Ancient Mesopotamian Kingdom. Mesopotamian civilizations 15. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. Neumann, Hans. 1992. „Fremdarbeit in Mesopotamien (3. Jt. v. u. Z.).“ Altorientalische Forschungen 19: 266 – 275. Neumann, Hans. 2008. „Mesopotamien. Göttliche Gerechtigkeit und menschliche Verantwortung im Alten Mesopotamien im Spannungsfeld von Norm(Durch)Setzung und Narrativer Formulierung.“ In Recht Und Religion: Menschliche und Göttliche Gerechtigkeitsvorstellungen in den Antiken Welten; [ … Internationale Tagung vom 13. bis 15. Dezember 2006 in Innsbruck], edited by Heinz Barta, 37 – 48. Philippika 24. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Neumann, Hans. 2005. „Texte des 3. Jt. v. Chr. in sumerischer, akkadischer und hurritischer Sprache. 1. Staatsverträge. 2. Herrscherinschriften.“ In Staatsverträge,

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Herrscherinschriften und andere Dokumente zur politischen Geschichte, edited by Francis Breyer, Michael Lichtenstein, Bernd Janowski, Gernot Wilhelm, and Otto Kaiser. 1. Aufl., 1 – 26. Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments. Neue Folge 2. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlags-Haus. Notizia, Palmiro. 2010. „Ḫulibar, Duḫduḫ(u)ni e la frontiera orientale.“ In Ana turri gimilli: Studi dedicati al padre Werner R. Mayer, S.J., da amici e allievi, edited by Maria G. Biga and Mario Liverani, 269 – 291. Rom: Universita di Roma La Sapienza. Pettinato, Giovanni. 1970 – 1971. „i₇-idgna-ta i₇-nun-šè. Il conflitto tra Lagaš ed Umma per la ‘frontiera divina’ e la sua soluzione durante la terza dinastia di Ur.“ Mesopotamia 5 – 6: 281 – 320. Potts, Daniel T. 1994. Mesopotamia and the East. An Archaeological and Historical Study of Foreign Relations ca. 3400 – 2000 BC. Oxford University Committee for Archaeology Monograph 37. Oxford: Oxford University Committee for Archaeology. Potts, Daniel T. 2010. „Adamšah, Kimaš and the Minners of Lagaš.“ In Your Praise Is Sweet: A Memorial Volume for Jeremy Black from Students, Colleagues and Friends, edited by Heather D. Baker, Eleanor Robson, and Gábor Zólyomi, 234 – 257. London: British Inst. for the Study of Iraq. Renger, Johannes. 1996. „Vergangenes Geschehen in der Textüberlieferung des alten Mesopotamien.“ In Vergangenheit und Lebenswelt: Soziale Kommunikation, Traditionsbildung und historisches Bewußtsein, edited by Hans-Joachim Gehrke and Astrid Möller, 9 – 60. Script-Oralia 90. Tübingen: Narr. Romano, Licia. 2007. „La Stele degli Avvoltoi: una rilettura critica.“ Vicino Oriente 13: 3 – 23. Ryan, Marie-Laure. 2007. „Towards a Definition of Narrative.“ In The Cambridge Companion to Narrative, edited by David Herman, 22 – 35. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sallaberger, Walther. 1993. Der kultische Kalender der Ur III-Zeit. Untersuchungen zur Assyriologie und vorderasiatischen Archäologie 7. Berlin: de Gruyter. Sallaberger, Walther. 1999. „Ur III-Zeit.“ In Akkade-Zeit und Ur-III-Zeit, edited by Walther Sallaberger, Aage Westenholz, and Pascal Attinger, 121 – 390. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 160/3. Fribourg / Göttingen: Academic Press; Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Sallaberger, Walther. 2002. „Stillstellung von Geschichte in den Texten des Herrschers im Frühen Mesopotamien.“ Archiv orientální 70: 117 – 124. Sallaberger, Walther. 2005. „Von politischen Handeln zu rituellem Königtum.“ In Ritual and Politics in Ancient Mesopotamia, edited by Barbara N. Porter, 63 – 98. American Oriental Series 88. New Haven, Conn. American Oriental Society. Sallaberger, Walther. 2012a. „Šu-Suen, Šu-Sîn“ Reallexikon für Assyriologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 13/5 – 6, edited by Michael Streck et al., 362 – 365. Berlin et al.: de Gruyter. Sallaberger, Walther. 2012b. „Das Ansehen eines Altorientalischen Herrschers bei seinen Untertanen.“ In Organization, Representation, and Symbols of Power in the Ancient Near East: Proceedings of the 54th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale at Würzburg, 20 – 25 July 2008, edited by Gernot Wilhelm, 1 – 20. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. Sallaberger, Walther. 2013. „König Utuhengal vertreibt die Gutäer.“ In Als die Götter Mensch waren: Eine Anthologie altorientalischer Literatur, edited by Sabina Franke, 88 – 95. Darmstadt: von Zabern. Schrakamp, Ingo. 2014. „On the reading of a-dam-DUN.ki.“ Cuneiform Digital Library Notes 14. Accessed January 17, 2018. https://cdli.ucla.edu/pubs/cdln/php/single.php?id=41.

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Seminara, Stefano. 2004. Le iscrizioni reali sumero-accadiche d’ età paleobabilonese: Un’ analisi tipologica e storico-letteraria. Atti della Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei – Classe di Scienze Morali, Storiche e Filologiche Serie 9, 18. Roma: Accad. Nazionale dei Lincei. Seminara, Stefano. 2014. „Leichenhügel und Zauberkreise: Die gestaltende Kraft der Sprache in den Königsinschriften Ur-Nanšes.“ KASKAL 11: 24 – 46. Sjöberg, Åke W. 1972. „A Commemorative Inscription of King Šūsîn.“ Journal of Cuneiform Studies 24 (3): 70 – 73. Sjöberg, Åke W. 1975. „in-nin šà-gur₄-ra. A Hymn to the Goddess Inanna by the en-Priestess Enḫeduanna.“ Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 65 (2): 161 – 253. Steinkeller, Piotr. 1982. „The Question of Marhaši: A Contribution to the Historical Geography of Iran in the Third Millennium B.C.“ Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 72: 237 – 265. Steinkeller, Piotr. 1988. „On the Identity of the Toponym LÚ.Su(.A).“ Journal of the American Oriental Society 108 (2): 197 – 202. Steinkeller, Piotr. 1990. „More on LÚ.SU.(A) = Šimaški.“ NABU 13: 10 – 11. Steinkeller, Piotr. 2007. „New Light on Šimaški and its Rulers.“ Zeitschrift für Assyrologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 97 (2): 215 – 232. Steinkeller, Piotr. 2013. „Puzur-Inšuinak at Susa: a Pivotal Episode of Early Elamite History Reconsidered.“ In Susa and Elam: Archaeological, Philological, Historical and Geographical Perspectives; Proceedings of the International Congress Held at Ghent University, December 14 – 17, 2009, edited by Katrien de Graef, 293 – 317. Mémoires de la Délegation en Perse 58. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Steinkeller, Piotr. 2014. „On the Dynasty of Šimaški: Twenty Years (or so) After.“ In Extraction & Control; Studies in Honor of Matthew W. Stolper, edited by Michael Kozuh, Wouter F. M. Henkelman, Charles E. Jones, and Christopher Woods, 287 – 296. Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 68. Chicago: The University of Chicago. Stolper, Matthew W. 1982. „On the Dynasty of Šimaški and the Early Sukkalmahs.“ Zeitschrift für Assyrologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 72 (1): 42 – 67. van de Mieroop, Marc. 1999. Cuneiform Texts and the Writing of History. Approaching the Ancient World. London: Routledge. Weiershäuser, Frauke. 2008. Die königlichen Frauen der III. Dynastie von Ur. Göttinger Beiträge zum Alten Orient 1. Göttingen: Universitätsverlag Göttingen. http://www.oapen.org/ search?identifier=610351.

Dominik Bonatz

Response: Two Tales of Royalty, Or the Intermediality of Image and Text in the Third millennium BCE Representations of royalty figure prominently through images and texts of the second half of the third millennium BCE. Before that period, which marks the dawn of urbanism and monarchism, images of rulership were often overshaded by religious contexts, and written media were not yet in a state capable of boasting the deeds and achievements of royal personalities. An example is the small Early Dynastic I (ca. 2900 – 2700 BCE) limestone bas-relief from Girsu.¹ The text on this plaque has been identified as an early type of land sale document.² The text mentions the name of the god Ningirsu but does not make reference to the famous Figure aux Plumes on the relief, which probably represents the ruler or “priest-king” in front of a temple symbolized by two great maces. We may assume a circularity between the messages of text and image: both grant the formal act of the land sale. They are complementary to each other for the purpose of the sale contract, but are not intended to praise the guarantors of the contract, the god in the text or the ruler in the image. In short, we are not here confronted with media of political representation. With respect to the question and general definition of narrative (see the introduction by Julia Linke and Elisabeth WagnerDurand in this volume), this monument clearly does not narrate because its circularity precludes any plot. However, by the mid-third millennium BCE, in the Early Dynastic III period, a rapid increase in royal representations took place in the Sumerian city states. The juxtaposition of image and text now often serves to manifest and legitimize the leading position of the monarch in a religiously sanctioned system of dynastic succession. One of the best-known examples for this shift to more complex forms of narrative elucidation is the limestone plaque of Urnanše, king of Lagaš.³ Urnanše is depicted twice, standing and carrying on his head a basket with earth for the first brick of the temple of the god Ningirsu in Girsu, and seated with a cup in his hand in commemoration of this event. He is accompanied by the members of his family, who can be identified by means of their names carved

 Aruz 2003, Fig. 27.  Gelb, Steinkeller and Whiting 1991, 66, pl. 32.  Aruz 2003, Fig. 16. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501506895-011

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on their skirts. The first figure in front of the standing king is his daughter Anita, the second his first-born son and designated heir, Akurgal. Apart from the name inscriptions, the text carved on the ground of the relief records the construction of three sanctuaries by Urnanše and, in a separate passage, claims that the king “8:had ships of Dilmun submit timber as tribute from the foreign lands (to Lagaš).”⁴ It is hence a complex unit of self-representation, with added narrative elements, which constitutes the outstanding position of this monument as an archetype of royal propaganda. When pondering the intermediality of image and text, one question that arises concerns the sustainability of such an apparently dense and convincing interplay of the two media. A similar successful attempt in ordering visual and textual elements into a coherent message can be observed in the stela of Eannatum, the grandson of Urnanše, which commemorates the king’s victory over the neighboring city-state of Umma.⁵ However, a few centuries later, stelae like those of Gudea of Lagaš and Ur-Namma of Ur, which both record building activities, already show a distinct decrease in the use of inscriptions, while the texts which provide further information on the content of these pictorial representations are written on separately stored clay documents.⁶ Statues of rulers usually bear their name inscriptions and short dedications to deities but in the case of the kings of Akkad, Gudea of Lagaš and the Ur III kings their inscriptions may also include lengthy reports on building activities and self-praising military accounts. Taking the various modes of interaction between the visual and the written manifestations into consideration, I would like to go further and inquire into the independence vs. the dependence of image and text in the context of royal representations. The contributions that have stimulated this response do not explicitly address this question but they provide good examples to track it from different angles. Barbara Couturaud focusses on the late Early Dynastic inlays for figurative panels found in Mari, while Carlos Langa-Morales studies military accounts in Ur III (Šū-Sîn’s) royal inscriptions in comparison to administrative documents. One paper is thus on small pictorial media which have almost no accompanying inscriptions or separate texts related to the visual narrative, the other is on texts which were probably originally written on royal votive statues but in their actual state of preservation were kept as copy texts in the tablet archives. Each of these

 Frayne 2008, 83 – 84, E.1.9.1.2.  Winter 1985; Frayne 2008, 125 – 40, E.1.9.3.1.  Suter 2000; Bonatz 2012.

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papers has its interesting conclusions. Couturaud sophistically argues for a differentiate look on the assumed narrative qualities of some well-known Early Dynastic pictorial monuments. Different to the Eannatum stela from Lagaš, which clearly relates to a historical event involving historical kings, the Ur standard lacks any historical background for defining its visual message as narrative. Couturaud even stands back from identifying a historical king in this representation. The useful term she is proposing in alternative to narration is evocation. The Ur standard thus evokes the ideal of victory, ceremony, and wealth in contrast to the transcription of reality. The same goes for the necessarily much less detailed military scenes on seals and inlays. As regards the Mari inlays it seems obvious that they served not so much to glorify the deeds of the king who seems to be almost absent from the representations. They rather evoke the salient role of the elite class in an oligarchic system, which is why elite class members came to be represented in the pose of the “fighting hero.” The distinguishing mark would be, then, the lack of an identifying inscription which seems, on the other hand, to have been the prerogative of the king. Through the affinity to typical royal deeds such as victories, religious rites and banquets these elite class members can be said to use the imagery of kingship as a catalyst for their own interests. This works at the level of non-monumental art and through a form of restrictive narrative that was impersonal, ahistoric and idealistic. One may therefore suggest that the full use of writing in the context of representation and the personalizing of deeds had started to become a royal privilege. Writing was thus a means to balance diverging personal interests in a rather heterarchic system. For the self-conscious elite class it was only available on a very limited scale, such as the name inscription on votive objects and seals. Consequently, the more available pictorial representations had to function without complementary textual self-attestations. The votive statues of the same period, a larger group of which was also found in Mari, provide a slightly different picture. They represent kings always with their names inscribed, a few members of the elite class are also afforded a name inscription, but more of them appear without inscription. In order to distinguish between a statue of royals and non-royals a special garment – e. g. the multiply tufted skirt, often covering one shoulder, for the ruler – and hairstyle – e. g. the chignon – was rendered. These were clearly recognizable status markers in the realm of visual communication. In the Ur III period, the social hierarchical system had developed into a steep pyramid with the king at the top and all his subjects placed in a strict order of rank. Traits of the urban oligarchy of the Early Dynastic period and even the selfmade man policy of the Akkadian period had been abolished by this system. The deeds of the king were now recorded in lengthy form, making use of established media, namely dedication inscriptions on a dedication statue which were also

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copied on tablets until Old Babylonian times. As a new text genre , hymns of the Ur III kings, particular of Šulgi⁷, constitute an archetype of royal praise poetry which, however, was not linked to any kind of visual representation. Nonroyal persons had practically no monuments that they commissioned and inscribed in their own right. Yet several of the high ranking officials and their wives dedicated their statues and statuettes to a certain deity for the sake of the life of the king.⁸ More of them owned seals that bear the image of the enthroned king and an inscription saying that the seal was given by the king himself to his servant.⁹ As the representation on these seals also includes the standardized figure of their owner, i. e. the king’s official in a gesture of adoration before the ruler, they create a visually and textually affirmed manifestation of the person’s high ranking status. The use of inscriptions in the context of official seals and the dedication of private statues for the life of the king prove participation in a royal discourse which served to support the salient position of the king but also functioned as a means of self-representation for his closest subordinates. As for the king’s own statues, some have long inscriptions which give detailed military accounts as part of the so-called royal Rechenschaftsbericht (statement of accounts). The tradition of Rechenschaftsberichte on the subject of campaigns starts with the royal inscriptions of the kings of the First Dynasty of Lagaš and culminated during the Ur III period. Carlos Langa-Morales focusses on ŠūSîn’s Rechenschaftsbericht, which contains four different accounts, one of them being the campaign against Šimānum in the third year of Šū-Sîn’s reign, the others reporting on the construction of the wall against the Martu, the erection of a stela for Enlil and Ninlil and the manufacture of a boat for the same divine pair. The text compilation, designated as “Collection B,” was found in the archives of Nippur and probably originates from a single inscription on a statue named d Inanna-KA.ĜÌR-dŠu-dSîn.¹⁰ For Langa-Morales, the Rechenschaftsbericht and the statue, i. e. the text and the image, form a consistent entity. The statue not only bears the text but it is the basic element of the royal representation which served to give the full statement of accounts to the god. I am only partly happy with this interpretation, because it narrows the function of the statue down to a story-telling medium while neglecting its own ontological status. In the inscriptions the statue is called ALAM/NU, a term that designates not an artificial creation but a substantial being that is not  E. g., Klein 1981.  E. g., Frayne 2008: Šulgi 2012, 2030 – 2032; Braun-Holzinger 1991: St 152 (Šulgi), St 153 (Šulgi), St 157 (Ibbisin).  Winter 1987.  See the edition in Frayne 1997, 295 – 300, E.3/2.1.4.1.

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different from the thing, i. e. a king or a god, to which it refers. Even the conceptual term “image” may be misleading for it assumes the deliberate distinction between a thing, its actual image and a mental image.¹¹ In the case of the Sumerian ALAM/NU any such distinction seems to be completely overridden. Like their Gudean progenitors, the statues of the Ur III kings had their own identity which was confirmed by the name of the specific deity to which they were dedicated. So even when statues were quite uniform in shape and design, everyone set up in different parts of the state was an individually named substitute of the king, a geopolitically effective partitioning and distribution of his personhood. In this context, the conceptual autonomy of the term “representation” would convey that royal representation worked not by imitating real things but in order to present things that exist.¹² In the case of the Rechenschaftsbericht on Šū-Sîn’s dInanna-KA.ĜÌR-dŠu-dSîn statue, an intermediality between text and statue does not exist.¹³ The royal account is an addition to the usually short formular inscription that occurs on most of the other royal statues and which constitutes the individual identity of the representation, as mentioned above. Hence, the function and mission of the statue have been expanded into a narrative aspect. This is indeed a striking aspect of the ability of the statue to act as narrator. If we consider the other statues with short formular inscriptions, then it seems plausible to assume that they had the same ability, but there was just no special demand to fix a specific speech in the inscription at the moment of the statue’s creation. This flexibility in the use of Rechenschaftsberichte in the statue inscription – whether to include one or not – may again attest to the non-image-like status of the statue. It has the capacity to cause a mental image that signifies a sensation or notion that corresponds to the king. With a proper image, the hermeneutic triangle would be the other way round: there, the mental image would cause a sensation, perception or conception that corresponds to the actual image but not to the thing (i. e. the king).¹⁴ In other words, as long as no specific inscription determined the content of the royal narrative, the statue would have been able to tell everything that people and gods expected to hear from the king, for it is the king.

 On this problem see Bonatz and Heinz 2018.  See also Porter 2014, who deals with statues and objects of the Akkadian kings.  In contrast, a clear intermediality exists between some of the Gudea statues and their inscriptions, in which outstanding physical attributes of the king, e. g. his “strong arm” or his “attentiveness,” are mentioned and are also expressed in the physiognomy of statue (see Winter 1989).  Summers 2003, 1.

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Langa-Morales’ paper makes two other interesting observations on Šū-Sîn’s inscription on the dInanna-KA.ĜÌR-dŠu-dSîn statue. One is the boasted role of this deity, who is described as a powerful and important goddess, which does not match her minor position in cultic practice. The other is the claim that ŠūSîn’s daughter, Kunšī-mātum, had held the office of the king’s wife in Simānum before she was expelled from that place. Administrative documents, however, reveal that she never achieved the status of d a m (“wife”) of one of the local regents. The apparent reason for distorting this fact in the Rechenschaftsbericht was to give a conclusive ground to campaign against a disloyal former vassal kingdom. The contradictory assertions of two different text genres demonstrate how the royal narrative – as in most cases – distorts the reality. The statue as an autonomous text-bearing artefact stands against such distortions, it maintains its uncontested reality.

Bibliography Aruz, Joan and Roland Wallenfels, eds. 2003. Art of the First Cities: The Third Millennium B. C. from the Mediterranean to the Indus. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art. Bonatz, Dominik. 2012. “Stelen der Gudea- und Ur III-Zeit. Bildliche Wege des Wissenstransfers im Alten Orient.” In Wissenskultur im Alten Orient: Weltanschauung, Wissenschaften, Techniken, Technologien : 4. internationales Colloquium der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft, 20.–22. Februar 2002, Münster ; [Colloquien der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft, Band 4], edited by Hans Neumann, 307 – 326. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Bonatz, Dominik and Marlies Heinz. 2018. “Representation.” In A Companion to Ancient Near Eastern Art, edited by Anne Gunther, 233 – 260. Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World. New York: Wiley-Blackwell. Braun-Holzinger, Eva M. 1991. Mesopotamische Weihgaben der frühdynastischen bis altbabylonischen Zeit. Heidelberger Studien zum alten Orient 3. Heidelberg: Heidelberger OrientVerlag. Frayne, Douglas. 1997. Ur III Period (2112 – 2004 BC.). The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia. Early Periods 3/2. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Frayne, Douglas. 2008. Presargonic Period, 2700 – 2350 BC. Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia. Early Periods 1. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Gelb, Ignace J., Piotr Steinkeller, and Robert M. Whiting. 1991. Earliest Land Tenure Systems in the Near East: Ancient Kudurrus. The University of Chicago Oriental Institute Publications 104. Chicago: The Oriental Institute. Klein, Jacob. 1981. “The Royal Hymns of Shulgi King of Ur: Man’s Quest for Immortal Fame.” Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 71 (7): 1 – 48. Porter, Ann. 2014. “When the Subject is the Object: Relational Ontologies, the Partible Person and Images of Narām-Sin.” In Critical Approaches to Ancient Near Eastern Art, edited by Brian A. Brown and Marian Feldman, 597 – 618. Boston: de Gruyter.

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Summers, David 2003. “Representation.” In Critical Terms for Art History, edited by Robert Nelson and Richard Shiff, 3 – 19. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Suter, Claudia E. 2000. Gudea’s Temple Building: The Representation of an Early Mesopotamian Ruler in Text and Image. Cuneiform Monographs 17. Groningen: STYX Publications. Winter, Irene J. 1985. “After the Battle is Over: The Stele of the Vultures and the Beginning of the Historical Narrative in the Art of the Ancient Near East,” In Pictorial Narrative in Antiquity and the Middle Ages. Studies in the History or Art 16, edited by Herbert L. Kessler and Marianna Shreve, 11 – 32. Washington: National Gallery of Art. Winter, Irene J. 1987. “Legitimation of Authority Through Image and Legend: Seals Belonging to Officials in the Administrative Bureaucracy of the Ur III State.” In The Organization of Power: Aspects of Bureaucracy in the Ancient Near East, edited by McGuire Gibson, 69 – 106. Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 46. Chicago: The Oriental Institute. Winter, Irene J. 1989. “The Body of the Able Ruler: Toward an Understanding of the Statues of Gudea.” In Dumu-e₂-dub-ba-a: Studies in Honor of Åke W. Sjöberg, edited by Åke W. Sjöberg, Hermann Behrens, Darlene Loding, and Martha T. Roth, 573 – 584. Occasional Publications of the Samuel Noah Kramer Fund 11. Philadelphia: Samuel Noah Kramer Fund, University Museum.

Herbert Niehr

Strategies of Legitimation of the Aramaean Kings in Ancient Syria: Three Case Studies on Damascus, Hamath and Yādiya/Samʾal Introduction During the first millennium BCE, there was no consolidated Aramaean kingdom in ancient Syria. On the contrary, Syria was split up into a number of Aramaean kingdoms, which thrived in Upper Mesopotamia, northern and eastern Syria, southern Anatolia, and central and southern Syria. The common denominators of these Aramaean kingdoms were the Aramaic language and script and the worship of Hadad as the principal deity of the different local panthea.¹ At the heads of those kingdoms stood kings, who benefitted from a specific royal ideology, that they propagated by means of royal inscriptions, iconography, and building activities. Within the frame of this article, which is not meant to provide a universal impression of the royal ideology in the Aramaean realm,² we only discuss some selected written sources, that inform us about strategies of legitimation. The most eloquent textual Aramaic sources hail from the kingdoms of Damascus, Hamath and Yādiya/Samʾal during the first half of the first millennium BCE. In order to interpret these sources in an adequate manner, it is important to note the approach of Bob Becking: A ‘text’ does not have an ideology unless it presents itself as such. Narrative texts can be an expression – conscious or subconscious – of a specific world-view or belief system. Sometimes this implied view has ideological dimensions.³

I am obliged to Julia Linke (Freiburg/Karlsruhe) and Elisabeth Wagner-Durand (Tübingen/Freiburg), who invited me to contribute to this volume, to Nicole Herzog (Tübingen) for correcting my English style and to Janca Brenner (Tübingen) for her support in writing this article.  For recent overviews on the history and culture of the Aramaeans in Syria, see e. g., Dion 1997; Lipiński 2000; Niehr 2014; Younger 2016.  For the royal ideology in the Aramaean kingdoms of Syria, see esp. Euler 1938; Dion 1997, 242– 270; Green 2010, 157– 231; Gilibert 2011, 55 – 96; Kühn 2014, 47– 52; Kühn 2018, 129 – 173; Niehr 2014, 137– 138, 170 – 181, 196 – 197; Niehr 2018a; Niehr 2018b; Niehr 2020; Morrow 2017.  Becking 2017, 125. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501506895-012

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Furthermore, regarding the Aramaic royal inscriptions, Paolo Merlo has presented the most important literary clichés incorporated in the Aramaic royal inscriptions: the ideal king, the enemy, the account of a battle, the just war, the miraculous deliverance from a siege, and inferior past and superior present.⁴ Concerning the Aramaean kingdoms in Syria, a comprehensive view of the topic of royal legitimation is not possible due to the scarcity of written sources. We have to reckon with the circumstance that most of the sources were written on papyrus, which have not been preserved in contrast to the relatively few inscriptions on stone and other materials. We are facing the same problems when working on comparable topics in the Phoenician royal cities in Lebanon,⁵ whereas we have only sources from the Old Testament but no royal inscriptions for the reconstruction of royal legitimation in contemporaneous Israel and Judah.⁶

Narrative Strategies of Royal Legitimation Damascus Although we know the names of nearly all kings who ruled over Damascus during the first half of the first millennium BCE,⁷ there are very few royal inscriptions from the kings of Damascus. For our question of royal legitimation, two different kinds of sources are adduced: a few royal names and a royal inscription. Starting with the royal names attested in Damascus, it is striking that several of them contain the divine name Hadad as a theophoric element. In Damascus three kings bear the name Bar-Hadad (“Son of Hadad”): BarHadad I (r. ca. 900 – 880 BCE), Bar-Hadad II (r. ca. 880 – 844/843 BCE) and Bar-Hadad III (r. ca. 803 – 775 BCE).⁸ It is quite clear that the theophoric element “Hadad” refers to the chief god of Damascus. Whether and how the idea of a divine sonship of the king is behind these royal names are questions that must be asked. Given the absence of myths and rituals from Damascus, this question remains unanswered; nevertheless, the existence of such a myth explaining the di-

    

See Merlo 2014, 112– 117. On this, see e. g., Amadasi Guzzo 1984; Elayi 1986; Niehr 2009; Xella 2003; Xella 2017. On this, see e. g., Naʾaman 2016; Levin 2017; Müller 2017; Salo 2017. For the kings of Damascus, see the lists in Lipiński 2000, 407, and Younger 2016, 653, table 9.7. See the overview in Younger 2016, 653.

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vine offspring of the kings of Damascus seems to be very likely.⁹ A comparable case is given with the royal name Bar-Rakkab from Samʾal (see below). It is likely that some kings of Damascus had throne-names. This habit is well known from contemporary Assyria. During the Neo-Assyrian period, it is attested in several texts that the predecessor on the throne could bestow a new name upon the crown-prince.¹⁰ Such a custom is also conceivable for the kingdom of Damascus, especially concerning the royal name Bar-Hadad. Coming now to the royal inscriptions from Damascus, we see that only one longer inscription of a Damascene king has been preserved. After his successful conquest of Dan in Galilee, King Hazael (r. ca. 843 – 803 BCE) left an Aramaic inscription at this site, that mentions his exploits (KAI 310).¹¹ Pertaining to the topic of royal legitimation, the following sentences in this inscription are important: And my father lay down; he went to his [fathe]rs. Now the king of I[s]rael earlier invaded the land of my father, [but] Hadad made me, myself, king. And Hadad went before me …¹² (KAI 310: 4– 5).

Some years ago, Matthew J. Suriano demonstrated convincingly that the stela King Hazael had erected in Dan does not simply constitute a victory inscription, but a memorial inscription containing an apology of King Hazael.¹³ King Hazael was a usurper – maybe of royal offspring – who had taken the throne of Damascus.¹⁴ In an Assyrian text, Hazael is called “son of a nobody.”¹⁵ It is precisely due to this situation that King Hazael claims that Hadad had made him king.¹⁶ Or in other words: “Hazael forcefully claims that the god Hadad utilized a special divine election to of him as king. Thus who can debate such a selection by divinity?”¹⁷

 The royal name Bar-Hadad was not confined to Damascus as shows the name of King BarHadad of Arpad (KAI 201).  See Radner 2005, 33 – 35.  On this inscription, see Biran and Naveh 1993; Biran and Naveh 1995; Lipiński 1994; Lipiński 2000, 377– 380; Lipiński 2016; Athas 2003; Suriano 2007; Weippert 2010, 267– 269; Hasegawa 2012, 35 – 46; Fales and Grassi 2016, 136 – 143; Younger 2016, 592– 606.  For this translation, see Younger 2016, 594– 596.  Suriano 2007, 171– 173.  See Sasson 1996.  See e. g., Dion 1997, 191; Lipiński 2000, 376; Yamada 2000, 188 – 189; Younger 2005, 245 – 250; Younger 2016, 598 – 599; Niehr 2011, 340.  See Suriano 2007, 166 – 167.  Younger 2016, 604.

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Some years later, such a procedure can also be seen in the case of King Zakkur of Hamath, who had been a usurper, too, and who claimed to have been made king by the god Baʿalšamayin (KAI 202,1– 3).¹⁸ But King Hazael did more than that. In the Tel Dan inscription he mentions his father, an occurence, that has caused some discussion because the background for this claim – being himself the son of a nobody – is not clear.¹⁹ Suriano has given a plausible answer to this problem: The frequent references to his father in the inscription, however, show that Hazael’s political legitimacy was a matter of perspective. It is possible that Hazael’s father was an important leader of an Aramean tribe during the time of Hadadezer. Yet even without better knowledge of Hazael’s background, it is clear that he chose to express his legitimacy using patrimonial terminology that would have resonated within his culture.²⁰

A second aspect of King Hazael’s legitimate rule is indicated by the opposition of the time before his reign and the period after his accession: Now the king of I[s]rael earlier invaded the land of my father, [but] Hadad made me, myself, king. And Hadad went before me [and] I departed from seven [ ] of my kingdom. (KAI 310: 4– 5)

So, the time before Hazael was a time of war and disorder, because Israel had not respected the borders of Aram. The ideological overtones of this argument become clear when they are compared with similar types of texts, e. g., with the inscription of King Meshaʿ from Moab (second half of the ninth century BCE),²¹ which also contrasts the disordered time in the kingdom of Moab with the time of order, honour, and achievements under King Meshaʿ.²² A third aspect of royal legitimation is given through the depiction of the king as warrior and military leader. This is introduced by a sentence according to which the god Hadad went before Hazael into the battle (l. 5). The following lines of the inscription show the military success of King Hazael against the kings of Israel and Judah (ll. 5 – 13).²³

 See below, Hamath.  On this discussion, cf. the positions in Younger 2016, 598 – 606.  Suriano 2007, 165 – 166.  On Meshaʿ and his inscription, see e. g., Green 2010, 95 – 135; Weippert 2010, 242– 248; Suriano 2014, 96 – 104; Becking 2017.  On this type of argumentation, see, e. g., Amadasi Guzzo 1984: 110 – 111; Naʾaman 2000, 99; Suriano 2007, 171– 173; Suriano 2014, 102– 106; Green 2010, 120 – 122; Becking 2017, 130 – 136.  On the military aspects of the Tel Dan inscription, see Parker 1997, 58 – 59, and for a general overview on the military institutions of the Aramaeans in Syria see Dion 1997, 301– 324.

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Hadad was with Hazael both in his enthronement and in his military campaigns, making it clear that Hazael enjoyed the status of a protégé of the highest god of the Damascene pantheon, Hadad; thus, stressing his legitimate position.

Hamath The Aramaean rule over Hamath starts with King Zakkur from ʿAnah on the Euphrates, who had taken over power shortly before 800 BCE.²⁴ Zakkur was successful in extending the frontiers of Hamath to the North by annexing the former kingdom of Luʿaš with its capital Hazrak. Here in Hazrak, he left a longer Aramaic inscription (KAI 202), that gives important information about the royal ideology underlying his rule and propagated by him.²⁵ The inscription says: (1) The [mo]nument which Zakkur, king of [Ha]math and Luʿaš, set up for Iluwer [in Afis]. (2) [I] am Zakkur, king of Hamath and Luʿaš. I am a man of ʿAnah and Baʿalšamayin [raised (3) m]e and stood beside me, and Baʿalšamayin made me king [in] (4) [H]azrak. (KAI 202 A: 1– 4)

The missing filiation in lines 1– 2 makes it quite clear that Zakkur was a usurper on the throne of Hamath. In his inscription, he does not speak about his father’s rule, and only the land of ʿAnah on the middle Euphrates is mentioned. His selfdesignation as ʾš ʿnh (“man of ʿAnah”) can be interpreted in the sense of “chief of ʿAnah.” Before having come to Hamath, perhaps Zakkur had been an army commander.²⁶ Furthermore, Zakkur ascribes his appointment to the position of king over Hazrak to the god Baʿalšamayin. He had not obtained the throne because he was of royal offspring.²⁷ Furtheron in this inscription, King Zakkur mentions his conquest of Hazrak and his victory over a coalition of 16 kings against him: (9) All these kings laid siege to Hazr[ak] […]. (11) But I lifted my hands to Baʿalša[mayi]n, and Baʿalšamayi[n] answered me and Baʿalšamayin [spoke] to me [through] seers and mes-

 For the kings of Hamath, see the lists in Lipiński 2000, 318, Hawkins 2016, 184, table 1, and Younger 2016, 497, table 7.3.  On this inscription, see Donner and Röllig 1971–2002 II: 204– 211; Gibson 1975, 6 – 17; Niehr 2003, 89 – 92; Niehr 2014, 167– 169; Green 2010, 157– 174; Fales and Grassi 2016, 123 – 131; Younger 2016, 476 – 481.  For these considerations, see Lipiński 2000, 299 – 302.  For King Zakkur as usurper, see e. g., Dion 1997, 147– 149; Lipiński 2000, 299 – 302; Suriano 2007, 166; Younger 2016, 480.

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sengers and Baʿalšamayin [said to (13) me]: “Fear not, because I have made [you] king [and I] (14) stand with you and deliver you from all [these kings, who] (15) have raised a siege against you.” (KAI 202 A 9.12– 15)

Although King Zakkur does not mention the time before his accession to the throne, there is, nevertheless, a difference between the status of the city of Hazrak before Zakkur and the better conditions for Hazrak under Zakkur’s reign.²⁸ This improvement has to do with Zakkur’s achievements as a warrior and military leader. His military success is ascribed to the support of the god Baʿalšamayin, whereas the role of the Assyrians under King Adad-nērārī III, who had saved Zakkur from the siege, is not mentioned at all.²⁹ The reason for Zakkur’s omission of the Assyrian support is not clear. According to K. Lawson Younger, this omission may be due to Zakkur’s disappointment with the policy of the Assyrians concerning his border problems with the kingdom of Bit Agusi.³⁰ But this sober historical explanation does not take into consideration the ideological overtones of the Zakkur inscription, according to which King Zakkur and the god Baʿalšamayin – and not the Assyrians – are playing the decisive roles in the history of Hamath and Hazrak. The best manner to emphasize these roles, is telling a story of deliverance as the Zakkur inscription does. Historically, however, this story does not exclude Assyrian support in the deliverance of Zakkur.³¹ Examining the composition of the Zakkur inscription shows that it contains features of commemorative and dedicatory inscriptions. In this case the beginning and ending of a dedicatory inscription bracket a commemorative inscription.³² This insight is important for determining the role of the gods mentioned in the inscription, namely Iluwer as the personal god of the king and Baʿalšamayin as the god of the kingship and kingdom. The older commemorative inscription encompasses the events surrounding Hazrak (KAI 202 A:2–B:10), in which the god Baʿalšamayin appears as kingmaker and liberator of King Zakkur.³³ In the second part of his inscription King Zakkur presents himself as fulfilling the role of roi bâtisseur, thus demonstrating another aspect of Ancient Near Eastern royal ideology.³⁴ That is why he writes:  See Green 2010, 166 – 169.  For this Assyrian military help, see Weippert 1992, 56 – 58; Dion 1997, 152– 154; Lipiński 2000, 310 – 311; Bagg 2011, 207– 209; Younger 2016, 481– 486.  Younger 2016, 486.  On this story of deliverance, see Parker 1997, 109 – 112.  See Parker 1997, 107– 109, and Parker 1999, 53 – 55.  See Niehr 2003, 90 – 92.  On this topic, see basically Seux 1967, 21, and Lackenbacher 1982.

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(3) I (4) [have buil]t Hazrak and I adde[d (5) to it] all of the surrounding district of (6) [ ] and I established it as [my] king[dom] (7) [and I estab]lished [it] as [my] la[nd]. [And I built (8) all] those fortresses on all [my] (9) bor[ders]. [I b]uilt temples for the gods throughout my ent[ire (10) land]. And I built [ ] [and (11) I built] Aphis an [I caused (12) the go]ds [to reside] in the temple of [Iluwer in (13) Aphis]. (KAI 203 B 3 – 13)³⁵

Concerning the central verb bnh, one has to bear in mind that it means “to build” and also “to rebuild,” “to renovate,” “to maintain” in Old Aramaic and other Semitic languages.³⁶ With this word choice, the Zakkur inscription shows King Zakkur as the king who constructs a safe country.³⁷ In all these achievements, the legitimate rule of King Zakkur and the success granted to him by his god Baʿalšamayin become evident.

Yādiya/Samʾal The first king of Samʾal who left a written source was King Kulamuwa (r. ca. 840 – 810 BCE).³⁸ The best information on his reign and the royal ideology of his time is granted by his orthostat found in situ in the entrance of building J on the acropolis of Samʾal, which is now housed in the Vorderasiatisches Museum in Berlin.³⁹ The Phoenician inscription (KAI 24)⁴⁰ gives insight into the legitimation of King Kulamuwa: (1) I am Kulamuwa, son of Ḥayy[a]. (2) Gabbar was king over Yādiya, but he accomp[lished] nothing. (3) There was Banihu, but he accomplished nothing. Then there was my father Ḥayya, but he accomplished nothing. Then there was my brother (4) Šaʾil, but he accomplished nothing. But I Kulamuwa, son of Tamal,⁴¹ what I accomplished, (5) not (even) the predecessors accomplished. (KAI 24: 1– 5)

 On the reconstructions of this difficult part of the inscription, cf. esp. Donner and Röllig 1971–2002 II, 205, 209 – 210; Gibson 1975, 10 – 11, 16 – 17; Green 2010, 161– 163; Younger 2016, 478.  On the semantics of bnh in Aramaic, see e. g., Hoftijzer and Jongeling 1995, 173 – 178, and Kottsieper 2016.  See Green 2010, 169 – 174.  For the kings of Yādiya/Samʾal, see the lists in Tropper 1993, 19; Lipiński 2000, 247; Younger 2016, 390, table 6.1.  VAM Berlin (Inv.: VA S 6579).  On this inscription, see Donner and Röllig 1971–2002 II, 30 – 34; Fales 1979; Gibson 1982, 30 – 39; Tropper 1993, 27– 46, 153 – 154; Parker 1997, 78 – 83; Schade 2006, 67– 97; Green 2010, 136 – 156; Merlo 2016; Niehr 2016, 311– 313, 318 – 322; Niehr 2018a. On the interplay of text and iconography in this inscription, see Niehr 2018b.  Perhaps his mother’s name; see Niehr 2018a, n. 38.

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These few lines make clear that Kulamuwa was a member of the royal house of Samʾal, but they do not imply that all these kings belonged to one and the same dynasty. Regarding Kulamuwa’s legitimation, he was the son of King Ḥayya and the brother of King Šaʾil, who reigned before him. Why and how Kulamuwa came to replace his brother on the throne is not clear: Had his brother Šaʾil died suddenly or had Kulamuwa organized a putsch against him because he was the last of the “ineffective” kings?⁴² Furthermore, King Kulamuwa claims a strong difference between his reign and the reigns of all the other kings who had preceded him on the throne of Samʾal. According to lines 1– 5 of his inscription, his predecessors had not accomplished anything, especially in the realm of foreign politics. In this way, Kulamuwa contrasts his achievements with the bad conditions of the time before his accession to throne.⁴³ The second part of this inscription (KAI 24: 9 – 13) starts with another hint to Kulamuwa’s royal legitimation: (9) I am Kulamuwa, son of Ḥayya. I sat on the throne of my father. (KAI 24: 9)

That King Ḥayya was Kulamuwa’s father had already been mentioned above, but now Kulamuwa simply states that he sat on his father’s throne. He does not mention any other participants in this action, neither human nor divine. Another important aspect of royal ideology shows the king providing nourishment for his people. This motif can be found several times in Aramaic royal inscriptions.⁴⁴ King Kulamuwa says in the second part of his inscription: (9) In the presence of the previous kin(10)gs the mškbm lived like dogs. But I, to some I became a father and to some I became a mother (11) and to some I became a brother. And who never had seen the face of a sheep, I made him owner of a flock. And who never had seen the face of a cow, I made him owner of (12) a herd, and owner of silver and gold. And who never had seen linen from his youth, in my days bys(13)sus covered him. (KAI 24: 9 – 13)

King Kulamuwa claims to have become father and mother to at least a part of the population of his kingdom. The term mškbm, which is used here, refers to the non-Aramaean part of the inhabitants, who so far had been disadvantaged.  On the argument of a putsch by Kulamuwa against his brother, see Landsberger 1948, 51, and Fales 1979, 22.  See Fales 1979, 7– 9; Green 2010, 145 – 148; Suriano 2014, 104– 106. On this motif in Hittite literature, see the apology of King Hattušili; see Otten 1981, 26 – 27.  See Green 2010, 152– 154, 188 – 190, 207– 209 and Morrow 2017, 118 – 120.

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That the king acted as father and mother of his people is also mentioned in Hieroglyphic-Luwian inscriptions and Hieroglyphic-Luwian-Phoenician bilingual inscriptions from Anatolia and Northern Syria.⁴⁵ In this manner, the king’s comprehensive care for his people is expressed. Furthermore, the abundance of wealth in the kingdom of Yādiya is to be ascribed to the rule of King Kulamuwa. Here, once more, a difference is marked between the “former kings,” who had not achieved anything, and King Kulamuwa.⁴⁶ This motif of the abundance, which prevailed under the reigning king, is well known from the kings of Phoenicia. The second king of Samʾal who left a written source for posterity is King Panamuwa I (r. 790 – 750 BCE). In this commemorative inscription (KAI 214), which was found in the royal necropolis of Gerçin, he presents some insights into his reign and his royal ideology.⁴⁷ It is important to stress that this inscription is incised on the statue of the main god of the pantheon of Samʾal, Hadad. This suggests a close connection between the ruler and the highest god, which is also stated explicitly in the inscription: (1) I am Panamuwa, the son of Qarli, king of Yādiya, I have erected this statue for Hadad in my necropolis. (2) The gods Hadad and El and Rašap and Rakkabʾel and Šamaš stood with me and into my hands did Hadad and El (3) and Rakkabʾel and Šamaš and Rašap give the sceptre of authority and Rašap stood with me. (KAI 202: 1– 3)

King Panamuwa’s reign is legitimized by the gods of Samʾal because they had given the sceptre into his hand; they stood with him and made his rule successful (cf. also lines 4– 14). In this inscription, too, a difference is made between the bad times before Panamuwa’s accession to the throne (l. 9) and the better conditions in “my time.”⁴⁸ Furthermore, King Panamuwa shows himself as the roi bâtisseur (KAI 214: 10 – 14) and within this context he also mentions that he had built a temple for the gods of the city of Samʾal (KAI 214: 19 – 20).

 See e. g., KARATEPE 1 § 3 (Phoenician line 3) (Payne 2012: 20 – 42; KAI 26 A 3) and KULULU 4 § 10 – 11 (Payne 2012: 50 – 52). According to ÇINEKÖY § 6 (Phoenician lines 7– 8) the king of the Assyrians and the entire house of Aššur became father and mother to King Warikas (Payne 2012, 42– 44).  See also Green 2010, 149 – 152.  On this inscription, see Donner and Röllig 1971–2002 II, 30 – 34; Gibson 1982, 30 – 39; Tropper 1993, 27– 46, 153– 154; Green 2010, 136 – 156; Fales and Grassi 2016, 166 – 191.  See Green 2010, 186 – 188, and Merlo 2014, 115 – 116.

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Concerning his access to the throne, King Panamuwa is comparable to King Kulamuwa. Panamuwa simply states: (8) [And] I, Panamuwa, sat on my father’s throne. And Hadad gave into my hands (9) the sceptre of auth[ority]. (KAI 214: 8 – 9)

This close connection between King Panamuwa I and the supreme god Hadad outlasted even the king’s demise because the stela of Hadad, which bears this inscription, was erected in the royal necropolis of Gerçin. This is also explicitly stated in a ritual mentioned in this inscription, which was to be held after the ruler’s demise: (15 – 16) Whosoever from my sons should grasp the [scep]tre and sit on my throne and maintain power and do sacrifice to this Hadad … (17) let him then say: “[May] the [spi]rit of Panamuwa [eat] with thee, and may the [sp]irit of Panamuwa dri[nk] with thee.” Let him keep remembering the spirit of Panamuwa with (18) [Had]ad. (KAI 214: 15 – 18)

In this Samʾalian interpretation, the nbš of King Panamuwa is present in a statue of the deceased king; a statue or an effigy that, unfortunately, has not been preserved.⁴⁹ As King Kulamuwa had already done before him (KAI 24: 9 – 12), King Panamuwa also boasts of having provided wealth and nourishment to the people of his country (KAI 214: 3 – 9). Thus, King Panamuwa I also fulfilled all the duties of an ideal king. After an interregnum, King Panamuwa II (r. ca. 743 – 733 BCE) came to the throne of Samʾal. In the memorial inscription devoted to him by his son and successor, Bar-Rakkab, the ideals of the roi bâtisseur (KAI 215: 8 – 9), of providing for his people (KAI 215: 9 – 10.12), and of the loyal vassal king (KAI 215: 1– 2.7.11– 15) were ascribed to him. King Bar-Rakkab (r. ca. 733 – 713/711 BCE) was the last king of Samʾal.⁵⁰ He, too, has left several inscriptions which inform us about the strategies of his royal legitimation. But before analyzing some of King Bar-Rakkab’s inscriptions, the royal ideology implied by his name Bar-Rakkab is important. This name is comparable to

 On the concept of nbš in Samʾal, see Niehr 1994, 63 – 65; Kühn 2005, 123 – 127; Sanders 2013; Steiner 2015, 10 – 22.  King Bar-Rakkab’s death or deposition must have occurred before 713/711 BC, less likely during the reign of Shalmaneser V, resp. preferably early in the reign of Sargon II. See Radner 2006, 62, and Bagg 2011, 232 n. 249. The year 713/711 marks the first mentioning of an Assyrian governor in Samʾal.

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the royal name Bar-Hadad, which has been discussed above in the chapter on Damascus. Bar-Rakkab means “Son of Rakkab(el).” The god Rakkabel is mentioned as the dynastic god of the kings of Samʾal in several inscriptions.⁵¹ So, King Bar-Rakkab pretends by his name to be the son of the dynastic god of Samʾal. Although we cannot prove that Bar-Rakkab is a throne name, this conclusion is very likely as in the case of the kings Bar-Hadad of Bit Agusi and Damascus. In the inscriptions left by King Bar-Rakkab, he refers to his royal legitimation in a very interesting manner; exceeding what his predecessors had stated. The first inscription to be analyzed here is written on an orthostat in the entrance of the Nördlicher Hallenbau, which is now housed in the Museum of Istanbul.⁵² In its first part, the inscription presents King Bar-Rakkab as a most loyal vassal to the Assyrians: (1) I am Ba[r]-Rakkab, (2) son of Panamuwa, king of Sam(3)ʾal, servant of Tiglath-pileser, lord of the (4) four quarters of the earth. Because of my father’s loyalty and because of my loyal(5)ty, my lord Rakkabʾel (6) and my lord Tiglath-pileser seated me on (7) the throne of my father. And the house of my father la(8)boured more than all others and I have run at the wheel (9) of my lord, the king of Assyria, in the midst (10) of powerful kings, possessors of sil(11)ver and gold. (KAI 216: 1– 11)

Regarding his own enthronement, King Bar-Rakkab refers to a common action of his dynastic god, Rakkabʾel, and his overlord, the Assyrian King Tiglath-pileser III. Here we find a remarkable difference to what Kings Kulamuwa and Panamuwa I had stated before. They never mentioned an overlord and sat on their father’s throne without divine or human assistance. In the second part of this inscription, King Bar-Rakkab shows himself as the roi bâtisseur: (11) And I seized (12) the house of my father and I made it better (13) than the house of any of the powerful kings (14) and my brothers, the kings, were envious (15) because of all the good fortune of my house. And (16) a good house, my fathers, the kin(17)gs of Samʾal, did not have. Behold, they had the palace of Kulamu(19)wa and it was for them the palace for winter (19) and the palace for summer. But (20) I built this palace. (KAI 216: 11– 20)

The royal ambition, which is clearly expressed in this part of the inscription, is well known from comparable Assyrian royal inscriptions: through his building  Cf. KAI 24:16; 214: 2.3.11.18; 215: 19(?).22; 216: 5; 217:2.7– 8; B4:5 (see Tropper 1993, 164).  AOM Istanbul (Inv.: 7697). On the inscription, see Donner and Röllig 1971–2002 II: 232– 234; Gibson 1975, 89 – 92; Tropper 1993, 132– 139, 163; Green 2010, 220 – 228; Fales and Grassi 2016, 214– 220.

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measures, the king wants to prevail over preceding kings and obtain glory for posterity. While this motif is well known from Assyrian sources,⁵³ it is also used by Aramaean kings as is shown by the inscriptions of King Kapara of Gūzāna (ninth century BCE), who boasts of having created statues his predecessors had not made.⁵⁴ All in all, King Bar-Rakkab presents himself as the ideal king: He was chosen and installed by the dynastic god Rakkabʾel and by his Assyrian overlord, in addition to being most loyal and a roi bâtisseur. The second inscription of King Bar-Rakkab, the exact provenance of which in Samʾal is not known, puts special stress on the aspect of loyalty. This loyalty is indicated by the term ṣdq, which stands for the cosmic order as conceived by the gods and, hence, for political loyalty towards the overlords and religious piety towards the deities.⁵⁵ Having constantly showed ṣdq towards kings and gods, the loyal perpetrator could expect being rewarded: (1) I am Bar-Rakkab, son of Panamuwa, king of Samʾa[l, servant of Tiglath‐(2)pi]leser, lord of the four quarters of the ea[rth, and of Rakkabʾel] (3) and of the gods of my father’s house. L[oyal am I with] my [l](4)ord and with the servants of the house of [my lord, the king of Ashur] (5) and loyal am I with [him more than any other and loyal are my sons] (6) more than the sons of a[ll other great kings and] (7) their unclear [ Might R](8)akkabʾel show me favour be[fore my lord Tiglath-pileser, the k(9)ing of] Ashur and before [his] s[ons]. (KAI 217)⁵⁶

First of all, Bar-Rakkab mentions his status as servant to his Assyrian overlord, King Tiglath-pileser. Only then comes his devotion to Rakkabʾel, the dynastic god since the reign of King Kulamuwa (KAI 24,16), and the other gods of his dynasty. The most important gift Bar-Rakkab is praying for is favour, which he obtains in the eyes of King Tiglath-pileser and his sons. The third object is the orthostat with the moon-god of Ḫarran, King Bar-Rakkab, and his scribe. It was found in the eastern part of the Nördlicher Hallenbau

 See Lackenbacher 1982, 76 – 81.  This comparison between Kings Bar-Rakkab and Kapara has already been drawn by Landsberger 1948: 43 n. 105. On the inscriptions of Kapara, see Sader 1987, 11– 14.  On the semantics of ṣdq, see e. g., Schmid 1968; Johnson 1987– 1989; Niehr 1997; Gzella 2016; Zanella 2016. On the loyalty of King Bar-Rakkab towards the Assyrians see also Niehr 2016, 323 – 325; Niehr 2018a; Niehr 2018b.  On the text and its lacunae, see Tropper 1993, 163 – 164.

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leading to hilani IV and is now housed in the Vorderasiatisches Museum in Berlin.⁵⁷ The Aramaic inscription reads: I am Bar-Rakkab, son of Panamuwa. My lord is Baʿal Ḫarran. (KAI 218)

The relief, with its inscription and representation of the moon-god of Ḫarran, is a symbol of the political order, that is given by the gods and realized by the king, who was the mediator between the divine realm and the human world. The depiction of the moon-god of Ḫarran, who was ascribed an important role in swearing oaths and concluding contracts and international treaties, alludes to King Bar-Rakkab’s position as a loyal vassal of the Assyrians; the one who keeps treaties with the Assyrians and the oaths sworn to them. Thus, the orthostat is linked with the explicit messages of King Bar-Rakkab’s loyalty in the inscriptions KAI 216, 217 and B4. It is also interesting to note what King Bar-Rakkab does not mention in his inscriptions. He does not reflect on the time before his accession to the throne and he does not mention his role in caring for the welfare of his people. The inhabitants of his kingdom never show up in his inscriptions. The reason for this is clear: due to massive Assyrian support, King Bar-Rakkab was no longer dependent upon his own population. The only issues which counted were those of his gods and the Assyrians.⁵⁸

Conclusions and Outlook In the preceding pages, some narrative topics of royal legitimation in the Aramaean kingdoms of Syria are visible. Their basic elements are as follows: 1. The king was elected by the gods; his basic legitimation is therefore a religious one. The royal enthronement was the fulfillment of this divine election.⁵⁹ Due to political circumstances, a further aspect of the enthronement is indicated by those kings who say that their personal god and their overlord have put them on the throne of their kingdom. This is claimed by King Bar-Rakkab from Samʾal, who demonstrates both his vassal status and his loyalty in this manner.

 93;  

Inv.: VA 2817. On the inscription, see Donner and Röllig 1971–2002 II, 236 – 237; Gibson 1975, Tropper 1993, 145 – 146, 164. On the interplay between text and image, see Niehr 2018b. See on this, Niehr 2016, 324. See Ambos 2017, 68.

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The intimate relationship between the king and the gods can be further stressed by the king’s claim to be the son of the highest god of the pantheon, Hadad, or the son of the dynastic god. From this come names like Bar-Hadad in Damascus and Bit Agusi, and Bar-Rakkab in Samʾal. In cases where the king’s father or even grand-father had already been king, this important indication is adduced in the opening lines of the royal inscriptions because it legitimizes the son in his position as ruler and heir on the throne. On the other hand, the lack of this filiation is an important clue, that makes it clear that the king is not of royal offspring, but most likely a usurper on the throne. This can be compensated by the formula that the highest god can make one king, like Hadad (KAI 310,4– 5) had made Hazael king or, as King Zakkur from Hamath claims (KAI 202, 2– 4), that Baʿalšamayin – as the god of the kingship and kingdom – had made him king. Several kings stress the difference between past and present. Before their accession to the throne, things had been bad; but now, during their reign, everything became better. For the kingdom of Hamath, this is stressed by Zakkur; for the kingdom of Yādiya/Samʾal, by the kings Kulamuwa, Panamuwa I and Panamuwa II. Furthermore, the kings Kulamuwa, Panamuwa I and Panamuwa II cared about the welfare of their people, who did not suffer from famine during their days and became even wealthier than ever before. King Kulamuwa even claims to have cared about his people like a father and a mother. The motif of the king as roi bâtisseur can be found in the inscriptions of the kings Zakkur from Hamath, as well as Kulamuwa, Panamuwa I, Panamuwa II, and Bar-Rakkab from Yādiya/Samʾal. These kings present themselves as builders of cities, palaces, and temples. The royal building measures of King Bar-Rakkab from Samʾal also stress his superiority over his predecessors on the throne of this kingdom. The importance of ṣdq as loyalty towards the gods and the overlords is explicitly shown in the inscriptions of Panamuwa II and Bar-Rakkab of Samʾal, but also underlies the other royal inscriptions discussed in this article. This use of ṣdq refers to the ideology of the just and righteous king, also known as šar mēšarim in the Assyrian royal ideology.⁶⁰ Finally, it is also interesting to see a strategy of delegitimizing a king. In an Assyrian source, King Hazael is called “son of a nobody” (mār lā mammā-

 See Niehr 1997. On the great topics of the Ancient Near Eastern royal ideology, see the terminological overview by Seux 1967, 18 – 27.

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na).⁶¹ This makes clear that Hazael was not recognized as a legitimate king – at least not by the Assyrians.

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 A.O. 102.40 in Grayson 1996, 117– 119; on this inscription, see Lipiński 2000, 376; Yamada 2000, 188 – 189; Younger 2016, 598 – 599.

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Levin, Christoph. 2017. “Das Königsritual in Israel und Juda.” In Herrschaftslegitimation in vorderorientalischen Reichen der Eisenzeit, edited by Christoph Levin and Reinhard Müller, 231 – 260. Orientalische Religionen in der Antike 21. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Lipiński, Edward. 1994. “The Victory Stele from Tell el-Qāḍi.” In Studies in Aramaic inscriptions and onomastics II, written by Edward Lipiński, 83 – 101. Orientalia Lovaniensia analecta 57. Leuven: Uitgeverij Peeters en Departement Oriéntalistiek. Lipiński, Edward. 2000. The Aramaeans: Their Ancient History, Culture, Religion. Orientalia Lovaniensia analecta 100. Leuven: Peeters. Lipiński, Edward. 2016. “Tell el-Qāḍi Stele in Its Historical Context.” In Studies in Aramaic inscriptions and onomastics IV, 1 – 10. Orientalia Lovaniensia analecta 250. Leuven: Uitgeverij Peeters en Departement Oriéntalistiek. Merlo, Paolo. 2014. “Literature.” In The Aramaeans in Ancient Syria, edited by Herbert Niehr, 109 – 125. Handbook of Oriental Studies I/106. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Merlo, Paolo. 2016. “Die Inschrift des Kulamuwa KAI 24 und ihre Rhetorik.” In Testi e contesti: Studi in onore di Innocenzo Cardellini nel suo 70° compleanno, edited by Paolo Merlo, Angelo Passaro, and Innocenzo Cardellini, 19 – 29. Supplementi alla Rivista biblica. Morrow, William. 2017. “Famine as the Curse of the King: Royal Ideology in Old Aramaic Futility Curse Series.” In Herrschaftslegitimation in vorderorientalischen Reichen der Eisenzeit, edited by Christoph Levin and Reinhard Müller, 111 – 124. Orientalische Religionen in der Antike 21. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Müller, Reinhard. 2017. “Herrschaftslegitimation in den Königreichen Israel und Juda: Eine Spurensuche.” In Herrschaftslegitimation in vorderorientalischen Reichen der Eisenzeit, edited by Christoph Levin and Reinhard Müller, 189 – 230. Orientalische Religionen in der Antike 21. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Naʾaman, Nadav. 2000. “Three Notes on the Aramaic Inscription from Tel Dan.” Israel Exploration Journal 50 (1/2): 92 – 104. Naʾaman, Nadav. 2016. “The Royal Dynasties of Judah and Israel.” Zeitschrift für altorientalische und biblische Rechtsgeschichte / Journal for Ancient Near Eastern and Biblical Law 22: 59 – 73. Niehr, Herbert. 1994. “Zum Totenkult der Könige von Samʾal im 9. und 8. Jh. v. Chr.” Studi Epigrafici e Linguistici 11: 57 – 73. Niehr, Herbert. 1997. “The Constitutive Principles for Establishing Justice and Order in Northwest Semitic Societies with Special Reference to Ancient Israel and Judah.” Zeitschrift für altorientalische und biblische Rechtsgeschichte / Journal for Ancient Near Eastern and Biblical Law 3: 112 – 130. Niehr, Herbert. 2003. Baʿals ̆amem: Studien zu Herkunft, Geschichte und Rezeptionsgeschichte eines phönizischen Gottes. Orientalia Lovaniensa Analecta 123 = Studia Phoenicia 17. Leuven: Peeters. Niehr, Herbert. 2009. “Die phönizischen Stadtpanthea des Libanon und ihre Beziehung zum Königtum in vorhellenistischer Zeit.” In Götterbilder – Gottesbilder – Weltbilder: Polytheismus und Monotheismus in der Welt der Antike. Band I: Ägypten, Mesopotamien, Persien, Kleinasien, Syrien, Palästina. Band II: Griechenland und Rom, Judentum, Christentum und Islam, edited by Reinhard G. Kratz and Hermann Spieckermann. 2nd ed., 303 – 324. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

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Sasson, Victor. 1996. “Murderers, Usurpers, or what? Hazael, Jehu, and the Tell Dan Old Aramaic Inscription.” Ugarit-Forschungen 28: 547 – 554. Schade, Aaron. 2006. A Syntactic and Literary Analysis of Ancient Northwest Semitic Inscriptions. Lewiston, NY: Mellen. Schmid, Hans Heinrich. 1968. Gerechtigkeit als Weltordnung. Beiträge zur Historischen Theologie 40. Tübingen: Mohr. Seux, Marie-Joseph. 1967. Epithètes royales akkadiennes et sumériennes. Paris: Letouzey et Ané. Steiner, Richard C. 2015. Disembodied Souls: The Nefesh in Israel and Kindred Spirits in the Ancient Near East, with an Appendix on the Katumuwa Inscription. Ancient Near East Monographs 11. Atlanta: SBL Press. Suriano, Matthew J. 2007. “The Apology of Hazael: A Literary and Historical Analysis of the Tel Dan Inscription.” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 66 (3): 163 – 176. Suriano, Matthew J. 2014. “The Historicality of the King: An Exercise in Reading Royal Inscriptions from the Ancient Levant.” Journal of Ancient Near Eastern History 1 (2): 95 – 118. Tropper, Josef. 1993. Die Inschriften von Zincirli: Neue Edition und vergleichende Grammatik des phönizischen, sam’alischen und aramäischen Textkorpus. Abhandlungen zur Literatur Alt-Syrien-Palästinas 6. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Weippert, Manfred. 1992. “Die Feldzüge Adadnararis III. nach Syrien Voraussetzungen, Verlauf, Folgen.” Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins 108 (1): 42 – 67. Weippert, Manfred. 2010. Historisches Textbuch zum Alten Testament. Grundrisse zum Alten Testament 10. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Xella, Paolo. 2003. “Il Re.” In El hombre fenicio: Estudios y materiales, edited by José A. Zamora, 23 – 32. Serie arqueológica 9. Roma. Xella, Paolo. 2017. “Self-Depiction and Legitimation: Aspects of Phoenician Royal Ideology.” In Herrschaftslegitimation in vorderorientalischen Reichen der Eisenzeit, edited by Christoph Levin and Reinhard Müller, 97 – 110. Orientalische Religionen in der Antike 21. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Yamada, Shigeo. 2000. The Construction of the Assyrian Empire: A Historical Study of the Inscriptions of Shalmanesar III (859 – 824 B.C.) Relating to His Ampaigns to the West. Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 3. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Younger, K. Lawson. 2005. “’Hazaʾel, Son of a Nobody’: Some Reflections in Light of Recent Study.” In Writing and Ancient Near Eastern Society: Papers in Honour of Alan R. Millard, edited by Piotr Bienkowski, Christopher Mee, Alan R. Millard, and E. A. Slater, 245 – 70. T & T Clark Library of Biblical Studies 426. New York: T & T Clark. Younger, K. Lawson. 2016. A Political History of the Arameans: From Their Origins to the End of Their Polities. Archaeology and Biblical Studies 13. Atlanta: SBL Press. Zanella, Francesco. 2016. “Art. ṣādaq.” In Theologisches Wörterbuch zu den Qumrantexten, edited by Heinz-Josef Fabry and Ulrich Dahmen. 1. Auflage, 383 – 93. Stuttgart: Verlag W. Kohlhammer.

Natalie N. May

“The True Image of the God…:” Adoration of the King’s Image, Assyrian Imperial Cult and Territorial Control Introduction: Matter of Methodology There are periods in human history marked by worshiping a mortal ruler. Often these periods are also the periods of imperial expansion, when royals seek legitimacy. Nevertheless, the perception of divinity does not always permit a direct deification of an emperor. We owe the vagueness in definition of a “divine” king or kingship to our sources, which are not precise on this matter. Recently in her monumental study of Assyrian religion and ideology, Beate Pongratz-Leisten wrote: Rather than operating with the notion of divine kingship introduced by Sir James Frazer, my approach does not begin from the question of whether the king should be considered a god but assumes instead the fluid notion of the divine and examines strategies for sacralizing kingship, among them ritual, image, and narratives of power.¹

I will utilize this approach in my present article. I will not attempt at rationalization of the adoration of royal images, since the Assyrians themselves did not rationalize it. They just used it as tool for ideological and religious oppression. Albeit the Assyrians exercised “theological imperialism,” they did not deprive locals of their own gods, but subjugated peoples were obliged, as I will show, to worship their mighty oppressors, both gods and men. The present paper will address the question of the adoration of the king’s image as a royal strategy of legitimation in the periods of expansion of the Neo-Assyrian Empire as well as study all the pictorial and written sources and their interconnections. The image of the king was perceived as “the true image of the god.” It called to mind for the target audience the whole complex of the “tales of royalty” and created a climate for the king’s legitimation. The royal image alone stood for the entire complex system of royal propaganda and evoked associations deeply rooted in the audience’s worldview.

 Pongratz-Leisten 2017, 13. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501506895-013

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Regarding one of the central questions that the workshop has raised: “What is narrative?” I follow the definitions suggested by Erich Dinckler and Herbert L. Kessler about the imagery of biblical stories.² Their view was close to that of Gérard Genette concerning narration, who pointed out that a trigger contained in a short phrase “the king died” implies the entire story that followed the king’s death. Dinckler and Kessler distinguish between “abbreviated representations … reduced to the most essential figures, yet maintaining the recognizability of the scene”,³ and narrative representations. Thus, abbreviated (or monoscenic) depictions, which did not represent the story in its temporal development were technically not narrations but rather META-narrations.⁴ Abbreviated scenes allude to a narration by representing a single but well-known scene, which relates to written or oral narration or is a part of a wider pictorial narrative repertoire. In the same way, certain verbal notions are not narrative, as such, but can create an allusion to a verbal narration. This is very much applicable to the NeoAssyrian art because the spectator, even if illiterate, knew the story behind the depiction. Similarly, abbreviated representation of biblical scenes brought to mind for illiterate spectators biblical narratives well known to wider audiences. The message of the story was transmitted to the literate audience, as well, by use of certain expressions designating royal images. These expressions were used as condensed abbreviations of the entire royal propaganda. The notion of an abbreviated representation standing for narration as a whole is equally valid for Assyrian pictorial and written sources. Royal stelae and expressions designating them in texts functioned as a trigger that evoked the stories of Assyrian royal propaganda. The depictions on royal steles (ṣalam šarri/šarrūtija) as such were not a pictorial narrative. But they stood for narratives incised upon them – that of a military campaign or building undertaking. The abbreviated representations, the king’s effigies hewn on stelae, symbolized royal victory or accomplishment of a building project. They alluded to a narration about a campaign and a victory and were themselves described by written and depicted in pictorial narrations. Stelae are not narrative images but these images are inseparable from the narrative texts incised upon them. The image on a stela conveyed to a spectator the narration written upon it. They, like statues, “are holistically used to convey the message.”⁵ Royal effigy or ap-

 Dinckler 1979, Kessler 1979.  Dinckler 1979, 396; see also Wagner-Durand and Linke, this volume (“Bound by Stories?!”), esp. 7.  See Wagner-Durand and Linke, this volume (“Why Study ‘Narration’?”), 294.  Wagner-Durand and Linke, this volume (“Why Study ‘Narration’?”), 296, with the reference to Cory Crowford.

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pearance of a notion of a royal image in a text⁶ “provoked narrative” in the mind of a viewer or reader. This very notion of the royal image was thus transmedial or multimodal. Constant repetition of the ceremonies of adoration of royal images consolidated social perception of them and created a climate for royal legitimation.⁷ Stelae installed as monuments and mentioned in texts memorialized Assyrian tales of royalty.

Worship of Royal Images in Assyria The question of worship of the king and the king’s image in the Neo-Assyrian period has been heavily disputed by philologists and historians. Arguments for and against this worship were put forward in the course of this discussion, while interpreting rather scarce textual evidence. Surprisingly, most art historians, while having at their disposal vast and unequivocal source evidence, avoid discussing it and rely on their philologists-colleagues.⁸ Middle and Neo-Assyrian, and closely related to them Neo-Babylonian, texts dealing with the creation of the king pay special attention to the perfection of the king’s image.⁹ This aspect is particularly celebrated, and interwoven into other aspects of royalty. The king’s ideal look is the most important of the royal features, another royal insignum. Its perfection, which is reached through the very act of creation, is repeatedly stressed. The supernatural character of the royal exterior is reflected in the king’s divine splendor and strengthened by simile of the king’s appearance to the divine image.¹⁰ The idea that the king’s form is a perfect image of a god was broadcasted by the veneration of royal images. The king is the main protagonist of pictorial narratives of the palaces – an aspect inherent also in royal inscriptions. Royal stelae played a particularly important role in Neo-Assyrian imperialism. The representations on stelae in the Neo-Assyrian period were actually reduced to the image of the king (e. g., Fig. 1b). All the venerated royal images known to us were engraved upon stelae or stela-formed rock reliefs, which bear idealized effigies of a king lacking personal features.

 Even if economic or administrative.  Cf. Wagner-Durand and Linke, this volume (“Why Study ‘Narration’?”), 306.  See the Excursus: Brief History of Research and Interpretation of the Evidence at the end of the article.  May 2008, part I, chapter 2.  May 2008, part I, chapter 2.

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I will argue for the existence of the royal cult in the Neo-Assyrian period and try to define its specific form. As for the imposition of this cult outside Assyrian heartland, in provinces and vassal states, it probably went hand-in-hand with conquest itself, but what form did this cult have?

Written Sources¹¹ Texts use two terms regarding royal images: ṣalam/ṣalmū šarri and ṣalam šarrūtija. The literal translation of these terms should be very close, but their meanings as termini technici differ. Wolfram von Soden does not differentiate between them and translates both as “Königsstatue” or “Relief.”¹² CAD however distinguishes three cases of usage for ṣalam šarri: general, “statue, relief, drawing,” etc.¹³ of a named king,¹⁴ of “kings in gen.,”¹⁵ and special category of “deified royal images worshiped in temples.”¹⁶ Exploration of the usage of each of the terms ṣalam/ṣalmū šarri and ṣalam šarrūtija could lead to their more accurate understanding.

A. Revered Ṣalam šarri There are five categories of usage of ṣalam šarri to designate deified royal image: 1. An image of a king appears in the inventory lists of images of gods in the temples. These lists were part of the tākultu ritual text of the akītu festival.¹⁷ Ṣalam šarri in these lists is written ideographically mostly with the determinative of divinity dalam/nu.man.

 This part deals only with the obvious cases of deification of the royal image. The example of the creation of an effigy (not necessarily a statue) of the king, whose appearance and function are unknown (Holloway 2002, 184– 5) were not treated here.  AHw 1078b –1079a s.v. ṣalmum II 2.  CAD Ṣ s.v. ṣalmu a, 78.  CAD Ṣ s.v. ṣalmu 2′a′ , 80 – 81.  CAD Ṣ s.v. ṣalmu 2′b′, 81.  CAD Ṣ s.v. ṣalmu 2′c′, 81– 82.  According to Frankena 1953, 51– 9; 1961, 202. For G. van Driel’s critique of this suggestion see van Driel 1969, 164– 165.

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Ṣalam šarri is attested in the list of divine statues that stood in Assyrian temples. In one copy of these lists, tablet K. 252, found in the library of Ashurbanipal, it appears twice: as dṣalam(alam)-šarri(man)¹⁸ and as dṣalam(alam)šarri(man) šá min₅ (i.e uruA[rba]-ìl in vii 18′).¹⁹ In the other list of gods, itemizing statues in the temples of the city of Aššur, the so-called Götteradressbuch, the royal image is written as (d)nu.man. Various copies of this list, dating from Shalmaneser III to Sīn-šarru-iškun are known.²⁰ In the Götteradressbuch dnu.man occurs five times. Alltogether six deified royal images are listed there.²¹ 2. In the Late Assyrian documents the image of a king occurs as a divine witness to contracts along with gods and humans both with and without the determinative of divinity. Oaths were sworn before ṣalam šarris as well as before the divine symbols or statues.²² Shigeo Yamada suggested that also the Vassal Treaties of Esarhaddon were sworn before the images of the king and his heir Ashurbanipal, as well as they were sworn before the god Aššur and the other gods.²³ Moreover, recently

 tākultu for Ashurbanipal SAA 10 no. 40 vi 29, cf. Meinhold 2009, 391, Text Nr. 13 d+304 (A vi 29). The text is broken and restored by Frankena 1953, 11, 112.  SAA 20 no. 40 i 35’, cf. Meinhold 2009, 392, e+356 (A vii 35’). See Frankena 1953, 11, 112 for his commentaries. R. Frankena (1953, 3) believed that K. 252 was copied from the Middle Assyrian original and edited in Sargon II’s reign, after his fifth campaign. G. Van Driel’s (1969, 55 – 56) detailed discussion of the date of this tablet together with the polemics with R. Frankena led him to the conclusion that the text is too fragmentary for its date to be established. The colophon points to Issār-šumu-ēreš, the chief scribe of Esarhaddon and Ashurbanipal.  SAA 10 no. 49; Menzel 1981, T 146 – 166, no. 64; Meinhold 2009, 427– 444, Text Nr. 15. R. Frankena (1953, 122) dates these texts to the time of Sennacherib based on them mentioning the New Gates. W. But KAV 42 bears the colophon of Kiṣir-Aššur, one of the central figures of the exorcists’ library N4 (Pedersén 1986, 41– 76), where this manuscript is labeled as N4 [138], Pedersén 1986, 63), who was active in the reign of Ashurbanipal (PNA 623 s.v. Kiṣir-Aššūr 26.c.7′). W. Meinhold (2009, 427– 428) suggests the seventh century BCE.  These royal images are among nine gods of the temple of Anu (Meinhold 2009, 433, Text Nr. 15: 57 = SAA 20 no. 49: 57), two images of the king among ten gods of the temple of Adad (Meinhold 2009, 433, Text Nr. 15. 60 = ms m ii 3 – 4 [ibid.] = SAA 20 no. 49: 60); one royal image among 17 or 18 images of gods of the temple of Ištar-aššurītu (Meinhold 2009, 435, Text Nr. 15: 80 = SAA 20 no. 49: 80); two images of a king among 19 gods of the temple of Gula (Meinhold 2009, 437, Text Nr. 15: 105 = SAA 20 no. 49: 105.  Holloway 2002, 174– 175; 198 – 200.  Yamada 2000, 296 – 7 with the reference to the text in SAA 2 no. 44– 45, no. 6 §35, ll. 397– 409.

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published tablet of the Vassal (or Succession) Treaties from Kinalūa (Tell-Tayinat),²⁴ provides an evidence that not only images of Esarhaddon and his crown prince designated, but also those of all the Assyrian princes were installed in the temple at Kinalūa. They served witnesses of the oath together with the gods and were adored together with them (see below). A royal effigy appears together with the divine witnesses Nabû and Šamaš on the legal contracts from the Assyrian province Gūzāna (Tell Halaf). In two documents, ṣalam šarri is mentioned twice among other divine witnesses.²⁵ In the first of these Gūzāna contracts (no. 112) divine witnesses and the deified royal image are separated from the human ones by the date formula. In the second (no. 113) the royal effigy terminates the list of the three divine witnesses, and the human witnesses follow after him. It is worth noting, that the same kind of documents, originating from Assyrian mainland, reveals a more careless attitude to the order of appearance of the witnesses: divine and human witnesses are mixed as on the economic tablet from Kalḫu.²⁶ The same carelessness in order of appearance of the divine and human witnesses occurs in the record of purchase of a slave girl by Mannu-kī-Arba’il, cohort commander (673 –680 BCE) of Esarhaddon. The tablet originates from Nineveh.²⁷ There is no other textual differentiation between human and divine

 Lauinger 2012, Harrison and Osborne 2012.  Ungnad 1967, 62, no. 112: 5 – 7, 622* BCE: maḫar(igi) Nabû([d]muati) maḫar(igi) dŠ[á]-maš maḫar(igi) Ṣalam-šarri(dnu.man) (followed by the date formula and the list of human witnesses); Ungnad 1967, 63, no. 113: 8 – 9 (= VAT 16387): maḫar(igi) [Na]bû(d[mu]ati) maḫar(igi) Šamaš(dutu) maḫar(igi) Ṣalam-šar[ri](nu.ma[n]) (followed by the list of human witnesses). Dalley (1986, 91) suggested that the gods stand in contracts instead of the usual formulas of penalties for perjury. Machinist (2006, 179) proposed that the images of Esarhaddon and his sons serve as oath witnesses for the Vassal Treaties as well. Both documents are money-lend contracts, and the lender, as well as not only the divine, but also part of the human witnesses are identical. An interesting fact is that in these documents occurs a witness called Mār-šarriilâ’i, “the crown prince is my god.” All together five individuals bearing this name are known (PNA 741– 742 s.v. Mār-šarriilâ’i). Those of them firmly dated are attested in the reign of Ashurbanipal or later, that means they were born most probably when he was a crown prince.  Parker 1954, 33, 54, ND 2080: 10 – 12, 644* BCE): šú ina šumi(mu) mNabû(dmuati)– md šarru(man)–naṣir(pab) maḫar(igi) Ṣal-mu-šarri(man) maḫar(igi) Šamaš(dutu) m Nabû(dmuati)–išdē(suhuš)-ia–ukīn(gin). Notice here šumu(mu) ṣalmi(nu) an-ni-e d!Adad(u)– ˘ išdē(suhušmeš)-ia–ukīn(gin) šum(mu)-šu, “the name of this image is Adad-Established-My-Fun˘ dament is its name” (see also CAD Ṣ 83b–84a and Pognon 1907, 107, pl. 5: 6 on the Neo-Assyrian stela of Mušēzib-Šamaš, the governor of Dēr with the theophoric name of the same sense.  SAA 6 no. 219 rev. 13–s. 1 [ = ADD 1157]): ˹maḫar˺(˹igi˺) m[…] maḫar(igi) d Ṣalam.⸢šarri⸣(nu.⸢lugal⸣).

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witnesses, apart from the order of appearance, which is observed and matters only in provincial documents. 3. dṢalam/Ṣalmu-šarri as the theophoric element in the names (Ṣalam-šarri-iqbi) written ideographicaly or phonetically with or without divine determinative.²⁸ Ṣalam-šarri-iqbi is an extremely frequent Assyrian name meaning “the royal image has commanded.”²⁹ Up to thirty individuals with this name are known.³⁰ All of them lived in the times of the Sargonids. At least half of the Ṣalam-šarriiqbis are known from the time of Ashurbanipal. As for the rest, five are mentioned in documents are dated to the period after Ashurbanipal’s reign, three to the seventh century BCE, one to the reign of Sennacherib, one to the reign of Esarhaddon, and one to Esarhaddon or Ashurbanipal.³¹ Remarkably, nine or ten of them were officials of different kinds and ranks. One, the turtānu of “the left” and of Kummuḫi (Commagene), appears as a limmu probably of the year 630 BCE (late reign of Ashurbanipal) on a number of documents.³² Because of him this name is especially well documented. Another was a ša šēpi guard in the same period.³³ He probably became the cohort commander of the king’s personal guard later in his career. They are even evidenced in the same record of real estate sale: the guard, who had already became a unit commander of the royal guard (rab kiṣir ša šēpi), as a witness and the turtānu as an eponym.³⁴ One more Ṣalam-šarri-iqbi was the “third man” of a chariot team at the time of Esarhaddon and Ashurbanipal.³⁵ The rest are: an official (?, reign of Ashurbanipal);³⁶ a royal eunuch (late reign of Ashurbanipal);³⁷ two military officials(?), one from Babylonia (reign of Ashurbanipal)³⁸ and another from the Town of Chariot Grooms, probably in the vicinity of Nineveh (seventh

 Once we find this name written mnu.dman–iq-bi (Dalley and Postgate 1984, 93, no. 39b [envelope]: 6, which is obviously a scribal error since five lines before it appears in its common writing as mnu.man–iq-bi (Dalley and Postgate 1984, 93, no. 39b [envelope]: 1).  Cf. Adad-iqbi etc.  PNA 1164– 1166 s.v. Ṣalam-šarri-iqbi. Some of them are probably identical.  PNA 1164– 1166 s.v. Ṣalam-šarri-iqbi. No information preserved about the remaining four.  PNA 1165 s.v. Ṣalam-šarri-iqbi 17.  PNA 1164 s.v. Ṣalam-šarri-iqbi 4– 5.  SAA 14, no. 425 rev. 15 and s. 2.  PNA 1164 s.v. Ṣalam-šarri-iqbi 3.  PNA 1165 s.v. Ṣalam-šarri-iqbi 12.  PNA 1165 s.v. Ṣalam-šarri-iqbi 15.  PNA 1165 s.v. Ṣalam-šarri-iqbi 16.

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century BCE);³⁹ the official of the temple of Nabû in Kalḫu, belonging to a priestly family,⁴⁰ and a commander of outriders(?).⁴¹ In the remaining cases where this name is attested, it is borne by commoners. One only instance of the name Ṣalam-šarri-uṣur dated to the time of Ashurbanipal is attested for a person from the city of Aššur. It is written without the divine determinative.⁴² Geographical distribution of the individuals bearing the names with the theophoric element Ṣalam-šarri- (mostly Ṣalam-šarri-iqbis) shows that these names were typical for the Assyrian heartland itself. From four to six Ṣalamšarri-iqbis lived in Nineveh and its vicinity, from three to six in Kalḫu, and from seven to nine in the city of Aššur, which constitutes from fourteen to twenty-one⁴³ persons (60.9 – 70 % of the entire amount). Among the remaining individuals, four were from the western provincial capitals close to Assyria: two from Dūr-Katlimmu, one from Gūzāna, and another – the most western and the earliest – from Til-Barsib (Sennacherib’s reign). The last individual of this name is an Assyrian military official(?) in Babylonia. Thus, we can conclude that the use of the name Ṣalam-šarri-iqbi starts within the reign of Sennacherib at least, and is mostly frequent in the period of Ashurbanipal in Assyria itself and its old provinces. A significant portion of the bearers of this name were royal servants and officials of different levels and kinds, but mostly with military background.⁴⁴ The only Ṣalam-šarri-uṣur lived in Aššur in the time of Ashurbanipal. 4. There is a case when a king sacrifices a sheep before the king’s image during the performance of the akītu-rituals of Nisannu 7– 8. The “king’s image” is written without the determinative of divinity.

 PNA 1165 s.v. Ṣalam-šarri-iqbi 24.  PNA 1165 s.v. Ṣalam-šarri-iqbi 26.  PNA 1165 s.v. Ṣalam-šarri-iqbi 28.  PNA 1166 s.v. Ṣalam-šarri-uṣur. Ṣalam-šarri in the name Ṣalam-šarri-uṣur (“protect/observe/ obey the royal image”) written mnu.man–pab is attested for an individual from the city of Aššur acting as a witness in a slave sale contract (PNA 1166 s.v. Ṣalam-šarri-uṣur, VAT 9832: 11 [year 641?, post-canonical eponym Aššur-garūa-nēre]). Here Ṣalam-šarri is used as an object.  The uncertainty in numbers derivates from the probability that some of these Ṣalam-šarriiqbis might be the same persons, though appearing in different documents.  It is impossible to establish actual ethnic identity of these people. They can be native Assyrians or exiles, as well as exiles’ descendants.

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The ritual text reads as follows: “The king … sacrifices a sheep(?),⁴⁵ in front(?) the image of the king (he) sacrifices.”⁴⁶ This sacrifice takes place at the stable (bīt abūsāte) to which the king proceeds in a chariot. Upon his arrival, the king introduces the gods to the stable, seats them upon their thrones, and kisses their feet. He then performs the sacrifice in front of the royal image and then at “the house of Adad,” which apparently is also located within the stable. Afterwards he proceeds to the palace.⁴⁷ The text is not dated, but Nineveh is mentioned in a list of possible sites of the festivities.⁴⁸ Most probably it is not earlier than Sennacherib’s time. The text of tākultu was incorporated into that of the akītu-ritual.⁴⁹ In case the tākultu-ritual was a part of the akītu as Rintje Frankena has suggested,⁵⁰ it is likely that the royal image revered during the akītu-festival, as this text prescribes, can be one of the dṣalam šarris that participated in the tākultu-procession. The ritual is said to be performed either in Aššur, “or in Nineveh, or in Kalḫu, or in a hostile land” on the 8th of Nisannu.⁵¹ 5. Ṣalam šarri installed in temples in and outside Assyria, also written as ṣa-lam lugal(meš) or ṣa-lam RN (written without the determinative of divinity).⁵²  The meaning of g/kimrāni is uncertain CAD G 77b quotes 4 udumeš gim-ra-ni from ADD 997: 1 under gimru and translates it as “sheep as expenditure” (see also AHw 289b). In CAD K 373b s.v. kimru B it appears as a designation of a sheep with reference to CAD G 77, but notice LKA 73: 1 (The Assyrian Fest Calendar, Menzel 1981, T29, T31), in which the king enters a g/kimrāni (some kind of structure) on the 16th of Šabātu.  [šar]ru([lu]gal) …[imme]ru([ ud]u) g/kim-ra-a-ni i-na-saḫ // pa-an ṣalam(alam)-šarri(lugal) i-na-saḫ; VAT 10464 i 10′–11′= SAA 20 no. 15 obv. i 47′–52‫׳‬, akītu ritual tablet; see also May 2008, part II, chapter 3.  VAT 10464 i 6′–13′ = SAA 20 no. 15 obv. i 47′–54′ (which translates bīt abūsāte as a “storehouse”).  SAA 20 no. 15 obv. i 55′ and rev. iii 12. The tablet is not dated, but in belonged to Mardukkabti(?)-ilāni son of Ruqāḫāiu. The latter is probably attested in a tablet dated to 694 BCE (VAT 10024); see PNA 1054 s.v. Ruqāḫāiu 1 and 3.  VAT 8005 (KAR 215), which belongs to the same tablet as VAT 10464 (see SAA 20 no. 15) is paralleled by the tākultu (STT 88 x 5 – 56). Note, that Frankena (1953, 3) dates tākultu (K. 252) to the reign of Sargon II.  Frankena 1953, 51– 59; 1961, 202.  SAA 20 no. 15 obv. i 55′–56′ and rev. iii 12– 13.  Royal images are attested also in the temple inventory list SAA 7, no. 62, which probably is the list of donations or offerings to various gods. Ṣalam šarri there is written as nu.man without the divine determinative. In SAA 7, no. 62 obv. i 14′ it is an object bearing an Assyrian inscription (šaṭir(sar) Aš-šur-a-a), apparently a stela. In all other cases (SAA 7 no. 62 obv. ii 12′, iii 10′, 16′, iv 6′, rev. i 10) these are silver images upon caldrons (ṣalam(nu)-šarri(man) ṣarpi(kug.ud) muḫḫi(ugu) ru-qi).

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Instances of installation of the ṣalam šarri of a specific king in the temples are not rare. The evidence comes from the Götteradressbuch, from the correspondence of Esarhaddon, and from the Vassal (or Succession) Treaties of Esarhaddon.⁵³ Letters of Esarhaddon’s scholars and temple officials make it clear that the usual practice was to install couples of royal images in the temples by both sides of the divine image. This correlates well with the couples of the deified royal images in the Götteradressbuch.⁵⁴ In the Götteradressbuch ⁵⁵ the name of the king, Tiglath-pileser, is mentioned. Ṣalam mTukultī-apil-Ešarra (nu mTukul-ti–a–É-šár-ra), written without the divine determinative, appears at the end of the list of gods’ images at the bīt papāḫi of the temple of the god Aššur. It is not clear which king of this name is meant.⁵⁶ SAA 10 no. 13 written by the chief scribe of Esarhaddon and Ashurbanipal, Issār-šumu-ēreš, discusses a proper date for the installation of the images of the king (ṣa-lam lugalmeš) and the images of the princes (ṣa-lam meš ša mārē(dumu[meš]) ša šarri(lugal) in the temple of Sîn of Ḫarrān. The chief scribe further instructs the king that the large royal images (ṣa-lam lugalmeš kalag! [meš]) should be placed on the right and on the left of the statue of the god, while the images of the princes should stand in front and behind it. Images of Esarhaddon and his princes were installed also in the temple at Kinalūa,⁵⁷ but alike Ḫarrān, which was Assyrian already for a long time, Kinalūa was vassal to Assyria and the king’s and princes’ images were introduced to its temple together with the other symbol of Assyrian domination – the tablet of the succession treaty (see below). Aššur-ḫamatū’a from the temple of Ištar of Arbela reports to the king (SAA 13 no. 140: 11– 13) that “the royal [images] stood on [the right] and left sides [of Iš]tar.”⁵⁸ Since the king’s name is omitted, those apparently were the images of Esarhaddon himself. This is further confirmed by another letter (SAA 13 no. 141: 6 – 8) by Aššur-ḫamatū’a, in which he informs the king “concerning the images of the king for the temple of Ištar of [Arbela], the work on them has been done.”⁵⁹

 Lauinger 2012, 98, lines T v 63 – 72=400 – 409; § 35. See the discussion below.  See above KAV 42 ii 9, KAV 42 iii 6, and KAV 43 ii 21.  KAV 42 i 12 Menzel, T 147, no. 64 i 12 = Meinhold 2009, 430, Text Nr. 15 i 12 = SAA 20 no. 49: 12.  Frankena 1953, 112 suggests that Tiglath-pileser I is meant, but does not provide any proof of it.  Lauinger 2012, 98, lines T v 63 – 72=400 – 409; § 35.  [ṣalam]([nu])-šarrī(lugalmeš)-ni [imittu(zag)] u šumēlu(150) [ša dIšt]˹ar˺([1]˹5˺) it-ti-ti-su.  ina muḫḫi(ugu) ṣalam(nu)-šarrī(lugalmeš)-ni ˹ša bit(é)˺–dIštar(15) ša uru[Arba-ìl] ˹dul˺-lu-šú-nu ˹e˺-[pi-iš].

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Issār-šumu-ēreš and Aššur-ḫamatū’a, both Assyrians, wrote the plural determinative meš only after the second word of the expression ṣalam šarrī. This proves clearly that in Assyria ṣalam šarri was already perceived as a single notion. In SAA 10 no. 358 rev. 5′-6′ Mār-Issār informs Esarhaddon: “I placed the images of the king, my lord, upon the pedestals right and left” to the statue of Tašmētu in Borsippa.⁶⁰ SAA 10 no. 350 rev. 12– 14 written probably also by MārIssār⁶¹ speaks of “the images of Sargon, king [of Assyria], which were placed in the temples, [ … s], and the streets.”⁶² The place where images of Sargon were installed is not clear, but judging from the context of the letter it should be also Borsippa. Finally, SAA 13 no. 178, a letter by a high-ranking member of the personnel of Esagil, Šumu-iddina, concerns the images of Esarhaddon (alammeš šá lugal) for this Babylonian temple of Marduk, brought there by the same Mār-Issār. It clearly testifies that the Assyrian standards regarding the royal images in the temples were transmitted onto Babylonian soil.⁶³

B. Revered Ṣalam Šarrūtija CAD interprets the expression ṣalam šarrūtija as a royal image “on steles or rock reliefs representing steles, referring to the entire monument.”⁶⁴ However, it literary means “image of my (office of) kingship.” It was already Karl Müller who pointed that ṣalmu should be translated as Bild, “image,” especially in context related to the royal images.⁶⁵ Irene Winter claimed that the term ṣalam šarrūtija was not necessarily applied to two-dimensional reliefs, but could also be used regarding statues in the round. She insists that stelae as objects were designated in Akkadian as narû, standing stone, when ṣalmu meant the image upon it.⁶⁶ Shigeo Yamada, however, refers to ṣalmu as a royal image, and narû as an inscribed

 ṣa-lam-a-ni ša šarru(man) bēli(en)-iá ina muḫḫi(ugu) ki-gal-li i-mit-tú šu-me-le ú-ša-za-a-a-zi.  The name of the sender is broken.  ṣa-lam-a-ni ša Šarru–kēn(mman–gin) šar(lugal) [kurAš-šur ki] am-mar ša ina lib(šà)-bi ekurrī(é.kurm[eš) x x] su-qa-a-te sak-nu-u-[ni].  SAA 13 no. 178: 18 – 21: “The arrangement of the clothing of the king, my lord, is just like that (of the statues) which they are setting up in the city of Aššur upon the dais of Bēl (and) I have set up in Esagil and the temples of Babylon,” ri-ik-su šá šarru(lugal) bēli(en)-iá lib(šà)-bu-ú šá ina bal.tilki ina muḫḫi(ugu) gišsub-ti Bēl(d+en) ú-šá-az-zi-zu ina É-sag-gil u ekurrī(é.kurmeš) šá Bābili(tin.tirki) ul-ta-az-zi.  CAD Ṣ 83 s.v. ṣalmu b 3′a.  Müller 1937, 25 – 27.  Winter 1997, 365 – 366 and 380 – 381 with n. 13.

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stela.⁶⁷ His definition of narû is more precise, but the numerous evidence of the Middle and Neo-Assyrian uniconic stelae from the city Aššur, which are defined by the inscriptions they bear as ṣalam PN “image of so-and-so,”⁶⁸ proves that ṣalmu can designate a stela as an object as well as the imagery on it. Royal inscriptions also clearly speak of ṣalam šarrūtija as inscribed objects together with narû.⁶⁹ The below discussed evidence points unequivocally that ṣalam šarrūtija is a monument bearing a royal effigy. It should be noted that the identical iconography of rock reliefs and stelae is described by the same term ṣalam šarrūtija. But the late Neo-Assyrian inscriptions, for instance the famous Bavian inscription of Sennacherib,⁷⁰ clearly point out that narû bore traditional royal images adoring the divine symbols. In Assyria the practice of installation of the royal image in a temple apparently goes back to the Middle Assyrian period as testify the inscriptions of Aššur-bēl-kala. He speaks of the installation of the ṣalam šarrūtija in front of the god Aššur at Ešarra.⁷¹ An undoubtedly revered ṣalam šarrūtija appears in the Neo-Assyrian royal inscriptions in one particular situation. In the earlier periods of the Assyrian expansion it is installed by the victorious king in a temple or sacred place of a conquered city, later – in a provincial capital together with the symbols of the Assyrian gods. It might interchange with ṣalam bunnannîja, lit. “the image of my likeness,” or simply narû “stela, stone.”⁷² Let us turn to the cases of installation of the royal images in the sacred places of Assyrian vassals:

 Yamada 2000, 273.  Andrae 1913, 46 – 87, nos. 34– 135.  E. g., RIMA 2 A.0.101.1 i 97b–99b which describes the installation of ṣalam šarrūtija in the palace of the subjugated king Ḫaiānu of Ḫindānu.  “[I ma]de six stele[s] (and) I fashioned image(s) of the great gods, my lords, upon them and put a royal image of myself in the labin api adoration gesture in front of them,” 6 narê(na4na.rú[e) ēpuš[dù?])-⸢uš?⸣ ṣa-lam ilāni(dingirmeš) rabûti(galmeš) bēlēja(enmeš) ab-ta-ni qé-reb-šú-un ù ṣalam šarrūtija(lugal-ti-ia) la-bi-in ap-pi ma-ḫar-šú-un ul-ziz (RINAP 3/2 Sennacherib 223, 55 – 56; translation – N.N.M.). See also fn. 106.  RIMA 2 A.0.89.3, 4′ – 5′: […] ṣa-lam šarrū(man)-ti-ia ēpuš(dù-uš) li-ta-at šarru(lugal)-t[i-ia ina qerbišu alṭur …ina É-š]ár-ra bīt(é) tu-kúl-ti-ia i-na pa-ni Aš-šur) ⸢bēl(en) ⸣-ia ušēziz…], “I made my royal image, [wrote upon it (a description of)] the victories of my royalty [and erected it in Eš] arra, the house of my succour, before Aššur, my lord.” Apparently Aššur-bēl-kala describes the installation of his golden image at Ešarra also in RIMA 2 A.0.89.2 ii 23′ – 24′, but the text there is unfortunately broken.  For the other terms used to designate a royal stele, which do not occur in the below discussed texts, see Yamada 2000, 290 – 291.

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Ashurnasirpal II (883 – 859 BCE) uses the expression ṣalam bunnannîja in a literary text describing the action of installation this image in the temple of a client king in the conquered city. The use of different terms for the effigy of the king in the inscriptions of Ashurnasirpal might indicate that the practice of installing the revered royal image at the sacred places of the vassals was not yet firmly established and originated in this initial period of the Assyrian expansion.⁷³ In 883 BCE, his first (accession?) regnal year, Ashurnasirpal II placed his image in the ēqu-mountain in a city he named Ashurnasirpal or Āl(i)-Ashurnasirpal in the land of Ḫabḫu nearby a spring source.⁷⁴ The land was severely devastated, much of its population brutally murdered by the Assyrian troops. The son of its ruler was flayed at Nineveh, and either its city Ništun was renamed after Ashurnasirpal II, or another settlement received the name of the Assyrian king. But Ashurnasirpal II does not claim that he turned this region into an Assyrian province. The son of Ashurnasirpal II, Shalmaneser III, in his 29th year (827/826) had to send his turtānu, Daiān-Aššur to reconquer disobedient Ḫabḫu.⁷⁵ This is another evidence that this land remained

 LKA 64: 8b–13:uruGar-ga-miš is-si-ni-qi šà māt(kur) Ḫat-ti a-na da-na-ni bēl(en)-te-ia nam-kuru é-kál-i-šú áš-lu-la ṣal-mu bu-na-ni-ia ma-aq-ru a-na é-kur-šú ú-šar-ri-ḫa, “the city Carchemish he approached, which is in the land of Ḫatti, in order (to show) the strength of my rule the possessions of his palace I plundered. A valuable image of my likeness, for his temple I glorified.” Note that the third voice changes into first in the middle of the narration. Translation following Victor Hurowitz in Hallo 1997, 470 – 471.  The Great Kurkh Monolith; RIMA 2 A.0.101.1 i 68 – 9: ina u₄-me-šú-ma ṣa-lam bu-na-ni-ia ēpuš(dù-uš) ta-na-ti kiš-šu-ti-a ina lìb-bi al-ṭùr ina šadȇ(kur-e) e-qi ina āli(uru) mAš-šurnaṣir(pab)-apli(a) ina rēš(sag) e-ni ú-še-zi-iz, “At that time I made an image of myself (and) wrote thereon the praises of my power. I erected (it) on the ēqu-mountain in the city (called) Ashurnasirpal at the source of the spring.” For the possible identification of this city, as well as for the meaning “cultic mound in the city” for šadȇ ēqi, see Yamada 2000, 274, n. 6. For ēqu as a cultic object and an inner room of the temple of a goddess in the expression bēt ēqi, see CAD E 253 – 4; AHw 232 and Landsberger 1915, 14, n. 1. Oppenheim notes: “bīt ēqi is the designation of the innermost room or part of a temple belonging to a female (never a male) deity; in other places, the term ēqu by itself seems to denote a cult object. … This is hardly sufficient to suggest that the ēqu was a pillar-like sacred object, but it should make us aware of the fact that the bīt ēqi might actually have been that part of a sacred locality where the ēqu was set up.” (Oppenheim 1966, 256). Holloway (2002, 306 – 307, esp. n. 267) goes further and suggests a “hypothesis that a wooden object comparable to the biblical ‫ ֲא ֵשׁ ִרים‬in a Phoenician temple was denoted by the Akkadian word ēqu.” Here ēqu is associated with two such venerated locations as a mountain and a spring source.  RIMA 3 A.0.102.14 i 156b–159a.

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vassal and did not become a province. It is only Tiglath-pileser III who finally made Ḫabḫu an Assyrian province.⁷⁶ In the same Great Kurkh Monolith and in the same year (883 BCE) we find a report about the installation of ṣalam šarrūtija of Ashurnasirpal II in the palace of “Ḫaiānu, a man of the city Ḫindānu.” Erection of the royal effigy in a palace of the Assyrian vassal as such is not an evidence that this image was revered, but it presents an analogy and an earlier precedent to the installation of the venerated image of Tiglath-pileser III in the palace of Ḫanūnu of Gaza.⁷⁷

The inscriptions of Shalmaneser III provide further examples of ṣalam šarrūtija being installed in temples and sacred places of his vassals.⁷⁸ 4. In the year 856 BCE – the third year of Shalmaneser III, the king conquers Enzite, located in the modern Elazığ region, east of the Upper Euphrates, the outmost north-west point reached in this campaign. The ṣalam šarrūtija was placed in this land in a sacred plot of the city of Saluria, this time qaqqiri ēqi. ⁷⁹ 5. In the same 856 BCE, the king’s thrid year on the campaign to Urartu in the land of Gilzānu, “the Sea of Na’iri,” he placed the ṣalam šarrūtija in the city temple.⁸⁰

 RINAP 1 Tiglath-pileser III 41: 27′–31′; 49: 6′–8′; 47: 43 – 44, see Yamada 2000, 300 – 305, in concern of the difficulties of determination of the province annexation process in the early NeoAssyrian period.  RIMA 2 A.0.101.1 i 97– 8: ina u₄-me-šú-ma ṣa-lam šarru(man)-ti-a šur-ba-a ēpuš(dù-uš) li-i-ta ù ta-na-ti ina libbi(šà) al-ṭùr ina qereb(murub₄) ekalli(é.gal)-šú ú-še-zi-iz, “At that time I made a colossal royal statue of myself, wrote thereon (a description of) my victories and praises, (and) erected (it) within his palace.”  Concerning the royal Assyrian cult, on the triumphal introduction of the Assyrian gods into the palaces of the defeated king, see May 2008, Conclusions; Shalmaneser III’s Kurkh Monolith RIMA 3 A.0.102.2: 80 – 81.  The Kurkh Monolith (853/852 BCE), following RIMA 3 A.0.102.2 ii 44 and Yamada 2000, 278 – 279, with my emendations: ṣa-lam šarru(man)-ti-ia šur-ba-a ēpuš(dù-uš) ta-na-ti Aš-šur bēli(en) rabê(gal) bēli(en)-ia u li-ti kiš-šu-ti-ia ina qé-reb-šú al-ṭùr ina uruSa-lu-ri-a šapiltu(ki.ta) ina qaq-qi-ri e-qi ú-še-ziz, “I made a colossal image of my (office of) kingship, inscribed thereon the praise of Aššur, the great lord, my lord, and the victory of my might (and) set (it) up in the lower city of Saluria, in the place of ēqi.” The translation of šurbû here and below follows Grayson, and not Yamada. I believe, that ṣalam šarrūtija in the first place means the imagery upon the stelae and not a royal statue, so šurbû relates to the size and not to the splendor of the object. For ēqu as a sacred place or a cultic object, see Yamada 2000: 279 with n. 20.  The Kurkh Monolith (853/852 BCE), following RIMA 3 A.0.102.2 ii 62– 63 and Yamada 2000, 280 – 281 with my emendations): ṣa-lam šarru(man)-ti-ia šur-ba-a ēpuš(dù-uš) ta-na-ti Aš-šur

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In 838/7 BCE, year 21/22 of the king – his 21st palû the ṣalam šarrūtija is set in a temple at the city of Maruba (Ma’rubbu?) in Phoenicia.⁸¹ Late in the year 828/827 BCE, in the campaign to the land of Patin, the ṣalam šarrūtija is erected in the “house of gods” at the city of Kinalūa identified as Tell Tayinat.⁸²

According to the written sources, in the time of Ashurnasirpal II and Shalmaneser III the installation of the royal image is never accompanied by the installation of the divine symbols. Besides the above mentioned examples, stelae were erected in places sacred to Assyrians themselves, such as mountains, for instance mount Amanus, the Mediterranean shore and the shore of the lake Na’iri, multiple river sources, among them the sources of the rivers Tigris and Euphrates.⁸³ Yamada describes these locations as “conspicuous geographical features with no associated settlements, i. e. on a mountain, at a seashore or lakefront, on a riverbank (especially at the source of major streams)” and treats the installation of the royal effigies as a commemorative act “claiming sovereignty by setting up his monument in its territory.”⁸⁴ But he cautiously notes: “Thus, the Assyrian royal image – whether a relief on a stela or a statue in the round – was placed together with images or symbols of local gods in a sanctuary in subjugated cities, just as at temples in Assyria proper, and represented the Assyrian monarch as a worshipper. The Assyrian king was thus associated with every act of worship performed in the sanctuary, both as an earthly representative of

bēli(en) rabe(gal-e) bēli(en)-ia u li-ti kiš-šú-ti-ia ša ina māt(kur) Na-ʾi-ri e-tap-pa-áš ina qé-reb-šú al-ṭùr ina qabal(murub₄) ali(uru)-šú ina é-kur-ri-šú ú-še-ziz, “I made a colossal image of my (office of) kingship, (and) inscribed thereon the praise of Aššur, the great lord, my lord, and the victorious conquests which I had been achieving in the land of Na’iri, (and) placed (it) in the middle of his city in his temple.”  The inscription upon the statue [828/827 BCE] from Kalḫu; following RIMA 3 A.0.102.16 ii 160′ – 161′ and Yamada 2000, 285 with my emendations): ṣa-lam šarru(man)-ti-ia ina uruMa !-ruba ⸢āl(utu)⸣ dan-nu-ti-šú ina ekurri(é.kur)-šú ú-še-ziz, “A colossal image of my (office of) kingship in Maruba, his (Ba’il’s, king of Tyre – N.N.M.) fortified city, in its temple I placed.”  The Black Obelisk (828 BCE), following RIMA 3 A.0.102.14 i 149 – 156 and Yamada 2000, 287 with my emendations: mDaiān(di.kud)–Aš-šur lútur-ta-nu… ṣa-lam šarru(man)-ti-ia šur-ba-a ēpuš(dù-uš) ina uruKu*-na-lu-a ali(uru) šarru(man)-ti-šú ina bīt(é) ilānī(dingirmeš)-šú ú-še-ziz, “Daiān-Aššur, the field marshal… created a colossal image of my (office of) kingship, placed (it) in Ku/inalūa, his (i. e. the defeated king’s – N.N.M.) royal city, in the house of his (i. e. the defeated king’s – N.N.M.) gods.” For the comments on readings marked with * please see the text editions respectively.  See Yamada 2000, 273 – 99.  Yamada 2000, 294.

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Assyrian and local gods and as a participant in every favour they might vouchsafe to grant.”⁸⁵ 8. The most discussed example of ṣalam šarrūtija as a deified royal image is found in a number of the annals of Tiglath-pileser III. It is also the most explicit one as it specifically stresses the fact that the royal image was counted among the gods of the land of Gaza.⁸⁶ The reconstructed text should be: ṣalam ilānī bēlēja u ṣalam šarrūtija ša ḫurāṣi ēpuš ina qereb ekalli ša uru Ḫaz[zūtu ulziz a]-˹na˺ ilānī mātīšunu amnūma [sattukkūšu]nu ukīn. ⁸⁷ The translation according to Hayim Tadmor⁸⁸ is: “A (statue) bearing the image of the ((great)) gods, my lords, and my (own) royal image out of gold I fashioned. In the palace of Gaza [I set it up]. I counted it among the gods of their land….” Unlike in his early publication, Tadmor suggests that the images of gods and the king the were set in a palace and not in a temple and that the inscriptions meant a single image, “a statue of the king, with symbols of gods upon his breast,” thus not separating images of gods and the king. Leaving aside the question of the imperial royal cult, which as he previously suggested was imposed on vassals only and not on Assyrians, he does believe that the image in question was revered.⁸⁹ Yamada translates this passage in the spirit of Tadmor’s prior edition:⁹⁰ I fashioned (a statue bearing) image of the great gods, my lords, and my royal image out of gold, erected (it) in the palace of the city Ga[za] (and) I reckoned (it) among the gods of their land; I established the[ir sattukku-offerings].⁹¹

 Yamada 2000, 296.  RINAP 1 Tiglath-pileser III 42: 10′b–12′a = Tadmor 1994, 138 – 141, Summary Inscription 4: 10′–12′: [ṣa-lam ilānī(dingirmeš)]-˹ni bēlē(enmeš)˺-ia ù ṣalam(alam*) šarru(lugal)-ti-ia [ša ḫurāṣi(kù.gi) ēpuš(dù-uš) i]-na qé-reb ˹ekalli˺(˹é.gal˺) [ša uruHa-az-zi-ti ul-ziz a]-˹na˺ ilānī(dingirmeš) māti(kur)-šu-nu am-nu-ma [sat-tuk-ki-šú-nu] ú-kín; RINAP 1 Tiglath-pileser III 48: 16′b–17′a = Tadmor 1994, 176 – 179, Summary Inscription 8: 16′ –17′: ṣa-lam ilānī(dingirmeš) rabûti(galmeš) bēlē(enmeš)-ia ṣa-lam šarru(lugal)-ti-ia ša ḫurāṣi(kù.gi) ēpuš([dù-uš]) [i-na qé-reb ekalli(é.gal) ša uruḪa-az-zi-ti ul-ziz a-na ilānī(dingirmeš) māti(kur)-šu-nu am-nu-ma sattuk-ki-šú]-nu ú-kin; RINAP 1 Tiglath-pileser III 49, 14– 15a = Tadmor 1994, 188 – 189, Summary Inscription 9 rev. 14– 15: [ṣa-lam ilānī(dingirmeš-ni) bēlē(enmeš-ia) ù ṣa-lam šarru(lugal)-ti-ia ša Ḫurāṣi(kù.gi) ēpuš(dù-uš)] i-na qé-reb ekalli (é.gal) ša uruḪa-˹az˺-[zi-ti ul-ziz a-na ilānī(dingirmeš) māti(kur)-šú-nu am-nu-ma sat-tuk-ki-šu/ú-nu ú-kin].  See also Tadmor 1994, 222– 225, Excursus 4, composite text, §3.  Tadmor 1994, 224.  Cf. Tadmor 1994, 177, commentary to 16′ versus Tadmor 1964, 264.  RINAP 1 Tiglat-Pileser III 42; 48; 49 (106, 127 and 132).  Yamada points to Na’aman (1999, 401) as a source for the restoration of sattukku in this passage. Na’aman in turn inserts sattukku/ginê, and refers to Berlejung 1998, 344, who only suggests

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I would, nevertheless, prefer a more literal translation taking into consideration the understanding of ṣalam šarrūtija as “the image of my (office of) kingship” as well as the fact that here the image(s) of the gods AND the image of the king are installed, and not a stela with a royal effigy and divine symbols:⁹² I fashioned the image(s) of the gods, my lords, and the image of my (office of) kingship out of gold, erected (them) in the palace [of the city Ga]za, (and) I reckoned (them) among the gods of their land; I established [their sattukku-offerings].

This interpretation is closer to Tadmor’s translation of the passage into Hebrew⁹³ and also causes less syntactic difficulties. In both cases the adoration of the king’s image and its installation among the gods of Gaza are obvious. This passage in the inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser III is the most evident example that specifically regards the appointment of ṣalam šarrūtija among the gods of the conquered land.⁹⁴ However, Assyrian kings practiced the imposition of the imperial cult of Assyrian gods and a royal image in the vassal states much earlier, when the grounds and the guidelines of the empire have been laid. Starting with the reign of Tiglath-pileser III, royal inscriptions clearly differentiate between annexed provinces and vassal kingdoms.⁹⁵ This distinction, however, does not encompass the installation of the king’s images and divine symbols that is again attested starting with the reign of Tiglath-pileser III. Then it goes hand in hand with the annexation of the territory, mass deportato restore “Opfer?” in her German translation but not in Akkadian. The restoration is clearly based on the well-known examples of imposition of sattukku/ginê on Assyrian provinces. The actually existence of the sattukku in the text would leave no doubt in the existence of the imposition of the Assyrian imperial cult in the vassal countries.  Compare Tadmor and Yamada 2011, 87, no. 35, col. III, lines 31– 35, were the stela is designated as narû(na4na.rú.a) and the king is said to incise the great gods and the ṣalam šarrūtija upon it: ilānī(dingirmeš) rabûti(galmeš) bēlē(enmeš)-ia ina muḫ-ḫi e-˹ṣi˺-[ir] ṣalam(nu) šarrū(man)-ti-ia ina qer-bi-šú ab-ni-ma, together with the royal inscription. Here the co-ordinate conjunctive u and repetition of ṣalam points clearly that more than one image was installed. Grammatical singular of ṣalam in ṣalam ilānī bēlēja may stand for a number of images (contra Berlejung 2012, 158), as for instance in the Esarhaddon’s Vassal Treaties from Tell Tayinat (Lauinger 2012, 98, line 404, T v 67 ṣa-lam [aḫḫē(šešmeš)]-šu mārē(dumu.nitameš)-šu, “image(s) of his brothers, his sons”). In any case it indicates few divine symbols or images, and not a single one. Since in this inscription the images of gold are said to be installed it is indeed possible that not stone stelae, but divine symbols or statues in the round together with the royal statue are meant.  Tadmor 1964, 264: ‫ וצלם מלכותי )עשוי( זהב ]בתוך ההיכל של עזה הצבתי‬,‫"את צלם האלים הגדולים –אדוני‬ ".‫ומניתי אותם עם אלוהי ארצם‬  Cf. Berlejung 2012, 159.  Yamada 2000, 300.

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tions, organization of the provincial capitals, and appointment of the šūt rēši officials as the province governors. Steven Holloway counted six cases of erection of the symbol, literally “weapon” of Aššur, by Tiglath-pileser III.⁹⁶ He claims that the symbol was installed alone, without the divine image. Nonetheless, actually in two of these cases both a divine “weapon” and a royal image were installed in some connection to each other. In both of these instances text variants report of the installation of the symbol of the god Aššur and of the erection of the ṣalam šarrūtija. Further, three texts describe the annexation of the region of Ulluba and Ḫabḫu in 739 BCE.⁹⁷ The installation of the divine and royal symbols during the same campaign and in the same province is the only feature connecting between the weapon of Aššur and the royal relief: the divine symbol is set in an Assyrian provincial royal palace and the king’s image seems to be cut upon a mountain cliff. A similar situation is attested on the other occasion, at Bīt-Ištar, central Zagros, 737 BCE, where the divine weapon⁹⁸ was installed together with the royal image.⁹⁹ The installation of the royal monuments in the newly annexed provinces as reflected by Tiglath-pileser III’s inscriptions appears to be a routine and less glorified event than a similar action carried out by himself or by his predecessors in the vassal states. Thus, in RINAP 1 Tiglath-pileser III 47: 37b – 38a, we find a passage which seems to be copied from the royal stelae inventory list:

 At Ḫumut (Kār-Aššur) in Babylonia, 745 BCE; at Dūr-Tukultī-apil-Ešarra, in Babylonia(?), 745 BCE; in the region of Ulluba and Ḫabḫu, valley of Lesser Habur, 739 BCE; at Bīt-Ištar, central Zagros, 737 BCE; at Šubria, Assyrian province of Na’iri, 735 BCE; and near the border of Egypt, a region under the “wardenship” of Idibi’ilu, 732 BCE (2002, 153 – 56 vi 6 – 10, 12).  RINAP 1 Tiglath-pileser III 41: 27′ – 31′; 47: 43 – 44; 49: 6′ – 8′. But in RINAP 1 Tiglath-pileser III 41: 28′a – 29′b and 49: 6′ we read: [ṣa]-˹lam˺ šarru(lugal)-ti-[ia] [i]-na kurI-li-im-[me-ru ul-ziz … ], “I set up] an [im]age of [my] (office of) kingship on (the face) of Mount Ilim[eru],” whereas in no 47, line 44 appears [ekal(é.gal) mu]-⸢šab˺ šarru(lugal)-ti-ia ina lib-bi ad-di kak(gištukul) Aš-šur bēl(en-ia ina lib-bi ar-mi, “Inside (the newly built city Aššur-iqīša – N.N.M.), I founded [a palace for] my royal [resid]ence. I set up the weapon of (the god) Aššur, my lord inside it.”  See the history and the overview of this practice in Holloway 2002, 160 – 177.  RINAP 1 Tiglath-pileser III 15: 8b – 9a; 28: 6b – 7a; the quote is a restoration combining these texts: ina u₄-me-šu-ma mul-mu-lu parzillu(an.bar) zaq-tú ēpuš(dù-uš) li-ta-at Aš-šur bēl(en)-ia ina muḫ-ḫi àš-ṭur ina muḫḫi(ugu) nam-ba-’i ša Bīt-Ištar(urué–d15) ú-kin, “At that time, I made a pointed iron ‘arrow,’ inscribed the mighty deeds of (the god) Aššur, my lord, on it, (and) I set (it) up at the spring of the city Bīt-Ištar.” These inscriptions also make clear what was kak Aššur.

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I erected my royal image in Mount Tikrakki, in the cities Bīt-Ištar (and) Ṣibur, in the Mount Ariarma – the mountain ¹⁰⁰ of roosters – (and) at [Mount S]ilḫazu, which they call the fortress of the Babylonian(s).¹⁰¹

C. Narû Used Instead of Ṣalam Šarrūtija and Installed Together with Divine Symbols Already in the time of Tiglath-pileser III a simple narû appears in place of ṣalam šarrūtija in RINAP 1 Tiglath-pileser III 35 ii 28′ – 29′a, a passage which seems to be even closer to the original inventory list: “I firmly placed my stelae in [ … ], the city Bīt-Ištar, the city Ṣibar (Ṣibur), (and at) Mount Ariarma (and) Mount Silḫazu, mighty mountains.”¹⁰² Unfortunately it is unclear from the above quoted passages, where exactly in Bīt-Ištar the royal stela was erected. Since it is listed among the stelae set up on the mountains, it is plausible that the Bīt-Ištar stela was placed at the spring together with the symbol of Aššur. In the time of Sargon II (721– 705 BCE) conquered lands were annexed and turned into Assyrian provinces; their original population was exiled and they were repopulated with deportees.¹⁰³ The cities were renamed and the cult of the divine symbols together with the royal image was established there. The term narû is constantly used in the royal inscriptions as parallel to ṣalam šarrūtija. ¹⁰⁴ Inscriptions of Sargon II describe the installations of the royal stelae and divine symbols in Media, in the cities of Kišēsim, Ḫarḫār and others in 716/715 BCE.¹⁰⁵ One of the text variants calls the image installed at Ḫarḫar “stelae of  The beginning and the end of this passage survived also in RINAP 1 Tiglath-pileser III 17, 8 – 9a. In the light of RINAP 1 Tiglath-pileser III 35, 28′ – 29′ (see the quote) and taking into consideration that the stelae (or reliefs) were commonly set up in the mountains while installation of the royal images in some unspecified location “in the land” sounds odd, I suggest to amend Yamada’s interpretation of kur here from mātu into šadû.  ṣa-lam šarru(lugal)-ti-ia ina kurTi-tk-ra-˹ak-ki Bīt-Ištar(urué˺–d15) uruṢi-bu-ur kurA-ri-ar-mi kur Tarlugallu(dar.lugalmeš.mušen) [kurSi]-˹il˺-ḫa-zi ša dan-nu-tu ša mār(dumu) Bābili(ká.dingir.raki) i-qab-bu-šú-ni ul-ziz.  ˹ina˺ [ … ] Bīt-Ištar(˹uru˺é–dinanna) uruṢi-bar kurA-ri-ar-ma kurSil-ḫa-zu šadê(kur-e) dannūtu(kal)meš narê(narmeš)-iá ú-kin.  May 2015, 107– 108 with further references.  Since narû designates a stela in Akkadian, this parallelism proves that ṣalam šarrūtija usually meant two-dimensional image, and not a statue in the round.  Fuchs 1994, 102– 103; Ann 94/94a–95 with the parallels (Fuchs 1994, 209 – 210, Prunk 59 – 60): mdBēl(en)-šarru(lugal)-ú-ṣur uruKi-še-[si-im]-a-a qa-ti ik !-[š]u-u[d]!-ma šá-a-šú a-di būši(níg.šu) ekalli(é.gal)-šú a-na māt(kur) Aš-šur ki ú-ra-a*-šú lúšu-ut rēši(sag)-ia bēl(en) pāḫati(nam) eli(ugu) āli(uru)-šu áš-kun ilāni(dingirmeš) a-li-kut maḫ-ri-ia ina qer-bi-šu ú-še-

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stone” (narê abni), while in the other duplicate of the same text it appears as ṣalam šarrūtija. ¹⁰⁶ The interchange of the variants “I appointed the symbol of Aššur, my lord, to be their deity” and “I made a symbol of Aššur, my lord, inside it”¹⁰⁷ in Annals 99 and 99a proves that the installation of the “weapon of Aššur” or other Assyrian gods in the subjugated lands actually meant establishing cults of these gods there. Thus, the imposition of the Assyrian imperial cult at least in the reign of Sargon II is undisputable! Sennacherib continued the practice of installation of the symbol of Aššur together with royal image in provinces. This evidence comes from the inscription of 698 BCE and concerns the annexation of the city Illubru of Ḫilakku: I captured Illubri again. Captives, the booty of my hands, I settled in the midst of it. Symbol of Aššur my lord I set inside it. I caused (them) to fashion a stela of alabaster and installed (it) in front of it (Aššur’s symbol – N.N.M.).¹⁰⁸

Our latest evidence of the installation of the royal image in a sacred location together with a sacred object comes from Esarhaddon’s Vassal/Succession Treaties, the tablet recently discovered at Kinalūa/Tell Tayinat,¹⁰⁹ by that time an Assyrian province:¹¹⁰

ši[b]-ma/kakki(gištukul) ilāni(dingirmeš) a-li-ku[t maḫ]-ri-ia ˹ú˺-še-piš-ma qé-[reb-šu ú]-šar-mi Kār-Nergal(dmaš.(maš)) šùm-šú ab-bi ṣa-lam šarru(lugal)-ti-ia ina lìb-bi ul-ziz, “My hand captured Bēl-šarru-uṣur of Kišēsim. I brought him with all that he had in his palace to Assyria. My eunuch I appointed as a governor in his city. I put the gods who lead me inside it/I made the divine symbols who lead me and put (them) inside it. I called it Kār-Nergal and installed the image of my (office of) kingship in the midst of it.”  Fuchs 1994, 103 – 105, Ann 99/99a-100 with the parallels (Fuchs 1994, 210 – 211, Prunk 61– 63): 6 na-gi-i ak-šud-ma eli(ugu)-˹šú˺!-nu ú-rad-di kakki(gištukul) Aš-šur bēli(en)-ia ! ana ilū(dingir)-ti-šú-un áš-k[un]/kakki(gištukul) d![Aš-šur] bēli[en]-ia ú-[še-piš-ma qé]-[reb˺-šu ú-šar-mi uru Kār-mŠarru(lugal)-ukīn(gi.na) šùm-šú ab-bi narû(na4na.rú.a) ˹ab˺!-ni … [ … i]-na qer-bi-šú [ul]-ziz/ṣa-lam šarru(lugal)-ti-ia ina uruKār-mŠarru(lugal)-ukīn(˹g]in!) ul-[ziz], “6 regions I captured. I appointed the symbol of Aššur, my lord, to be their deity/I made a symbol of Aššur, my lord, inside it (city of Ḫarḫār – N.N.M.) I set. I called it Kār-Šarrukīn. Stela of stone I installed inside it/image of my (office of) kingship I installed in Kār-Šarrukīn.”  kakki(gištukul) dAš-šur bēli(en)-ia ana ilū(dingir)-ti-šú-un áš-k[un]/kakki(gištukul) d[Aš-šur bēli(en)-ia] ú-[šē-piš-ma qé]-⸢reb⸣-šu ú-šar-mi.  uruIl-lu-ub-ru a-na eš-šu-te aṣ-bat nišē(unmeš) mātāti(kur.kur) ki-šit-ti qātā(šuII)-ia i-na lìb-bi ú-še-šíb kakki(gištukul) dAš-šur bēli(en)-ia qé-rib-šú ú-šar-me narâ(na4na.rú.a-a) ša gišnugalli(na4giš.nu₁₁.gal) ú-še-piš-ma ma-ḫar-šu ul-zi-iz; RINAP 3/1 Sennaherib 17 vi 87– 91; translation – N.N.M.  Kinalūa was annexed as a province by Tiglath-pileser III. See Harrison and Osborne 2012, 126 for the detailed overview. uru

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Whoever … discards this adê-tablet, a tablet of Aššur, king of the gods, and the great gods, my lords, or discards the image of Esarhaddon, king of Assyria, the image of Ashurbanipal, the great crown prince designate, or the images of his (Ashurbanipal’s – N.N.M.) brothers, (and) his (Esarhaddon’s – N.N.M.) first-born sons¹¹¹ which are (imposed) over him; (whoever among you) should not protect this seal(ed tablet) of the great ruler (= Aššur) of the adê(‐document) of Ashurbanipal, the great crown prince designated, son of Esarhaddon, king of Assyria, your lord, in which it is written that this document has been sealed by the seal of Aššur, king of the gods, and presented before you, as your own god …¹¹² (the curses that follow in the lines T v 78, § 78 will destroy you – N.N.M.).

The tablet of the adê-treaties was unearthed in the cella of the Neo-Assyrian temple at Tell Tayinat.¹¹³ Kazuko Watanabe suggested that this tablet was worshiped in all regions of Assyrian domination not only by Assyrians, but also by their vassals who swore the adê-oath.¹¹⁴ The text unequivocally indicates that the tablet was turned into a local god, similarly to the “weapon” of the god Aššur, which was turned into a local god at Ḫarḫār by Sargon II.¹¹⁵ Since peoples all over the empire were forced to swear the adê-treaties, it is clear that the vassals of Assyria as well as the inhabitants of the Assyrian heartland and the provinces had to revere them. Not only the images of Esarhaddon but those of Ashurbanipal and all his brothers were installed along with the worshiped covenant tablet and obviously were adored together with the tablet itself. Technically not the term ṣalam

 Lauinger 2012, 98, lines T v 63 – 72=400 – 409; § 35: šá ˹ṭup-pi˺ a-de-e an-ni-e ṭup-pi Aš-šur šar(man) ilāni(˹dingir˺meš) u ilāni(dingir˹meš˺) ˹rabûti(galmeš) bēle(en˺)-iá ú-na-kar-u-ma ṣalam mAš-šur–aḫu(pap)–˹iddina˺(˹aš˺) šar(man) māt(kur) Aš-šur ˹ṣa-lam mAš-šur–bāni(dù)– apli(a) mār(dumu) šar(man)˺ rabû(gal) ša bēt(é) ridūt[e](uš-t[e]) lu ṣa-lam ˹aḫḫē˺(˹šešmeš˺)-šú aplē(dumu.nitameš)-šú ša ˹ina muḫ(ugu˺)-ḫ[i-šú] ú-na-kar-u-ni kunuk(na4kišib) () rabê(gal-e) an-ni-e šá a-de-e šá mAš-šur–bāni(dù)–apli(a) māri(dumu) šar(man) rabī(gal) šá bēt(é) ridûte(uš-te) mār(dumu) mAš-šur–aḫu(pap)–iddina(aš) šar(man) māt(kur) Aš-šur bēli(en)-ku-nu ina libbi(šà) šá-ṭir-u-ni ina kunuk(na4kišib) šá šar(man) ilāni(dingirmeš) ka-nik-uni ina maḫri(igi)-ku-nu šá-kin-u-ni ki ili(dingir)-ku-nu la ta-na-˹ṣar˺-a-ni. The relevant passage of the Vassal Treaties Tablet from the Nabû temple at Kalḫu is damaged.  In my opinion both Ashurbanipal and Šamaš-šuma-ukīn are designated with dumu.nitameš.  Translation of the lines T v 68 – 72=405 – 409 cf. Watanabe 2014, 160.  Harrison and Osborne 2012, 137; Lauinger 2012, 90. The plan of the temple (Building XVI, Lauinger 2012, 132, Fig. 4), in the cella of which the tablet was uncovered, is identical with that of the Neo-Assyrian temple at Tell al-Rimah (Fig. 2b and Oates 1968, pl. XXXIII), where the royal stela was discovered also in the cella (Example 2 below). The excavators note that the latest construction phase of Building XVI belongs to the late eight/seventh century BCE, which corresponds to the period of annexation of Kinalūa by Tiglath-pileser III.  Watanabe 2015, 207.  The above quoted Fuchs 1994, 103 – 105, Ann 99/99a–100.

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šarrūtija but ṣalam RN is used here to designate the effigies mounted at Kinalūa. The installation of the image of the king together with the images of the princes recalls the installation of their images at the temple of Sîn in Ḫarrān.¹¹⁶ It is plausible that a stela similar to those of Til Barsib and Sam’alla with the large figure of Esarhaddon at the front and the smaller ones of the his heirs on the sides was erected at Kinalūa. All the textual evidence discussed above unequivocally shows that royal images were adored in the same manner, as were images and attributes of gods. Instances of installation of the royal images in Assyrian temples are copious. Sennacherib’s inscriptions testify that this was a very ancient practice: “Since time immemorial, the kings, my ancestors, created copper statues, replicas of their (own) forms, to be erected in temples.”¹¹⁷ But a sufficient difference in the use of the terms ṣalam šarri and ṣalam šarrūtija in the Neo-Assyrian period is worth noting. In all evidence where ṣalam šarri relates to the image of a particular king it appears without the divine determinative. Moreover, all these instances but one¹¹⁸ are dated to the reign of Esarhaddon and, all of them, but one,¹¹⁹ relate to images of Esarhaddon. The attestations of dṣalam šarri both in the Assyrian heartland and in the provinces are not associated with any specific king. But the copies of the lists of gods in which they are found, seem to belong to the times of Sargon II and Sennacherib. Ṣalam šarri as a divine witness and as a theophoric element in the name m(d)Ṣalam-šarri-iqbi is attested only in the the time of Sargonids, mostly in the reign of Ashurbanipal. The sacrifice before the king’s image as a part of the akītu-ritual is dated to Sennacherib’s time or later.¹²⁰ The situation is different with the worshiped ṣalam šarrūtija, installed in subjugated lands. The glorious conqueror-king erected the “image of his (office of) kingship”. His name was known to all his contemporaries, literate and illiterate, and to anyone able to read his inscriptions in posterity because his name was written upon his image. The textual evidence attests that the royal images

 See above, SAA 10 no. 13.  RINAP 3/1 Sennaherib 17 vi 80 – 85; RINAP 3/2 Sennacherib 42: 17′b – 18; 43: 67b 69a; 46: 139b – 140a: ša ul-tu ul-la šarrū(lugalmeš) abū(admeš)-ia ṣa-lam erî(urudu) tam-šil gat-ti-šú-un a-na šu-zu-zi qé-reb ekurrū(é.kurmeš) ib-nu-ma (with ortographic variants).  The Götteradressbuch mentioning the image of Tiglath-pileser. This copy of the text dates to the reign of Ashurbanipal.  SAA 10 no. 350, see above. This is the letter of Esarhaddon which speaks of the images of Sargon II.  See above, fn. 48.

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were revered, starting with time of Ashurnasirpal II and through end of the empire.¹²¹

Archaeological and Pictorial Evidence Collecting, comparing, and correctly interpreting archeological and pictorial evidence can be the most valuable complement to the data of the texts.

A. Archaeological Evidence This is the evidence for the cult of a royal image, preserved in the archaeological record at our disposal. Only two cases of the adoration of the royal effigy are presently known. One is constituted by a stationary altar installed before a stela, the other is a stela set up in a cella of a temple.

Example 1 (Fig. 1a–b): Stela the 5th year of Ashurnasirpal (879 BCE) with an altar in front of it While excavating the Ninurta temple at Kalḫu (Nimrud), Henry Layard uncovered a stela of Ashurnasirpal II (859 –883 BCE), standing to the right of the temple’s portal (Fig. 1a).¹²² This monument is known as the Great or Nimrud Monolith. Before the stela was an altar; both were discovered in situ (Fig. 1b):¹²³ It was fixed on a plain square pedestal and stood isolated from the building. In front of it was an altar of stone, supported on lions’ feet, very much resembling in shape the tripod of the Greeks. It would seem from the altar before this figure, that the Assyrians, like other nations of old, were in the habit of deifying the heroes of their race, and that the king who extended the bounds of the empire to distant lands, and raised temples to the gods, received after his death divine honors.

Layard did not read the cuneiform: thus his comprehension of his find is based solely on the archaeological record interpreted in the spirit of the classical antiq Note, however, the Middle Assyrian evidence of the installation of ṣalam šarrūtija at Ešarra by Aššur-bēl-kala (fn. 71).  Layard 1953a, 351.  Layard 1953a, 302.

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Fig. 1a–b. Stela of Ashurnasirpal II at the entrance to the Ninurta temple at Kalḫu (Nimrud) with an altar in front of it. 5th year of Ashurnasirpal II – 879 BCE; (b) detail.

uity. Jutta Börker-Klähn¹²⁴ notes, that the stone altar bore no inscription, which excludes Cogan’s (following Galling) suggestion that “the offerings were directed to the gods.”¹²⁵ Mordechai Cogan was misled by Galling’s statement that “the round altar standing before the stela bears a dedicatory inscription to Bel, ‘the offerings were directed to the gods, and would bring coincidently, benefit to the king.’”¹²⁶ Peter Machinist¹²⁷ confirms Börker-Klähn’s information, supporting it by reference to Gadd.¹²⁸

   

Börker-Klähn 1982, 182, n. 2. Cogan 1974, 58. Cogan 1974, 58. Machinist 2006,180 – 181.

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It should be noted that the exact year of the installation of the stela with the altar cannot be established with certainty. We can presume that it was the year of the creation of the stela (879 BCE), since that was the regular course, as we learn from the royal inscriptions.¹²⁹

Example 2 (Fig. 2a–b): Stela of Adad-nērārī III (810‒783 BCE) The stela was found in situ at the cella of the Neo-Assyrian temple at the site of Tell al-Rimah, identified as ancient Zamaḫâ,¹³⁰ next to the statue of the god. The massive pedestal of the statue is preserved. It is “a placing that is unparalleled among the find spots of other royal stelae”¹³¹ so far. The stela was a subject of a selective mutilation. Another rare, but not extraordinary pecularity of this stela is that the king is depicted turning to his left. In the cella the stela was installed in a way that the adoration gesture refered also to the deity on the pedestal. There is no analogy to the installation of a royal effigy together with divine images or symbols in a sacred location in the archaeological record but it is widely attested in the above quoted written evidence, as well as in the pictorial evidence presented bellow. This is a excellent example of the installation of a royal images in the temple cellas known from the Götteradressbuch and from the correspondence of Esarhaddon. It should be stressed that Tell al-Rimah was part of the Assyrian heartland as was Kalḫu.

B. Pictorial Evidence Example 3 (Fig. 3a–b): The relief of Ashurbanipal (669 – 626 BCE) The relief (ca. 649 BCE) from room H of Northern Palace of Ashurbanipal is actually an ancient depiction of the evidence described above, found by Layard in the archaeological record (example 1; Fig. 1 a–b). A crenellated altar is standing in a path before a stela adjacent to or carved upon a wall of a separate structure at the entrance to a freestanding building represented by a columned façade.

 Gadd 1936, 129, BM 118805. C.J. Gadd wrote that the altar is uninscribed and that E. Nassoushi, who edited “the inscription upon it, confused the object in question (BM 118805) with the stone pedestal BM 118870 which is bearing the inscription he published.”  E. g., Yamada 2000, 290; Porter 2000, 171, n. 43.  The identification is due to the inscription on the stela itself (Oates 1968, 138).  Page 1968, 139.

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Fig. 2a–b. Stela of Adad-nērārī III (797 BCE) inside the cella of the temple at Tell al-Rimah next to the pedestal of a divine statue; (a) view; (b) plan of the temple.

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Fig. 3a–b. Relief from the North Palace of Ashurbanipal, Room H, ca. 649 BCE. A crenellated altar stands in the path before a stela.

This building, usually interpreted as bīt ḫilani,¹³² is located upon the top of a wooded hill with watercourses running down. The path with the altar leads uphill towards the bīt ḫilani. ¹³³ An arched aqueduct connects the complex atop the hill with a triple walled city,¹³⁴ surmounted by a palace or temple with an entrance flanked by apotropaic figures of lions and bull-men. Richard Barnett¹³⁵ suggested that the city is Nineveh and the palace should be Sennacherib’s “palace without a rival” since its appearance is doubtless Assyrian. He goes even further, supposing that the stela is representing Sennacherib, who constructed the aqueduct leading water to Nineveh and that the altar and stela “commemorate the murdered monarch.”¹³⁶ The important conclusion here is that adoration of the king’s effigy – in a form of relief sculptured upon a stela and erected at the entrance to a temple or at the temple cella – existed in the Assyrian heartland through entire Neo-Assyrian period. The expressions of this phenomenon were identical in the times of Ashurnasirpal II and Ashurbanipal: an altar in front of royal stelae.     

E. g., Albenda 1976–77. Bīt ḫilanis are usually mentioned as temples or as parts of them. Barnett 1976, pl. XXIII, slabs 8 – 9. Barnett 1976, 41. See also Reade 1964, 5.

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Fig. 4a–c. Carving of the royal effigy at the Tigris tunnel. Balawat Gates of Shalmaneser III, Band X. (13th year of Shalmaneser – 848 BCE).

Another type of the pictorial evidence represents religious rites performed before the royal effigy engraved upon a stela or a rock relief. This ceremony can be depicted in a very explicit narrative form including offerings, sacrifices, and praise (example 5); in the other case the pictorial narrative displays the preparation to sacrifice (example 4); an abbreviated form of a standard scene of worship is characteristic of a miniature media (example 7).

Example 4 (Fig. 4a–c): Balawat Gates (eleventh year of Shalmaneser III – 848 BCE), band X The pictorial representation used by Olmstead (see Excursus at the end of the paper) to support his concept was band X (Fig. 4a–c) of the Balawat Gates of Shalmaneser III (859 – 824 BCE). As the accompanyng ephigraph suggests, the

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band depicts an expedition to what the Assyrians considered to be the source of the Tigris (year 6/7 of the king, 853/2 BCE). The lower register contains a scene showing the cutting of a royal effigy above the entrance to the Tigris tunnel, which Assyrians believed to be a source of the river. A relief designed as a stela with a king in ubāna tarāṣu gesture is being chiseled by a short-clothed artist, who is represented at work with his tools in his hands. Behind the artist stands a beardless official in a long garment. Doubtless, the rock relief is conceived here in a form of a stela, though the actual rock relief of Shalmaneser III at the left wall of the tunnel does not have a stela shape at all.¹³⁷ Below it, a rectangular object emerges from the waters of the stream, probably representing an altar. Two individuals in short dress (soldiers?) drive a sacrificial bull and a ram towards the cave mouth with the freshly executed image of Shalmaneser III.¹³⁸ The king himself arrives behind them riding a horse, his chariot is brought by his servants. Then follow the chariots with the symbols of the gods and the army. The band bears the epigraph: “I entered the mouth of the river, made offerings to the gods, set up my royal image.”¹³⁹ Since there are no images or symbols of gods in the pictorial representation, Leonard King described the scene as “A bull and ram being led forward for sacrifice before the image of Shalmaneser, which is being carved on the rock-face of the grotto… .”¹⁴⁰ Jutta Börker-Klähn¹⁴¹ avoids a definition and relates only to the scene of rock-relief carving and banquet arrangements. The examples described above received much scholarly attention.¹⁴² The rest of the pictorial material discussed here almost escaped notice. The examples discussed below display the cult of the king together with the divine symbols. Some of them, like example 5, contain fully developed pictorial narration. The narrative of example 5 depictes preparations for the ceremony, represented in example 4; in example 4, the stela is beeng carved, the sacrifices, divine symbols, and royal chariot are on their way.

 Börker-Klähn 1982, 188.  M. Cogan (1974, 59) erroneously relates to the sacrificial scene in the upper register of the same band which is indeed a victory celebration and does not corresponds with the depiction below it. He overlooked the preparations for the sacrifice in the lower register.  ina pi-a-te šá nāri(íd) ērub(ku₄-ub) niqête(udusiskurmeš) a-na ilānī(dingirmeš) a-qí ṣalam(nu) šarru(man)-ti-ia ú-šá-zi-iz, RIMA 3 A.0.102.78, and Yamada 2000, 281.  King 1915, 31.  Börker-Klähn 1982, 188 – 189, no. 151.  See the Excursus at the end of the paper for the history of the research. Holloway (2002, 188 – 189) discusses briefly examples 4 and 5, but misses example 6.

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Fig. 5a–b. Sacrifice to the divine symbols and the ṣalam šarrūtija at the shore of the lake Na’iri. Balawat Gates of Shalmaneser III, Band I (13th year of Shalmaneser – 848 BCE).

Example 5 (Fig. 5a–b): Balawat Gates (eleventh year of Shalmaneser III– 848 BCE), band I Among the representations of Shalmaneser III’s Urartian campaign (accession year, 859/8 BCE) is a scene (Fig. 5a–b) depicting a ritual performed before a royal stela on the shore of the Sea of Na’iri (Lake Van or Urmia). Four texts describing this campaign tell of the offerings brought before the gods after the ritual weapon bathing and report the installation of the ṣalam šarrūtija/bunnannîja as a closing event in the series of rites performed to commemorate the victory.¹⁴³ The pictorial narration transmits, nevertheless, a different message. In this pictorial narration, sacrificial rites are performed in front of the royal image and symbols of gods. The stela with a standard ṣalam šarrūtija in ubāna tarāṣu gesture is mounted upon a hillock of scales – a designation of a mountain, on which a rock relief was cut, as King had suggested.¹⁴⁴ In front of the  Three of them are in fact identical annalistic inscriptions (Yamada 2000, 275, Ann 1, obv. 37– 40; Ann 2, II, 33 – 37 and Ann 3, I 26 – 27 = RIMA 3 A.0.102.1: 37– 40; RIMA 3 A.0.102.2 i 26 – 27;), the fourth is a summary version (Yamada 2000, 275, Summ. 6, ii 11– 13; RIMA 3 A.0.102.28: 11– 13).  King 1915.

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stela stand two posts with divine emblems (šurinnū).¹⁴⁵ The emblems are rosettes identical with those filling the strips between the bands. Stefan Maul¹⁴⁶ interprets them as two gods, apparently Šamaš and Asalluhi(?), being worshiped. Karlheinz Deller¹⁴⁷ thought that these are Adad and Nergal. It can be said in favour of Deller’s suggestion that the only recognizable representations of divine emblems are those of Adad.¹⁴⁸ Before the stela and the emblems stand cultic paraphernalia: an offering table (paṭīru), empty and covered with a cloth, incense burner (nignakku), and libation receptacle (adagurru) on a high stand. The emblems’ posts, the offering table, and the receptacle stand have legs shaped as animal paws or hooves. The personnel, who performs the ritual, is depicted approaching the stela and the divine symbols with the cultic utensils installed in front of it. The first couple includes the libating king with a beaker in his right hand and an oblong object, most probably a mace, in his left. The king appears in the foreground. In the background is a beardless priest in a long garment and a tall pointed cap, approaching with the offering dishes. Behind this couple stands another priest dressed identically with the first one. He holds in his both hands two high beakers(?), described by King as rhytons. Then come three musicians in long robes: the first, bearded, and the second, beardless, are playing small harps, and the third, also beardless, probably holds cymbals or a rattle. The third priest of exactly the same appearance as the first two drags a bull and a hoard of rams for sacrifice. Finally, the royal chariot and the army close the procession. On the other side, behind the stela, two soldiers are shown throwing the remains of the animal sacrifice into the lake. This composition puts the royal stela in the midst of the ceremony, stressing thus its role as a recipient of the offerings together with two divine symbols. There is an epigraph in the field of the depiction,¹⁴⁹ recalling that of Band X, but with a striking difference. The order of the ritual act in this epigraph differs also from that in historical inscriptions: “I set up my image by the sea of the Land of Na’iri. I made offerings to the gods.”¹⁵⁰ It is important, though the epigraph does not it say explicitly, that the offerings were performed in front of the royal effigy, but it leaves a possibility that this effigy is intended to be counted with the gods and worshiped together with them. It describes the entire band

 King describes them as “royal standards.” King 1915.  Maul 1994, 53.  Bleibtreu, Deller and Pongratz-Leisten 1992, 344.  Bleibtreu, Deller and Pongratz-Leisten 1992, pls. 51– 4; 63, 67.  King 1915, 21.  ṣalma(alam) ina muḫḫi(ugu) tamti(a.ab.ba) šá māt(kur) Na-i-ri ú-šá-zi-iz niqête(udusiskurmeš) a-na ilānī(dingirmeš) aqqi(bal-qí), RIMA 3 A.0.102.63 and Yamada 2000, 275.

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as representing “offerings to the gods” and these offerings are presented to the royal stela and the divine emblems.¹⁵¹ The pictorial narrative unequivocally displays the symbols of royalty and divinity as equally venerated.¹⁵² Thus the ceremony represented on this band includes libation, offerings, animal sacrifice, and incense burning performed by the king¹⁵³ and three priests, and accompanied by music. The king’s particular part in this ritual is the libation. This depiction is paralleled by the one on the Middle or Neo-Assyrian monument¹⁵⁴ generally known as the White Obelisk. Its third register, sides A–B, represents a ritual described in an epigraph above it. Sacrificial rites are performed in front of a building flanked with towers (Fig. 6a–b). The king receives the ring from a seated goddess inside it. It involves exactly the same cultic utensils that stood before the royal stela of Band I of the Balawat Gates: an offering table (paṭīru), covered with a cloth and loaded with offerings, incense burner (nignakku) and libation receptacle (adagurru). The personnel is much more modest and so is the animal sacrifice: the king in royal headdress performs the libation, holding a mace. Behind him a bearded attendant with a bowl is depicted. Then come two people bringing a sacrificial bull. Another couple frames the procession. There are no priests involved, neither are sheep. Through performing the libation and sacrifice the king is being granted his kingly authority by the deity inside the temple – the act depicted upon early stelae (e. g. the stela of Hammurabi).

 Contra Yamada 2000, 298 with n. 82, who writes that “The standard order of such elements is: i. washing weapons; ii. making an offering; iii. the celebration banquet; this is usually followed by the erection of an image. The sequence might reflect the actual order,” claiming thus that the sacrifice did not take place in front of the royal effigy. Here and in example 4 it is clear that the installation of ṣalam šarrūtija was accomplished prior to the sacrifice and the banquet, and that the sacrifice was performed for the royal image together with the divine emblems.  King (1915, 21) with much obscurity defines the representation as “Dedication of Shalmaneser image on the Shore of Lake Van.” J. Börker-Klähn (1982, 187, no. 146) describes it as the ceremony of installation of the royal stela.  Maul (1994, 53 – 54) quotes this picture as an illustration of libation ritual, performed by the king. Unfortunately, he relates only to a part of this band, as published by Börker-Klähn (1982: 187, no. 146).  The date of this monument was much discussed, since it is not certain whether it should be attributed to Ashurnasirpal I or Ashurnasirpal II (see Pittman 1996 for the most recent bibliography on the question). However, E. Frahm provides convincing philological proof for the early date (Ashurnasirpal I) of the White Obelisk (Frahm 2009, 121– 122).

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Fig. 6a–b. (a) White Obelisk, III. register, sides A – B. Drawing by Nica May-Reichstein. (b) Detail: the king inside bīt nathi before the goddess.

The epigraph above the depiction reads: “The bīt natḫi of Nineveh: I perform the wine offerings of the temple of the exalted goddess.”¹⁵⁵ This does not leave room for any doubt that on Band I of the Balawat Gates the sacrificial rites are the same as those of the temples of gods. On the other hand, the White Obelisk epigraph does not mention the offerings to gods, but the offerings that are customary in the temple. If we look inside the building in front of which this ritual is performed, we will see the king before the goddess, receiving from her his royal power as a reward for his piety and careful observance of her temple rites. The scene inside the temple is iconographically identical with the stelae of the late third/second millennia¹⁵⁶ and represents the king worshiping the goddess, as are the Assyrian royal stelae and reliefs. Two more representations describe a picture of the same kind as that on Balawat Band I. The first one, also a bronze band, is broken. The second is the abbrevi bīt(é) na-at-ḫi šá uruNi-nu-a karān(geštin) niqête(udusiskurmeš-te) šá ekurri(é.kur) ištari(dingir) ṣir-te eppaš(dù-aš), Sollberger (1974, 236, lines 1´‒2´) erroneously translates there by past tense.  E. g. the stela of Hammurabi, Moortgat 1969, 209.

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Fig. 7. Divine symbols and the ṣalam šarrūtija at the Phoenician(?) seashore. Fragment of bronze band N, most probably from Balawat.

ated representation of worship of and sacrifice to a royal stela cut upon a cylinder seal.

Example 6 (Fig. 7): Fragment of a bronze band N, most probably from Balawat This representation resembles closely that of the Band I in example 5. A conventional effigy of the king is depicted upon an object shaped as a stela mounted upon a pedestal of scales designating mountains. In front of it stand two posts crowned with rosettes and an incense burner; two trees of different kind are set behind. The rest of the band is broken away. This fragment is attributed to the Balawat Gate of Shalmaneser III as connected to his march against Tyre and Sidon, in the course of the campaign to

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the Mediterranean Sea coast, which took place in 858 BCE.¹⁵⁷ Only the words ṣalam šarrūtija remained from the epigraph of this band. In the scenes of examples 4, 5, and 6 the stela is installed and sacrifices are performed at a water source. Out of twenty instances of installation of a royal stela known from the texts of Shalmaneser III, ten take places at water sources.¹⁵⁸ In most of these cases, the installation of a royal stela is accompanied by sacrifices. The already mentioned akītu-ritual of the 8th of Nisannu, which includes the sacrifice before the royal image also involves a spring: “The king goes to the spring, he performs a sacrifice, blood in the midst of the spring he offers, fish and crab into the river he throws, oil, honey, wine into the spring pours, the purification (device) he passes, lets himself be seen.”¹⁵⁹ The akītu-ritual prescribes to perform this “either in Nineveh or in Kalḫu, or in a hostile land.”¹⁶⁰

Example 7 (Fig. 8): Cylinder seal. Sargon II’s time (722 – 705 BCE) This seal, previously erroneously attributed to Sennacherib, was unearthed under the main entrance to his palace at Nineveh. It bears an image of an Assyrian official, beardless, in a long garment with a sword and in a gesture of prayer (with the raised hand – nīš qātē) before the standard king’s image upon a stela. Between the stela, and the worshiper is a stylized tree. Above the tree hovers a winged disk with a torso of a god inside accompanied by two personages upon its wings. The tree and the winged disks are divine symbols as are the šurinnūs on bands I and N. Behind the worshiper three more details are represented: a goat and two bush-looking objects, one above the other. These two objects are shaped exactly like the campfire on the Ashurbanipal relief.¹⁶¹ They are an abbreviated representations of a sacrificial fire and of an incense burner, while the goat symbolizes an animal offering.

 Börker-Klähn 1982, 187, no. 147; Yamada 2000, 277; Schachner and Wolff 2007, 69 – 71; 306, pl. 14; 353, pl. 61b.  Yamada 2000, 275 – 290.  šarru(lugal) a-na muḫḫi(ugu) íde-ni il-lak dariu(udusiskur) i-na-saḫ dāmē(múdmeš) ina libbi(šà) e-ni ú-šam-ḫar nu-ú-nu al !-lu-tu i-na lib(šà) íde-ni i-kar-ra-ar šamnē(ìmeš) dišpē(làlmeš) karānē(geštinmeš) ina libbi(šà) e-ni i-tab-bak šá te !-li-si ! ú-še-taq in-na-mar, SAA 20 no. 15 obv. i 8′ – 13′.  SAA 20 no. 15 obv. i 55′–56′ and rev. iii 12– 13.  Barnett 1976, pl. LXVIe.

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Fig. 8a–b. Worship of the royal stela and the divine symbols; cylinder seal BM 89502, Sargon II’s time.

It is worth noticing that in absence of any inscription, Börker-Klähn is much less cautious and remarks that this piece might be evidence of the adoration of the king’s effigy.¹⁶² In this connection she regards the Ninurta temple stela (Fig. 1a–b),¹⁶³ and the stela represented on Ashurbanipal’s slab from the room H (Fig. 3a–b).¹⁶⁴ The most important feature in examples 4– 7 is the representation of the king’s image worshiped along with the divine symbols. This can partly answer the question what was the ceremony of the adoration of the royal effigy almost never described textually. Actually, the parallelism between the stelae and šurinnūs can be traced as far back as to the Neo-Sumerian period, when they are depicted together upon one of the stelae of Gudea as installed within the temple area or the temple.¹⁶⁵

   

Börker-Klähn 1982, 217, no. 176; 200: T 57 172. Börker-Klähn 1982, 182, no. 132. Börker-Klähn 1982, 217, no. 228. Suter 2000, 388, st. 60 and pl. A; Börker-Klähn 1982, no. 63a.

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The visual evidence provided here shows that the perception of the act of the veneration of the stelae and divine symbols was the same as that of the adoration of gods, which is especially strengthened by the almost identical depictions of the Balawat Gates, band I (example 5, Fig. 5) and of the White Obelisk (Fig. 6).

Neo-Assyrian Royal Stelae – Ṣalam Šarrūtija The analysis of the iconography of royal stelae and its perception in antiquity are most important for understanding of the role of a king’s effigy in the cult. All the venerated royal images were engraved upon stelae or stela-formed rock reliefs, as we can judge from the depictions and archaeological record. To comprehend the place of this phenomenon in the Neo-Assyrian period we need to understand the meaning of stelae in Mesopotamian tradition. Stelae are one of the most ancient media in Mesopotamia. The aim and place of their installation – temples and borders¹⁶⁶ – remained by and large the same from the Uruk period through to the fall of Babylonian Empire.¹⁶⁷ Before the Middle Assyrian period all stelae discovered so far, were commissioned by kings. The famous Stelenreihen at the city of Aššur are dated to the Middle and Neo-Assyrian period. Stelae of officials are present at the Stelenreihen besides the royal stelae. Remarkably, the only stela of Stelenreihen, which bears a visual depiction,¹⁶⁸ is that of Ashurbanipal’s queen Libbi-āli-šarrat.¹⁶⁹ In the Neo-Assyrian period, the privilege of setting up a stela was reserved only for kings with an exception of a short time span within the eighth century BCE.¹⁷⁰

 For the place of the installation of the early stelae, see Börker-Klähn 1982, 14– 19.  The first monument of this kind originates from Uruk (Moortgat 1969, pl. 14) and is generally known as the Lion or Lion hunt stele. The 80 cm high basalt ashlar is adorned with a representation of a bearded man hunting a lion with a bow and arrows and then with a spear. The inscription is lacking, but Schmandt-Besserat (1993, 204, 218 – 219) proved that the priest-king is represented.  Andrae 1913.  Börker-Klähn 1982, 217, no. 227.  In the time of Adad-nērārī III and Shalmaneser IV certain officials gained extraordinary powers and played as supreme authority writing inscriptions of royal style and establishing their own stelae. This phenomenon started already in the last years of Shalmaneser III and continued even into Tiglath-pileser III’s reign (RIMA 3, 200 – 202; May 2017, 502– 503, n. 84; May 2018, 252– 259). But only two stelae of high officials, that of Bēl-Ḫarrān-bēlu-uṣur (May 2018, 255, 261– 262) and that of a certain Mušēzib-Šamaš, the governor of Dēr (Pognon 1907, 107, pl. 5: 6; May 2018, 255, 261– 262, Fig. 2), bear an image of the official. The officials are wearing a fringed garment, but not the royal one, and are represented in the ubāna tarāṣu gesture. In

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In Mesopotamia only royal¹⁷¹ stelae and rock reliefs bore figurative depictions, which in the Neo-Assyrian period were actually reduced to the representation of the kings. Unlike Western stelae, Mesopotamian ones never represented only god(s). Contrarily, in most cases their main protagonist was the king. In the Neo-Assyrian period, the emphatically standardized imagery of royal stelae was referred to as ṣalam šarrūtija. The king’s effigy upon stelae symbolized the very essence of the divine royal power and was venerated as such. In the Western tradition the stelae (betyl, maṣṣēvôth, and Hittite huwaši were adored, which is well evidenced by the Bible and other sources.¹⁷² The West Semitic adoration of stones was well known in Mesopotamia since the Old Babylonian period at least.¹⁷³ Before the Neo-Assyrian period, we do not have any direct evidence for worshipping the stelae in Mesopotamia, though they were installed within the sacred areas of the temples since the earliest periods.¹⁷⁴ Was the phenomenon of the cult of royal stelae in the Neo-Assyrian Empire influenced by the West Semitic practices, expedited by the general aramaisation under the Sargo-

case of Bēl-Ḫarrān-bēlu-uṣur the gesture is intended for the divine symbols in the upper part of the stela. The images seem to follow exactly the manner of representation of kings upon stelae, but without royal insignia: the garment, the tiara, and the mace. The beard is missing as well in both instances. The last feature points to eunuchs. The text written upon the stela of Bēl-Ḫarrānbēl-uṣur glorifies the deeds of the official, as do the royal inscriptions those of the kings. Thus, we have only three stelae with the depiction of the installer other than a king, these of Bēl-Ḫarrān-bēl-uṣur, Mušēzib-Šamaš, and of queen Libbāli-šarrat (May 2018, 260 – 261, Fig. 1), in the entire Mesopotamian art in general and in the Neo-Assyrian art in particular. Nevertheless, all the stelae, discovered at the Stelenreihen and at the Stelenplatz are defined as ṣalam PN by the inscriptions incised upon them, including the uniconic stelae of Sammuramat and Sennacherib’s queen, as well as that of Libbi-āli-šarrat, adorned with the queen’s portrait. A plain stone stela served as an image of its installer when put in a sacred area of a temple. Remarkable is that the monuments of Antakya and Pazarǧik, which marked the borders, call themselves tahūmu, a border stone. Narû, which often is related to stelae (Slanski 2003, 20 – 27), but generally just means “stone,” appears as a self-definition both in the Antakya and in the Bēl-Ḫarrān-bēl-uṣur inscriptions. Those monuments do not define themselves as ṣalmu.  With three exceptions described in previous footnote.  Van der Toorn 1997; Mettinger 1995, 115 – 198. The archaeological record shows that those were simple standing stones, uninscribed, and bearing no image, venerated since the Canaanite period at least (e.g, Hazor, Area C shrine, Mazar 1990, 253 – 254, Fig. I, 7.10; Timna, Mazar 1990, 286, Fig. I, 7.31 and Tel Dan; and Naveh 1995, 1– 3, figs.1– 2, see also Mettinger 1995). The inscription upon the recently discovered stela of Kuttamuwa says that his soul is in it (Pardee 2009, 53 – 54, line 5).  Van der Toorn 1997, 9 – 10.  Börker-Klähn 1982, 114– 119.

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nids?¹⁷⁵ This is highly probable in light of the fact that all our evidence for deified ṣalam šarris is concentrated in this time span. From the Neo-Sumerian through to the Neo-Assyrian period, the king is depicted on the stelae either in narrative or in abbreviated scenes only as adoring the god(s). Even if the king seems to be portrayed as equal to the divine figure due to the isokephalia, he is in fact depicted as a minor visual counterpart to the god (e. g. the stela of Hammurabi). Starting with Ashurnasirpal, II the new iconographical pattern becomes ubiquitous and typical for the Neo-Assyrian stelae. A huge image of a king occupies the entire field of the representation and small divine symbols appear at its side. The reduced size of the divine symbols in imagery of stelae and rock reliefs makes the Assyrian king their main protagonist¹⁷⁶ similarly to him being the focus of the historical narrations upon the palatial reliefs. Texts written upon the stelae confirm this; e. g. the curse formula of the aforementioned Great Monolith refers to the depiction it bears as [… ṣalmi(alam)-i]a šu-a-tú, “this image of myself” (i. e. of the king), thus stressing that the role of the divine symbols is to serve a part of the royal portrait. The epigraphs accompanying the depictions, which represent stelae or rock reliefs, call them ṣalam šarrūtija. Thus, the textual evidence points out that the stelae are images of the king in his royal office and definitely not the images of gods. This evidence is again consistent with the inscriptions on the non-royal stelae from the city of Aššur calling them ṣalam PN, even when aniconic. Thus, the word ṣalmu is also the word for a certain type of monuments, which we call stelae. If these monuments do bear an image, it is the royal one. There are rock reliefs, like those at the Tigris,¹⁷⁷ that do not even have any divine emblems, but only the effigy of the king in a gesture of worship. The same applies to the miniature depictions of stelae. They display only the figure of the king and not the divine symbols. One of Esarhaddon’s stelae from Til Barsib was even installed without an inscription or any representations of gods but only with the image of the victorious king.¹⁷⁸ In Neo-Assyrian stelae, the king is the active party, and not the gods, whose representations are reduced to the emblems of a minor scale. The king is the main protagonist of the imagery of stelae and rock reliefs; the visual images intelligible to everybody overpower the generally inaccessible in-

 See Tadmor 1982.  Ornan 2004, 108 – 114; 2005, 135 – 136.  Börker-Klähn 1982, 177– 178, no. 130 and 187– 189, nos. 149, among them the one, which is represented in the process of being carved on Band X of the Balawat Gates of Shalmaneser III (see Fig. 2).  Porter 2000, 171, n. 43.

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formation of inscriptions. The spectator who observed the Balawat Gates of Shalmaneser III saw the cult of the royal image. The aim of the epigraphs in this period, was to transmit the essence of the topoi of royal inscriptions. These short captions did not reflect the details of the representation, but grasped only its general meaning. The ṣalam šarrūtija functions as a representation of a king performing, by the command of gods, his office of kingship, which is first and foremost the adoration of the gods. This is further confirmed by the opening phrases of inscriptions on the stelae/rock reliefs and elsewhere. For instance, the inscription of the Balawat gates of Shalmaneser III reads: At that time Aššur, the great lord, called [my name for shepherdship of] the people, he crowned (me) with the exalted crown… placed the weapon, the scepter, the staff appropriate (for rule over) the people in my hand… .”¹⁷⁹

On stelae/rock reliefs the king is represented in a gesture of adoration before the symbols of the gods, which reflects the divine will expressed in his rule. Yet, he remains the focus and the protagonist of the scene, as he is the main and in most cases the only hero of the royal inscriptions, acting of course in accordance with the gods’ command. Thus, the adoration of images of the king in his office of kingship (ṣalam šarrūtija), performing the gesture of worship before the symbols of gods is the adoration of kingship authority sanctioned by the gods. As mentioned above, the representations on Bands I and N, as well as that on the seal (figs. 5, 7, 8) demonstrate the ṣalam šarrūtijas being worshiped along with the divine symbols. Let us examine the existence of further parallelism between those two categories of objects. The archaeological record of installing royal¹⁸⁰ stelae at the sides of gateways and entrances is copious.¹⁸¹ Archaeological evidence is supported by the visual sources, including those discussed above and others.¹⁸² Divine emblems installed and adored at the gateways, as the stelae were, can be seen in the extremely damaged relief from room I of the North Palace of Ashurbanipal (669 – 626 BCE) depicting the libation over Te’umman’s head (Fig. 9a–b). The divine emblems on this relief are shown worshiped in exactly the same manner as

 ina u₄-me-šú-ma Aššur(aš) bēlu(en) rabû(gal-ú) [šumi ana rē’ût ?] nišē (unmeš) i-bu-ú a-ga-a ṣīra(mah) ú-pi-ru … kakku (gištukul) ḫaṭṭa(gišgidru) gišši-bir-ru si-mat nišē(unmeš) ina qāte(šu)-ia ˘ ú-šat-me-ḫu, RIMA 3 A.0.102.5 i 6b–ii 1a with emendations.  As well as uninscribed and uncarved stelae in the western tradition.  Discussed extensively by David Ussishkin (1989).  May 2014, 86 – 88.

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Fig. 9a–b. (a) Worship of divine emblems at the gates of Arbela. Relief from room I of the North Palace of Ashurbanipal, slab 9 shows a triple-walled city and the king making offerings; (b) detail: the king and his entourage making offerings in front of the two šurrinū flanking the gate of a palace or temple. Drawing by S.I. Stark.

those placed together with the royal image on Band I. The king and his entourage make offerings in front of the two šurrinū flanking the gate of a palace or a temple (Fig. 9b). An incense burner and an offering table stand before them. The king is holding a bow in his left hand while his right is raised in the adoration gesture. Te’umman’s head is placed under the king’s bow, so we can assume that the king is making a libation over the bow and the dead enemy. Pictorial evidence complements the written sources quoted above. It clearly demonstrates that the royal images were installed together with the divine symbols both in the early and in the late Neo-Assyrian period. Together with written sources it proves that they were worshiped not only in the shrines and palaces of subjugated peoples but also at the river sources, mountain tops, sea or lake

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shores, and other locations sacred both for the Assyrians and for the local population. Cases of setting up of royal stelae in such locations are extremely numerous.¹⁸³

Conclusions The evidence discussed above proves that royal images upon stelae/rock reliefs were venerated. The monuments bearing those images have been treated as sacred. The appearance of stelae/rock reliefs venerated alongside divine symbols in ritual scenes points to a similarity or even an identity in significance and function of the divine emblems and the royal stelae. Deification of the cult symbols of gods was widely practised in all Ancient Near Eastern religions.¹⁸⁴ The depiction of the king upon a stela/rock relief, the ṣalam šarrūtija, “the king in his office of kingship,” the king performing his kingly obligations, was the symbol of kingship itself. That is why the king is represented on stelae in a gesture of worship before gods, who delegated to him his office and whose worship was his primary and most important duty. The divine entity of kingship, which descended from heaven according to the Sumerian King List and the Etana myth, was fundamental to the Mesopotamian worldview from the earliest days.¹⁸⁵ A king of flesh and blood was deified only in the most ancient times and for very short periods. In art, deification of the kings is found only in the reigns of Narām-Sîn of Agade and the Ur III dynasty – the times of the first Mesopotamian empires. Narām-Sîn explicitly demonstrated his divinity by pictorial means; it is by representing himself wearing the horned crown of gods.¹⁸⁶ In the royal art of the Ur III period deification of kings was expressed in much more modest and indirect ways. The replacement of a seated god by a seated king in presentation scenes on the seals of high officials is much disputable as visual evidence of the deification of Ur III kings.¹⁸⁷ Over against it, the textual evidence of deification of Ur III kings is abundant. Neo-Assyrian kings never officially deified themselves. But they used elaborate strategies to upgrade themselves to the supernatural status. The textual evidence does not provide clarity about whether divinized royal images were that of

 E. g. Yamada 2000, 275 – 290 for Shalmaneser III, and elsewhere in the royal inscriptions.  Van der Toorn 1997, 2, 11: Bleibtreu, Deller and Pongratz-Leisten 1992.  Frankfort 1978, 237.  The famous stela of Narām-Sîn at the Louvre (Moortgat 1969, 155) and mould fragment, also attributed to this king (Hansen 2002, 93, Fig. 3).  E. g. Winter 1986, 1987, see also van Buren 1952.

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the living kings or the deceased ones. Nevertheless, the sacrificial scene before the unfinished effigy of Shalmaneser III at the Tigris tunnel indicates beyond any doubt that the living king is meant. Both pictorial and written sources show that the images (ṣalam šarrūtija ¹⁸⁸) of the living king, the conqueror, were installed in the palace of Gaza, in the temples of Carchemish, Maruba(?), Kinalūa, the city on the lake Na’iri shore and at the sacred plot of Salurīa by Ashurnasirpal II, Shalmaneser III, and Tiglath-pileser III in the periods of the construction of the Assyrian Empire. In the time of the Sargonids, ṣalam šarris, probably in the form of stelae, were revered also in the temples of the Assyrian heartland. It was the abstract symbol of divinity of kingship. It is almost never known which king this term refers to. The texts actually never mention the name of a king represented by ṣalam šarri. The obscurity of the texts on this matter suggests that it was not of importance. In the Assyrian core, royal images were adored as symbols of kingship. There is no evidence of a royal image undergoing the mīs/pīt pî ritual in the Neo-Assyrian period.¹⁸⁹ Performance of this ritual is not an indication of deification. Mīs/pīt pî was a set of purification rites aimed either to make cultic images and utensils, as well as humans, including the king, properly prepared for participation in religious ceremonies or to release them from contamination for any other purposes.¹⁹⁰ The absence of sources concerning mīs/pīt pî of royal stelae does not prove that they were not adored.¹⁹¹ The veneration of the royal effigy can be an echo of deification of the Akkadian Sargonids. The Assyrian Sargonids saw them as their own forerunners; they stressed parallels with and exploited allusions to their famed predecessors.¹⁹² The only not Assyrian but Mesopotamian king who set up his image in the foreign land as a mark of his conquest was the founder of the first empire, Sargon of Agade. At Mari, Šamšī-Adad I and his son Yaḫdun-Lîm carried on this undertak-

 Less often bunnannîja.  Machinist 2006, 180=2011: 422 contra Holloway 2002, 189 – 190.  Walker and Dick 2001, 10 – 15; Hurowitz 1989.  A. Berlejung stresses that the object of the mouth-washing ritual could be animate or inanimate, whilst the object of the mouth-opening was always inanimate (1997: 45). In order to make an image be able to receive offerings its mouth had to be opened (Berlejung 1997, 46 – 45). Thus, to enable the statue “to become a vivified god,” earthly representative of a deity, the mouthopening ritual would be necessary. The living king would not need to be “vivified,” but mīs pî was performed on him (Hurowitz 1989, 46; Walker and Dick 2001, 10). Nonetheless, note that in the course of the rituals cycle of of Šabattu, on the 23rd day, the king performed a mouthwashing, probably to himself (SAA 20 no. 1 rev. 6; no. 6: 1).  See May 2015, 103 – 106.

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ing.¹⁹³ Both belonged to the Old Assyrian dynasty that worshiped Sargon and Narām-Sîn of Agade, probably as their divine ancestors.¹⁹⁴ Their Neo-Assyrian heirs definitely remembered the tradition and revived (or reinvented?) it together with the politics of conquest. As the above discussed evidence shows, differences existed between the Assyrian core, the provinces, and the vassal countries in matters of the adoration of the royal image. The very specific king, who subjugated the land and installed there his ṣalam šarrūtija, had to be adored by his vassals and new subjects. The imposition of the royal cult was part of the Assyrian subjugation programme. The images of the king were revered in the temples of the Assyrian heartland. Assyrian armies performed sacrifices to them when on the march. The adoration of the royal effigy was part of the imperial religion and ideology. With Tiglath-pileser III’s accession the character of the Neo-Assyrian expansion dramatically changed in favour of complete subjugation rather than vassaldom. To sum up: – In the times of Ashurnasirpal II and Shalmaneser III royal effigies, but not the divine symbols, were installed at the sacred places of the vassal cities. – Tiglath-pileser III reign was the turning point. Starting with his reign, the policy of annexation prevails over the vassaldom relationship. The imposition of the Assyrian cult, which included the installation of royal stelae and the symbols of Assyrian gods, becomes a part of his annexation program together with the renaming of the city, appointing of the provincial government, and mass deportations. – In the time of Esarhaddon and probably of Ashurbanipal images of the king and his successors together with the tablet of Succession Treaties were venerated in the temples of provinces and vassals. – In the time of Esarhaddon and probably of Ashurbanipal, images of the king and his successors together with the tablet of Succession Treaties were venerated in the temples of provinces and vassals. A great discussion concerning the imposition of the Assyrian imperial cult upon the vassal countries is closely connected to the adoration of the king’s effigy.¹⁹⁵ We owe it to the question of installation of the Assyrian cult images in the Jer-

 Yamada 2000, 273.  May 2010, 443.  Cogan 1974; 55 – 56; Spieckermann 1982, 322– 344. For Holloway’s survey of the history of question, see Holloway 2002, 47– 64 and 189 – 190 for his own opinion.

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usalem temple. In my view, the installation of the royal image in the sacred places of the vassals was not the main and not an obligatory aspect of the Assyrian “theological” imperialism, but a matter of a specific situation, as was any other aspect of local politics.¹⁹⁶ The main purpose of the imperial policy towards the vassal states was providing Assyrian temples, and not those of the vassal lands. Loyal vassals were to bring their annual tribute as an offering to the Assyrian gods. They participated in the Assyrian feasts celebrated during military campaigns and in Assyria itself. Tributaries ran at the wheel of the king’s chariot, as Bār-Rakib did. Thus Ahaz, king of Judah, could see the Assyrian altar when he made his homage to Tiglath-pileser III at Damascus. Imitating the habits of his suzerain, he ordered the introduction of a copy of this altar into the temple of Jerusalem (2 Kings 16: 10 – 14). Loyal vassals were eager to adore the great king of Assyria as he adored his gods.¹⁹⁷ Assyrian rituals, such as tākultu, a part of akītu, included the veneration of royal images. Sacrifice itself was the expertise and privilege of the Assyrian king and priests, but annual tribute was delivered by the vassals to the Assyrian gods in their temples in Assyria.¹⁹⁸ As a part of this practice the procession of emissaries of Egypt, Gaza, Judah, Moab and Ammon entered Kalḫu (ina Kalḫi etārbūni)

 Berlejung 2012.  Bar-Rākib of Sam’al, loyal vassal of Tiglath-pileser III, calls himself “slave” (‫ )עבד‬of the Assyrian emperor, whom he refers to as “my lord” (‫)מראי‬, enlisting him under this title together with his local deity Rākib-El, thus elevating his sovereign to the rank of his god. Moreover, both his “lords” endow him with rulership over his land on account of his and his father’s loyalty. He is installed upon his parental throne by Tiglath-pileser III just as the Assyrian kings are installed by their gods to rule peoples and kings (e. g., Adad-nērārī II, RIMA 2 A.0.99.2: 5 – 10 and elsewhere). This statement not only depicts the Assyrian monarch as decreeing his vassals’ destinies, as is appropriate to gods of Assyria, but reveals Bar-Rākib’s intimate knowledge of Assyrian royal rhetoric. Another witness to royal propaganda reaching its target is the Aramaic translation of the Akkadian “king of four quarters:” Akk. šar kibrāt erbetti = Aram. ‫תגלתפליסר( מרא‬ ‫)רבעי ארקא‬, which appears in this inscription as a title of Tiglath-pileser III: ‫( אנה ב]ר[רכב‬1) ‫( קי הושבני מראי‬5) ‫( רבעי ארקא בצדק אבי ובצד‬4) ‫( אל עבד תגלתפליסר מרא‬3) ‫( בר פנמו מלך שמ‬2) ‫( כרסא‬7) ‫( ומראי תגלתפליסר על‬6) ‫רכבאל‬, “I am Bar-Rākib, son of Panammuwa, king of Sam’al, the slave of Tiglath-pileser, lord of the four quarters of the earth. For the loyalty of my father and for my loyalty my lord Rākib-El and my lord Tiglath-pileser caused me to sit on my father’s throne.” Another faithful vassal of Tiglath-pileser III, Ahaz, applies to himself the same title of servitude (‫ ;ֶעֶבד‬2 Kgs 16: 7): ‫ַאשּׁוּר ֵלאמֹר ַעְב ְדָּך וִּב ְנָך ָא ִני‬-‫ ִתּ ְגַלת ְפֶלֶסר ֶמֶלך‬-‫ ַו ִיּ ְשַׁלח ָאָחז ַמְלָאִכים ֶאל‬, “Ahaz sent messengers to Tiglath-pileser, king of Assyria to say: ‘I am you slave and your son.’” Such terminology doubtlessly was implied by Assyrian sovereigns who call their vassals “slave” (urdu; e. g. Livingstone 1983, 44– 5, no. 17: lines 7, 24; Cogan and Tadmor 1979, 504– 508).  See also van Driel 1969, 190 – 191, Spieckermann 1982, 312– 316.

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on a 12th day of a feast with their tribute, as we learn from the letter of the city governor to his king Sargon II.¹⁹⁹ The delivery of the annual tribute was one of the most important aspects of the Assyrian New Year festival. On this occasion also royal stelae were revered. Esarhaddon prays in this way in his Schlußgebet ending the Nineveh cylinder: On the New Year (feast) of the first month may I review in it, in this palace, all the war horses, mules, camels, weaponry, battle gear, all of the troops, spoils of (my) enemy every year unceasing!²⁰⁰

The purpose of the Assyrian annual campaigns was to bring booty and tribute to the gods of Assyria on the New Year festival. Adoration of the king’s image, as we have seen, is closely connected with the akītu-celebration. The vassal tributaries were to participate in the triumphal akītu-procession, to observe the great king offering his loot to the Assyrian gods, and to learn the fear of the gods and the king. The claim that Assyrians did not practise the imposition of the Assyrian cults, since they did not built temples of their gods outside Assyria, can be refuted since only one temple of the god Aššur is known in Assyria itself, that at the city of Aššur,²⁰¹ much like only the Jerusalem Temple was supposed to be the true temple of YHWH.²⁰² Outside of the city of Aššur, the symbol of the god Aššur was worshiped in a movable sanctuary during military campaigns,²⁰³ or when installed in the sacred spaces of the subjugated people and added to their gods. Provinces had to provide the Assyrian gods with the sattukku and ginû offerings;²⁰⁴ vassals sent theirs to Assyrian temples. All of them pulled the “yoke of Aššur.” Economical resources must not be dispersed to insufficient local sanctuaries, but had to be accumulated in the Assyrian heartland. The focus of the imposition of the Assyrian imperial cult was economy, i. e. supplying Assyrian temples by the subjects of the empire. Personal beliefs were not of interest for the empire.

 SAA 1 no. 110 rev. 4– 13. anše  ina zag-muk-ki arḫi(iti) reš-ti-i kul-lat mur-ni-is-qí parê(anšekungameš) anše meš ḫi.a gammalê( gam.mal ) til-li ú-nu-ut tāḫāzi(mè) gi-mir ummāni(erim ) šal-la-at na-ki-ri šatti-šam-ma la na-par-ka-a lu-up-qí-da qé-reb-šá qé-reb ekalli(é.gal) šá-a-tu; RINAP 4 Esarhaddon 25 vi 58 – 62.  See also Postgate 1992, 251.  Despite that others are known. It seems that the very idea of the single temple in Jerusalem was inspired by Assyrian example.  May 2010.  Cogan 1974, 49 – 55, Holloway 2002, 100 – 108.

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The royal image was the statement of kingship. As an abbreviated depiction it symbolized the doctrine behind it: the doctrine of the king being the “true image of the god.” This doctrine emerged in Assyria in the reign of Tukultī-Ninurta I and developed together with the development of the Assyrian expansion. In the Epic of Tukultī-Ninurta I this king is called the “eternal image of Enlil.”²⁰⁵ As is evidenced by the correspondence of Esarhaddon and Ashurbanipal, the story behind the royal image was well recognized. These kings were called by their subjects the true images of the god, of Bēl, of Marduk, and of Šamaš.²⁰⁶ The stories of the Creation of the King were well known in Assyria and Babylonia.²⁰⁷According to these stories, Bēlet-ilī endowed the king with a perfect appearance, one of the most important features bestowed on him by the gods.²⁰⁸ For the subjugated peoples, Assyrian royal effigies installed in their temples and sacred places were the reminders of the story of their subjugation.²⁰⁹ Royal stelae were dispersed all over the empire. They reached the widest audience. In the provinces, as Gūzāna examples demonstrate, they were venerated as well as in the heartland. An easily recognizable abbreviated image was incised on them. It was purposely chosen to represent all possible aspects of kingship. The image confirmed for the observer the narrations written upon the stelae, stories of the Assyrian king, hero-conqueror and builder. These royal effigies delivered and transmitted to the non-Assyrian audience the tales of royalty incised upon them in cuneiform. The ṣalam šarri/šarrūtija became a substance in its own right, rather than a mere depiction of a king. The cult of the king’s image proved an efficient way for the legitimation of royalty. It started in the Assyrian Empire, but outlived it. Like many other Assyrian imperial institutions, it was adopted by the Babylonian and Achaemenid Empires.²¹⁰

 ṣalam Enlil dārû, line i 18, Machinist 2006, 161.  SAA 10 no. 207 rev. 12– 13; SAA 10 no. 228: 18 – 19; SAA 10 no. 46 rev. 11; SAA 10 no. 196 rev. 4– 5.  See Mayer 1987, 55 – 56 and Jiménez 2013, 238 – 239 for the edition.  See May 2008, part I, chapter 2 for discussion. VAT 17019 rev. 33′ – 34′ in Mayer 1987, 239.  That the subjugated people were familiar with the narrations of the Assyrian royal inscriptions is well exemplified by 2 Kings 19 = Isaiah 36. See the discussion in Machinist 1983.  Recently, new evidence for the cult of the royal images in the Neo-Babylonian Uruk and the Achaemenid Sippar was published by C. Waerzeggers and K. Kleber (Waezeggers 2014, 323; BM 72747: 1– 4 and Kleber 2008, 273; BM 114521: 1– 2). The tablet from Uruk dating to year 11 of Nabonidus speaks of the regular offerings from the prebends of the brewer and baker to the image of an anonymous king. Another from year 1 of Xerxes, deals with the regular offerings, sattukku, for the image of Darius. This evidence is unique, because the image is identified explicitly as representation of King Darius and refers to a Babylonian cult for a Persian king. Remarkably,

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Excursus: Brief History of Research and Interpretation of the Evidence In 1923 A.T.E. Olmstead claimed in his book History of Assyria that “the captives (settled by Tiglath-pileser III in Babylonia, in Dūr-Tukultī-apil-Ešarra – N.N.M.) … were commanded to worship the royal image which his lord Ashur ordered him to set up ‘as a sign of victory and might’” (Olmsetad 1923, 177). Olmstead relayed on P. Rost’s edition of Tiglath-pileser’s annals (Rost 1893, 7), but modern reading of this passage does not support Rost’s reconstruction (RINAP 1 Tiglath-pileser III 6: 1– 4a). Olmstead refers also to an altar recovered in situ before the stela of Ashurnasirpal II at the entrance of the Ninurta temple at Kalḫu (Olmstead 1923, 102– 104, see below figs. 1a – b). He further based his statement that Assyrian royal images were worshiped by adducing the evidence of sacrifices to a rock relief (in the form of a stele) as depicted on Shalmaneser III’s Balawat Gates (ibid., 116; see Fig. 4a – c). Olmstead’s idea of the worship of the Assyrian king was opposed by C. Gadd. Gadd (1934, 15 – 16) admits the fact that stelae were worshipped on the grounds of: (1) the altar posed before the stelae of Ashurnasirpal II at the Ninurta temple (Fig. 1a – b); (2) The Balawat Gates depiction (figs. 4 a – c); (3) the relief from the North palace of Ashurbanipal (Fig. 3a – b). Nevertheless, he considered adoration of the stelae to be an act different from the worship of the gods. His attempt to comprehend the sources does not clarify their meaning (Gadd 1934, 16). This leaves the adoration of the stelae, which according to Gadd himself is obviously cultic action, unexplained. H. Tadmor (1964, 264) suggested, based on Tiglath-pileser III’s description of his campaign against Philistia, that “the clearest sign of the enslavement was the royal Assyrian cult which was introduced there, i. e., the service of the stela of the king of Assyria in the central Shrine of Gaza. Only those vassal states which were not annexed to Assyria were forced to practice this cult, whereas the people of Assyria proper and residents of Assyrian provinces were absolved from it.” (Tadmor 1964, 264: translation from Hebrew after Cogan 1974, 57). In his subsequent publication of the texts of Tiglath-pileser III Tadmor (1994, 177) refrains from expressing his own opinion concerning the Assyrian imperial cult and refers the reader to discussions of this question in the books of M. Cogan and H. Spieckermann. All those authors are actually concerned with the question of imperial cults being imposed upon the Assyrian vassal states. The matters of the deification of a king or his image are of second priority for them. Noteworthy, that in his 1994 edition Tadmor interprets ṣalam šarrūtija as a statue of the king (Tadmor 1994, 177), and not as a stela as he did previously (Tadmor 1964, 264). A. Ungnad concludes (Ungnad 1967, 58 – 9, n. 21 and 63, n. 5), that royal images (not stelae, as in Cogan 1974, 59) were sanctified, basing himself on contracts, from Gūzāna, which put ṣalam šarri in one line with divine images. He further supports his opinion citing the names, which use ṣalam šarri as a substitute for the divine name in theophoric personal names. Cogan (1974, 55 – 61) argued against Tadmor’s and Ungnad’s suggestions and supported Gadd. Oddly enough he does not discuss the textual evidence, but the pictorial and archaeological only. Thus, he claims that the altar before the Ashurnasirpal II’ stela at Ninurta temple bears an inscription, dedicating it to Bēl, in which case the sacrifices there were made to gods and not to the royal image. He postulates (1974, 57– 58) that “… typological study of the altars found in proximity to stelae – both those found in situ and those represented on palace reliefs – differentiated at least two distinct architectural styles: (1) peaked incense(?) altar, and (2) round table altars. Peaked altars are usually shown stationed at temple gateways and entrance;

both in Uruk and Sippar the cult of royal image was modelled on the traditional Babylonian prebendary system.

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their location at some distance from the stelae militates against a direct cultic connection between the two.” All pictorial and archaeological evidence on this matter at our disposal is meticulously analyzed in the presented article. It shows that indeed two types of altars can be distinguished: a stationary, round stone altar found in situ in front of a stela in immediate proximity to it (example 1, Fig. 1a–b); and a removable offering table depicted in a row with a libation receptacle and an incense burner, erroneously taken by Cogan for a “peaked incense(?) altar,” standing in front of the stela and two divine emblems. The second type is found upon pictorial representations (paṭīru; figs. 4a–c; 5a–b) and none of them can be interpreted as anything else but a depiction of a sacrifice. As for the texts, Cogan stresses the absence of written ritual or textual evidence of a demand for royal cult (ibid., 60), thus ignoring the existing textual sources. Finally, he reaches the conclusion (ibid.): “Within Assyria and its provinces the stelae did take on a quasi-religious significance. But, again, this is far from deification or imposition of a cult of a king.” “Quasi-religious” significance is at the present state of research not a satisfactory level of comprehension of the meaning of the royal image. Thus, I will search for a more specific understanding of it. S. Dalley (1986, 100) in her turn accepts Cogan’s ideas, but sees their essence in a statement that the stelae “reminded all onlookers of the political loyalties expected of them.” This is of course, unquestionable, but again too general a phrase. S. Cole and P. Machinist (1998, XIII – XV) collected almost all the textual evidence, Assyrian and earlier, regarding the adoration of the king’s image, which they believe existed in the Empire. Aspects of the relationship of kingship and divinity were treated recently by Machinist (2011; see also May 2008 part I, chapter 2). Among other features of deification of the royalty Machinist observes the veneration of the king’s effigy (Machinist 2011, 178 – 182) evidenced textually in the Götteradressbuch and Tell Halaf contracts, archaeologically by the discovery of Ashurnasirpal II’s Great Monolith with an altar in situ in front of it (figs. 1a–b) and pictorially by Assubanipal’s relief (figs. 3a–b). His conclusion is that the king was adored when represented as a worshiper and mediator between gods and humans. S. Holloway dedicated a chapter Divine image of the King, Prestige Politics, and Imperialism to the question of deification of the royal image (Holloway 2002, 178 – 197). He reviews again the textual evidence collected by Cole and Machinist (Holloway 2002, 178) and the pictorial presentations on Shalmaneser III’s Balawat Gates (figs. 4a–c, 5a–b and 7) as well as the above mentioned stela of Ashurnasirpal II (Fig. 1a–b). He poses all the correct questions concerning the ceremonial details of the worship of divinized images of the kings or divinized kings (Holloway 2002, 189), which is hard or impossible to answer considering our limited evidence. His bottom line is (Holloway 2002, 190): “Given the antiquity and prevalence of limited ruler worship in Mesopotamia, I find nothing surprising in the reassertion of that tradition by the Neo-Assyrian kings, staunch traditionalists who assiduously exploited the available gamut of diplomatic and theatrical tools to solidify their power bases among the elites who ultimately maintained them on or deprived them of their thrones and their lives.” Nevertheless, Holloway does not attempt to search for those limits of “ruler worship,” and he denies as well the existence of the “Assyrian provincial royal cult,” postulating that “Assyrian kings could and did set up royal images of themselves in provincial capitals at the time of their incorporation …,” but ‘To attempt to canvass three hundred years of Neo-Assyrian religious imperialism outside of Mesopotamia based on five disparate citations is simply hubris…” (Holloway 2002, 193). Concerning the ancient Mesopotamian traditions mentioned by Holloway, the mīs pî ritual was performed for the statues of Gudea, deified after his death (Winter 1992, 22; Civil 1967, 211). W. Meinhold (Meinhold 2009, 106 – 108.) was the last one to briefly discuss the installation of royal images in Assyria, partic-

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ularly in connection with the royal image installed at the temple of Ištar-aššurītu. She concluded that both archaeological and textual evidence points to the veneration of the king’s effigies in the temples of the Assyrian heartland.

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Dinkler, Erich. 1979. “The Christian Realm: Abbreviated Representations.” In Age of Spirituality: Late Antique and Early Christian Art, Third to Seventh Century; Catalogue of the Exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, November 19, 1977, Through February 12, 1978, edited by Kurt Weitzmann, 396 – 448. New York: Princeton Univ. Pr. Donbaz, Veysel. 1990. “Two Neo-Assyrian Stelae in the Antakya and Kahramanmaras Museums.” Annual Revue of the Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia Project 8: 5 – 24. van Driel, Govert. 1969. The Cult of Aššur. Studia Semitica Neerlandica 13. Assen: Van Gorkum. Frankena, Rintje. 1953. Takultu de sacrale maaltijd in het Assyrische ritueel: Met een overzicht over de in Assur vereerde goden. Commentationes Orientales. Leiden: Brill. Frankena, Rintje. 1961. “New Materials for the Tākultu Ritual: Additions and Corrections.” Bibliotheca Orientalis 18: 199 – 207. Frahm, Eckart. 2009. Ausgrabungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft in Assur. Wissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft 121. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Fuchs, Andreas. 1994. Die Inschriften Sargons II. aus Khorsabad. Göttingen: Cuvillier Verlag. Gadd, Cyril J. 1934. The Assyrian Sculptures. London: British Museum. Gadd, Cyril J. 1936. The Stones of Assyria: The Surviving Remains of Assyrian Sculpture their Recovery and Their Original Positions. London: Chatto und Windus. Hansen, Donald P. 2002. “Through the Love of Ishtar.” In Of Pots and Plans: Papers on the Archaeology and History of Mesopatamia and Syria Presented to David Oates in Honour of His 75th Birthday, edited by Lamia Al-Gailani Werr, 91 – 122. London: NABU. Harrison, Timothy P. and James F. Osborne. 2012 “Building XVI and the Neo-Assyrian Sacred Precinct at Tell Tayinat.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 64, 125 – 143. Holloway, Steven W. 2002. Aššur is King! Aššur is King! Religion in the Exercise of Power in the Neo-Assyrian Empire. Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 10. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Hurowitz, Victor A. 1989 “Isaiah’s Impure Lips and Their Purification in Light of Akkadian Sources.” Hebrew Union College Annual 60: 39 – 89. Jiménez, Enrique 2013. “The Creation of the King: A Reaprisal.” KASKAL 10: 235 – 254. Kessler, Herbert L. 1979. “The Christian Realm: Narrative Representations.” In Age of Spirituality: Late Antique and Early Christian Art, Third to Seventh Century. Catalogue of the Exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, November 19, 1977, through February 12, 1978, edited by Kurt Weitzmann, 449 – 512. Princeton: Princeton University Press. King, Leonard W. 1915. The Bronze Reliefs from the Gates of Shalmaneser, King of Assyria, B.C. 860 – 825. London: British Museum. Kleber, K. 2008. Tempel und Palast: Die Beziehungen zwischen dem König und dem Eanna-Tempel im spätbabylonischen Uruk. Alter Orient und Altes Testamt 358. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Landsberger, Benno. 1915 Der kultische Kalender der Babylonier und Assyrer. Eine Untersuchung auf Grund der Briefe aus der Sargonidenzeit. LSS 6/1 – 2. Leipzig: Hinrichs. Lauinger, Jacob. 2012. “Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty at Tell Tayinat: Text and Commentary.” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 64: 87 – 123. Layard, Austin Henry. 1853. The Monuments of Nineveh from Drawings Made on the Spot. London: Murray.

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Machinist, Peter. 1983. “Assyria and Its Image in the First Isaiah.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 103: 719 – 737. Machinist, Peter. 2006. “Kingship and Divinity in Imperial Assyria.” In Text, Artifact, and Image: Revealing Ancient Israelite Religion, edited by Gary M. Beckman and Theodore J. Lewis, 152 – 88. Brown Judaic Studies 346. Providence, RI: Brown Judaic Studies. Machinist, Peter. 2011. “Der Gott Assur und der imperiale Anspruch assyrischer Herrscher.” In Assur – Gott, Stadt und Land. 5. Internationales Colloquium der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft 18.–21. Februar 2004 in Berlin, edited by Johannes Renger, 405 – 430. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. May, Natalie. N. 2008. Sacral Functions of the King as Represented in Neo-Assyrian Art (Ninth–Seventh Centuries BCE). PhD Dissertation). Beer Sheva: Ben Gurion University of the Negev. May, Natalie. N. 2010. “The Qersu in Neo-Assyrian Cultic Setting: Its Origin, Identification, Depiction and Evolution.” In Language in the Ancient Near East: Proceedings 53e Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Moscow and St. Petersburg July 2007, edited by Leonid Kogan, 441 – 489. Orientalia et Classica 30/1. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. May, Natalie. N. 2014. “Gates and Their Functions in Mesopotamia and Ancient Israel.” In The Fabric of Cities: Aspects of Urbanism, Urban Topography and Society in Mesopotamia, Greece and Rome, edited by Natalie N. May and Ulrike Steinert, 77 – 121. Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 68. Leiden/Boston: Brill. May, Natalie. N. 2015. “Administrative and Other Reforms of Sargon II and Tiglath-pileser III.” State Archives of Assyria Bulletin XXI (= Change in Neo-Assyrian Imperial Administration: Evolution and Revolution edited by Natalie N. May and Sanaa Svärd, 79 – 116. State Archives of Assyria Bulletin 21. Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Textcorpus Project. May, Natalie. N. 2017. “The Vizier and the Brother: Sargon II’s Brother and Vizier Sīn-aḫu-uṣur and the Neo-Assyrian Collateral Branches.” BiOr 74/5 – 6: 491 – 527. May, Natalie. N. 2018. “Neo-Assyrian Women, their Visibility and Representation in Written and Pictorial Sources.” Studying Gender in the Ancient Near East, edited by edited by Saana Svärd and Agnès Garcia-Ventura, 249 – 288. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. Mayer, Werner R. 1987. “Ein Mythos von der Erschaffung des Menschen und des Königs.” Orientalia 56/1: 55 – 68. Mazar, ʿAmiḥai. 1990. Archaeology of the Land of the Bible. The Anchor Bible Reference Library. New York: Doubleday. Meinhold, Wiebke. 2009. Ištar in Assur: Untersuchung eines Lokalkultes von ca. 2500 bis 614 v. Chr. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 367. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Menzel, Brigitte. 1981. Assyrische Tempel. Studia Pohl: Series Maior 10. Rom: Biblical Institute Press. Mettinger, Tryggve N. D. 1995. No Graven image? Israelite Aniconism in its Ancient Near Eastern Context. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International. Müller, Karl Friedrich. 1937 “Das assyrische Ritual: Teil I. Texte zum assyrischen Königsritual,” Mitteilungen der Vorderasiatisch-Ägyptischen Gesellschaft 41 (III): 1 – 91. Na’aman, Nadav. 1999. “No Anthropomorphic Graven Image. Notes on the Assumed Anthropomorphic Cult Statues in the Temples of YHWH in the Pre-Exilic Period.” Ugarit-Forschungen 31: 391 – 416. Oppenheim, A. Leo. 1966. “Analysis of an Assyrian Ritual (KAR 139).” History of Religions 5, no. 2: 250 – 265.

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Ornan, Tallay. 2004. “Expelling Demons at Nineveh: On the Visibility of Benevolent Demons in the Palaces of Nineveh.” Iraq 66 (=Papers of the XLIXe Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, London 7 – 11, July 2003): 83 – 92. Ornan, Tallay. 2005. The Triumph of the Symbol: Pictorial Representation of Deities in Mesopotamia and the Biblical Image Ban. Orbis Biblicus Orientalis 213. Fribourg / Göttingen: Academic Press; Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Pardee, Denis. 2009. “A New Aramaic Inscription from Zincirli.” Bulletin of the American School of Oriental Research 356: 51 – 71. Parker, B. 1954. “The Nimrud Tablets, 1952: Business Documents.” Iraq 16/1: 29 – 58. Pognon, Henri. 1907. Inscriptions sémitique de la Syrie, de la Mesopotamie et de la region de Mossoul. Paris. Pongratz-Leisten, Beate 2017. Religion and Ideology in Assyria. Studies in the Ancient Near Eastern Records 6. Boston/Berlin: de Gruyter. Porter, Barbara N. 2000. “Assyrian Propaganda for the West, Esarhaddon’s Steles for Til Barsip and Sam’al.” In Essays on Syria in the Iron Age, edited by Guy Bunnens, 143 – 176. Ancient Near Eastern Studies Supplement 7. Louvain: Peeters Press. Postgate, John Nicholas 1992. “The Land of Assur and the Yoke of Assur.” World Archaeology 23, no. 3: 247 – 263. Reade, Julian E. 1964. “More Drawings of Ashurbanipal Sculptures.” Iraq 26, 1 – 13. Schachner, Andreas. 2007. Bilder eines Weltreichs: Kunst- und kulturgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zu den Verzierungen eines Tores aus Balawat (Imgur-Enlil) aus der Zeit von Salmanassar III, König von Assyrien. Subartu 20. Turnhout: Brepols. Schmandt-Besserat, Denise. 1993. “Images of Enship.” In Between the Rivers and Over the Mountains: Archaeologica Anatolica et Mesopotamica, Alba Palmieri dedicata, edited by Marcella Frangipane, Mario Liverani, Paolo Matthiae, and Harald Hauptmann, 201 – 219. Roma: Università degli studi di Roma. Slanski, Kathryn E. 2003. The Babylonian Entitlement Narûs (Kudurrus): A Study in Their Form and Function. ASOR Books 9. Boston: American Schools of Oriental Research. Sollberger, Edmond. 1974. “The White Obelisk.” Iraq 36 (1/2): 231 – 238. Spieckermann, Hermann. 1982. Juda unter Assur in der Sargonidenzeit. 1. Aufl. Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments 129. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Suter, Claudia E. 2000. Gudea’s Temple Building: The Representation of an Early Mesopotamian Ruler in Text and Image. Cuneiform Monographs 17. Groningen: STYX Publications. Tadmor, Hayim. 1964. “Philistia under Assyrian Rule.” In The Military History of the Land of Israel in the Biblical Times (in Hebrew), edited by Jacob Liver, 261 – 285. Jerusalem: Israel Defense Force. Tadmor, Hayim. 1982. “The Aramaization of Assyria: Aspects of Western Impact.” In Mesopotamien und seine Nachbarn: Politische und kulturelle Wechselbeziehungen im alten Vorderasien vom 4. bis 1. Jahrtsd. v. Chr, edited by Hans J. Nissen, 449 – 470. Berliner Beiträge zum Vorderen Orient. Berlin: Reimer. Tadmor, Hayim. 1994. The Inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser III, King of Assyria: Critical Edition, with Introductions, Translations, and Commentary. Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities.

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Ungnad, Arthur. 1967. “Die Keilschrifttexte vom Tell Halaf: Spätassyrische und neubabylonische Privaturkunden vom Tell Halaf.” In Die Inschriften vom Tell Halaf: Keilschrifttexte und aramaeische Urkunden aus einer assyrischen Provinzhauptstadt, edited by Johannes Friedrich, 47 – 69. Archiv für Orientforschung Beiheft 6. Osnabrück: Biblio-Verlag. Ussishkin, David. 1989. “The Erection of Royal Monuments in City-Gates.” In Anatolia and the Ancient Near East: Studies in Honor of Tahsin Özgüç, edited by Kutlu Emre, 485 – 496. Anakara: Turk Tarih Kurumu Basimevi. van Buren, Douglas. 1952. “Homage to a Deified King.” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und Vorderasiatische Archäologie 50: 92 – 120. van der Toorn, Karl. 1997. “Worshipping Stones: On the Deification of Cult Symbol.” Journal of Northwest Semitic Languages 23: 1 – 14. Waerzeggers, Caroline. 2014. “A Statue of Darius in the Temple of Sippar.” In Extraction & Control: Studies in Honor of Matthew W. Stolper, edited by Michael Kozuh et al., 323 – 329. Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 68. Chicago: The Oriental Institute. Watanabe, Kazuko. 2014. “Esarhaddon’s Succession Oath Documents Reconsidered in Light of the Tayinat Version.” Orient 49: 145 – 170. Watanabe, Kazuko. 2015. “Innovations in Esarhaddon’s Succession Oath Documents Considered from the Viewpoint of the Documents’ Structure.” State Archives of Assyria Bulletin XXI (= Change in Neo-Assyrian Imperial Administration: Evolution and Revolution edited by Natalie N. May and Sanaa Svärd): 173 – 215. Winter, Irene J. 1986. “The King and the Cup: Iconography of the Royal Presentation Scene on the Ur III Seals.” In Insight Through Images: Studies in Honor of Edith Porada, edited by Marilyn Kelly-Buccellati, 253 – 268. Bibliotheca Mesopotamia 21. Malibu, Cal.: Undena Publ. Winter, Irene J. 1987. “Legitimation of Authority Through Image and Legend: Seals Belonging to Officials in the Administrative Bureaucracy of the Ur III State.” In The Organization of Power: Aspects of Bureaucracy in the Ancient Near East, edited by McGuire Gibson, 69 – 106. Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 46. Chicago: The Oriental Institute. Winter, Irene J. 1992. “’Idols of the king’: Royal Images as Recipients of Ritual Action in Ancient Mesopotamia.” Journal of Ritual Studies 6/1: 12 – 42. Winter, Irene J. 1997. “Art in Empire. The Royal Image and the Visual Dimensions of Assyrian Ideology.” In Assyria 1995: Proceedings of the 10th Anniversary Symposium of the Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, Helsinki, September 7 – 11, 1995, edited by Simo Parpola and Robert M. Whiting, 359 – 381. Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Yamada, Shigeo. 2000. The Construction of the Assyrian Empire: A Historical Study of the Inscriptions of Shalmaneser III (859 – 824 B.C.) Relating to His Campaigns to the West. Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 3. Leiden: Brill.

Figures Fig. 1a–b. Stela of Ashurnasirpal II at the entrance to the Ninurta temple at Kalḫu (Nimrud) with an altar in front of it. 5th year of Ashurnasirpal II – 879 BCE; (b) detail. After Layard 1853a, 303.

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Fig. 2a–b. Stela of Adad-nērārī III (797 BCE) inside the cella of the temple at Tell al-Rimah next to the pedestal of a divine statue; (a) view, after Oates 1968, pl. XXXIIa; (b) plan of the temple. After Oates 1968, pl. XXXIII. Fig. 3a–b. Relief from the North Palace of Ashurbanipal, Room H, ca. 649 BCE. A crenellated altar stands in the path before a stela; (a) after Barnett 1976: pl. XXIII, slabs 8 – 9; (b) detail. After Börker-Klähn 1982, no. 228. Fig. 4a–c. Carving of the royal effigy at the Tigris tunnel. Balawat Gates of Shalmaneser III, Band X. (13th year of Shalmaneser – 848 BCE); (a) after Börker-Klähn 1982, no. 151; (b) after King 1915, pls. 68 – 69; (c) after Schachner 2007, 302. Fig. 5a–b. Sacrifice to the divine symbols and the ṣalam šarrūtija at the shore of the lake Na’iri. Balawat Gates of Shalmaneser III, Band, I (13th year of Shalmaneser – 848 BCE); (a) after King 1915: pls.1 – 2; (b) after Börker-Klähn 1982: no. 146. Fig. 6a–b. (a) White Obelisk, III. register, sides A – B. Drawing by Nica May-Reichstein. (b) Detail: the king inside bīt nathi before the goddess. After Sollberger 1974, Fig. 1. Fig. 7. Divine symbols and the ṣalam šarrūtija at the Phoenician(?) seashore. Fragment of bronze band N, most probably from Balawat. After Börker-Klähn 1982, no. 147. Fig. 8a–b. Worship of the royal stela and the divine symbols; cylinder seal BM 89502, Sargon II’s time; (a) after Börker-Klähn 1982, no.176; (b) after Collon 2001, 173. Fig. 9a–b. (a) Worship of divine emblems at the gates of Arbela. Relief from room I of the North Palace of Ashurbanipal (669 – 626 BCE), slab 9 shows a triple-walled city and the king making offerings. After Barnett 1976, pls. XXV–XXVI; (b) detail: the king and his entourage making offerings in front of the two šurrinū flanking the gate of a palace or temple. Drawing by S.I. Stark after Barnett 1976, pls. XXVXXVI.

Seth Richardson

Down with “Legitimacy”: On “Validity” and Narrative in Royal Tales Getting Beyond Legitimacy What is legitimacy, and what does narrative have to do with it? “Legitimacy” might be the most commonly used word in all of ancient Near Eastern political history-writing, but its premises have been woefully undertheorized. What follows will, perhaps predictably, quibble over the meaning of a word which is important to many of the papers in this and many other books. But rather than just kibitz over a term and muddy the waters, my goal is to elucidate how narrativity produced political authority through “validity.” I will argue that we ought to use the term “validity” to refer to the concepts of wholeness and cogency of political authority that narrativity creates, rather than the rule-bound criteria that “legitimacy” suggests. I should stress that this essay was written outside the framework of the 2015 workshop in Bern, so it does not reflect or comment on any of the papers in this volume. A further caveat: I am no narratologist, cognitive scientist, or political scientist, though these are forms of expertise to which I appeal naively here. And so this essay would surely have been better argued in hands more expert than I am in these areas; but I hope at least to corral some useful concepts for further critical attention. That ancient rulers wanted something we call “legitimacy” is a problematic proposition. For one thing, it supposes that socio-political validation by parties other than the king (e. g., the court, “elites,” the military, the priesthood, or the population at large) was an important basis of effective royal rule. While this is certainly true at some level, it is discrepant with the grounds for rightful kingship as they were voiced by our historical subjects: divine authorization, dynastic/genealogical descent, and the personal qualities and achievements of the ruler. The idea that Mesopotamian politics was a dialogue between ruler and ruled must be heavily inferred, since it is rare to find open demonstrations of it. If there was a “fourth wall” before which both good kings and bad performed, before audiences whose opinions mattered, it was rarely broken. And that by itself is meaningful: the “legitimation” which we imagine was the crucial operation in our sources is given almost no prominence there, and this by itself begs some account. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501506895-014

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Further, the concept of legitimacy is not clearly bounded by a corresponding ancient sense of what constituted illegitimacy. There were no clearly visible criteria to distinguish between the sufficient and insufficient political authority of a king; open rebellion was one of the few indications we have that the ruled ever pushed back against the ruling.¹ This is a complicated matter which I will begin to unpack below, but for the sake of summary, one can say that most kings who were deposed in rebellions (of which there were many), or were labelled by negative epithets (“not the lord of the throne,” “of no lineage,” “not of the flesh of the city of Aššur,” etc.²), were nevertheless still called kings – there was no question that they had held kingship. Even the Sumerian King List’s plaintive “Who was king? Who was not king?” (a-ba-am₃ lugal a-ba-am₃ nu lugal) never leads it to actually identify any of the 134 kings it lists as anything other than a “king.” There existed no way or no need to distinguish between bona fide and ersatz kings. And what of the word “legitimacy” itself? Though we think of it rarely, the term derives from the Latin lex, “law,” a semantic sense so deep that it extends etymologically to words for legitimacy in virtually all Romance and Germanic vocabularies,³ many Slavic ones,⁴ and out as a loanword to non-IE languages as diverse as Basque (legitimitate), Georgian (legitimuroba), and Estonian (legitiimsus). Indeed, it is difficult to find a modern language in which the concept of rightful political authority is not directly rooted in the domain of law.⁵ Valid sovereign powers today are understood to be vested in a leader by legal acts, typi-

 See Richardson 2010.  I prefer Millard’s (1997) “of no lineage” to “son of a nobody” for mār lā mamman; but I prefer “not the master of the throne” to his “with no title to the throne” for lā bēl kussê (Millard, COS). “Title” or “owner” for bēlu might imply the legal possession of property, while “master” remains more enigmatic. But to my knowledge, the only king ever to be labeled lā bēl kussê is Aššurdugul from the Assyrian King List, and so this use is a hapax; and the only use known to me of its presumable antonym, bēl kussê, is a reference to the god Adad in a text from Emar (the fuller phrase is bēl kussê eperē u ālim ki, “lord of the throne, the land, and the city”). CAD’s proposed translation of bēlu as “officeholder,” meanwhile, does not actually appear in any of its meanings or translations of bēlu.  Armenian legitimut’yuny, Danish legitimitet, French légitimité, German Legitimität, Icelandic lögmæti, Portuguese legitimidade, etc.  E. g., Bulgarian, Slovak, and Czech legitimnost(’), Serbian legitimitet, Ukranian lehitymnist’.  E. g. the terms for “legitimacy/law” in Dutch (wettigheid/wet [both ultimately from weten, “to know”; my thanks to Theo van den Hout for this clarification], rechtmatig/recht), Greek (νομιμότητα/νόμος), Russian (законность/закон), Polish (prawowitość/prawo), and Turkish (meşruluk/meşru; my thanks to Katie Johnson for her help with these Turkish terms) are all etymologically related without deriving from lex.

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cally through a constitution: his appointment, the extent and limits of his power, and the structures through which he operates are all legally defined. The very normativity (i. e., “obviousness”) of the semantic connection we now make between law and political legitimacy calls it out as the discourse it is. But it is actually rather a new one: as little as two centuries ago, the idea that power could be legally defined and constrained was a novel Enlightenment challenge to political cultures still steeped in ideologies of monarchism. Constitutionalism itself came in for derision even from a deist like Thomas Carlyle – here in 1837 mocking the notion that the French Constitution could be a structuring force in political life: If the Constitution would but march! Alas, the Constitution will not stir. It falls on its face; they tremblingly lift it on end again: march, thou gold Constitution! The Constitution will not march … A Constitution, as we often say, will march when it images, if not the Old Habits and Beliefs of the Constituted, then accurately their Rights, or better indeed their Mights; – for these two, well understood, are they not one and the same? The Old Habits of France are gone: her new Rights and Mights are not yet ascertained, except in Paper-theorem…. (The French Revolution, II.5.ii).

How, indeed, could mere pieces of paper replace the god-given rights of kings as the foundation of order on earth? Recalling that most modern nation-states, so constituted by a legal framework, were founded only within the last 250 years, we would do well to think seriously about how the precepts behind earlier theories of power – which had held sway for centuries, even millennia – worked and persuaded. The Divine Right of Kings, for instance, was a doctrine founded in a mixture of scriptural, paternal, hereditary, and ecclesiastical authorities, with only a few boundaries to any king’s power set by the Church (up to and including justified tyrannicide). The Chinese Mandate of Heaven was similarly theological, but additionally appealed to a notion of natural law, but eschewed dynastic descent; here, too, a right of rebellion against unjust rulers existed. Neither is perfectly analogous to a Mesopotamian idea of justified rule, but both offer examples of theories of justified order not founded in the conceptual domain of civil law. In any event, no clear terminological link between law and valid political authority exists in Akkadian. The verb dânu (“to judge”) produces several derivates, including dīnu (the word closest to meaning “law” as an abstract or categorical concept), but none of those derivates was ever used to qualify or describe the character of a king’s rule. Mesopotamian royal rule had no semantic basis in law. Nor was there even a generic construction of kingship by law: only two collections of “laws,” the reforms of Uruinimgina and the Code of Ur-Namma, are known from the 1,500 years from Uruk IV to Ur III, when the template of classic

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kingship was being laid down. Neither these, nor any other later Mesopotamian law code, contained a single statute prescribing or limiting the king’s appointment, powers, or responsibilities.⁶ Kings themselves might pronounce legal decisions, and were sometimes called “judges,” as early as the Old Akkadian period; but it was kings who made laws, not the other way around.⁷ So while it is hard enough to try to imagine a legal basis for Mesopotamian kingship that the ancients did not themselves produce, the situation gets even worse when one considers that law itself – as domain, as process, as genre – was still in its infancy when kingship was already fully-fledged.⁸ At this point, the idea of Mesopotamian kingship as founded in any legal basis becomes more or less untenable. So “legitimacy” is just a terribly unsuitable word with which to imagine the political purpose of “tales of royalty,” royal inscriptions, or any other form of Mesopotamian state propaganda. The term “validity” (from Latin valeo, “to be strong, well, efficacious”), better serves this purpose. Notwithstanding that modern English “valid” today also carries a strong semantic association with legal force,⁹ Latin valeo did not substantially bear that meaning. In transferred meaning, valeo might mean morally or politically strong, but only rarely was it used even to describe law – we find, e. g., Cicero, In Catilinam 1:18, declaiming that Catiline tried to “break the power (valusiti)” of the laws. Thus, though the law (or a law) might have strength, valeo by itself did not imply legal power; instead, it denoted strength, health, and integrity, qualities different from the juridical rule-making of law. Before I proceed to discuss how a theory of “validity” might work, I will make a quick note about my use of the term “royal tales.” The editors have rightly cast a wide net with these words, taking into account not only textual but also

 The closest suggestion of a legal basis of kingship comes in the Code of Ur-Namma obv. i 41-ii 2: “According to his justice (nig₂-si-sa₂-ni-še₃) and righteousness (nig₂-gi-na-ni-še₃) … the kingship of Ur was given to him (=Ur-Namma).” This, however, describes the quality of the man selected for kingship, not the basis for the office itself. Compare to ibid. rev. iii’ 12’, where kings are subject to the provisions of the curse formula, in the mantic realm rather than the legal arena. Richardson 2017, 37: “Of 279 preserved laws in [the Code of Hammurabi], only one reserves any specific powers to the king….”  An analogy which comes to mind is Šulgi’s claim in his Hymn B to have been the creator (i. e., the birth-goddess, Nintud) of omen readings, rather than a student of a text.  Indeed, at least two other concepts which might seem central to early kingship are ripe for reexamination, namely dynasticism and military success, both of which are less typical of the early record than one might think; whereas tropes of popular election and emotional affect perhaps deserve more and new attention.  See Grabowski 2013, 268 – 269.

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iconographic and architectural evidence.¹⁰ This is important first of all as a way to break down the disciplinary screens denoted by text-and-image media (and below, I will typically use “text” to mean any relevant source and “reader” to mean any relevant audience). But attention to multiple media also emphasizes the functionality of narrative’s modular components, such as motifs, themes, and patterns. These are structuring devices which are not of themselves “narrative” (e. g., accomplishing by themselves neither sequential action or “significant transformation”), but which are nonetheless vital for narrative to produce its full discursive impact. Thus, I will use the term “royal tales” without prejudice not only to medium, but even to genre, to refer to the broad array of royal inscriptions, epics, and other stories which have a significantly narrative structure and put the king as the heroic center of action. This should in theory include even “micro-narratives” – epithets, historical omens, chronicle entries, and year-names – the historiolae which stand between symbol and story. Each form was capable of activating a chain of associations and allusions which might be unvoiced, but could nevertheless be vital to decoding broader meanings.

From Legitimacy to Validity: How to Get There So if “legitimacy” is the wrong word, then the question becomes: can one identify and describe the forms or techniques of “validity” which had the analogous powers to justify authority? What concepts promoted validity, and what does a distinction between them and those of legality tell us about the nature of Mesopotamian kingship? My contention is that the constituent techniques relate to the semantics of wholeness to which the word “validity” alludes: narrative’s literary effects of coherence, well-being, and shared access to or experience of deep truths, instead of the resumé of benchmark qualities which generate “legitimacy.” The papers in this volume address narrative themes about royal piety, wisdom, and heroism; these and other royal virtues (order, paternal care, and justice; embodied by the king as hunter, shepherd, and judge) may be said to be the attributes of kingship, of which the whole concept was greater than its parts. There is some circularity to determining the relative efficacy of these claims as constitutive of royal power, at least to the extent that their absence (especially an absence of royal inscriptions) often leads us to diagnose various

 See Sonik 2014.

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kings as “weak” (e. g., Aššur-dān III, for whom one royal inscription is known, in one exemplar), while a superabundance of the same kinds of texts and declarations just as often lead us to conclude that another king was “strong” (e. g., Šulgi, for whom about 72 inscriptions are known, with about 250 exempla). There is often some truth to these correlations, which we are sometimes able to corroborate with evidence external to royal rhetoric. But it is fair to point out two problematic implications of this thinking. First, “weak” and “strong” are probably better designations for our state of knowledge about these reigns than about the actual, historical capacity of any kings so described.¹¹ That is, we simply know very little about Aššur-dān III of Assyria and his state, and much about Šulgi of Ur and his. This need not concern us much, except to remind us that historical reconstructions which color in the aspect of “weak reigns” around kings for whom we have little evidence of course do so at the peril of new evidence some day being introduced. Second and more important, “weak” and “strong” are close to meaningless designations in political-scientific terms with regard to the concept of validity. Aššur-dān III reigned for 18 years and left little epigraphic or other evidence for his reign; and yet there was no question of his viability or suitability as king. For all our lack of knowledge about Aššur-dān III,¹² he is nowhere characterized as having failed to perform his royal duties. To give a broader example: there were seventeen Assyrian kings who “lived in tents,” with nothing more known about them; their names were, nevertheless, immortalized as royal in more than a thousand years of Assyrian King Lists. Or: consider that not a single royal inscription survives from the entire first hundred years of the First Dynasty of Babylon, right up until the time of Hammurabi himself, and thus not a single claim that any of its kings were builders, wise judges, or favorites of the gods;¹³ and yet no king list or any other evidence, contemporary or later, questions or even hints at the unsuitability of any of these kings for kingship. “Weak” all

 As Marc Van De Mieroop points out (pers. comm.), Sumerian/Akkadian kal/dannum, “strong,” was an adjective commonly used in royal inscriptions to describe kings; sig/enšu, “weak,” however, was never applied (even pejoratively) to kings, and in context almost explicitly denoted people at the other end of the social spectrum, i. e., “the weak (and oppressed),” etc.  Aššur-dān III leaves us only one royal inscription from his 18 years of rule; it is a fragmentary clay cone recording building work at the Aššur temple (RIMA 106.1). The Eponym Chronicle gives us a more nuanced picture: eight campaigns are recorded, but also five rebellions, three epidemics, and four years in which the king simply “stayed in the land.” By way of comparison, his two predecessors (Adad-nērārī III and Shalmaneser IV) campaigned in every single one of their 37 years (Glassner 1993, 163 – 66).  Cf., however, their plentiful year-names, which celebrate these kings’ achievements in warfare, temple and civic building, pious acts, canal-building, and restorative justice.

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these kings may have been in fact, but this never seems to have any bearing on whether or not they acceded and reigned, whether they were received or remembered, as kings – as they always were, without exception. Methodologically, we must admit that kings whose reigns were not rich in texts aligning with the themes of “strength,” were never set categorically apart from the more verbose kings who capture our attention time and again. In narratological terms, Assyriology has traditionally been stronger in studying the themes of royal narratives, especially for earlier inscriptions,¹⁴ where the point has been to formalize the semiotic associations of signs into a scaffolding of meaning. This may be contrasted to the study of narrative modes, e. g., voice, person, rhythm, temporal order, which are better studied for Mesopotamian epics, poetry, and belles lettres than for royal inscriptions. Yet narratives had the capability to animate kingship themes in ways which made them permeable and durable by way of cognition, memory , logic, and emotion. Memorable, embroiderable, repeatable, and allusive, “tales of royalty” had political functions that can be hard to detect, because they depend on reader reception, coding, and generic expectations that are all but invisible to us. It can be difficult to muster the enthusiasm needed to imagine Mesopotamian royal rhetoric as engaging and persuasive; these texts can seem tedious, repetitive, and shallow – even to Assyriologists. Yet the persistence of royal inscriptions and symbols across three thousand years of cuneiform culture points to the indispensibility of royal tales as tools of rule. It may be undesirable, or even impossible, to fully disentangle a thematic from a narrative study of such texts. But in what follows, I will suggest that more attention to narrative modes can be fruitful for conceptualizing a type of validity based more on an aesthetic of coherence and persuasiveness than on any themes or categories being diagnosably “true” (that is, to prove that a king was a builder, just as he said, and therefore the valid king; that he was a jurist, just as he claimed; etc.). To pursue subjective experiences like “persuasiveness” or “satisfying wholeness” might seem awkward insofar as that leads us away from our historian’s impulse to correlate descriptions in our sources to actual facts of the past. But it moves us towards a different, if parallel, goal: to try understand how audienceship and community-of-practice for texts were mechanisms that produced political support for kings, a purpose arguably more relevant to their composition  This is especially true for earlier inscriptions. Middle and Neo-Assyrian royal inscriptions, however, are a significant exception to this distinction, since scholars such as M. Fales, G. Lanfranchi, M. Liverani, C. Zaccagnini, A. K. Grayson, etc., have all written extensively on literary patterns in this corpus.

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than a guileless curriculum vitae of royal achievements. If this all seems a somewhat esoteric and theoretical project, proceed with this analogy in mind: it is no different than studying the modes of persuasion that make any political speech work. Modern political speech might also contain even overwhelming amounts of untruth, but this may be irrelevant to the successful justification of political authority where that speech delivers an abundance of satisfaction in terms of internal logical coherence, emotional resolution, and a shared or vicarious sense of participation in the ruler’s heroic struggle and cosmic omniscience. Royal narratives, however they reached the minds, ears, eyes, and hearts of readers, hearers, and viewers,¹⁵ were processed through mutiple channels: receptions which were emotional, cognitive, logical, and memorial. Narrative, I suspect, could achieve authority and credibility as a narrative without some combination of these very different stimuli.

Generic Expectations The most important functions of narratives are the generic expectations that they encourage. As Hayden White famously argued, even historical narratives create and set up archetypal emplotments; the cues of these familiar genres not only instruct readers to foreknow certain trajectories of storytelling, but, by foreknowing, to share in the narrative’s action as it pushes the story forward. The expectations have mostly an emotional nature, but there is a logical dimension to them as well. Whether those expectations are first signalled by a text’s medium, performance, or location, it is a special power of genres that they establish boundaries and guarantees for the truth-claims they will disclose. These boundaries and guarantees would differ from the conventions of the everyday: wondrous deeds will be performed and unspeakable evils occur that were not a part of normal experience. Genre first of all blankets its narratives in the willing suspension of disbelief so that these expectations can be satisfied. For royal inscriptions, an expectation of profound historicity and facticity were among the particular concepts invoked (the objective dependability of their narratives notwithstand-

 I will not enter much into the complicated questions of how the form and content of such texts became known to their audiences, or how broad their audience mights be. See Veldhuis 2011 on literacy; and Liverani 2014 and Eyre 2013 on audience in Mesopotamia and Egypt, respectively. Below, I will typically refer to “readers” as a rubric for narrative audiences, no matter how they received them.

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ing),¹⁶ along with an implied promise that the king would provide a heroic climax to the rising action. In White’s terms, royal narratives are romances: dramas of self-identification and heroic triumph over evil. A profound sleight-of-hand is triggered by the acceptance of these premises, since the curiosity that replaces critical reading (about, e. g., factuality and significance) is essentially aesthetic: readers of narratives wish to be thrilled and entertained, not educated or corrected. That being the case, royal tales were not (from any evidence we have) shared “authoratative discourses” in Bakhtinian terms, which readers were forced to consciously accept as true, with unconditional allegiance, but instead experiences of shared pathos and subscription. The hearing of these stories activated a shared imaginary, in which readers could briefly glimpse and partake of royal omniscience and power: the king’s unique knowledge of the gods, the world and cosmos all around, fate, and the past were all made accessible during the reader’s exposure to the story.¹⁷ In a sense, the very existence of royal tales (however we label them as genres) prefigures that their reading had the capacity to validate the kings they celebrated, because even the most preliminary engagement of such a text by a reader impelled his or her receptivity to its premises, logic, and affective claims. To the extent that reading was an act in which the expectations of readers were assimilated to the intentions of authors, the production and reception of “royal tales” were part of a performative chain through which the validity of subjectivity was reinforced, primarily through emotional means. Chronotopes which set the stories in time and place furthered this sense of enchantment. These prompts were placed as prominently as our incipatory “Once-upon-a-time” or “When-in-the-course-of-human-events.” The composition “Nebuchadnezzar and Marduk” for instance, begins with a pithy but legendary “when” (inūma), and proceeds to assimilate the audience to a long-past Babylon whose citizens shared in the king’s greatness: When Nebuchadnezzar dwelt in Babylon, He would roar like a lion, would rumble like thunder, His illustrious great men would roar like lions.¹⁸

 See Richardson 2014, 500 – 505 on narrative’s capacity to render the significance of historical events as both factually accurate on the one hand, and profoundly authentic as transhistorical or even cosmic truth on the other.  Keen 2006, 224 might term this a form of “strategic empathy” by which the mutuality of groups is reinforced.  Foster 1996, 299.

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“When” is but one short word, and yet it invoked a past storyworld with its own rules of action. The autobiographical voice did much the same. Even the abrupt opening “I, [royal name], …” which begins pseudonymous royal tales (Agumkakrime, the Šulgi Prophecy, the Sargon Birth Legend, etc.) meant to solicit the hearing of a voice from the hoary past, much more than a mere relic, conventional first-person address of some original “author.”¹⁹ This temporality trigger is illustrated by the incipit to the Standard Babylonian “Cuthean Legend,” which offers a meta-commentary on the historical voice of such texts, self-consciously addressing the future reader: Open the tablet-box and read out the stela, which I, Naram-Sin, son of Sargon, have inscribed and left for future days.²⁰

This temporality was often magnified by spatial signposts about exotic, distant, or even imagined lands generating the charmed voice which readers heard, transporting them to the spatiotemporality of the storyworld. The Old Babylonian text “Naram-Sin at Armanum” commences with both an appeal to the deep past and the portrayal of two fabulous cities and the distant lands beyond: Whereas, for all time since the formation of humankind there has never been a king who overthrew Armanum and Ebla, with the weapon of Nergal did Naram-Sin, the mighty, open the only path and he gave him Armanum and Ebla. He bestowed upon him the Amanus, too, the Cedar Mountain, and the Upper Sea …²¹

The contexts that chrono- and spatiotopes establish then further sparked reader expectations about other narrative features: “script” assumptions about characterization, secondary actors, and story arcs. Even the consistent undercharacterization of the king-as-hero – since the king usually seems two-dimensional and “perfect” by modern standards – betrays how many assumptions ancient readers would typically bring to any story about a monarch. We probably also underrate the impact of affective and emotional devices used by Mesopotamian narratives, as when they conjured up images of public

 As Longman 1991, 40 – 42, 215 – 43 (texts) points out, there are relatively few of these “fictional autobiographies” with a first-person incipit and voice. However, royal inscriptions began using the first person at least with Ur-Namma, and perhaps earlier, if Old Babylonian copies of some Akkadian dynasty inscriptions can be trusted (including the frame-speech by NaramSin in the Armanum-and-Ebla text, also discussed here), and came into more regular use after that. To this extent, the first-person voice was a common device of royal texts.  Westenholz 1997, 301.  Foster 1996, 55.

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happiness, gods in mourning, or the fury of kings in war. We may think we live in a day and age when our emotional responses to narrative require more sophisticated and nuanced cues than those of the ancients did (although a critical look at advertising and presidential campaign rhetoric ought to chasten our pride in this respect). But considering what few narratives were available to Mesopotamian readers, the empathetic response to what few emotional prompts there were was probably enormous.²² This only barely suggests the range of devices that appealed to the affective state and logical premises of readers, with the especial goal of creating trust in the tale, and an empathetic bond between audience and authority.

Narrative Coherence The emotional appeal of narrative is readily apparent; its power as a tool to create coherence on a cognitive level is perhaps less obvious. The point need not be more complicated than saying that the capacity for narratives to be repeated and retold made them first of all cognitively permeable. This includes the fact that stories often make use of repetition internally, to enhance retelling; yet also that they could be embroidered and altered with new details and allusions, making them vehicles for vital creativity within a framed tradition of historical memory. But the “cognitive narratology” of royal tales not only acted on processes such as mnemonics and representation in a general way, they activated the larger “worldmaking” functions that state societies require. Identity-building, the imagined community, and a shared natural history of das Volk all were to proceed from the story’s assimilation of tale and audience into a community-ofthe-text.²³ It might be argued even that the repeated application of such processes taught neural pathways to prefer particular kinds of narrative as the preëminent modes of organizing social knowledge, about the individual, the community, and the state. Thus, narratives laid down and organized mental templates for the reception of authoritative accounts. Repeated narratives engraved cognitive maps, the function of which were to create subjects prepared to understand validity insofar  Keen 2006 proposes a theory of narrative empathy, in which character identification and the interiority of first-person voice play an important role; but so also does a habituation to narrative as a stimulus to trigger affective response.  See the very helpful work by Herman 2013 on “Cognitive Narratology,” with literature. Cf. Richardson 2014, 494– 500 on narrative’s role in building cultural identities and memories.

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as narratives about authority provided coherence – more than that they met objective-factual or even aesthetic critera. A “good story” delivers satisfaction from its wholeness and interally-consistent logic, more than from its accuracy or even artfulness, and this sense of holism reforges the strong link between authorship and authority that transforms readers into subjects – because then authority itself seems to “make sense.”²⁴ To relate these functions to the foregoing section: the resolutions of narratives fused perceived emotional truths with beliefs in coherent storyworlds as mutually justifying. This synthesis of the narrative process was therefore not only an operation of meaning-making, but one one which was cognitively satisfying,²⁵ a combination that epistemologically grounded tale-telling itself as an appropriate task of kingship. For “royal tales,” these points suggest that the results of any “good story” about a king and his kingship had to do with meaning, significance, and the satisfying catharsis of narrative resolution, more than with the texts’ status as objectively true accounts – all of which again evokes concepts better related to “validity” than “legitimacy.”²⁶

Change Over Time A final aspect of narrative validation to examine relates to the change in status that texts, images, and subjects sometimes enjoyed diachronically. Some royal tales acquired or accrued greater authority over time. From the moment of their composition, textuality already bolstered their political authority, because the media in which ideas about kings were expressed already put those texts in a privileged circle of representational authority. Ancient texts that told stories about kings, and pictures that depicted them, had out-of-the-box authority as products of scribal or artisanal expertise. The tales themselves had the clout of text, textuality, scribe, and the scribal arts. This conferred technical and even ritual coherence on their reception, adding to the validity of the kings they celebrated. These authorities might then also be magnified as the texts were received in later epochs. Thus, royal tales bolstered the validity of the monarchs they cele-

 Sparrowe 2005.  E. g., Delafield-Butt and Trevarthen 2015, with literature. This cognitive model finds an analogue already in Ricoeur’s theory of narrative as creating internal logical unities of its many features; where storytelling coherence itself has a higher function of explaining meaning.  By extension, one might propose as a corollary that successful narratives implicitly exclude and delegitimize competing narratives.

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brated during their own reigns, even if the texts themselves lacked the patina of age; but those same texts, when passed down the ages through copying, added lustre to the entire category of kingship, and then to any king who was the subject of any other tale or inscription thereafter. By reinforcing both monarchy as an ideal category and texts about monarchs as authoritative modes of expression, the reproduction of “historical” texts continued to make newer as well as older texts more efficacious in later ages. Over time, “royal tales” acquired the capacity to act not only as sources for dependable knowledge about the past (though certainly they were perceived to do that as well), but as the foretexts which made new tales possible to tell; and as the archaeological knowledge from which the validity of royal rule was continuously reinforced as both natural and ideal. The social enterprise of producing, reading, and emulating royal literature can be likened to the modern experience of museum-going, as a historically-specific discourse of power. In 19th century (CE) Europe and America, public museums were, like the novel, the press, and leisure time, institutions that emerged to provide reinforcement for bourgeoise claims to class authority. Going to museums to celebrate aesthetic appreciation and historical knowledge was a performance of and participation in middle-class tastemaking. It was an activity which was explicitly public, and framed as an absolute moral good. We might then compare such a tastemaking endeavor to analogous public projects in other modern societies, e. g. the formal debut in aristocracies, or Young Pioneer rallies in communist countries. Whatever the museum’s particular claims to edify, educate, and ennoble in the modern West, their halls and collections reified a particular ideal of power relations as visible expressions of sophistication and erudition. To a similar degree, connoiseurship and curation were increasingly added to the authority-making powers of royal tales as the corpus grew.²⁷ Both the copying of royal inscriptions and the composition of historical stories had become important intellectual projects as early as Old Babylonian times. The emulation of the generic, formal, and topical features of such texts became the basis for other texts and tales in later times, for which both the didactics and the research of the scribarium became politically as well as literarily supporting projects. The assembly of libraries, mimicry of monuments (including even pious frauds), excavation of temple foundations, etc., were all antiquarian endeavors which required that a certain fidelity or at least allusiveness to past models was

 For an especially good example and analysis of such recursivity, see Van De Mieroop 1999.

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observed and displayed. The propagandist who borrowed from the lustre of the past was thus obliged to act as savant and aesthete of its products. The discursive fields which made up “royal tales” – the king now appearing as pious shepherd, now as wrathful instrument of the god, smiting his enemies – permitted a (not unlimited) range of subjectivity to be generated according to circumstance, each time political dialogue required it. But what the passage of time further accomplished was an operation of historical forgetting, a memorial-editorial function which permitted audiences to forget inconvenient discrepancies between other accounts of the past (including traumatic ones²⁸), and the ideal ones that “royal tales” put forward. Put crudely, the passage of time allowed a text to transcend its status as a claim meant to persuade an audience, and instead become something more like a historical fact to later readers – which in turn was a qualitative advance on the truth-claims which new texts might advance. This is all clearly a matter of a quite intentional shaping of cultural memory by royal chanceries. But as centuries passed, it is equally clear that even the Mesopotamian scribes and kings who produced new texts and knew the relation between truth and story, nevertheless themselves believed that the antiquity of earlier royal tales magnified an already profound truth. In this way, their participation in a specifically textual production in this tradition thus moved them from the School of Advertising to the Department of History, at least in terms of self-conception.

Conclusion The achievements of narrative acts were to effect, as the editors state, the “significant transformations” they performed with their topical material. Let us take those words one at a time. “Significant” in the case of royal tales not only modifies “transformation,” but isolates and identifies kingship as significant of paramount cultural values. “Transformation” points to the accomplishment of a sublimating event, one in which not only were certain qualities of the king asserted and his doings explained, but the mere dross of worldly happenings was magically changed into enactments of divine history. And because royal tales were repeated, over and over, they did not accomplish this signification and transformation through only one one application, but by multiple performances, each time they were written, read, edited, copied, archived, referenced, and used to model new texts. Each royal tale was a motor which

 On “forgetting,” see Richardson 2014, 494– 500.

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transformed mere power into valid authority every time it was “turned on”; the wider corpus of royal epics, inscriptions, and hymns constituted a veritable humming power station of authority-generation. The foregoing observations may not, taken one by one, be particularly new or weighty. But they are meant to remediate a dead-end we often come to when we explain (or explain away) various cultural formations of state societies as having existed for the purpose of “legitimizing” power. Marshall Sahlins has protested, reacting to Foucault, that power-as-explanation is a new sort of functionalism, “an intellectual black hole into which all kinds of cultural contents get sucked.” Or, to put in other terms, … the concept of power has become a “magic word” that, like the concept of God, “is a circle whose center is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere.”²⁹

We could replace the word “power” in these critiques with “legitimacy,” and apply it just as aptly to the role that “legitimacy” plays in functionalizing ancient political thought, that is, without much attention to the anachronistic conditions the word invokes about limits, regulations, and criteria for the making and maintaining of political authority. Although such criteria were indeed gradually being limned as centuries of political experience and scribal creativity rolled by, we miss the raison d’être of royal literature if we do not see it first and foremost as a robustly persuasive genre, whose effectiveness was based on a presentation of vigor, unity, and truth. The transformation that these compositions aimed to achieve was not to establish royal qualifications so that subjects could tick them off of a checklist, and so approve of a kingship as “legitimate.” It was to create “validity” for specific kings and then for the entire category of kingship by satisfying generic expectations; by providing a sense of coherence and integrity for its subject matter; and by re-inscribing subjectivity over time through retellings and other memorial processes. I doubt that my proposal for terminological change will be taken up, given the length of our habit of using the “l”-word; and I am no language purist, wanting to police useage; and most especially this is no criticism or screed against any particular theory or model of power. But one may yet hope that approaches to royal tales, while continuing to take a literary turn, can yet accommodate some of the implications for political theory that my argument for “validity” suggests. When royal tales are read as a form of literature rather than as law, when imagined as argument rather than descriptions of fact, the whole nature of king Both this and the Sahlins quote preceding it are helpfully connected, analyzed, and documented in Brown 1996, 773 – 34.

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ship unfolds as something very different from the deus ex machina of the Sumerian King List model in which kingship simply descends from heaven, and then abides awhile from place to place. Rather, kingship was a site of political argument and struggle, in which coherence and robustness counted. Kings and scribes generated texts as persuasive tools with which to convince people, in so many subtle but irreduceable ways, that having a king – this king, any king – simply made sense; no questions asked.

Afterword on Visual Narratives An anonymous reader has rightly observed that a full discussion of these issues ought to have addressed visual as well as textual media. Unfortunately, I am hardly the person to interweave that evidence in a coherent way, and think it best to direct the reader to the existing works of scholars much more competent than myself. On the understanding that this is only a brief and introductory list of works related to the issues discussed in this essay, see: Ataç 2013a and 2013b; Bahrani 1998 and 2002; Bersani and Dutoit 1985; Brown and Feldman eds. 2014, especially the essays there by Anne Porter and Karen Sonik; Feldman 2007; Feldman and Heinz eds. 2007; Kipfer ed. 2017, especially the essays there by Margaret Jaques and Karen Sonik; Marcus 1995; and (only last by dint of alphabetical organization, but arguably most foundationally) Winter 1985, 1987, and 1996. Savvy and motivated readers will obviously find more to read beyond this!

Bibliography Ataç, Mehmet Ali. 2013a. “The Changing Approaches to History in the Neo-Assyrian Palace Reliefs.” In Time and History in the Ancient Near East, edited by Llius Feliu et al., 595 – 610. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. Ataç, Mehmet Ali. 2013b. “‘Imaginal’ Landscapes in Assyrian Imperial Monuments.” In Experiencing Power, Generating Authority, edited by Jane A. Hill et al., 383 – 423. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum. Bahrani, Zainab. 1998. “Conjuring Mesopotamia: Imaginative Geography and a World Past.” In Archaeology under Fire, edited by Lynn Meskell, 159 – 174. London: Routledge. Bahrani, Zainab. 2002. “Performativity and the Image: Narrative, Representation, and the Uruk Vase.” In Leaving No Stones Unturned. Essays on the Ancient Near East and Egypt in Honor of Donald P. Hansen, edited by Erica Ehrenberg, 15 – 22. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. Bersani, Leo and Ulysse Dutoit. 1985. The Forms of Violence: Narrative in Assyrian Art and Modern Culture. New York: Schocken Books. Brown, Michael. 1996. “On Resisting Resistance,” American Anthropologist 98/4: 729 – 735.

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Brown, Brian A. and Marian H. Feldman, eds. 2014. Critical Approaches to Ancient Near Eastern Art. Boston: de Gruyter. Delafield-Butt, Jonathan and Colwyn Trevarthen. 2015. “The Ontogenesis of Narrative: From Moving to Meaning.” Frontiers in Psychology 6: 1157. Eyre, Christopher. 2013. “The Practice of Literature: The Relationship between Content, Form, Audience, and Performance.” In Ancient Egyptian Literature: Theory and Practice, edited by Roland Enmarch and Verena Lepper, 101 – 142. Oxford: British Academy Scholarship Online. Feldman, Marian H. 2007. “Darius I and the Heroes of Akkad: Affect and Agency in the Bisitun Relief.” In Ancient Near Eastern Art in Context. Studies in Honor of Irene J. Winter by Her Students, edited by Jack Cheng and Marian H. Feldman, 265 – 295. Leiden: Brill. Feldman, Marian H. and Marlies Heinz. eds. 2007. Representations of Political Power: Case Histories from Times of Change and Dissolving Order in the Ancient Near East. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. Foster, Benjamin, R. 1996. Before the Muses: An Anthology of English Literature, 2nd ed. Bethesda, MD: CDL Press. Glassner, Jean-Jaques. 1993. Chroniques Mésopotamienne. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Grabowski, Andrezij. 2013. Juristic Concept of the Validity of Statutory Law. Berlin: Springer-Verlag. Herman, David. 2013. “Cognitive Narratology.” In The Living Handbook of Narratology, Peter Hü hn, et al. eds. Hamburg, 2013. http://wikis.sub.uni-hamburg.de/lhn/index.php/Cogni tive_Narratology, accessed September 2017. Keen, Suzanne. 2006. “A Theory of Narrative Empathy.” Narrative 14/3: 207 – 236. Kipfer, Sara. ed. 2017. Visualizing Emotions in the Ancient Near East, Orbis Biblicus et Orientialis 285, Fribourg / Göttingen: Academic Press; Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Liverani, Mario. 2014. “The King and His Audience.” In From Source to History: Studies on Ancient Near Eastern Worlds and Beyond; Dedicated to Giovanni Battista Lanfranchi on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday on June 23, 2014, edited by Salvatore Gaspa, 373 – 385. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 412. Münster: Ugarit Verlag. Longman, Tremper. 1991. Fictional Akkadian Autobiography: A Generic and Comparative Study. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns. Marcus, Michelle. 1995. “Geography as Visual Ideology: Landscape, Knowledge, and Power in Neo-Assyrian Art.” In Neo-Assyrian Geography, edited by Mario Liverani, 193 – 202. Rome: Università di Roma “La Sapienza.” Millard, Allan. 1997. “Assyrian King Lists (1.135).” In The Context of Scripture. Vol I. Canonical Compositions from the Biblical world, edited by William W. Hallo, 463 – 465. Leiden: Brill. Richardson, Seth. ed. 2010. Rebellions and Peripheries in the Cuneiform World. New Haven: American Oriental Society. Richardson, Seth. 2014. “The First “World Event”: Sennacherib at Jerusalem.” In Sennacherib at the Gates of Jerusalem: Story, History and Historiography, edited by Isaac Kalimi and Seth Richardson, 433 – 505. Leiden: Brill. Richardson, Seth. 2017. “Before Things Worked: A ‘Low-Power’ Model of Early Mesopotamia,” in Ancient States and Infrastructural Power: Europe, Asia, and America, ed. C. Ando and S. Richardson, 17 – 62. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

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Sonik, Karen. 2014. “Pictorial Mythology and Narrative in the Ancient Near East.” In Critical Approaches to Ancient Near Eastern Art, edited by Brian Brown and Marian Feldman, 265 – 294. Boston: de Gruyter. Sparrowe, Raymond T. 2005. “Authentic Leadership and the Narrative Self,” The Leadership Quarterly 16: 419 – 439. Van de Mieroop, Marc. 1999. “Literature and Political Discourse in Ancient Mesopotamia: Sargon II of Assyria and Sargon of Agade.” In Munuscula Mesopotamica: Festschrift Für Johannes Renger, edited by Barbara Böck, 327 – 340. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 267. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Veldhuis, Niek. 2011. “Levels of Literacy.” In The Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture, edited by Karen Radner and Eleanor Robson, 68 – 89. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Westenholz, Joan Guralnick. 1997. Legends of the Kings of Akkade. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns Winter, Irene J. 1985. “After the Battle is Over: The Stele of the Vultures and the Beginning of the Historical Narrative in the Art of the Ancient Near East.” In Pictorial Narrative in Antiquity and Middle Ages, edited by H. L. Kessler and M. Shreve, 11 – 32. Studies in the History of Art 16. Washington. Winter, Irene J. 1987. “Legitimation of Authority Through Image and Legend: Seals Belonging to Officials in the Administrative Bureaucracy of the Ur III State.” In The Organization of Power: Aspects of Bureaucracy in the Ancient Near East, edited by McGuire Gibson, 69 – 106. Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 46. Chicago: The Oriental Institute. Winter, Irene J. 1996. “Sex, Rhetoric, and the Public Monument: The Alluring Body of Naram-Sin of Agade.” In Sexuality in Ancient Art: Near East, Egypt, Greece, and Italy, edited by Natalie Kampen et al., 11 – 26. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Elisabeth Wagner-Durand

Narratology: Selected Terms and Concepts with a Focus on the Ancient Near East Bastian Balthazars Bux’s passion was books.…. If you have never wept bitter tears because a wonderful story has come to an end and you must take your leave of the characters with whom you have shared so many adventures, whom you have loved and admired, for whom you have hoped and feared, and without whose company life seems empty and meaningless – If such things have not been part of your own experience, you probably won’t understand what Bastian did next. Michael Ende, Die unendliche Geschichte (1979) translated by Ralph Manheim (1983)

Avant-Propos Introductions and summaries of perspectives on narratological concepts that can be applied to media of the Ancient Near East are rare if not missing. This lack is not without cause. The field of narratology is wide, branched, and ever growing. Narratology permeates many disciplines, including philosophy, cognitive science, visual culture studies, and its home base of (structuralist) literature (studies). As an archaeologist who comes from the subfield of visual culture, I may not be the person best suited to attempt to revive or promote the subject of narration in the studies of the Ancient Near Eastern records. Still, this volume seems the right place to dwell on narrative issues by discussing broad terms and concepts of narratology. Thus, this paper aims to highlight the potential of narratological research to deepen our understanding of Ancient Near Eastern forms of expression in diverse media and how these forms were entangled with political agendas such as in the proposed Tales of Royalty. The whole endeavor is of a cursory character. It is intended to open a discussion on perspectives but should not be mistaken as an in-depth analysis of transmedia(l) narratology¹ as applied to Mesopotamian or Ancient Near Eastern cultures. Thus, it takes the form of an essay that will discuss some of the potentials of narratological research to utilize transmedial studies in the study of the Ancient Near East and the more specific topic of legitimation² of kingship.³

 For the term “transmedial,” see below.  For a critical discussion of this term, see Richardson, this volume. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501506895-015

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Introduction Narration is a buzzword, frequently used in fields beyond the borders of narratology, literary studies, and history. It is often thought that it is used to prove and establish connectivity (German Anschlussfähigkeit) to other disciplines and scholarly endeavors. This, however, fails to take into account both the scope of narratology and the usefulness of its concepts for analyzing and understanding cultural matters and expressions. This potential allows us to talk of a narratological turn across disciplines, which is believed to reveal deeper insights into human behavior.⁴ It may be easy to dismiss these as buzzwords, but this prevents any discussion with respect to contents, concepts, and categories that may (or may not) be useful in the study of various potentially narrative media in the Ancient Near East. Yes, narration or narrative may be perceived of as catchphrases, but scholars are attracted to them because of. their potential as concepts that actually have relevance for understanding cultural behavior. For example, one of the immanent powers of narratives emerges from their emotional potency.⁵ Stories evoke emotions in humans, stimulate feelings, and tie in with experiences or expectations; they are both memorized and remembered.⁶ Thus, they are likely to be used as powerful tools in ideologically or spiritually charged environments.⁷ They are a form of culture and formed by culture.⁸ As such, narratives and narration are concepts that are ideally suited to help us understand Ancient Near Eastern life-worlds more deeply. Fortunately, Ancient Near Eastern material sources provide a wide array of written and visual media that qualify as potential narratives. Thus, it is by no means surprising that concepts of narratology found their way into Ancient

 Cf. Bracker when he states that story-telling is extraordinarily well suited to justify certain constellations of meaning (germ.: “Das Erzählen von Geschichten eignet sich hervorragend dazu, bestimmte Konstellationen von Bedeutungen zu begründen…”) Bracker 2016, 4.  Meuter 2014, 447– 448; cf. Bracker 2016, 1, note 3.  Wagner-Durand and Linke, this volume (“Why Study ‘Narration’?”), esp. 311; Richardson, this volume, 251– 256.  This is one of the reasons why narratological research and approaches have come to be used in fields such as medicine and psychoanalyses. The way people frame events into narrative sequences is of importance in understanding circumstances, valuations, and so forth. See Meuter 2014, 453, 459 – 460.  As Meuter also has argued that narratives are important for any religion to transmit certain messages, framed in this narratized events. Faith, as he also explains, never can take form of narratives. See Meuter 2014, 457– 458. See also Brahier and Johannsen 2013.  Bracker 2016, 5.

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Near Eastern studies long ago.⁹ In this paper, however, I will not dive into a detailed history of research, but use the opportunity to re-introduce selected narratological concepts and their applicability for the Ancient Near East. First, we turn very briefly to the issue of Eigenbegrifflichkeit, to the therefore emic discourse on narration in Mesopotamia, by asking whether storytelling was a concept explicitly verbalized and thought of, or whether it was some kind of “natural,” pre-discursive idea that needed no further emic debate. The focus next, is on the introduction and discussion of narratological concepts and their possible applicability to the study of Ancient Near Eastern records of any kind and media. Finally, this contribution will return to the emotionally and politically powerful stories of kingship, to the so-called grand récits, the master or grand narratives¹⁰ of Mesopotamia.

A Very Short Excursus on Mesopotamian Eigenbegrifflichkeit Verbal storytelling was surely a practice performed in the Ancient Near East long before the development of the cuneiform script,¹¹ and many written sources not only clearly fulfil the minimalistic definitions of narratives (see below) but they also include criteria such as mediacy in the sense of Franz Stanzel¹² or of experientiality according to Monika Fludernik¹³ (see below). Texts such as the tales of Gilgameš (in any version), the myth Enūma Eliš, the Neo-Assyrian royal annals, and letters providing accounts of events, to name only a few examples, also show all aspects of Marie-Laure Ryan’s lengthy definition of narratives (see below) since they all contain “a world populated by individuated existents” and display “time” and “significant transformations” “caused by non-habitual

 Lately, scholars of the Ancient Near East have shown renewed interest in narratology, which can be seen in our workshop and also, e. g., in the workshop “How to tell a story – Theoretical approaches to Mesopotamian Literature,” held at the 63th RAI in Marburg 2017, organized by Frauke Weiershäuser, Dahlia Shehata, and Karin Sonik. There also was a workshop at the 64th RAI in Innsbruck bearing the title: “Narrative of Forms and Formulas or Forms and Formulas of Narrating? New Approaches to Standardized Elements in Documentary Sources” (Organizers: Sven Günther and Michela Piccin).  Lyotard 1992.  It is beyond doubt that many stories that have been written down in cuneiform script are condensed versions of older, orally transmitted stories that have been adapted to current needs.  Stanzel 1982, esp. 15.  Fludernik 1996.

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physical events.”¹⁴ Their agents are intelligent, “have a mental life and react emotionally to the states of the world.” Some events told are “purposeful actions by these agents.” Their sequence forms “a unified causal chain and lead(s) to closure.”¹⁵ And sure enough, the texts “communicate something meaningful to the audience.”¹⁶ Even if there is no agreement as to what constitutes narrative texts in Assyriology or text-based studies of the Ancient Near East in general, I would still state that the existence of written narratives is beyond doubt. Yet narration in Mesopotamia seems to be primal or pre-discursive: the lack of Eigenbegrifflichkeit is striking. The terms that are equivalent to “story,” “tale,” or “to tell” in delineation to the terms “to speak,” “to say,” or “to write” are genuinely lacking. Translations often use the phrase to tell, but generally are based on Akkadian verbs connected to the realm of verbal expression in general. The CAD gives dabābu as one equivalent for “to tell.”¹⁷ Dabābu is clearly a term of verbal expression with its basic meaning to speak. Any further deviation from this translation is due to context and purpose. Yet storytelling is related to certain formal and contentual conditions. Without any explicit reference to storytelling as a reflected concept, there can be no certainty whether these conditions were included in any phrase’s meaning or not. Yet the broadness of the term dabābu leads to the assumption that the aspect of telling in the sense of expressing a plot in a narrative style was not intentionally included in its basic meaning.¹⁸ This lack of a distinct term for “story” or “tale” and “to tell” is also evident in Sumerian, in which the phrase to say, to verbally express something or to vo-

 Ryan 2007, 29.  Ryan 2007, 29.  Ryan 2007, 29.  CAD III (1959) 4– 13 see under dabābu: 4 “1. to speak, to talk, to tell, relate, 2. to recite, speak aloud, 3. To discuss a topic, to come to an agreement, to negotiate, 4. To plead in court. To litigate, 5. To complain, to protest, to interfere, 6. To devise a plot, to conspire against somebody, 7. In itti (issi) libbi dabābu to ponder, to think, to mutter to oneself, to worry. 8. dubbubu to make recite, to grumble, to pester a person, to complain a person, to entreat, to rave (said of a madman), 9. šudbubu to get (a women) to talk (o a stranger), to make somebody recite (a prayer), to make somebody plead a case, make a statement, to give cause to complain, to cause plotting” (Sumerian equivalents, e. g., d i . d i d i - d i . b a , du-úKA, di, KA.KA).  The CAD also translates têlu as “to tell (a proverb or riddle).” CAD XVIII (2006) 333 – 334, see under têlu A 333. This comes closer to the notion of storytelling, but it still refers more to the act of communicating a proverb or riddle rather than to phrasing it as a story.

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calize (du₁₁(g)/di/e), is the base of many phrases related to modes of oral expression.¹⁹ Yet storytelling in Mesopotamia is a distinct and existent mode of communication. The lack of a specific term does not mean that the concept is absent but rather that it is prediscursive. To shape certain messages, such as the authority of divine kingship, the creation of the world, the achievements and the mischief of the gods, and the deeds of the kings in the form of narratives was a somehow “natural” task and duty. Therefore, the study of the culturally specific shapes these messages once took in various media has the potential to provide interesting insights into the self-understanding and mindsets that precisely formed those stories. Yet to do so, it is helpful to clarify what constitutes a narrative (in a minimalist and maximalist view) and the concepts that literary studies and related disciplines have developed.

Narratological Terms and Concepts: As mentioned above, a discussion of the many scholarly expressions and concepts that come along with narration are beyond the scope of this paper. All of those have been intensively discussed in excellent overviews.²⁰ Thus, I don’t seek to provide a holistic overview of terms used in the field of narratology, such as discourse, plot, story, author, narrator, reader, audience, narratee, focalization, intertextuality, tellability, and eventfulness, to name only a few. Some of these concepts may not even be applicable with respect to non-verbally based media. Still, many terms are valid but often not looked at when dealing with the background of narration in the Ancient Near East. To keep this endeavor manageable and easily digestible, I will focus on very specific terms (mediacy, experientality, mediality, or rather, trans/intermediality), but I’ll start with the core terms narrative and narration (as the act of shaping a narrative) across media.²¹

 The use of to say/to speak expressed by d u ₁ ₁ / e / d i has been extensively studied by Pascal Attinger (1993).  E. g., Herman, Jahn, and Ryan 2010; Herman 2007; Hühn et al. 2014; Onega Jaén and García Landa 1996; Schmid 2014; and many more.  I will not further concentrate on the nevertheless very important terms histoire / récit / narration; histoire / discourse, of plot / story; or fabula / sujet. For an excellent overview and further reading on the binary and multi-tiered models of how to differentiate between the content and the form and the constitution of narratives, see Scheffel 2014.

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Defining Narratives: Maximalist and Minimalist Definitions Unfortunately, there is an obvious lack of consensus on what constitutes a narrative. This lack of consensus and of a pan-disciplinary paradigm (in the sense of Thomas Kuhn²²) prevents an effortless dialogue between and across disciplines without any misconceptions. As stated elsewhere in this volume,²³ there is a wide array of defining attempts that all somewhat differ with respect to temporality, author, narrator, eventfulness, experientiality, agents, causality, closure, media, and other aspects. I do not intend to return to those definitions here, but refer once again to Marie-Laure Ryan’s comprehensive contribution on narrative definitions in textually based studies²⁴ and on her own lengthy and maximalist definition: (1) Narrative must be about a world populated by individuated existents. […] (2) This world must be situated in time and undergo significant transformations. (3) The transformations must be caused by non-habitual physical events. […] (4) Some of the participants in the events must be intelligent agents who have a mental life and react emotionally to the states of the world. (5) Some of the events must be purposeful actions by these agents. […] (6) The sequence of events must form a unified causal chain and lead to closure. (7) The occurrence of at least some of the events must be asserted as fact for the storyworld. (8) The story must communicate something meaningful to the audience. […].²⁵

In contrast, there are minimalist attempts. Those definitions often are based on a change in situation, as is found in the very early definitions of a story as a “narrative of events arranged in their time sequence” by Edward M. Forster²⁶ or, quite similarly, in the definition provided by the classical structuralist Gérard Genette.²⁷ Minimalist definitions have enjoyed great popularity ever since. In this  Kuhn 2014.  Wagner-Durand and Linke, this volume (“Bound by Stories?!”), 6 – 8.  Ryan 2007.  Ryan 2007, 29 – 30.  Forster 1927, e. g. 47: “We are all like Scheherazade’s husband, in that we want to know what happens next. That is universal and that is why the backbone of a novel has to be a story… And now the story can be defined. It is a narrative of events arranged in their time sequence.”  Genette 1983, 25: “A second meaning, less widespread but current today among analysts and theoreticians of narrative content, has narrative refer to the succession of events, real or fictitious, that are the subjects of this discourse, and to their several relations of linking, opposition, repetition, etc.” and Genette 1983, 27: “I propose…. to use the word story (histoire) for the signified or narrative content…to use the word narrative (récit) for the signifier, statement, discourse or narrative text itself, and to use the word narrating for the producing narrative action and, by extension, the whole of the real or fictional situation in which that action takes place.” (insertions in brackets by the author).

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vein, Wolf Schmid lately stated that the “Minimalbedingung der Narrativität ist, dass mindestens eine Veränderung eines Zustands in einem gegebenen zeitlichen Moment dargestellt wird.”²⁸ Similarly, Matías Martinéz coins a Minimalbestimmung (minimal determination) by stating, “Erzählen ist Geschehensdarstellung.”²⁹ But even with these minimalist approaches to storytelling, the question emerges whether the visual depiction of Gotthold Ephraim Lessing’s so-called pregnant moment is actually sufficient to identify de facto an image as narrative. While the pregnant moment is the marker of a “change of a situation,” and thus the crucial moment in a chain of events, it still only refers to one moment in time. If it is not considered to be a narrative, this leads to the rejection of socalled single images (e. g., monoscenic or Einzelbild) as narratives. To avoid the complete rejection of narration in these cases, there have been attempts to develop broader terms. For example, Werner Wolf uses the phrase “indicating narrative” to contrast narrative qualities of diverse media, of which he calls only some genuinely narrative (e. g., novels). The more the narrative requires input from the recipient, the less the medium is considered to be of narrative quality.³⁰ Closely related to such considerations,³¹ I have advanced the idea of “true narratives” (told, not implied) in visual media,³² based on scholars such as Hans Gustav Güterbock,³³ José Garcia Landa, and Susana Onega Jaén.³⁴ Yet

 Translation by the author: The minimal(istic) condition of narrativity is that at least one change of situation in one given temporal moment: Schmid 2014, 3. Furthermore, he notes: “Die Zustandsveränderung, die für Narrativität konstitutiv ist, hat drei Bedingungen: 1. Eine temporale Struktur mit mindestens zwei Zuständen, einem Ausgangs- und einem Endzustand (der König leben – der König ist tot). 2. Eine Äquivalenz von Ausgangs- und Endzustand, d. h. Similarität und Kontrast der Zustände, genauer: Identität und Differenz ihrer Eigenschaften (leben und tot sein bilden eine klassische Äquivalenz). 3. Die beiden Zustände und die sich zwischen ihnen ereignende Veränderung müssen sich auf ein und dasselbe Subjekt des Handelns oder Erleidens oder auf ein und dasselbe Element des “setting” beziehen. (in unserem Beispiel der arme König).” Schmid 2014, 3 – 4.  Translation by the author: Storytelling is the representation of events: Martínez 2017b, 2. He also defines the proposition of events (Geschehen) with the characteristics of concreteness, temporality and contiguity.  Wolf 2002.  Concerning the sceptical view on the narrative quality of images, see also Bracker 2016, 2– 3.  Wagner-Durand this volume (“Pious Shepherd”); Wagner Durand 2016; Wagner-Durand 2019.  Winter 2010, 4 referring to Güterbock 1957, 62.  “A narrative is the semiotic representation of a series of events meaningfully connected in a temporal and causal way. Films, plays, comic strips, novels, newsreels, diaries, chronicles and treatises of geological history are all narratives in the wider sense. Narratives can therefore be

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“true” narrativity focuses on the display of narrative markers in the image itself,³⁵ stressing the quality of being narrative in itself instead of evoking the narrative. This by no means excludes forms of narration that deviate from the mere depiction of the story by illustrating the chain of events or the change of situation. This concept differs from the display of narrative schemes and the mind-ofrecipient-dependent evocation of stories. In this respect, Werner Wolf speaks of “narremes” that stimulate certain cognitive patters of narration,³⁶ which in turn lead us to the act of interpretation as the act of narrativization. If this act is purposely provoked in the recipient, it is part of the storytelling process and therefore allows us to label the medium in question as narrative in itself.³⁷ To avoid excessively strict restrictions and rash exclusions of any medium as non-narrative, the gap between minimalist and maximalist approaches to narrative can be bridged by taking a scalar³⁸ perspective on narrativity. This allows us to consider the preconditions, requirements, and possibilities of any medium with respect to storytelling without becoming arbitrary, and it allows us to consider a wide array of media.

constructed using an ample variety of semiotic media: written or spoken language, visual images, gestures and acting, as well as combination of these…Therefore, we can speak of many kinds of narrative texts: linguistic, theatrical, pictorial, filmic.” Onega Jaén and García Landa 1996, 3.  Luca Giuliani (2003, 36) dismisses the idea of “true narrativity” in images; images cannot tell a story by themselves without being re-narrativations or without “only” indicating the narrative. He further defines a narrative image as the visualization of non-routine events. Giuliani refers not so much to the narrativity of the images themselves but to the presence of a story, its specificity, its awareness in the observer and its recognizability via the image. Further, he writes, “Es führt ein besonderes Geschehen vor Augen, das aus der üblichen Routine herausfällt; dabei nimmt es Bezug auf eine spezifische Geschichte, deren Kenntnis es beim Betrachter voraussetzt; ohne ein solches Vorwissen wird der Betrachter nicht in der Lage sein, die Pointe der Darstellung zu verstehen. Jedes narrative Bild bedeutet somit eine Herausforderung an sein Publikum. Umgekehrt gilt aber auch, dass der narrative Stoff eine Herausforderung für den Bildermacher darstellt: Muss es diesem doch gelingen, ein Bild zu entwerfen, das sich vom breiten Repertoire deskriptiver Darstellungen signifikant unterscheidet und darüber hinaus unzweideutig klar macht, auf welche Geschichte es sich bezieht.” Giuliani 2019.  Wolf 2002, esp. 44.  Cognitive performances as central to the process of understanding narratives are also widely discussed by Monika Fludernik. See, e. g., Fludernik 1996.  The term scalar is used here in reference to the work of Marie-Laure Ryan (2006, 7), cited after Thon 2015, 443. The term scalar with respect to narrativity is extensively used. Cf. Abbott 2014.

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Storytelling in Media beyond Texts Images and texts represent the two categories of media upon which all papers in this volume drew – well aware of the fact that there are many more types of media suited for storytelling and that the distinction between text and image in the Ancient Near East is an artificial one, since texts are or can be images, texts carry images, and images carry texts. Despite this, any media that display content in non-written form are often not regarded as narratives or not even considered when talking about narration. Accordingly, the workshop in Bern has (painfully) shown that visual and other material forms of narration are still not commonly accepted concepts in our fields. One reason with respect to visual and material culture surely is found in Lessing’s discussion of the Laocoön group,³⁹ in which he dismisses the visual, especially the plastic arts, from being narrative because they lack the depth of time. This debate was started in the 15th century CE (by Leon Battista Alberti) with its first heyday in the late 18th century and has not found its end yet.⁴⁰ Many scholars still dismiss anything but texts and media that have an obvious temporal depth, such as films or comics, as non-narrative.⁴¹ That is because temporality has been discussed as one of the core elements of narration. Temporality refers to and is based on the change of situation, which is said to be vital for any narrative. This rejection is, according to Marie-Laure Ryan⁴² and Werner Wolf,⁴³ also due to the refusal of some narratologists such as Gerald Prince or Gérard Genette to consider media that cannot be solely understood by the means of language or speech-acts as narrative. Yet, this fictional literature-centred paradigm has changed in the field of narratology especially in the last two decades.

 Lessing 1980; see also, e. g., Giuliani 2003; Meuter 2014; Ryan 2014; Weixler 2019; Reuter 2017. For an intensive discussion of the group and the potential narrativity of sculpture, see Wolf 2011, 147– 155.  Reuter 2017, esp. 91.  I will not follow up on this in detail; it has been widely discussed by many scholars and no consensus has been reached yet, especially when looking at so-called single pictures. For a consideration of single images as narrative, see, e. g., Dehejia 1997; Wickhoff and Dvorák 1912; Weitzmann 1957; Varga 1990 and many more. For a comprehensive overview, see Speidel 2013. For the terms narration indication, quasi narrative, and genuinely narrative, see Wolf 2002, esp. 96.  Ryan 2010b, 2– 3  Wolf 2011, 146.

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Transmediality and Intermediality in Storytelling Thus, the classical narratological position has loosened its grip. In his recent introductory volume, narratologist Matías Martínez lists about seventeen types of more or less separable narrative media. Most cannot be applied to the material world of the Ancient Near East (such as computer games, television, film, photography and the internet).⁴⁴ Still, this list provides media that are neither images nor texts, but form part of visual culture in its broadest sense⁴⁵ and can be found in Mesopotamia and beyond. These encompass performative acts, such as dance and theater, and landscapes, such as gardens. This leads us to the issues of intermediality and transmediality, which sound alike but are not equivalent in use, and furthermore are not used coherently in the scholarly literature. For example, there is a specific use of transmedial storytelling by scholars as the active process of telling stories consciously and intentionally using different media.⁴⁶ Jan-Noël Thon comments on the difference between a transmedial narratology that encompasses certain narratological approaches that are specifically designed to deal with transmedial narratives and a transmedial narratology that deals with narratives across media in general.⁴⁷ The scarcity of such transmedial narrative studies is undoubtedly due to what Thon calls the “problem of ‘media expertism’,”⁴⁸ a problem that is aggravated when entering the realm of dead languages and of cultures from long ago. Thon agrees with Ryan’s criticism of the idea “that, because media are distinct, the toolbox of narratology must be rebuilt from scratch for every medium.”⁴⁹ He also observes that “many terms and concepts developed for the analysis of literary text cannot be directly applied to other media.”⁵⁰ Thus, we need to bridge the gaps⁵¹ between the specificities of ancient and unfamiliar text genres such as hymns or royal annals, the requirements of ancient media such as orthostat reliefs and cylinder sealings, the generic concepts of narration, and the terms and theories of present-day narratology.

       

Martínez 2017a. For a critical discussion about how visual culture can be defined, see Bal 2003. Jenkins 2008. Thon 2015, 440 – 441. Those media are mostly not texts. Thon 2015, 441. Ryan 2004, 34; Thon 2015, 441. Thon 2015, 442. For a “transmedial expansion,” see Wolf 2011.

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Concerning intermediality, Klaus Bruhn Jensen states that it “refers to the interconnectedness of modern media of communication.”⁵² But this is quite broadly put, and the use of the term is far from uniform or simple. Accordingly, Irina Rajewsky has differentiated between (intra‐)mediality dealing with single media related phenomena, intermediality as “phenomena that transcend medial boundaries and involve at least two media,”⁵³ and transmediality that refers to phenomena not specifically related to different media.⁵⁴ Rajewsky further proposes three forms of understanding intermediality: “medial transposition,” “media combination,” and “intermedial references.”⁵⁵ The phenomenon of medial transposition in the Ancient Near East is difficult to judge since the sources passed down are by no means exhaustive. One could hypothesize that the idea of the lion-hunting sovereign was first transmitted orally; later it was presented in images such as the Lion Hunt Stela (Iraq Museum, IM 23477). Eventually, we can probably speak of the phenomenon of media combination, in which the lion hunt appears in texts such as late third millennia royal hymns, Old-Babylonian letters, and Neo-Assyrian royal (cultic and votive) inscriptions;⁵⁶ in ritualized

 Jensen 2016, 1 (emphasis by the author).  Thon (2015, 440), based on Rajewsky.  Thon 2015, 440.  Rajewsky writes: “1. … medial transposition …: here the intermedial quality has to do with the way in which a media product comes into being, i. e., with the transformation of a given media product … or of its substratum into another medium. This category is a production-oriented, “genetic” conception of intermediality; the “original” text, film, etc., is the “source” of the newly formed media product, whose formation is based on a media-specifi1c and obligatory intermedial transformation process. 2. … media combination, which includes phenomena such as opera, film, theater, performances, illuminated manuscripts, computer or Sound Art installations, comics, and so on, or, to use another terminology, so-called multimedia, mixed media, and intermedia. … The intermedial quality is determined by the medial constellation constituting a given media product, which is to say the result or the very process of combining at least two conventionally distinct media or medial forms of articulation. These two media or medial forms of articulation are each present in their own materiality and contribute to the constitution and signification of the entire product in their own specific way … 3. … intermedial references, for example references in a literary text to a film through, for instance, the evocation or imitation of certain filmic techniques such as zoom shots, fades, dissolves, and montage editing. Other examples include the so-called musicalization of literature, transposition d’art, ekphrasis, references in film to painting, or in painting to photography, and so forth. Intermedial references are thus to be understood as meaning-constitutional strategies that contribute to the media product’s overall signification: the media product uses its own media-specific means, either to refer to a specific, individual work produced” Rajewsky 2005, 51– 52 (shorted, emphasis by Rajewsky). Thon also refers to Rajewsky (Thon 2015, 448).  For texts such as the Šulgi Hymn B, an Old-Babylonian letter by Yaqqim-Addu, or the Hunting Prism, see Watanabe 2002 and Weissert 1997.

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acts such as the actual hunt in a staged area; and in the orthostats of the NeoAssyrian kings. I do not want discuss here whether these are narratives or not, but surely some of the reliefs of Ashurbanipal and some of the late Neo-Assyrian royal texts are combinations of media on the very same theme: the ritualized, public, and staged royal lion hunt.⁵⁷ Intermedial references are more complicated since they refer to the adaption of one media by another one by using specific qualities of the first one.⁵⁸ None of these terms closely refers to intermediality in the sense of intertextuality as described by Gérard Genette.⁵⁹ Intertextuality defines the relation between texts by means of their entanglement with culture:⁶⁰ “Texts make sense not in themselves, but in relation to texts.”⁶¹ The formal structuralist and formal analysis of this phenomenon has been broadly received, for example, by Genette, who proposed a more detailed classification in which he subdivided it into intertexuality (e. g., citation), para-, meta, archi- and hypertextuality.⁶² Without doubt, the search for proto-media or the search for references across media is of inherent interest when trying to understand how media interacted with one another and with culture(s) in Mesopotamia. Beate Pongratz-Leisten emphasized the special character of Mesopotamian textual culture: In Mesopotamia any text was considered to have traditional referential quality, a kind of intertextual pre-text or architext which formed the building block or “foretext” for any new text. The composite structure is a salient feature of texts in Mesopotamia and allows for the transfer of specific passages from one text into the other and the use of structural elements from different text categories. In contrast to our modern understanding of authorship the ancients did not have the notion of forgery.⁶³

Pongratz-Leisten opens the view to the idea of the cultural specificity of intertextual features. The same is true of the material world, in light of Julia Kristeva’s notion that “all signs are defined and understood in relation to other signs.”⁶⁴

 See further Wagner-Durand 2019.  Thon 2015, 448.  Genette 2015.  Jensen 2016, 2.  Jensen 2016, 2. Jensen also explains the development of dialogism by Mikhail Bakhtin and the translation of this phenomenon as intertexuality by Julia Kristeva.  Genette 2015. Beate Pongratz-Leisten states that, for example, paratextual features in Mesopotamia “could be the shape of the tablet, the arrangement of the text on the table, the incipit and subscript.” Pongratz-Leisten 2010, 140. This reminds us of the specification of the media employed.  Pongratz-Leisten 2010, 139 – 140.  Jensen 2016, 2.

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While the material world and the signs by which it communicates often seem pretty clear, humans themselves are often considered to be consumers but not more or less active agents or producers of signs and thus they are excluded from being media. Jensen proposed to include human beings “as media of the first degree.”⁶⁵ He further said, “The body is a versatile material platform … In this capacity, the human body is a necessary and sufficient condition of communication….”⁶⁶ Thus, the human body is involved both in every reception of a story and in shaping the story, and thus it is truly intermedial. The use of the terms transmediality and intermediality⁶⁷ is obviously contested. In this paper, I refer to transmedial narratology, which is concerned with narrative phenomena across the boundaries of any medium. Transmedia(l) storytelling, in contrast, is the planned and purposeful endeavour to tell stories by using different media. Intermediality with respect to storytelling is the emergence of stories in different media, including phenomena of re-narrativation, yet intermedial phenomena are not produced by the purposefully linked use of different media. This purposefulness, however, is difficult to identify, as it implies very specific knowledge of the creational process of texts and images and beyond. All these terms reveal the potential of media, their shapes, and the development of storytelling to produce results with respect to ancient Mesopotamia that may not be apparent without their heuristic use. As an archaeologist studying Mesopotamia, I aim to apply these contemporary terms to the issues of the distant life-worlds we seek to understand. In this vein, all performative and staged acts relate to rituals that can also be used potentially for storytelling.⁶⁸ An example of such intermedial (or transmedial in the sense of an intended) narrative processes is illustrated by the myth of the shepherd/king Etana. Without using the specific term, Reinhard Bernbeck deals with the intermediality of Mesopotamian storytelling when he considers the story of Etana as being written down, enacted in staged rituals, and shown on cylinder seals.⁶⁹ Thus, the story of the shepherd who becomes the first king after the flood and is brought up to heaven by an eagle is transmitted in several ways. There is the oral transmission. It is beyond doubt that oral communication of a myth is the most genuine and pristine form of storytelling, and in societies in which reading and performing texts aloud⁷⁰ is very common – much more common than silent consumption – con-

     

Jensen 2016, 5. Jensen 2016, 5 (shortened by the author). For more models and for examples of vertical and horizontal intermediality, cf. Jensen 2016. Wagner-Durand and Linke, this volume (“Why Study ’Narration’?”). Bernbeck 1996. Selz 2018

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sumption of such stories is not a private matter for one’s own pleasure but a purposeful act of communicating and preserving these stories. It is speculative how the oral and allegedly free speech performance differed from the conventionalized, canonized storytelling based on a condensed, written text. Still, there is also a difference between reciting the myth and its re-enactment in the staged rituals that Bernbeck reconstructs by analyzing the cylinder seals. These staged acts are part of the identity-creating purpose of storytelling. They are also emotional acts that heighten the experientiality and that utilize completely different ways to frame narration. The cylinder seals also retell the story; they refer, according to Bernbeck, mostly to the rituals staging the myth. As cylinder seals, they also use completely different means of storytelling: the act of sealing itself, the confined and small space, scrolling⁷¹ as a strategy of storytelling, the wide distribution, and the repetition inherent in the seals’ nature. Thus, the myth of Etana is told in ways that go beyond oral transmission. Yet it is difficult to judge whether we observe a transmedial or an intermedial phenomenon. Considering the purposefulness of the storytelling itself, Bernbeck linked the myth and its retelling to the ideology of the Akkadian Empire, and Gebhard Selz even states that the “legend delivers an aitiology for hereditary, dynastic kingship, and provides its political legitimization.”⁷² It is therefore a matter of fact that narrative communication in different media was an important and vital political instrument in Mesopotamia from the very beginnings of its political history. The experience of the story through ritual acts or performances of any kind can create embodied memories. This in turn leads us to triggering narration via cognitive patterns (narremes) through the experience of the material environment. Thus, another potentially narrative medium treated in Martínez’ volume⁷³ was the garden. For Mesopotamian cultures, one should not only take into account this specific type of artificial landscape as a narrative medium (thinking of the gardens in and around Nineveh for example, or the arrangement of gardens and cityscapes in Babylon or Assyrian residence cities)⁷⁴ but one should also discuss the broader issue of landscape and architecture as media of storytelling.⁷⁵ I consider the subject of material and visual storytelling via landscapes and architecture rather complex and in need of more sound analysis than can be done here. These visual media can transmit the story by their materiality alone,

 See McCausland 2019.  Selz 1998, 135. Selz explicitly rejects the interpretation of the seals by Bernbeck, but that will not be discussed here in further detail.  Kaczmarczyk 2017.  See Novák 1999, esp. 333 – 334, 347– 350.  Also discussed in this volume: Wagner-Durand and Linke, (“Why Study ‘Narration’?”), 297.

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unfolded through the process of semiosis,⁷⁶ or they can be part of narrativization through performative acts such as, for instance, the akītu-festival.⁷⁷ In this vein, the intermedial, if not transmedial character of Mesopotamian storytelling resurfaces once again, reminding us that the effects of narratives on culture spread into many areas of life and most likely became embodied by all participants. Thus, the matter of media should be discussed with an open mind; it is my heartfelt opinion that this issue of mediality should be neither a restricting nor a defining quality in the definition or consideration of the term narrative (or narration).

Mediacy/Mediation in Storytelling An issue related to the question of what a narrative is and which media can be considered as potentially narrative is mediacy or mediation. I will somewhat abuse the term mediacy introduced by Franz Stanzel⁷⁸ and use it in a way that I find suitable for the transmittable nature of storytelling per se. Thus, I follow Jan Alber and Monika Fludernik who stated that recently the term has been used more as “mediation being applied to the way in which a story is told in film, drama, cartoons, ballet, music, pictures, hypertext narratives, and other genres and forms of narrative.”⁷⁹ However, the way in which Stanzel, Genette, and others defined and used mediacy excluded many media from being narratives.⁸⁰ For Stanzel, the mediation via the narrator is the sine qua non of storytelling.⁸¹ These classical narratologists developed schemes of narrator-/narrationperspectives that classify the way in which the story is mediated to the audience.⁸² Etymologically, however, it is quite clear that any media is capable of mediation; it is part of their function. Surely, mediation does not equate with narration and being able to mediate does not mean narrating. Once again, the question arises as to how media of any kind have to be shaped or arranged to be narrative and whether the idea of creating something explicitly and consciously as a narrative is crucial for the medium to be considered to be a narra-

 On the importance of the process of semiosis with respect to narrative images, cf. Bracker 2016, 2– 3.  Wagner-Durand and Linke, this volume (“Why Study ‘Narration’?”), 297.  Alber and Fludernik 2014, 310.  Alber and Fludernik 2014, 310.  Alber and Fludernik 2014, 310.  Stanzel 1982, 15.  For an overview, see Alber and Fludernik 2014.

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tive. I am not downplaying the issue of the narrator, as s/he is surely crucial in understanding how a narrative is shaped and mediated. I do not negate the fact that there is a difference between media: a drama on stage or a ritualized performance in religious contexts such as the above-mentioned akītu often mediate the story isochronically via different characters, their actions, and their verbal and non-verbal expressions. An epic such as Gilgameš’ is told by an auctorial story-teller who is omniscient in respect to the storyline, the characters and progress. An image’s intended mediated content is mostly visually frozen and remediated by the act of perception itself. This disparity creates differences between the conception of the act of narration and the perception of the narrative – and thus cannot be ignored. Additionally, I want to address some further selected issues with respect to mediacy in the realm of Mesopotamia. Storytelling with the self-awareness of the narrator/creator who is telling the story is not a criterion for a narrative in Mesopotamia. Narration is a tool of communication in this realm. Yet the intention of those composing the story communicated by any possible medium was not primarily to narrate but to communicate. However, sequences of events were arranged in a non-random and meaningful way: they were narrated. Furthermore, mediation in the sense of an authority that chooses perspective, events, sequence, temporal succession, assessment, and so on, is also inherent to media that have no explicit narrator. Images, for example, show what the authority wants to be seen in the way s/he want it to be presented, independent of its success. The same is true for staged ritual acts and performances or architecture and landscapes. Visual-based media have qualities and advantages that text-based media are unlikely to have (had) in ancient times. Cylinder seals, for example, may have displayed their narrative power in the process of sealing itself;⁸³ they might have reached a different, even wider audience than texts, since they selected pregnant moments and condensed narratives to their core. Other images may have had an exclusive character, such as the Neo-Assyrian orthostats visible to only very few individuals of Mesopotamia’s population. The mediation of the story, including the appearance of the personae dramatis, was limited to a certain audience. Ritual acts such as the akītu festival could have released substantial emotional force(s) by their multi-sensual and incorporating effects (see below); their mediation was bound to the act of performance and its reception at the same time.

 Nadali 2019.

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Hence, mediacy should surely be in the focus of narratological research on any medium in the Ancient Near East, but instead of looking for the narrator as the sine qua non, the focus should be on how the story is mediated.⁸⁴

Experientiality as Part of Storytelling Experientiality (the “what is it like” = qualia = “for someone or something to have a particular experience”)⁸⁵ belongs to the newly established conditions of narration.⁸⁶ Experientality has been brought into discussions of narrative by Monika Fludernik in the vein of her “natural narratology.”⁸⁷ A human/humanized agent lives through these experiences, which in turn allows us to comprehend the narrative in one way or another. In her own words, experientiality is the “quasi-mimetic evocation of real-life experience.”⁸⁸ Experientiality and narrativization as the process of being experiential or of making a story experiential is based on the hypothesis of universal cognitive processes.⁸⁹ According to Fludernik, narrativity and experientiality become interchangeable: what you can narrate is experiential and what is experiential can be narrated.⁹⁰ Experientiality is not meant to be bound by culture: “In natural narratology, ‘real-life experience’, ‘embodiment’ and ‘consciousness’ exist outside differences generated by time, by culture, by form, by gender, by types of media.”⁹¹ If one is concerned with the construction of emotions, one cannot avoid noticing that this position reminds one of that of the biological essentialists, who dismiss the idea of the social construction of emotions.⁹² Accordingly, this leads me to consider narrativization as a bio-cultural process during which hard-wired cognitive elements go hand in hand with recursive cultural shaping that begins early in life. No matter how hard we try, we can only approximate the experience of Mesopotamian

 A slightly deviating perspective would be to differentiate between narrative “texts” (term used by Schmid) that are mediated (by a narrator) and narrative “texts” that are not (mimetic). Schmid himself includes drama, film, comic, narrative ballet, pantomime, and narrative image under mimetic narrative texts. Schmid 2014, 8.  Herman 2009, 137.  Iversen 2011, 91.  Fludernik 1996.  Fludernik 1996, 12.  Caracciolo 2014, 149; Iversen 2011, 92.  Fludernik 1996, 198; Caracciolo 2014, 149; Martínez 2011, 8.  Iversen 2011, 92.  Tarlow 2000, 714. Positions have changed since then; see, e. g., Markowitsch and RöttgerRössler 2009.

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life-worlds; our estrangement has grown (too) far: it stretches over the language(s) that shape(s) thinking, dominant ontology⁹³ and belief systems, subsistence strategies, education and value of children, experience of violence and war, power relations, and so forth. Experiences shape our neuronal network; thus, it can never be pure nature. Thus, in my opinion, experientiality is based on hard-wired elements, but the experiential frame of the cultural and social environments is subject to massive change. Again, one should be aware that our experiential horizon differs from that of the Mesopotamian peoples’, and that there is also no uniform horizon in Mesopotamia throughout time and across social and professional boundaries. Experiences are furthermore subjective and thus always individual. The same is true of their forms of expression. Certain experiences and their expression, for example in lengthy Neo-Assyrian royal inscriptions, may seem odd or redundant to us, boring or exuberant, but we have to keep in mind that storytelling is culturally constructed. Ethnocentric thinking and assumptions surely lead to false judgements in all areas of tellability and experientiality.

Emotions Shaped in Narratives and Narratives Shaping Emotions Since I am engaged in research on the emotional life in ancient Mesopotamia, it comes as no surprise that the emotional powers that narratives encompass and unfold are of special interest to me. Indeed, I am convinced that the emotional entanglement of the recipient with the story’s form and content, which is related to the above-mentioned concept of experientiality,⁹⁴ constitutes the power on whose basis narratives function. Chistine Lehnen wrote, “Narratives change people’s mind.”⁹⁵ Monika Fludernik herself stated, “All experience is therefore stored as emotionally charged remembrance, and it is reproduced in narrative form because it was memorable, funny, scary, or exciting.”⁹⁶ Philosopher Martha Nussbaum further said that emotions are socialized, cultural and learned concepts that

 In the sense of Philippe Descola. Descola 2013.  Fludernik 1996, 12: “the quasi-mimetic evocation of real-life experience.”  Lehnen 2016, 249. See also there for a heuristic tool for analysing emotional persuasion by narratives.  Fludernik 1996, 29.

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are not taught to us directly through propositional claims about the world, either abstract or concrete. They are taught, above all, through stories. Stories express their structure and teach us their dynamics. These stories are constructed by others and, then, taught and learned. But once internalized, they shape the way life feels and looks.⁹⁷

Nussbaum went even further by asserting that “certain types of human understanding are irreducibly narrative in form…”⁹⁸ Assuming that narratives are emotion-transmitting and transmedial tools that shape and transport world views and more distinct messages on different levels of immediacy, we stumble across the question of what these assumptions imply for Mesopotamian cultures and their narratives. As we look for narratives with authorizing, validating, and legitimizing character in political systems, a diachronic look is called for to explain how emotional transmission shapes the first narratives, how these are re-told, and how emotional charge and content interact and change over the course of time. Stories of kings are stories of humans. The kings, in contrast to the gods, ontologically still belong the very same group as all humans. According to Anne Porter, some heroes might be children of gods and be super-human, but they are not gods in the ultimate sense.⁹⁹ Of course, the whole situation is more complicated than that, but basically kings are human by nature and birth. Even if we consider their life-world to be different from that of any others being in Mesopotamia, and in some cases hard to imagine or to retrace, the audience is more able to understand their wants, feelings, desires, and their emotional story-world than that of the divine beings, who are – again by and in nature – different. But even if we consider the king not to be the best figure to represent experiences of anyone other than himself, the stories still are embedded in the broader setting of the audience’s life-world. They shape and affirm this life-world. Furthermore, they do so transmedially. Since the narrator’s voice of many stories, transported by and in images, is not confined to the king but subject to interpretation by the recipient, non-literal/verbal stories may enhance the experiential quality of these stories to the non-royal recipient.

Grand Récits of Mesopotamian Kingship? Life-worlds shape grand narratives and are shaped by them. Even if I discuss these so-called grand narratives or grand récits, to use the terms of François Lyo-

 Nussbaum 1988, 226.  Nussbaum 1988, 230.  Porter 2014, 603.

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tard,¹⁰⁰ I don’t want to engage in a discussion of ancient Mesopotamia as an age of grand narratives in opposition to the post-modern times in which people lost their source of eschatological relief when they lost faith in these grand narratives. Rather, I want to touch upon the issue of whether the topoi that we choose here reflect real meta-narratives, i. e., explanatory schemes that explain the world order and life as such in ancient Mesopotamia, or whether the sources we rely on and the deductions we make have led us to believe that Mesopotamian cultures had a certain faith¹⁰¹ in such alleged grand narratives. In this vein, I understand grand narratives, meta-narratives, or grand récits as broader themes that can take elaborate narrative forms and that are believed to explain the world. These themes reoccur in different forms and different contexts, take different shapes, and re-appear in different media; they clearly have explanatory power and explain how the world is or, better, should be. Since narrative per se is “a vehicle of dominant ideologies and an instrument of power,”¹⁰² so-called grand récits must represent fundamental tools of legitimation.¹⁰³ This by no means engages with the issue of whether those narratives come into being because people need to define and refine themselves, because they seek the explanation of the world and its order, or whether these narratives were created to be of legitimizing power. The topoi of “the builder,” “the wise man,” and “the successful fighter” have been chosen by the editors because they are formulas of royal legitimation (validation in the terminology of Seth Richardson¹⁰⁴) that materialize in narrative media. These topoi have not been chosen randomly. They have been selected because they have occurred in several media of the Ancient Near East (often throughout time) and because their existence has been assumed in the scholarly literature. Thus, they have been taken for granted and are not often questioned. Critical reviews of these topoi have mainly come up when getting into the matter of their narrativization. One more or less critical point is the issue of the wise king as the topos that encompasses all of them. Wisdom is given by the gods to the kings, and it is wisdom that makes them achieve success in war and success in building houses for the gods and themselves. This in turn leads to the question of whether the true meta-narrative is the narrative of the wisdom given by the gods, which makes the king able to achieve whatever task lies

 Lyotard 1992.  I am fully aware that faith in itself is a term not known from the Ancient Near East in general. Cf. Walton 2009, 153 and note 65.  Ryan 2010a, 345 (Ryan refers to Michel Foucault).  For Meuter on Lyotard’s grand récits as instruments of power, see Meuter 2014, 450.  Richardson, this volume.

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ahead of him. Consequently, we meet meta-grand narratives such as the story of the wise king (supposing that these are grand narratives at all), we encounter grand narratives such as the king as builder, war hero, hunter and so on), and we more directly perceive the tangible, more or less historical scenarios. These tales were the ones looked at in most of the papers presented at the workshop. Some settings¹⁰⁵ represent counter narratives, stories that function via the reversal of the meta-narrative. The king’s duties were not fulfilled; somebody who had not initially been given the wisdom and right to do so – in this special case, building and restitution – has to take over. That in turn leads us back to François Lyotard: does such a reversal turn the meta-narrative into an unreliable story? Does it invalidate any legitimatizing meta-narrative connected? Is it only a symptom that may be overcome by a re-stabilized system equipped with a working meta-narrative, or will it eventually contribute to the failure of the system? The examples cited by Ambos all belong to a late period of Mesopotamian kingship, leading to the assumption that the told and retold meta-narrative of the king as a pious, wise, and righteous builder by order of the gods had lost its authoritative impact in Mesopotamia. But, once again, we need to be cautious: why did we, the editors and scholars represented here, chose these topoi or engage with these topoi? Were they chosen because they once existed, because they were retold over centuries or even millennia, and because they played a vital role in life and in the world order of Mesopotamia? Or were they chosen because we simply can get ahold of them; because we are more likely to understand these narratives because they link to our lives and our pre-modern or even postmodern grand narratives; or because they speak to us on the background of our own social embeddedness? Thus, do we tell grand narratives of our own by using sources of the Mesopotamian past? The “truth” may lie in-between: there is no doubt that the chosen topoi have had recursive effects in Mesopotamia. They are all tangible in different media throughout time. Ergo, they have been meaningful in one way or another. Possibly, the social and historical background western scholars grow up in gives them a stronger awareness of these “familiar” themes than others. Thus, there may be more or different grand récits than the editors have chosen as their emphasis. But they are, however, not chosen out of nowhere. They have been subject to study by generations of Assyriologists and archaeologists; they may have come up because they are familiar to our way of thinking, yet this alone seems reason enough to reevaluate these topoi, whether that means dis-

 Such as those introduced by Claus Ambos; see Ambos, this volume.

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missing some of them in the end or joining them into one grand récit that embraces them all. The framing of these Leitmotive into narratives has been subject to scholarly discussion because narratives are powerful; they help to structure experience and emotion and shape them into communicative forms that can be experienced and understood and reframed by others.¹⁰⁶ It is this power that makes them attractive as tools for legitimation and validation, even if this form is not used deliberately but out of the human need for strong emotion-communicating and translating medial practices.

Narratology and the Ancient Near East: Frightful or Fruitful? Scratching the surface of a phenomenon that is intermedial, transmedial, global and most likely also transtemporal, ergo human in and by nature, it is doubtless that narration is of significance when trying to understand specific cultures, the ways they express themselves, and why they do so. Yes, studying narratives in the Ancient Near East is fruitful and frightful at the same time. It is frightful when thinking of the broad theoretical frame related to any narratological research and also when considering all media that have appeared over millennia and that may be potentially narrative. Yet all these overwhelming sources and theoretical means and approaches represent reasons to believe that the transmedial narratological research of Ancient Near Eastern sources is fruitful and promising. The setting forth of questions and research agendas and the inclusion of inter- and transdisciplinary approaches will reveal promising and productive outcomes and help us to understand how ancient life-worlds were experienced and how these experiences were expressed in narrative forms. The attempts to define narration are not manifold without reason, and with respect to media beyond texts, they are by no means finished. Still, the danger of losing focus is imminent: we might move from the questions of which stories have been mediated in which forms and for which reasons to the discussion of whether or not distinct media can narrate and to which degree.

 Iversen 2011, 89.

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Herman, David. 2009. Basic Elements of Narrative. Chichester, U.K & Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell. Hühn, Peter, Jan Christoph Meister, John Pier, and Wolf Schmid, eds. 2014. Handbook of Narratology. Berlin et al.: de Gruyter. Iversen, Stefan. 2011. “’In Flaming Flames’: Crises of Experientiality in Non-Fictional Narratives.” In Unnatural Narratives–Unnatural Narratology, edited by Jan Alber and Rüdiger Heinze, 89 – 103. Linguae & Litterae 9. Berlin et al.: de Gruyter. Jensen, Klaus Bruhn. 2016. “Intermediality.” In The International Encyclopedia of Communication Theory and Philosophy, 1 – 12. Chichester, UK/Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Kaczmarczyk, Katarzyna. 2017. “Garten.” In Erzählen: Ein interdisziplinäres Handbuch, edited by Matías Martínez, 60 – 62. Stuttgart: Metzler. Kuhn, Thomas S. 2014. Die Struktur wissenschaftlicher Revolutionen. Zweite revidierte und um das Postskriptum von 1969 ergänzte Aufl., 24. Auflage. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Lehnen, Christine. 2016. “Exploring Narratives’ Powers of Emotional Persuasion through Character Involvement: A Working Heuristic.” Journal of Literary Theory 10 (2): 379. Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim. 1980. Lackoon, oder, Uber die Grenzen der Malerei und Poesie: Mit belläufigen Erläuterungen verschiedener Punkte der alten Kunstgeschichte. Universal-Bibliothek Nr. 271031. Stuttgart: Reclam. Lyotard, Jean-François. 1992. The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge. Repr. Theory and History of Literature 10. Manchester: University of Press of Manchester. Markowitsch, Hans J., and Birgitt Röttger-Rössler, eds. 2009. Emotions as Bio-Cultural Processes. New York: Springer-Verlag New York. Martínez, Matías, ed. 2017a. Erzählen: Ein interdisziplinäres Handbuch. Stuttgart: Metzler. Martínez, Matías. 2017b. “Grundlagen: Was ist Erzählen?” In Erzählen: Ein interdisziplinäres Handbuch, edited by Matías Martínez, 2 – 6. Stuttgart: Metzler. Martínez, Matías. 2011. “A. Theorie der erzählenden Literatur I. Grundbestimmungen 1. Erzählen.” In Handbuch Erzählliteratur: Theorie, Analyse, Geschichte, edited by Matías Martínez, 1 – 11. Stuttgart: Metzler. McCausland, Shane. 2019. “Intermediary Moments: Framing and scrolling devices across painting, print and film in China’s visual narratives.” In Image. Narration. Context – Visual Narratives in Old World Cultures and Societies, edited by Elisabeth Wagner-Durand, Barbara Fath, and Alexander Heinemann, 157 – 175. Freiburger Studien zur Archäologie und Visuellen Kultur 1, Heidelberg: Propyleum. Meuter, Norbert. 2014. “Narration in Various Disciplines.” In Hühn, Meister, Pier, and Schmid 2014, 242 – 262. Nussbaum, Martha. 1988. “Narrative Emotions: Beckett’s Genealogy of Love.” Ethics 98 (2): 225 – 254. Nadali, Davide. 2019. “The Power of Narrative Pictures in Ancient Mesopotamia,” In Image. Narration.Context – Visual Narratives in Old World Cultures and Societies, edited by Elisabeth Wagner-Durand, Barbara Fath, and Alexander Heinemann, 63 – 80. Freiburger Studien zur Archäologie und Visuellen Kultur 1. Heidelberg: Propyleum. Novák, Mirko. 1999. Herrschaftsform und Stadtbaukunst: Programmatik im mesopotamischen Residenzstadtbau von Agade bis Surra-man-ra’ā. Schriften zur Vorderasiatischen Archäologie 7. Saarbrücken: SDV.

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Onega Jaén, Susana and José Angel García Landa. 1996. Narratology: An Introduction. London, New York: Longman. Pongratz-Leisten, Beate. 2010. “From Ritual Text to Intertext: A New Look on the Dreams in Ludlul Bel Nemeqi.” In In the Second Degree: Paratextual Literature in Ancient Near Eastern and Ancient Mediterranean Culture and its Reflections in Medieval Literature, edited by Philip S. Alexander, Armin Lange, and Renate Pillinger, 137 – 158. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Porter, Ann. 2014. “When the Subject is the Object: Relational Ontologies, the Partible Person and Images of Naram-Sin.” In Critical Approaches to Ancient Near Eastern Art, edited by Brian A. Brown and Marian Feldman, 597 – 618. Boston: de Gruyter. Reuter, Guido. 2017. “Medien des Erzählens: Skulptur.” In Erzählen: Ein interdisziplinäres Handbuch, edited by Matías Martínez, 91 – 95. Stuttgart: Metzler. Rajewsky, Irina O. 2005. “Intermediality, Intertextuality, and Remediation: A Literary Perspective on Intermediality.” Intermédialités 6: 43 – 64. Ryan, Marie-Laure. 2014. “Narration in Various Media.” In Handbook of Narratology, edited by Peter Hühn, Jan Christoph Meister, John Pier, and Wolf Schmid, 468 – 488. Berlin et al.: de Gruyter. Ryan, Marie-Laure. 2010a. “Narrative.” In Routledge Encyclopedia of Narrative Theory, edited by David Herman, Manfred Jahn, and Marie-Laure Ryan, 344 – 348. London: Routledge. Ryan, Marie-Laure. 2010b. “On the Theoretical Foundations of Transmedial Narratology.” In Narratology Beyond Literary Criticism: Mediality, Disciplinarity, edited by Jan C. Meister, Tom Kindt, and Wilhelm Schernus, 1 – 23. Narratologia 6. Berlin et al.: de Gruyter. Ryan, Marie-Laure. 2007. “Towards a Definition of Narrative.” In The Cambridge Companion to Narrative, edited by David Herman, 22 – 35. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ryan, Marie-Laure. 2006. Avatars of Story. Minnesota: University of Minnisota Press. Ryan, Marie-Laure. 2004. “Introduction.” In Narrative Across Media: The Languages of Storytelling, edited by Marie-Laure Ryan, 1 – 40. Frontiers of Narrative. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Scheffel, Michael. 2014. “Narrative Constitution.” In Handbook of Narratology, edited by Peter Hühn, Jan C. Meister, John Pier, and Wolf Schmid, 46 – 64. Berlin: de Gruyter. Schmid, Wolf. 2014. Elemente der Narratologie. 2., verb. Aufl. Berlin et al.: de Gruyter. Selz, Gebhard J. 1998. “Die Etana-Erzählung. Ursprung und Tradition eines der ältesten epischen Texte in einer semitischen Sprache.” Acta Sumerologica 20: 135 – 178. Selz, Gebhard J. 2018. “Aesthetics.” In A Companion to Ancient Near Eastern Art. Vol. 145, edited by Ann C. Gunter, 359 – 81. Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World. Hoboken: Wiley Blackwell. Speidel, Klaus. 2013. “Can a Single Still Picture Tell a Story? Definitions of Narrative and the Alleged Problem of Time with Single Still Pictures.” DIEGESIS 2.1: 173 – 194. Stanzel, F. K. 1982. Theorie des Erzählens. 2., verb. Aufl. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Tarlow, Sarah. 2000. “Emotion in Archaeology.” Current Anthropology 41 (5): 713 – 746. Thon, Jan-Noel. 2015. “Narratives Across Media and the Outlines of a Media-Conscious Narratology.” In Handbook of Intermediality: Literature – Image – Sound – Music, edited by Gabriele Rippl, 439 – 56. Handbooks of English and American Studies Volume 1. Berlin et al.: de Gruyter.

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Varga, A. K. 1990. “Visuelle Argumentation und visuelle Narrativität.” In Text und Bild, Bild und Text: DFG-Symposion 1988, edited by Wolfgang Harms, 356 – 367. Germanistische Symposien-Berichtsbände 11. Stuttgart: Metzler. Wagner-Durand, Elisabeth. 2016. “Visual Narration in Assyria Versus ‘Static Art’ in Babylonia – Making a Difference in the First Millennium B.C.”, In: Proceedings of the 9th ICAANE 2014, Basel, edited by Oscar Kählin et al., 269 – 279. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Wagner-Durand, Elisabeth. 2019. “Narration. Description. Reality: The Royal Lion Hunt in Assyria.” In Image. Narration. Context -Visual Narratives in Old World Cultures and Societies, edited by Elisabeth Wagner-Durand, Barbara Fath, and Alexander Heinemann, 235 – 272. Freiburger Studien zur Archäologie und Visuellen Kultur 1, Heidelberg: Propyleum. Wagner-Durand, Elisabeth, Barbara Fath, and Alexander Heinemann, eds. 2019. Image. Narration. Context -Visual Narratives in Old World Cultures and Societies. Freiburger Studien zur Archäologie und Visuellen Kultur 1, Heidelberg: Propyleum. Walton, John H. 2009. Ancient Near Eastern Thought and the Old Testament: Introducing the Conceptual World of the Hebrew Bible. 3rd printing. Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker Academic. Watanabe, Chikako E. 2002. Animal Symbolism in Mesopotamia: A Contextual Approach. Wiener Offene Orientalistik 1. Wien: Institut für Orientalistik der Universität Wien. Weitzmann, Kurt. 1957. “Narration in Early Christendom.” American Journal of Archaeology 61 (1): 83 – 91. Weixler, Antonius. 2019. “Bild – Erzählung – Rezeption. Narrativität in Erzählforschung und Kunstwissenschaft.” In Image. Narration. Context – Visual Narratives in Old World Cultures and Societies, edited by Elisabeth Wagner-Durand, Barbara Fath, and Alexander Heinemann, 83 – 109. Freiburger Studien zur Archäologie und Visuellen Kultur 1, Heidelberg: Propyleum. Weissert, Nathan. 1997. “Royal Hunt and Royal Triumph in a Prism Fragment of.” In Assyria 1995: Proceedings of the 10th Anniversary Symposium of the Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, Helsinki, Sept. 7 – 11, 1995, edited by Simo Parpola and Robert M. Whiting, 339 – 358. Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Wickhoff, Franz, and Max Dvorák, eds. 1912. Römische Kunst (die Wiener Genesis). Berlin. Winter, Irene J. 2010. “Royal Rhetoric and the Development of Historical Narrative in Neo-Assyrian Reliefs.” In On Art in the Ancient Near East: Volume I: Of the First Millenium BCE, edited by Irene J. Winter, 1 – 70. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Wolf, Werner. 2002. “Das Problem der Narrativität in Literatur, bildender Kunst und Musik: Ein Beitrag zu einer intermedialen Erzähltheorie.” In Erzähltheorie transgenerisch, intermedial, interdisziplinär, edited by Vera Nünning, 23 – 104. WVT-Handbücher zum literaturwissenschaftlichen Studium 5. Trier: WVT. Wolf, Werner. 2011. “Narratology and Media(lity): The Transmedial Expansion of a Literary Discipline and Possible Consequences.” In Current Trends in Narratology, edited by Greta Olson, 145 – 180. Narratologia. Contributions to Narrative Theory 27. Berlin et al.: de Gruyter.

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Why Study “Narration” in Ancient Near Eastern Archaeology and Assyriology? – Potentials and Limitations Introduction As the papers and responses demonstrate, opinions on narration – whether visual or textual – are quite diverse, if not contradictory. During the lively discussions that followed each talk and panel, several questions came up. These questions and considerations illustrate that every scholar is dependent on her thinking, on his special interests, and her distinct point of view as well as on the sources used. Evidently, there is still no consensus on what a narrative is.¹ In the following discussion, one should expect neither an all-embracing definition of narrative nor any proposition that is globally valid for all media, cultures, and periods. Closing with questions and considerations instead of definite answers therefore seems the most obvious thing to do. The discourse concerning these topics will both deliver interesting information and open new perspectives and discussions.

Terminology and Definitions Terminology Only terminological clarity allows and ensures mutual understanding. During the discussions, Irene J. Winter pointed out that if one uses specific terminologies, one should also make sure to use the right ones, to apply a lexicon that is adequate to talk about narratives within different media. She suggested that we should develop a vocabulary that is neutral, or at least adapted to the media we study. Winter illustrated this by the following dilemma: When using the word ‘reading’ with respect to images, one tends to (subconsciously) use a specific way of thinking that comes along with this vocabulary – namely, that images may be read in the same way that texts are, while they actually are struc Furthermore, the discussions strongly emphasized that both issues, royal legitimation and narration, have been in the center of diverse studies but rarely are explicitly discussed together. https://doi.org/10.1515/9781501506895-016

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tured and perceived differently.² Consequently, the terms and the vocabulary used should be carefully thought about and explicitly articulated. This, however, is not an approach followed by all. Frauke Weierhäusers argues in her response: “daß auch ein bildlich präsentes Narrativ als Text anzusehen ist, da in der heutigen Kunst- und Medienwissenschaft der Textbegriff von der Sprache entkoppelt und auch auf visuelle und auditive Medien angewendet wird.”³ Therefore, an opposing view is also possible and arguable. Additionally, one has to consider the fact that cognitively speaking, reading may not take place prior to viewing but may be a part of vision and thus a visual sensation or process.⁴ Therefore, the perception processes of reading a text and of viewing an image may not be so clearly separable. Still, it also means that applying terms related to reading to images does not necessarily do justice to the act of observing images. It further remains to be debated whether the terms “viewing” and “observing” fully embrace the spectrum of what can be done with images that can also act or be perceived as more or less active socio-partners.⁵

Definition(s) The question of how important one single definition encompassing all media is remains hotly disputed. That was one of the reasons for the complexity of the overall theme of the workshop. It became evident in the diversity of the definitions provided, applied, and discussed. The approaches ranged from quite narrow to very broad.

 Cory Crawford also questions the primacy of texts over images (Crawford 2014).  Weiershäuser, this volume, Response: Das Narrativ vom guten König, pp. 65 – 73. Weiershäuser refers to Berndt and Tonger-Erk 2013, 8 – 9. She also states further: “Zugleich liegt auch bei bildlich präsenten Narrativen stets ein gedachter, gesprochener oder geschriebener Text zugrunde, welcher von einem Betrachter des Bildwerkes unbewusst aktualisiert wird.”  Cory Crawford points out that this claim that there are two distinct perceptions may be all too simple: “It is often claimed in studies of visual representation that seeing a depiction is categorically different from reading a description because the former requires only basic perception but the latter involves higher cognitive processes. Cognitive scientists have shown, however, that the issue is not so simple (Schwartz 2001). Reading appears to be subsumed in the sub-modality of vision and, once learned, is difficult to distinguish from other types of perception” Crawford 2014, 249.  Zainab Bahrani wrote that an image (ṣalmu) could be understood as “an entity in its own right, a being rather than a copy of a being”: Bahrani 2003, 125. Cf. Wagner-Durand 2014, Wagner-Durand 2015. See also Bonatz 2002 and others.

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As already discussed in the introducution, we came across a very extensive definition (“fuzzy-set definition”)⁶ provided by the literary scholar Marie-Laure Ryan, which covers multiple aspects: Spatial Dimension (1) Narrative must be about a world populated by individuated existents. Temporal Dimension (2) This world must be situated in time and undergo significant transformations. (3) The transformations must be caused by non-habitual physical events. Mental Dimension (4) Some of the participants in the events must be intelligent agents who have a mental life and react emotionally to the states of the world. (5) Some of the events must be purposeful actions by these agents. Formal and pragmatic dimension (6) The sequence of events must form a unified causal chain and lead to closure. (7) The occurrence of at least some of the events must be asserted as fact for the storyworld. (8) The story must communicate something meaningful to the audience…⁷

In its application to the textual and material cultures of the Ancient Near East, this narrow definition raises difficulties: It demands a profound knowledge of the story in question, of the contemporary intellectual world, and the narrative strategies applied. In contrast, the definition of José A. Garcia Landa and Susana Onega Jaén, given in the description of the workshop, aims at breadth of media and focuses on “a series of events meaningfully connected in a temporal and causal way.”⁸ This definition was chosen because of its applicability with respect to the material we have at our disposal. Still, some may not be content with it because of its broadness and structural vagueness. The most basic description of what a narrative constitutes, however, is likewise one of the oldest, presented by the author Edward M. Forster and already mentioned in the introduction: Here, the story basically constitutes a chain of events; the plot implies the causal relation: Story Plot

   

= “The king died and then the queen died.” = “The king died, and then the queen died out of grief.”⁹

Ryan 2007, 28. Ryan 2007, 29 – 30. Onega Jaén and García Landa 1996, 3. Forster 1927, 82– 83.

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As we also stated in the introductory note, this example has been further simplified by the structural narratologist Gérard Genette, who suggests that the phrase “the king died” is sufficient enough to imply a story and a plot.¹⁰ Therefore, the mere implication of a plot allows us to categorize this simple phrase as a narrative, although the chain of events is not explicitly stated. Naturally, both approaches have been heavily criticized, but they also created space for discussions, especially on the narrative quality of texts and images.

The “Meta-Narrative” This dilemma might be at least partly solved by distinguishing different levels of narratives: the explicit level covered by the narrow definitions and the level of the “meta-narrative” found in texts and images that do not quite fit into these narrow definitions but nevertheless contain narrative elements or an implied narrative.¹¹ The problem is that such “meta-narratives” might be interpreted incorrectly because the explicit expression of the series of events and their causality is missing. Thus, it is likely to evoke any association from the audience. Another related point is the cognitive location of the story. By the active process of perceiving, the story unfolds in the mind. But where is the narrative primarily located? Does the story only come into being when someone is observing an image or reading or hearing a text? Or is it already stored in the mind, in the media themselves, in the single individual, in the specific social group, or even in the broader cultural context? Depending on this cognitive and material location, reception and reception processes may vary.

Media and Transmediality When talking about the reception of narratives used in or as royal legitimation strategies, we have to put a major emphasis on the medium chosen since media influence both the audience, and thus the reception process, and the act of narration. This fact was already taken into account when dividing our contributions into philologically based analyses on one side and archaeologically or visually based papers on the other side. Still, this issue is more profound. First of  Genette 1983, 15, 18 – 19.  It is, once again in this volume, important to stress that the term meta-narrative is not used in the meaning that Lyotard (1992) has attributed to it when talking about grand récits, in other words grand-narratives oder meta-narratives.

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all, narratives can transcend media, and second of all, those are only two potentially narrative media to be looked at.¹² Still, we will first focus on the media chosen for this workshop in general. The use of written language already excludes a substantial part of the population.¹³ In addition, the text medium chosen – stone or clay tablets, stelae, seals, papyri etc. – offers, among others, various possibilities for spreading out the text on the medium and for interconnecting images and texts. One of the most basic aspects a text medium offers is the range of space. A text written on a clay tablet can be much more extensive than one written on the limited surface of a seal. Still, the space provided and the length of the text give potential but do not determine narrativity as such. According to Edward M. Forster and Gérard Genette, length s not decisive. Genre and text type,¹⁴ however, seem to have a stronger influence on the narrative potential of the writings. While economic texts tend to be non-narrative, royal inscriptions often show narrative markers such as a course of events, causality, change in situation, tension, climax, and closure, all of which would (most likely) be important to the audience. Other (sub‐)genres such as the so-called “Grenzziehungsinschriften,” as presented by Carlos Langa Morales,¹⁵ are open to interpretation concerning their narrativity. Since we dismiss the idea that only literature can be narrative,¹⁶ other text types such as the ones mentioned above may show narrative markers such as a course of events. Narrativity may be quite limited but still basically be existent. Not only written accounts are limited or determined by their form: visual media also have diverse potentials and different restrictions concerning their narrativity. As stated above, provided that one uses a narrow definition such as that of Elisabeth Wagner-Durand,¹⁷ a monoscenic¹⁸ depiction may refer to a known narrative but may not be a narrative in itself.¹⁹ In this vein, statues for example, even the famous and often discussed Laocoön,²⁰ would not be narra-

 Additional media will be discussed below.  The question of analphabetism has been a controversial discussion for the Ancient Near East; whatever direction one chooses to follow, an elaborate use of script would have been restricted to a small group, as would the access to the texts as such.  Concerning the issue of genre and text type, see, for example Vanstiphout 1986; Tinney 1996, 111– 25; Wasserman 2003, 176 – 178; Pongratz-Leisten 2001.  Langa Morales, this volume.  See for example: Klein and Martínez 2009; Kern et al. 2012 and others.  Wagner-Durand, this volume (“Pious Shepherd”).  Dehejia 1990; Dehejia 1997; Brown 2001.  Cf. also May, this volume.  Lessing and many others following him dismiss narrativity in visual accounts referring to the Laocoön: cf. Giuliani 2003.

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tives in themselves. The same would be true for monoscenic stelae or similar images, also encapsulating what Gotthold Ephraim Lessing called the “fruchtbare Augenblick”.²¹ Nevertheless, on the “meta-level” discussed above, such images can refer to or be based on existing narratives.²² Crucially, the course of events should not be relivable or repeatable, as a prayer, an offering ceremony, or communication with the gods in general would be. If the image is based on a chain events that is specifically located in time and place – and therefore is a historic, pseudo-historic, or invented but temporally bound act²³ – then the narrative reference is much more intense. Texts must be read; therefore, whatever is written, narrative or not, unfolds while reading and therefore always implies a temporal level. The same is true for visual media that cannot be taken in at a single glance. Some media even demand that the observer moves in space and, therefore, would also have a temporal level. Here, the content also unfolds during the time spent on the reception process. That is the reason why some scholars, for instance Marlies Heinz,²⁴ consider that images are never narrative at all but rather that they provoke the narrative in the observer – this narrative being a culturally learned and influenced story or a pure invention based on the respective person as such. A totally different but also timely and spatially relevant matter is sealing: by the act of impressing a cylinder seal, a narrative process gets started.²⁵ Furthermore, both media, texts and images, are intertwined with each other, enhancing narrativity. Sound examples are media such as orthostats, bronze bands with epigraphs, and inscribed votive plaques. Also an intriguing example of transmediality, but not necessarily narration, is the statue of Idrimi from Alalakh. Intriguingly, Cory Crawford has shown that the statue and the inscription are holistically used to convey the message.²⁶ If one assumes that more than one type of media is used to tell the story, this transmediality²⁷ creates “new” forms

 Lessing 1980.  Natalie May puts forward a similar argument in respect to depictions of the kings on NeoAssyrian royal stelae (ṣalam šarri / šarrūtija). These are technically static and not narrative – but according to May they imply and refer to a narrative by an event part of a broader narration or were a part of a wider pictorial narrative repertory. May, this volume, “The True Image of the God…:” Adoration of the King’s Image, Assyrian Imperial Cult and Territorial Control, 189 – 242.  As stated elsewhere (Wagner-Durand 2019), fictional storytelling seems of much less importance than factual storytelling in Mesopotamia.  Heinz, this volume, Response, 103 – 107.  Nadali 2019.  Crawford 2014.  One could also consider the topic of intertextuality with respect to paratextual features in this context. This, however, needs additional philological considerations, which the organizers

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of narrating. Instead of focusing on one medium, which creates an artificial separation that may be not valid for ancient Mesopotamia, both should be considered together. One of the chosen media may not be narrative in a narrow sense; still, both together may provide a fully narrative performance. Also, one should consider music, oral citation or singing, staging, scents, and other methods and media to enhance the narrative experience. Therefore, the consideration of the choice of media becomes an issue of its own. Who chooses which media? Who decides which media are chosen for which stories or topoi? Were these media (text and images) the only ones to be used to tell stories of royal legitimacy? In this vein, Frances Pinnock rightly pointed out that space also may be used to create or to convey stories; therefore, material culture beyond the image and the text may be created and transformed to tell stories. This again leads us to several issues. Whole cities, even landscapes may be transformed and created to tell tales. That may be the case when considering the Enūma eliš, the akītu-festival, and the city of Babylon²⁸ (see also below for more about social memory and storytelling) or about the gates of Nineveh secured by the king, portrayed in written as well as visual sources hunting lions and therefore fulfilling his royal duties.²⁹ Still, that any media may be narrative is a priori neither correct nor agreed on. Marlies Heinz, like Luca Giuliani,³⁰ for example, argues in her response that: “Unlike a text a pictorial representation thus does never narrate.”³¹ Therefore, she also tends to focus more on the concept we tentatively called “metanarrative,”, arguing that the narrative the image refers to either is already located in the mind of the observer or is invented during the act of observation. This reminds us also of the fact that the definitions we use can be the decisive factor in determining both our interpretation of images and texts and whether we classify them as narrative or not.

as archaeologists would not dare to address right now. Also, the term “intertextuality” again emphasizes the primacy of texts. For an example of a study on Mesopotamian intertextuality, see Pongratz-Leisten 2010.  Cf. Pongratz-Leisten 1994.  Cf. Weissert 1997, esp. 355. Furthermore, it is absolutely likely that the media used are dependent on the culture we examine. While we are focusing on Mesopotamia, in the sense of northern and southern Babylonia, Syria’s kingdoms and empires may have used entirely different media.  See, e. g., Giuliani 2001 and 2003.  Heinz, this volume, Response, 106. Further, she argues: “Unlike texts, that can explicitly be composed by the author as a narration which connects a series of events meaningfully in a temporal and causal way, does a picture lack any means that manifestly show a fixed and unique sequence or a series of events, meaningfully and causally connected in time and space.”

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When is a King a King? When talking about legitimating kingship, regardless of which strategy, if any, is used, one should be clear that there might be quite diverse forms and expressions of kingship and that values, offices, and duties of kingship neither are global nor transcend time. In the social worlds of the Ancient Near East, there is no clear distinction between the divine sphere and everyday human life. Sacred elements are found, for example, in nature as well as in the human society that resembles the society and order of the gods. Therefore, kingship is deeply connected with sacral forms. The king’s duties, responsibilities, as well as legitimation are – by nature – religious. These religious tasks consist of the maintenance and the creation of order both in the earthly and in the divine realm. The king acts as a mediator between humans and gods. This capability is one very distinct feature of any ruler, and thus it needs to be communicated to ensure the royal authority. This communication aims at the legitimization of the king, with regard to both his people and the gods. It can be expressed in different media and can harness various strategies, one of them theoretically being narration. Royal legitimation is always closely connected to the function of a king, i. e., the duties, responsibilities, and tasks a king has to do and is entitled to do. A king has certain authorizations and rights; he acts according to these, and thus, these have to be legitimated. Still, any legitimization is impossible without a purposeful assignment and an ideological system in which it can be expressed and effective. This system must be accepted by both the ruling and the ruled and must be incontrovertible otherwise the system would fail.³² Belief in a given divine order, endorsing the king in his very position, is particularly suitable in this respect. According to the Sumerian King List, kingship was created by the gods and came down from heaven.³³ The creation of the king is described in a myth from the first millennium BCE (VAT 17019)³⁴. After the gods have created man, Ea tells the goddess Bēlet-ilī to form the king as māliku-amēlu, “überlegend-entscheidenden Menschen”³⁵, a line that already describes the king’s capabilities as human  Weber 1992, 356 ff.  Klein 2006, 115.  Mayer 1987.  Translation according to Mayer 1987. This term is also known from the coronation ceremony of Ashurbanipal (LKA 31, Rs. l. 16). Eva Cancik-Kirschbaum suggests a West Semitic meaning for malāku, and translates the term as “ein zur Ausübung von Herrschaft befähigter Mann”, CancikKirschbaum 1995, 16 – 17.

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but still somehow special. In the following sequence, various gods equip the king with their attributes: Anu gives him his crown, Enlil his throne, Nergal his weapons, Ninurta his “Schreckensglanz,” and Bēlet-ilī her good looks. This is quite an accurate description of the king, who has a special role in human society due to the features and accessories the gods provided him with. According to these two literary examples³⁶, kingship is an institution that was created by the gods, as was the king who is human but equipped with special features that mark him as superior. Via this divine creation, the institution of kingship is incontrovertible. No wonder that the kings had a major interest in spreading these stories about creation, so that records of them can be found during diverse times and places in the Ancient Near East. Still, the king himself is not as unassailable as the institution of kingship as such; he is a person in a very important office that secures the well-being of all people. Thus, he must prove his capability and his closeness to the gods who approve and support his rule. If a king fails in certain duties, for instance in military campaigns or in securing the food supply due to crop failure, this might be understood by his people as a loss of divine favor. The legitimizing strategies of the king should consequently consist of the record of his successful rulership in all aspects that are expected of him. These central aspects are, in general: the king can do things other humans cannot do, he provides abundance and security to his people (which includes the creation of an infrastructure and thus building activities as well as military acts), and last but not least he is approved of by the gods and has a special, very close relationship to them.³⁷ This close relationship to the gods is a central element in in the royal incriptions of the Aramean kingdoms of the first millennium BCE analyzed by Herbert Niehr. Due to the scarcity of these, Niehr also considered royal names to get insight into royal legitimation strategies. Theophoric elements in these hint towards the divine sonship of the kings, as Niehr argues. An actual divine interference, however, is stated in the royal inscriptions in which some of the kings in questions – actually usurpers – stress that a god has elected them to be king, for instance in an inscription of king Hazael of Zakkar: “[but] Hadad made me, myself, king.” The Aramaean kings indeed are telling some kind of story-line in this respect. Before Hazael was elected king by the god, the land was at war. Then, Hadad made Hazael king, and the land was in peace again. A very similar idea of

 Of course, many more examples exist that tell about the creation, as such, of earth, of kings, etc. For a short summary, see: Linke 2015, 48 – 51.  See, e. g., Linke 2014, Charvát 2010, Westenholz 2000, Selz 1998, Maul 1999, Lanfranchi and Rollinger 2019.

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“bad past” that changed to a gorious presence through the election of a king is presented by Kulamuwa of Samʾal. He stresses that all of his predecessors “accomplished nothing” and that he is the one who took care for the city, e. g. via his building activities.³⁸

Legitimation and Narration: Good Companions and a Successful Strategy? Thus, the question is, are the qualities of a good king appropriate motifs for narration? And further, how successful were the use of narratives in royal legitimation? Do they help to communicate the ideologically created image of the king? Or would any other depiction, for instance static, work just the same way? In general, any fulfilled deed seems to be appropriate and suitable to be depicted, possibly also as a narrative, both in text and images. There are a variety of royal deeds that are part of the king’s duties and, accordingly, whose thorough fulfillment is part of his legitimation; these include, among others, piously serving the gods, his land, and his people; creating order, via providing an infrastructure and securing peace inside as well as outside his kingdom; providing his people with necessary goods; and administering justice.

Telling the Story of the King as the Builder and Renovator Via his building activity, the king creates an infrastructure – and thus an order – on earth that is thought to resemble the heavenly order. The erection of temples hereby plays a prominent role, as humans were created by the gods to maintain these. The building and restoration of temples is thus an important task of any ruler. This becomes obvious because of the numerous building inscriptions that are recorded, for instance, in Southern Babylonia. These inscriptions are narrative in most of the definitions, as they state an action by a historical individual located in time and place; namely, the king PN built a temple X in a city Y. Most of the texts even offer more details of the narrative, for example, where the king obtained his building material,³⁹ obviously in certain cases a very pres-

 Cf. Niehr, this volume, 176.  Cf. the inscription on the Urnanše-plaque: “Ur-Nanše, king of Lagaš had ships of Dilmun submit timber as tribute from foreign lands (to Lagaš),” Frayne 2008, 83 – 84.

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tigious act,⁴⁰ and/or what kinds of rituals were conducted during the building ceremonies. A good example of the strong emphasis on several aspects of as well as the sequence of royal building activity is the so called Eḫulḫul-cylinder of Nabonidus. In the second column of this text, Nabonidus describes in detail the different steps of temple building, what materials he used, and the sacrifices that accompanied the temple foundation: Mit Bier (und) Wein, Öl (und) Honig schlug ich seinen Verputz auf und besprengte die Böschung seiner Baugrube. Mehr als die Könige, meine Väter, festigte ich seine Anlage und führte seinen Bau kunstvoll aus. Diesen Tempel, von seiner Gründung bis zu seinen Zinnen, baute ich neu und vollendete sein Werk. Balken aus gewaltigen Zedern, dem Erzeugnis des Gebirges Amanus, ließ ich darüber hinbreiten, Türen aus Zedernholz, deren Duft angenehm, befestigte ich in seinen Toren. Mit Silber und Gold verkleidete ich seine Wände und ließ (sie) sonnengleich erstrahlen… Ein reines Opfer der Pracht opferte ich vor ihnen und brachte dar mein Begrüßungsgeschenk.⁴¹

In the visual representation of the “building king,” however, the narrative is not that obvious. Depicted most frequently are static scenes, such as the king carrying the basket with mud-bricks,⁴² Marlies Heinz interprets this depiction as nonnarrative.⁴³ The linked events that would constitute the narrative are only in the minds of the observer, whether the ancient or the modern. Still, the context is so obvious that a categorization of it as a “meta-narrative” (see above) seems to be adequate, as Julia Linke points out.⁴⁴

Non-royal Agents Fulfilling Royal Duties and Telling About It Surprisingly, an additional issue with respect to royal building duties was brought up during the workshop. Some duties – namely, temple building and temple restoration, which we tend to solely attribute to the realm of kingship, can be taken over by individuals of non-royal descent. Claus Ambos’ contribution deals with texts, potential narratives, written on behalf of these individuals and proclaiming their deeds for the gods. The kingdom of Babylonia witnessed during the first half of the first millennium BCE phases of anomies. These phases

 Cf. Linke, this volume, 84.  Kol. II, ll. 1– 11; 20 – 21: Translation: Schaudig 2001.  Linke, this volume, 78 – 84. See also Wagner-Durand, this volume (“Pious Shepherd”), 23 – 24, 33.  Heinz, this volume, Response, 106.  Linke, this volume, 87– 89.

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may be responsible for the role reversal. Still, several questions remain to be discussed. Do these agents act out of commitment to the gods, the state, or both? Or do they fulfill these deeds and boast about them to enhance their own reputation in the world of humans and the world of gods? In Ambos’ words: “Thus, was there a narrative about the absence or failure of royal building activities?”⁴⁵ And how relevant is the fact these texts mostly took the form of factual storytelling? As Ambos clearly shows, many texts reveal a strong disapproval for the particular king’s failure and disinterest in temple restoration and building.⁴⁶ Here, narrativity can add an emotional charge to the narrated content and enhance its impact on the recipient. Another example cited by Ambos,⁴⁷ however, reveals that there is no simple solution to the question of motivation behind these actions: the active person is the governor, not the king; still the governor obtains the divine blessing for the king. The non-royal stories therefore all served to proclaim that the land or city was secured by fulfilling neglected building and restoration duties. The story needed to be told, in this case, irrespective of who should have told it. Interestingly, the non-royal builders not only use narrative structures in their building inscriptions and copy the royal examples, including their narratives that are deeply rooted in tradition, but they also have a storyline: the building is ruined, the king had failed, I built, and the building shines in new splendor. With regard to building activities, narrative elements seem to be common means to express the accomplishments of the king, but they are much more explicit in texts than in images; in the latter, often just one moment of the whole building process is captured. Whether the usage of narratives was an intentional decision of the ones creating the texts and images or whether this lies in the nature of the building acts as such remains an open question.

Boasting about the King as the War Hero Besides building activities, military events are also likely to take the forms of narratives. This may lie in their temporal and causal nature, since campaigns have a cause and purpose, a temporal and logical sequence, and most often also one or more climaxes as well as an outcome that changes the overall situation for at

 Ambos, this volume, 94.  Ambos, this volume, 94– 98.  Ambos, this volume, 96 f.; inscription of Iddin-Nergal, governor of Kiš. Cf. Frame 1995, 141– 142.

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least one of the combatting parties. Furthermore, these warlike events are historic by nature: they happen once at a specific time and place and are therefore not relivable. They can be told either in the form of more literary storytelling or in the form of descriptive⁴⁸ narrating. Thus, the campaign inscriptions of the Ancient Near Eastern kings often narrate the precise events, usually emphasizing the victories of the respective king. That by no means implies, that these narratives are always absolutely true or recount the true sequence of events or all details. Sticking to the truth would not have served to enhance the legitimizing character of these inscriptions in every case. Thus, realignment, overemphasis of certain events. And embellishment of the achievements certainly belongs to the narrative aspects of these inscriptions. But the aspect of the king as a “military hero” goes beyond these campaign inscriptions. In the visual world, the king is represented as a soldier, a warrior, and a hero; in the examples given by Barbara Couturaud here, the narrative elements are more allusive and in the spectators’ minds than actually depicted in most of the cases.⁴⁹ Additionally, the image of the hero is not exclusively confined to the king, as is the active part of the building inscriptions. Often it is difficult to determine the identity of the man acting as a military hero and/or the very historical event of the battle scene. The “hero”-image as such seems to work as a topos rather than as a way of depiction that constitutes narrative in any way, unless it is linked to more visual markers or a text that tells about the respective battle or war and thus connects the image of the king to a broader context. Dominik Bonatz understands the visualization of royal deeds by non-royal individuals (see also above) “as a catalyst of their own interest.”⁵⁰ He further states: “This works at the level of non-monumental art and through a form of restrictive narrative that was impersonal and ahistoric. One may therefore suggest that the full use of writing in the context of representation and the personalizing of deeds had started to become a royal privilege.”⁵¹ The ability to set the image in a tangible historical context is fulfilled not only by campaign inscriptions as such. Also, so-called “Rechenschaftsberichte” and even administrative documents include clear narrative elements connected with the military deeds of a ruler, as Carlos Langa Morales showed with the statue dInanna-KA.ĜÌR-dŠu-dSîn of Šū-Sîn. The text on this statue, which is much lon-

   

For the term descriptive narratives of reality, see Klein and Martínez 2009, 6. Couturaud, this volume, 112– 139. Bonatz, this volume, 161. Bonatz, this volume, 161.

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ger than the usual formulaic inscriptions on these objects, gives it a narrative function.⁵²

How to Tell About the King as the Wise, the Pious, and the Righteous One The quite abstract aspects of wisdom, piousness, and righteousness are much more difficult to portray in potential narratives. This is due to several issues. First, many aspects of wisdom and piousness cannot be separated from the topoi already mentioned above: the king as a builder or a successful warlord, themes that could all be related to piousness and wisdom. Second, those abstract concepts seem much more difficult to encapsulate in narratives, as Elisabeth Wagner-Durand states in her contribution. These aspects are more easily read between the lines or more easily seen between the iconic signs. Third, with regard to the matter of wisdom, piousness, and righteousness, there is the danger of a one-sided approach, since one is inclined to rely more on written sources to get an idea about the emic concepts of these abstracts. Thus, one tends to use texts to refer to images but rarely uses images to refer to texts, again giving primacy to the text and consequently artificially separating media that are intertwined with each other. Being conscious of this problem, however, has not yet helped us to find a solution it. And fourth, modern assumptions of what, for instance, constitutes wisdom may diverge widely from the understanding of this concept in the ancient world. Thus, Nicole Brisch raises the question of how and when to tell about the literate ruler. She re-emphasizes that our modern assumptions on literacy may not be applicable to the Mesopotamian notion of wisdom. Brisch is able to show that the royal ability to write is a quality that only few kings selected to integrate into their royal narratives sometimes due to their own personal preferences, sometimes due to changes in political and ideological circumstances.⁵³ She also highlights the intriguing possibility that scribes themselves deliberately integrated this topos in royal narratives to enhance their own standing. As Wagner-Durand proposes, those notions of wisdom, piousness, and righteousness are qualities that are not acquired but that should be present in the king. Stories could be about how these qualities came to light or how they were lost, but are mostly not about how each king got them. Wisdom, piousness,

 Bonatz, this volume, 163.  Brisch, this volume, 49 – 63.

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and righteousness surely are among those aspects that legitimate each king. They, however, cannot be won or developed; they are given by the gods and intrinsically belong to the king, whether he got them at birth or at the moment of enthronement. With respect to visual encounters, one observes that the depictions of those qualities, if their visual attribution is correct, are mostly not narrative in the strictest sense. The king is righteous or pious by nature or, better, by divine endowment; if he did not have these qualities, he would not be the king. Therefore, the only narratives that seem appropriate to tell about the acquirement of those royal characteristics would be those that explain how somebody became king. That by no means implies that certain stories did not contain the “meta-narrative” (if it is one) or the “ideas” of royal piousness, wisdom, and righteousness. In contrast, many stories, such as the Gilgameš epic, to name only one of the more famous and longer narratives or royal (building) inscriptions in general, refer to these abstract qualities as part of the king’s character. In some instances, they are more obvious, in some less; in many cases, modern recipients will not even understand that references are made to these characteristics. The latter statement leads us back to the urgent need to reevaluate or to confirm what Mesopotamian notions of wisdom, piousness, and even righteousness are.

The Divine King!? As the king is by nature human, it does not come as a suprise that instances of apotheosis are not easily being framed into lengthy narratives, since there is no theological unbiased way to explain how this deification may have happened. That in turn explains why the Neo-Assyrian kings’ urge to become godlike was possibly transferred to their images,⁵⁴ their ṣalmu, a term being object to many discussions.⁵⁵ By using media that dissolved realities and merged wishful thinking with “Realpolitik,” the kings came close to whatever may have been their divine share, even if it was only kingship itself, which came from heaven and therefore could easily seen as divine by nature. In this vein, any deifed king is surely part of the legitimative system; the connection between narrativity and divinity in view to the royal legitimation strategies is neither simple not unilinear. If divinity is not won, earned, or achieved

 May, this volume, 189 – 241. See also Machinist 2006, 178 – 89 and Ornan 2014, 571.  Cf. Morandi-Bonacossi 1988; Winter 1997; Bahrani 2003; Wagner Durand 2009/2015; and May, this volume, 192– 227.

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during lifetime, it can not be told as a story. It forms an a priori of the world and its order itself. This may be described or stated as a matter of fact, and it may be part of story-telling, but not the very content, the heart of the story. The chain of events, the change and the closure of a story can not rely on this kind of divinity. In turn, any royal divineness that has been achieved by the single individual during lifetime demands to be told. What could validate more than the story of having become divine? However, we miss lenthy and immediate story of the deification of Mesopotamian kings.⁵⁶ One short-story may be found in the inscription of the Bassetki-statue, in which Narām-Sîn himself gets a temple in Agade, due to his efforts in protecting the city.⁵⁷ This account, however, is troubling in respect of its content and interpretation, since the city request the apotheosis of NaramSîn, even if only as the city-god of Agade and that the king is not āritten with the divine d i n g i r determinative.⁵⁸ Still, if we take this very singular inscription seriously, it tells the story of the king who achieved amazing military deeds and thus becomes a temple in is city of Agade on request from his city towards a council of eight gods. Many kings will follow who get temples, as the rulers of the Ur III period, but the short-story does not enter the collective memory. Although Naram-Sîn and Sargon are still to be written about almost two millennia later,⁵⁹ neither Naram-Sîn’s dinivity lasts nor does this story of the Bassetki statue gain any formative power. Natalie N. May argues in her article that it is especially in periods of imperial expansion that royal legitimation is needed, thus leading to the worshiping of a mortal ruler – as it is, according to May – the case in Neo-Assyrian times where the king’s image is object to adoration. May states, that “the constant repetition of the ceremonies of adoration of royal images consolidated social perception of them and created a climate for royal legitimation”.⁶⁰ We can not dive much deeper into the special relationship between more or less direct hints for deified kings in Mesopotamia and the Mesopotamian concept of the human nature of king in contrast to his divine office of kingship. The lack of those tales of royal divinity, however, clearly illustrates the tension between the divine kingship and the urge of the king to become divine himself.

 For hints, be it verbally or iconographic, on royal deification, see e. g. Ornan 2014.  Frayne 1993, 113 – 114: RIME 2: E.2.1.4.10.  The issue of Naram-Sîns divinity is still not beyond doubt and scholarly opinions deviate. Cf. Porter 2014, 602 (against e. g. Sallaberger and Brisch)  See, e. g., Schaudig 2001, 592, 594.  May, this volume, 191.

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Narration as a Successful Strategy of Legitimation The final question about the success of the use of narrative elements for royal legitimation is not easy to answer, as the “success” of any ruler is, in general, quite difficult to prove. Points to start with could include the stability of a ruling dynasty or records from the outside of the ruling elite. Still, this topic is much too broad to be discussed here to its full extent and remains open for further research. It is also questionable whether this matter can be answered at all. Do we judge this issue by the potential that narratives have with respect to legitimation or do we try to judge this by the effects the narratives have? The latter approach remains most difficult, since certain effects or results, such as a long-lasting dynasty or a stable rule, as mentioned above, will always be due to multiple causes. Probably, the persistence of a certain narrative topos with respect to kingship can be considered to be a hint about its success. At the moment, the success of narrative strategies of royal legitimation can be judged by their potential more than by their pragmatic achievements. The final evaluation, therefore, remains undetermined.

The Audience As already mentioned, audience is a crucial point in both royal legitimation as well as narration. Legitimation is not needed and is even senseless when not aimed at any audience, whether this audience is divine or human. Stories and their carriers – namely the media discussed – may exist, but without any audience, they are virtually non-existent. Therefore, the following questions arise. Who perceives the visual media? Who reads the texts or who gets them read aloud? And who chooses which media took which form? What about genres , structures, and discourses? Are these decisions dependent on specific situations, traditions, or personal taste? That in turn leads to questions about the relationship between stories and authorities, since narratives as strategies for royal legitimization seem to be chosen, selected, altered, adjusted, or dismissed by authorities. One also has to consider the different audiences that can and should purposefully be reached with very different media such as seals, stelae, reliefs, votive plaques, orthostat reliefs, bronze door bands, and so on. Seals, or rather sealings, tend to have a much broader circulation than for instance orthostat reliefs. The questions that come along with the different implications of the use of these different media, that are only touched on but not answered here, are manifold and are not only restricted to issues of narrative legitimation. Thus, we have

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to ask, who can be reached by which media? Which media are suited for which stories? Which media enhance narrative by their form? Are certain media reserved for certain topoi and distinct stories? Are all decisions concerning the relation between media and stories deliberate and intentional, or do they at least partly derive from fashions and even personal preferences? There are more questions to be raised, demonstrating the need for more thorough considerations. One of these questions link to the issue touched upon by Seth Richardson when he states that there is hardly any dialogue between ruler and ruled in the sense we often imply when stating that the legitimazing stories have an audience. Our – somewhat unreflected – assumption of the “people”’ to be convinced of the legitimacy of the present kingship may not be valid indeed and should be re-evalauted against the background of Mesopotamian ontologies over time. Nevertheless, narratives as measures of communication per definition address an audience. Going beyond this definition and function, they are nonetheless “vehicle(s) of dominant ideologies and an instrument of power.”⁶¹ Thus, so called grand récits must represent fundamental tools of legitimation.⁶² Whether those narratives come into being because people need to define and refine themselves, because they seek the explanation of the world and their order, or whether these narratives were created to be of legitimative power, is another issue to be solved.

Social Memory and Storytelling Considering the given assumptions about narration, the media concerned, and the matter of legitimization, we necessarily come across the issue of social and collective memory . Collective memory is the transindividual “place” into which legitimizing strategies can be used to inscribe what they were meant for. We have argued elsewhere that by shaping space and by using these shaped landscapes and loci repeatedly, these shaped spaces are inscribed into the memory of individuals, forming a social and collective memory.⁶³ Therefore, the use of space is a widely known and also quite valid means of legitimation. By constantly repeating certain practices and rituals, the collective memory of the social

 Ryan 2005, 345: Ryan herself refers to Michel Foucault. Plural in brackets added by the editors.  Meuter: on Lyotard’s grand récits as instruments of power, Meuter 2014, 450. Cf. Lyotard 1992.  Linke and Wagner-Durand forthcoming.

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order consolidates.⁶⁴ Genetically, collective memory is not inheritable, but it still can be transmitted by sharing experiences and by communication.⁶⁵ Collective memory, however, does not automatically relate to kingship and royal legitimation, and especially not to “tales of royalty.” Still, it is the akītu-festival and its ritual staging in Babylon that proves the potential relation between space, story, and royal legitimation. At least parts of the long ritual incorporate the reliving of the creation myth in which Marduk gains his ultimate power and status. Two issues in particular of the festival and the myth create a connection between space, memory, narrative, and royal legitimation. First, the matter of space relates to the city of Babylon as the central axis of the world as well as Marduk’s seat and cult place. There is no better place to retell the mythical plot than the city of Babylon. As such, the city is designed and used in this way; by following the stations and rituals throughout the days, the city and its pathways become related to the myth, its hero, and protagonists. Thus, we observe the connection between space and memory by the repetition of the ritual process and procession through the city. Second, there is the involvement of the king in the ritual, an involvement that belongs to the realm of royal legitimation.⁶⁶ The king is reaffirmed annually through several immanent participations in the ritual process during the days of the akītu and its processions. In this respect, royal legitimation, the myth of the Enūma eliš – that can itself be understood as narrative – and space as well as memory combine: space may be a media used to tell a story that in turn legitimates the king. Of course, the example of first millennium BCE Babylon and the akītu needs deeper analyses, some already extensively done by others.⁶⁷ Doubts also remain as to whether reliving and narrating are the correct terms to correctly describe the phenomenon, since narration refers to the telling of a story that has a spatial and/or temporal ligation. The akītu, however, sets the events in the present and somehow makes them eternal by doing so. Retelling, in this case, refers more to a transmedial representation of happenings and events of long ago. Thus, the happenings seem more to be relived and renewed. In connection to the king’s obligations during the ritual, which lead to his renewed legitimation, this ritual

 Linke and Wagner-Durand forthcoming. For further literature, see Hodder and Cessford 2004; Connerton 1989; Rowlands 1993; and van Dyke and Alcock 2003; cf. Assmann 2007a.  Linke and Wagner-Durand forthcoming.  The king’s involvement becomes onerous on the fourth day, and its climax in the sense of legitimation would be the “negative Sündenbekenntnis” = the negative confession of sins. Cf. Bidmead 2004.  See, for example, Pongratz-Leisten 1994; Pongratz-Leisten 1998 – 2001; and esp. PongratzLeisten 1997.

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is much more than pure storytelling. With the akītu, however, we come across an example that can be considered as the nexus between space, royal legitimation, and narration.

Legitimation, a Concept after All? When we (the editors) were thinking of combining the issues of legitimation and narration for political systems of the Ancient Near East, the question never rose whether legitimation may be an applicable concept after all. This blind spot came into our view when Seth Richardson kindly and thought provokingly contributed to this volume. Like many scholars, we never questioned the need of legitimation led by the alledged a priori that any (political) system needs to justifiy itself. That in turn calls for a world view that allows to legitimate and that needs individuals and systems to legitimize themselves and that has addressees to turn to in respect fo legimitation. Moreover, the semantic association of the term “legitimacy” to the field of law draws the focus to a lawful rulership which, according to Richardson, finds no place in the formational phase of kingship in early Mesopotamia.⁶⁸ In contrast, validity, basing on strength, according to Richardson, may be of more use, repectively of more validity, in its application to Mesopotamian kingship. In our, the editors’, reflection of the term legitimacy we have stayed way beyond such a discussion. There is no doubt that we took, as many others, the term as granted, as a constant that is applicable to any nonegalitarian political system. But, if legitimacy is bound to law, any use of this term in reference to kingship – at least before the time of first law codes – has to be discussed and maybe questioned. However, we strongly feel that – while such debate is desperately needed (as it again unmasks an ethnocentric world view of the post-enlightment era), that the de facto use of the wordfield around legitimization does not so much rely on its semantic roots but that it is mostly used in reference to the acceptance of any ruler in his position. Though, Richardson also rightly raises the issue of the audience.⁶⁹ Who is addressed by all these media, narrative or not, that we refer to as legitimizing. If there is a need to satifiy a request for legitimacy, who are those who set the requests? Maybe this question is also misleading. As Richardson puts it, no king of Mesopotamia has been “un-kinged”; they may have lost their thrones, but the retrospective view still uses the term king. They may have been strong or weak, but

 Richardson, this volume, esp. 248.  Richardson, this volume, esp. 252– 256.

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kings all along – a king never dies. Richardson himself is quite cautious that terminology will change in respect to legitimation, and while we have applied it throughout the whole volume, we would encourage any constuctive discussion on the validity of the terms legitimacy and legitimation in respect to premodern societies.

Applying the Scholarly Concept of Narratives to the Analyses of Legitimation Strategies: Promise or Dead-End? Ultimately, the question has to be raised, whether the concept of narration and narrative is of any use when looking for strategies of royal legitimation. Not all issues of contemporary research on narration, especially visual narration, lead somewhere. The need for a joint discussion of both matters, legitimation and narration, however, obviously is not far-fetched. Grand narratives tend to legitimize existing political systems. And political decisions and historical events that threaten or alter specific situations tend to be told using various media. Associated with this is the emotional quality of narratives: narratives have the power to bind people by evoking fear or happiness, anger or joy, empathy or sadness. This more than interesting matter was not discussed in depth in our workshop. It shows us, however, just how deeply rooted narration as a social tool is in many societies. As one may easily perceive, these are generic questions and considerations as they touch on fundamental questions of narration. Until these matters are fully explored, we will most likely have difficulties in finding not only a common language but also the answers to more detailed questions, such as which royal duties or which royal abilities are narrated, and which are not. Remaining on a more or less hypothetical level, one can state that narratives can serve as nearly perfect instruments to communicate the legitimacy of the king’s or the dynasty’s rule. The message can be easily wrapped in a story that conveys meaning and identity, often with the help of emotions. These emotions imprint the message not only in the brain but also in the heart of the recipient. Stories can be used to invent tradition. These traditions are always used to legitimate an existing system that needs to draw itself back into the past. Thus, stories can be used to refer to the divine origin of royalty and the likewise divine appointment of a human being to fulfill the duties assigned to them. The forms in which these stories were communicated seem to be quite different and are still not quite obvious. Decisive reasons for selecting distinct forms are, among oth-

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ers, the audience to be reached and the media used. Both in turn may also be decisive factors in choice of story and the way it is told. There is no doubt that in Mesopotamian history, kings were in need of legitimation. Still, which stories they chose, which media they selected, and whom they wanted to persuade by written, oral, or visualized tales can only be partially answered. The story of legitimizing, or better validating, narratives in the Ancient Near East still needs to be written. Moreover, we need to pursue the (trans‐)formative power of narration as a force that itself shapes thinking and expectations throughout time.

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List of Contributors Claus Ambos studied Assyriology, Near Eastern Archaeology and Indology at Berlin, Leipzig, and Heidelberg. He wrote a doctoral thesis on Mesopotamian building rituals (Heidelberg 2002) and a habilitation thesis on the Babylonian New Year’s Festival in autumn (Heidelberg 2010). From 2002 – 2013 he was Research Fellow in the Collaborative Research Centre Ritual Dynamics – Socio-Cultural Processes from a Historical and Culturally Comparative Perspective at Heidelberg. From 2008 to 2013 he has also been active in the Priority Research Field The Order of Space, Norms, and Law in the Historical Cultures of Europe and Asia at the Heidelberg Academy of Sciences and Humanities. From 2013 to 2017 Claus Ambos was a Heisenberg Fellow at Göttingen University. Since 2017, he works as researcher and lecturer (Akademischer Rat) at the University of Würzburg. Dominik Bonatz is Professor for Ancient Near Eastern Archaeology at the Freie Universität Berlin. His main research interests are the visual anthropology and image history of the Ancient Near East, the archaeology of religion and political spaces, and megalithism in Southeast-Asia. Currently he leads field projects in Jordan and on Sumatra. Nicole Brisch (PhD University of Michigan 2003) is an Associate Professor of Assyriology at the University of Copenhagen. Her research interests include Sumerian and Akkadian literature, the socio-economic history of early Mesopotamia and the history of Mesopotamian religions. She is the author of Tradition and the Poetics of Innovation (2007) and the editor of Religion and Power: Divine Kingship in the Ancient World and Beyond (2008). She is currently working on a monograph on the importance of rituals for the understanding of Mesopotamian religion, society, and economy as part of her fellowship at the Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin (2019 – 2020). Barbara Couturaud is an archaeologist, now researcher at IFPO (Institut français du ProcheOrient) and head of the Erbil branch. Her research focuses on Mesopotamian archeology and iconography during the Early Bronze Age (3rd millennium BC). She has studied the corpus of inlays discovered in Mari during her PhD. Since, she has also worked on the figuration of the military elites and feminine garments. She has been working on many archaeological excavations in Syria, Jordan, Kuwait, Irak and France. She is now the director of the excavations in Amyan (Kurdistan Regional Government). Marlies Heinz is Professor of Ancient Near Eastern Archaeology at the University of Freiburg. Her research interests focus amongst others on the creation of history, representation(s) of power, disaster-studies, as well as theoretical approaches to archaeology. She is head of the excavation project Kamid el-Loz in Lebanon since 1997 and has published a comprehensive monograph of this site: Kamid el-Loz. 4000 Years and More of Rural and Urban Life in the Lebanese Beqa’a Plain. Just recently, she also opened a museum at Kamid el-Loz. Carlos Langa-Morales was born in Madrid (Spain) in 1985. Between 2003 and 2008 he studied History with a specialty in Ancient History at the Complutense University of Madrid, studying Assyriology and Archeology of the Ancient Near East at the Sapienza University of Rome

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in the academic years 2006/07 and 2007/08 thanks to an exchange scholarship. From 2008 to 2009 he acquired a master’s degree in Ancient History with a Specialty in the Ancient Near East and a master’s degree in Secondary Education at the Complutense University of Madrid. Between 2010 and 2012 he attended Sumerian and Akkadian courses at the Institute of Assyriology of Heidelberg University in order to prepare for doctoral studies in Germany. Since 2012 he has been pursuing a doctorate at the University of Münster under the supervision of Prof. Dr. Neumann with the title Militär und militärische Strukturen in Mesopotamien zur Zeit der III. Dynastie von Ur and his defense is expected shortly. Julia Linke is an archaeologist with a PhD of the University of Freiburg (Das Charisma der Könige, focusing on the Urartian kings). Her main research interests are kingship and the communication of power. After several years of field-work in Lebanon and Turkey as well as teaching at Freiburg university, she is working as a curator for archaeological exhibitions since 2015, currently at the Badisches Landesmuseum Karlsruhe. And she loves cookies. Natalie Naomi May is an Assyriologist, archaeologist, and art historian of the Ancient Near East. She wrote her PhD on the cultic roles of the Neo-Assyrian kings and is extensively publishing on this subject thereafter. Her particular interests are comparative studies in Mesopotamia and the Bible, iconoclasm, and scholarly networks of Assyria and Babylonia. She is an author of many publications in these fields, including Iconoclasm and Text Destruction in the Ancient Near East and Beyond (Chicago Univ., 2012), The Fabric of the Cities (with U. Steinert, Brill, 2014), Change in Neo-Assyrian Imperial Administration: Evolution and Revolution (with S. Svärd, SAAB 21, 2015). Her current project “Colophons and Scholars,” which she carries out as a Marie Skłodowska-Curie Fellow at the Leiden University, targets the new edition of and the research into Babylonian colophons of the first millennium BCE. Herbert Niehr is Professor of Biblical Introduction and History of the Biblical Period at the University of Tübingen (Germany) and Professor Extraordinary of Ancient Studies at Stellenbosch University (South-Africa). His main areas of research are West Semitic philology and religions. He is the editor of The Aramaeans in Ancient Syria (HdO I/106), Leiden-Boston 2014 and co-director of the Encyclopedic Dictionary of Phoenician Culture, Leuven 2018. Seth Richardson is a historian of the Ancient Near East who works on the Old Babylonian period, theoretical questions of state sovereignty, the social role of violence, and diverse other social-history problems in the Mesopotamian record. He is an Associate at the Oriental Institute and the Managing Editor of the Journal of Near Eastern Studies since 2011. Prior to this, he was Assistant Professor of Ancient Near Eastern History at the University of Chicago since 2003, having earned his Ph.D. at Columbia University in 2002. Elisabeth Wagner-Durand (Ph.D. Albert-Ludwigs-University 2009) has very recently returned to the Institut of Archaeological Sciences (IAW) at the Albert-Ludwigs-Universität/Freiburg. Before that, she was Visiting Professor in Near Eastern Archaeology at the IANES, Eberhards Karls Univeristät/Tuebingen. She is the co-editor of Image – Narration – Context: Visual Narration in Cultures and Societies of the Old World (2019). Her research interests currently focus on visual culture, the cultural construction of emotions and senses and narratology. She also loves coffee way too much.

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Frauke Weiershäuser is researcher at the Ludwig Maximilians University Munich and staff member at the chair for the Ancient History of the Near and Middle East. She has worked on royal women of the third dynasty of Ur, on assyrian lexical texts and on the song of Erra and currently works on the neo-babylonian royal inscriptions.

Indices General Index of Selected Terms audience 12, 20, 56, 78, 123, 133, 185 f., 231, 247, 250, 256, 264 – 266, 275 f., 279, 291 – 293, 305 f., 308, 310 banquet 31 f., 82, 116, 121, 128, 132, 213, 216 building inscription 80, 86 f., 93, 95, 97, 301 chignon 112 f., 117 f., 122 Eigenbegrifflichkeit 264 experientality 277 fruchtbarer Augenblick 267, 294 genre 23, 49, 53, 59, 158, 160, 246 f., 250 f., 257, 270, 275, 293, 305 grand récits 4, 35, 263, 279 – 282, 292, 306 Guerrier à l’herminette 118 harpé 113, 122 identity 3, 96, 102, 113 f., 123, 159, 274, 301, 309 intermediality 156, 159, 270 – 273 – intermedial 271 – 275, 282 law 26, 35, 244 – 246, 257, 308 – lawful 22 f., 34, 40, 308 – lawlessness 94 legitimation 65 f., 149 f., 298, 305 – legitimate 3, 6, 40, 81, 131 f., 168 f., 171, 179, 257, 303, 308 f.

memory (social, collective, cultural) 58, 78, 89, 103 f., 249, 306 f. meta-narrative 4, 35, 186, 280 f., 292, 295, 303 – grand narrative 102, 263, 279, 281 micro-narratives 247 monoscenic 293 narrator 56, 159, 265 f., 275 – 277, 279 – first-person 55 – 57, 252 – story-teller 276 – third-person 55 f. piety 22 f., 29, 31, 34, 36 f., 40, 49, 55, 68, 80, 176, 217, 247 – pious 10, 19, 22 – 25, 29, 31, 33 – 35, 38, 40, 50, 55, 85, 88, 92, 95, 248, 255 f., 281, 303 roi bâtisseur 170, 173 – 176, 178 story arc 252 transmediality 270 f., 273, 292, 294 – transmedial 3, 8, 187, 261, 270, 273 – 275, 282, 307 warrior 9, 11, 24, 40, 109 – 111, 114, 118, 120, 134, 168, 170, 301 Wirklichkeitserzählung 22 f., 29 wisdom 10, 22 – 26, 29, 31, 40 f., 49 – 53, 55, 60, 65, 247, 280 f., 302 f. – wise 10, 22 f., 29, 31

Index of Selected Semitic and Sumerian Terms adagurru 215 f. à g a - u š l u g a l 147 akītu 85, 93, 188, 192 f., 206, 219, 229, 275 f., 295, 307 akītu„6 276 ALAM/NU 158 āšipūtu 87 betyl 222 bīt ḫilani 211 bīt papāḫi 194 bnh 171

dabābu 264 d a m 144, 160 dânu 245 d u ₁ ₁ ( g ) / d i / e 265 é - g i ₄ - a 144 ēqu 197 éren simug-ḫur-saĝ-ba-al-me g/kimrāni 192 g é š t u g g a l 51 kalû 86 kišû 86

147

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Indices

le-um igi-gál šúm-mu l ú - ĝ e š t u k u l 147 lugal LÚxKÁR 148 māliku-amēlu 296 mār lā mamman(a) 244 mār lā mammān(a) 179 maṣṣēvôth 222 mīs/pīt pî 227 mškbm 172 n a m - k ù - z u 51 narê abn 204 narû 195 f., 201, 203 f. nbš 174 nig₂-si-sa₂-ni-še₃ 246 nignakku 215 f.

53

nīš qātē 219 paṭīru 215 f. rab kiṣir ša šēpi 191 ša šēpi 191 ṣalmu 12, 186, 188 – 190, 204 – 207, 216, 222 f., 232, 290, 294, 303 šar mēšarim 178 sattukku 200, 231 ṣdq 176, 178 šurinnū 215, 219 f. tākultu 188 f., 193 têlu 264 turtānu 191, 197 ubāna tarāṣu 213, 221 uznātu rapšātu 51

Index of Selected Historical Persons Adad-iqbi 191 Adad-nērārī II 229 Adad-nērārī III 170, 209, 221, 248 Adalal 148 Ahaz 229 Akurgal 156 Amar-Sîn 79, 144, 148 Anita 156 Anu-uballiṭ = Kephalon 91, 96 f. Anu-uballiṭ = Nikarchos 91, 96 f. Ashurbanipal 23, 37, 50, 54, 60, 66 f., 69, 82, 95, 189 – 192, 194, 205 f., 209, 211, 219 – 221, 224, 228, 231 f., 272, 296 Ashurnasirpal II 36 f., 39, 196 f., 199, 207, 211, 216, 223, 227 f., 232 f. Aššur-bēl-kala 196 Aššur-dān III 248 Bar-Hadad (I–III) 166 f., 175 Bar-Rakkab 167, 174 – 178 Bēl-Ḫarrān-bēlu-uṣur 221 f. Bēl-ibni 92 f. Ean(n)atum 112 f., 129, 140, 157 Ebarat 149 Ebih-Il 123 Esarhaddon 37, 51, 58 f., 66, 81 f., 87, 189 – 191, 193 – 195, 201, 204 – 206, 209, 223, 228, 231 Esarhaddon„6 230

Etana 40 Geme-Enlila 148 Gudea 23, 25, 31, 66, 79 – 81, 86 f., 147, 156, 159, 220, 233 Hammurabi 35, 68 f., 223, 248 Hazael 167 – 169, 178, 297 Hazrak 171 Ḫun-Šulgi 146 Ibbī-Sîn 148 Iddin-Nergal 94 – 96, 300 Idrimi 294 Išgi-Mari 117 f., 120, 123, 129 Išme-Dagan 50 Kapara 176 Kulamuwa 178, 298 Kunšī-mātum 144, 160 Libbi-āli-šarrat 221 Lipit-Eštar 50, 52 f., 57, 59, 67 – 69 Lugal-Mu 123 Marduk-apla-iddina II 94 f., 103 Meshaʿ 168 Mušēzib-Šamaš 221 Nabonassar 92 f. Nabonidus 25, 50, 55 – 60, 67, 69, 86, 231, 299 Nabopolassar 23, 83 Nabû-mukīn-zēri 93 Nabû-šuma-imbi 93 f., 96

Indices

Nabû-šuma-iškun 93 f. Nabû-zēra-ušabši 92 f. Narām-Sîn 55, 67, 133, 226, 228, 252, 304 Nebuchadnezzar I 251 Nebuchadnezzar II 83 Panamuwa 173 f., 176, 178 Pušam 144 Rim-Sîn I 79 Šamaš-šum-ukīn 23, 37, 82, 95, 205 Šamšī-Adad I 227 Sargon II 174, 189, 193, 203 – 205, 219, 230 Sargon of Akkade 66 f., 228 Sennacherib 54, 81, 189, 191 f., 196, 204, 206, 219, 222 Shalmaneser III 197 – 199, 212 – 214, 218 f., 221, 223 f., 226 – 228, 232 f. Shalmaneser IV 221, 248 Shalmaneser V 174

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Sîn-balāssu-iqbi 95 f. Sîn-iddinam 50 Šū-Sîn 11, 79, 139, 143 – 150, 156, 158 – 160 Šulgi 50, 52 f., 57, 59, 66 – 69, 79, 146, 148, 158, 246, 248 Tiglath-pileser I 88, 194 Tiglath-pileser III 26, 175, 198, 205, 221, 227 – 229, 232 Tukīn-ḫaṭṭi-migrīša 148 Tukultī-Ninurta 231 Tukultī-Ninurta I 35 Ur-Namma 23, 68, 78 – 80, 156, 252 Urnanše 33, 89, 123 f., 140 f., 156 Utu-Ḫeĝal 141 Yaḫdun-Lîm 227 Zakkur 170 f., 178 Ziringu 148 f.

Index of Selected Objects Altar of Tukultī-Ninurta I = VAM 8146 35 Bassetki-statue = IM 77823 304 Black Obelisk = BM 118885 199 Blau’sche Steine = BM 86260 – 1 31 Code of Hammurabi = SB 8 26, 34, 69, 71 Figure aux Plumes = AO 221 155 Foundation figurine of Ur-Namma = OIM 30553 23 Investiture of Zimri-Lim 35 Išgi-Mari’s Seal = BM 132824 117 Kurba’il-statue = IM 60497 36 Kurkh Monolith = BM 118884 197 f. Lion Hunt Stela = IM 23477 110, 271 Nimrud Monolith = BM 118805 37, 207 Plaque of Enḫeduanna = PennMus. CBS 16665 31 Plaque of Urnanše = AO 2344 10, 33 f., 82, 84 f., 87, 89, 104, 155, 298 Standard of Ur = BM 121201 85, 114, 116, 120, 125 f., 157

Statue of Idrimi from Alalakh = BM 130738 294 Statue of Išgi-Mari = Aleppo NM 1486 118 Stela of the Vultures = AO 16109 + 50, 2346, 2348 5, 112, 114, 116, 128, 132, 156 f. Stela of Ur-Namma = Penn Mus. B16676 23 Stela of Urnanše = Al Hiba Stela, IM 31 Stela of Ušumgal = MET 58.29 31 Stelae of Šamaš-šum-ukīn and Ashurbanipal = BM 90865 – 6 23 Stelenreihe of Aššur 221 Til Barsib stelae = Aleppo NM 31+47 37 Ur-Ningirsu votive plaque (YBC 2128) = FAOS 9 – Ur-Ningirsu I.6 23 Uruk Vase = IM19060 5, 26 f., 29, 31 White Obelisk 5, 216 f., 221 Zincirli Stela = VAM 2708 37

Index of Selected Gods Adad 54, 215, 244 Adapa 55

Anu 35, 91, 297 Anzu 113 f.

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Indices

Aššur 54, 189, 194, 196, 198 f., 202 – 205, 224, 230 Baʿalšamayin 169 – 171 Bēlet-ilī 296 d Inanna-KA.ĜÌR-dŠu-dSîn 144, 158 – 160, 301 Ea 296 Enlil 35, 53, 57, 144 – 146, 148, 150, 158, 231, 297 Hadad 165 – 169, 173 f., 178, 297 Ištar 67, 71, 118 – Ištar of Arbela 194 Lugal-Marada 55, 57 Marduk 54 – 57, 59, 81, 83, 95, 195, 231, 307 – Asalluhi 215

Mulissu 54 Nabû 36, 54, 69, 93, 190 Nanše 84, 89 Nergal 215, 252, 297 Nidaba 53 Nin-sumun 66 Ningirsu 82, 84, 89, 112 f., 129, 155 Ninhursag 113 Ninlil 53, 57, 144 – 146, 148, 150, 158 Ninurta 297 Nusku 35 f. Šamaš 35, 54 f., 69, 173, 190, 215, 231 Šerua 54 Uṣur-amāssu 92 YHWH 230

Index of Selected Historical Sources ADD 997 192 Agum-kakrime 252 Antiochus cylinder = BM 36277 57 AOM Inv. 7697 175 ARAB 1, 90 86, 88 Ashurbanipal L4 54, 56 ASJ 3, 192 146 Babylon A, C, D, E 81 BPOA 7, 2480 146 ÇINEKÖY 173 Code of Hammurabi = SB 8 216, 246 Code of Ur-Namma 245 f. Codex Lipit-Eštar 53, 68 Cuthean Legend 252 Ebabbar-cylinder = BM 91140+ = Schaudig 2002, no. 2.9 23, 25, 67 Eḫulḫul-cylinder = BM 91109+ = Schaudig 2001, no. 2.12 86, 299 E’igikalamma-cylinder = AO 6444 + BM 108981 = Schaudig 2001, no. 2.5 55 f., 69 Elugalmalgasisa-cylinder = BM 91125+ = Schaudig 2001, no. 2.2 67 Enlil-bani A = ETCSL 2.5.8.1 51 Enūma eliš 263, 295 ESEM 393 = FAOS 5/2 – Urnanshe 8 23 Etana Myth 226, 273

Fuchs 1994, Annals 94(a)‒95 203 Fuchs 1994, Annals 99(a)‒100 204 f. Fuchs 1994, Prunk 59 – 60 203 Fuchs 1994, Prunk 61 – 63 204 Gilgameš Epic 263, 276, 303 Götteradressbuch 189, 193 f., 209, 233 Gudea Cylinder A 80 f., 86 f. Gudea Statue B 66 Gudea Statue F 66 Hammurabi, codex 217 Historical Collection A = RIME 3/2 – E.3/2.1.4.3 – 4) = Statueninschrift 1 139, 143, 146 Historical Collection B 139, 143 HSS 4, 87 148 Hunting Prism = 82-5-22,2 271 Isaiah 36 231 Išme-Dagan V fragment A = ECTSL 2.5.4.01 50 KAI 24 171 f., 175 KAI 202 168 – 170, 173, 178 KAI 203 171 KAI 214 173 – 175 KAI 215 174 f. KAI 216 175, 177 KAI 217 176 f. KAI 218 177 KAI 310 168, 178

Indices

KAI B4 175, 177 KARATEPE 1 = KAI 26 173 KAV 42 194 KAV 43 194 2 Kings 16 229 2 Kings 19 231 KULULU 4 173 Lipit-Eštar Hymn A = ETCSL 2.5.5.1 Lipit-Eštar Hymn B = ETCSL 2.5.5.2 LKA 31 296 LKA 64 197 LKA 73 192 MVN 10, 92 147 NATN 450 145 NGU 2, N 190 145 NISABA 22, 75 = BM 25754 148 PPAC 5, 601 = BM 026951 145 RIMA 2 – A.0.89.2 196 – A.0.89.3 196 – A.0.99.2 25, 229 – A.0.101.1 196 – 198 – A.0.101.17 37 – A.0.101.23 39 – A.0.101.39 36 – A.0.102.12 36 RIMA 3 – A.0.102.1 214 – A.0.102.2 198, 214 – A.0.102.5 224 – A.0.102.14 197, 199 – A.0.102.16 199 – A.0.102.28 214 – A.0.102.40 179 – A.0.102.63 215 – A.0.102.78 213 – A.0.106.1 248 RIMB – B.6.4.14 94 – B.6.21.1 95, 103 – B.6. 21. 2001 94 – B.6.32.23 95 – B.6.33.3 23 RIMB 2 – B.2.4.5 251 – B.6. 14. 2001 93 – B.6. 15. 2001 93

68 52 f.

323

– B.6.21.4 300 – B.6.32.14 23 RIME 1 – E.1.9.1.2 = Steible 1982, Urn 20 33, 156 – E.1.9.1.6b 140 – E.1.9.1.9 – 23 140 – E.1.9.3.1 140, 156 – E.1.9.3.5 140 – E.9.1.2 84 RIME 2 – E.2.1.1.1 26 – E.2.1.4.10 304 – E.2.13.6.4 141 RIME 3/2 – E.3/2.1.4.1 143 – 145, 158 – E.3/2.1.4.2 143 – E.3/2.1.4.3 146 – 148 – E.3/2.1.4.3. 146 – E.3/2.1.4.4 146 – E.3/2.1.4.5“ = Statueninschrift 2 146 RINAP 1 – Tiglath-pileser III 6 232 – Tiglath-pileser III 15 202 – Tiglath-pileser III 17 203 – Tiglath-pileser III 28 202 – Tiglath-pileser III 35 203 – Tiglath-pileser III 41 197, 202 – Tiglath-pileser III 42 200 – Tiglath-pileser III 47 197, 202 – Tiglath-pileser III 48 200 – Tiglath-pileser III 49 197, 200, 202 RINAP 3/1 – Sennaherib 17 204, 206 RINAP 3/2 – Sennacherib 223 196 – Sennaherib 42 206 – Sennaherib 43 206 – Sennaherib 46 206 RINAP 4 – Esarhaddon 25 230 – Esarhaddon 48 26 – Esarhaddon 57 = Ass. A 51 RTC 249 147 SAA 1 no. 110 230 SAA 2 no. 44 – 45 189 SAA 7 no. 62 193 SAA 10 no 13 206

324

Indices

SAA 10 no. 13 194 SAA 10 no. 40 189 SAA 10 no. 46 231 SAA 10 no. 49 189 SAA 10 no. 196 231 SAA 10 no. 207 231 SAA 10 no. 228 231 SAA 10 no. 350 195, 206 SAA 10 no. 358 194 SAA 13 no. 140 194 SAA 13 no. 141 194 SAA 13 no. 178 195 SAA 16 no. 219 190 SAA 20 no. 1 227 SAA 20 no. 6 227 SAA 20 no. 15 193, 219 SAA 20 no. 40 189

SAA 20 no. 49 189, 194 Sargon Birth Legend 67, 71, 252 Sîn-iddinam B = UET 6/1: 99 50 Statue of Ur-Bau (text) = AO 9 86 Šulgi Hymn A = ETCSL 2.4.2.01 53 f., 59, 66, 68 Šulgi Hymn B = ETCSL 2.4.2.02 66, 69, 246, 271 Šulgi Prophecy 252 Sumerian King List 59, 226, 244, 258, 296 TCTI 2, 3449 147 TCTI 2, 3859 147 Tel Dan inscription 168 THM NF 1 – 2 300, 301, 302, 303, 304, 305 145 UET 3, 376 148 VAT 17019 231, 296

Index of Selected Scholars Alberti, Leon Battista 269 Bahrani, Zainab 5, 27, 36, 258 Bernbeck, Reinhard 273 f. Börker-Klähn, Jutta 208, 213, 220 Civil, Miguel 143 Edzard, Dietz O. 140, 143 Fludernik, Monika 263, 268, 275, 277 f. Forster, Edward M. 6 f., 266, 291, 293 Foucault, Michel 257, 306 Frayne, Douglas 143 García Landa / Onega Jaén 7, 20, 92, 103, 267, 291 Genette, Gérard 7, 186, 266, 269, 272, 275, 292 f. Giuliani, Luca 22, 268, 295 Güterbock, Hans Gustav 267 Jensen, Klaus Bruhn 271 King, Leonard 213, 215 Kristeva, Julia 272 Kuhn, Thomas 266 Layard, Henry Austin 207, 209 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim 267, 269, 294 Lyotard, François 263, 280 f.

Machinist, Peter 208, 233 Martínez, Matías 22, 267, 270, 274 Michalowski, Piotr 149 Müller, Karl 195 Neumann, Hans 145 Nussbaum, Martha 278 Perkins, Ann 125 Pongratz-Leisten, Beate 185, 272 Rajewsky, Irina 271 Ryan, Marie-Laure 4, 7, 20, 78, 263, 266, 269 f., 291 Sahlins, Marshall 257 Sallaberger, Walther 139, 143 f. Schmid, Wolf 267 Selz, Gebhard 29, 274 Stanzel, Franz 263, 275 Tadmor, Hayim 200 Thon, Jan-Noël 270 Watanabe, Chikako 6, 40 Watanabe, Kazuko 205 Winter, Irene J. 5, 25, 195, 289 Wolf, Werner 267 – 269 Yamada, Shigeo 189, 195, 200

Indices

325

Index of Selected Places Adamsul 147 Apzu-banda 89 Aššur 35, 80, 192 f., 195, 221, 223, 230, 244 Babylon 54, 59, 81 f., 93, 95, 195, 251, 274, 295, 307 Balawat 39, 212, 214, 216 – 218, 221, 223 f., 232 f. Bīt-Ištar 202 Borsippa 23, 82, 93 f., 96 f., 195 Carchemish 197, 227 Damascus 11, 165, 167, 175, 178, 229 Dūr-Katlimmu 192 Eanna 26 f., 95 Ebabbar 55 Eridu 53 Esagil(a) 54, 81 f., 94, 195 Esarhaddon 191, 194 Ešarra 196, 207 Ezida 82, 93, 97 Gaza 229 Gilzānu 198 Girsu 33, 82, 112, 123 f., 145, 155 Gūzāna 176, 190, 192, 231 f. Ḫabḫu 197, 202 Ḫabura 144 Hamath 11, 165, 168 – 170, 178 Ḫarrān 194 Hazael 178 Hazrak 169 f. Isin 50 Israel 166, 168 Judah 166, 168, 229 Kalḫu 39, 190 – 193, 205, 207, 209, 219, 229, 232 Keš 53 Khafajah 31

Kinalūa = Tell Tayinat 189 f., 194, 199, 204 – 206, 227 Kiš 94 – 96, 123, 130, 300 Lagaš 33, 66, 79, 82, 84, 86, 112, 140 f., 145 – 147, 155 – 158, 298 Larsa 50 Madga 147 Marad 56 Mari 35, 117, 119 – 123, 129, 156 f., 227 Moab 168, 229 Nineveh 190 – 193, 197, 211, 217, 219, 274, 295 Nippur 23, 52 f., 66, 79, 145 f., 158 Phoenicia 173, 199 Puzriš-Dagān 146 rēš-temple 91 S/Šimurrum 145 – 147, 149 Samʾal 11, 165, 167, 171 – 178, 298 Sennacherib 193, 211 Simānum 144 f. Šimaški 146 Sippar 55 Teima 55, 60 Tel Dan 222 Tell al-Rimah 205 Tell Asmar 85 Til Barsib 37, 192 Ulai 71 Ulluba 202 Umma 112 f., 141, 146, 156 Ur 50, 52 f., 55, 66, 79, 95, 130 Urartu 198 Uruk 53, 79, 91 – 96, 221, 231 Yabrat 149 Zabšali 146, 148 f. Zamaḫâ = Tell al-Rimah 209 Zincirli 37