The Neo-Assyrian Empire in the Southwest: Imperial Domination and its Consequences [1 ed.] 0198841639, 9780198841630

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The Neo-Assyrian Empire in the Southwest

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The Neo-Assyrian Empire in the Southwest Imperial Domination and Its Consequences AVRAHAM FAUST

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP, United Kingdom Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries © Avraham Faust 2021 The moral rights of the author have been asserted First Edition published in 2021 Impression: 1 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Control Number: 2020943735 ISBN 978–0–19–884163–0 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198841630.001.0001 Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials contained in any third party website referenced in this work.

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Dedicated to the memory of Shlomo Bunimovitz, teacher, colleague, and friend

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Contents List of Figures Acknowledgements

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1. Introduction

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2. Before the Empire: The Southern Levant in the Eighth Century 

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3. ‘Ah, Assyria, the Rod of My Anger’: The Assyrian Takeover of the Southwest

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4. Under the Empire: Settlement and Demography in the Southwestern Periphery of the Assyrian Empire in the Seventh Century 

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5. Prosperity, Depression, and the Empire: Economic Developments in the Southwest during the Seventh Century 

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6. Assyrians in the Southwest? The Evidence for Assyrian Administration and Presence

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7. The Empire in the Southwest: Reconstructing Assyrian Activity in the Provinces

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8. Local Responses to the Empire: From Armed Resistance to Integration

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9. ‘They Make a Desolation and They Call It Peace’: Re-Examining the Nature of the Imperial Peace

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10. Empire by Design? Imperial Policies and Planning and the Conquest of the Southwest

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11. A Province Too Far? The Assyrian Empire, Its Southwestern Margins, and the Dynamics of Imperial Expansion, Conquest, and Rule

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Bibliography Index of names Index of places Index

301 347 355 362

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List of Figures 1.1 Map of the Southern Levant, with the main the geographical sub-units 1.2 Map of the Assyrian Empire, noting ‘the Assyrian triangle’, and highlighting the extent of the empire in the middle of the eighth century , and the areas conquered in the second half of this century (mostly by Tiglath-pileser III) 2.1 Map of sites mentioned in Chapter 2 2.2 Settlement hierarchy in the kingdoms of Israel and Judah 2.3 Socioeconomic stratification in the kingdom of Judah 2.4 Socioeconomic stratification in the kingdom of Israel 3.1 Schematic map detailing the Assyrian expansion in the Southern Levant 3.2 An Assyrian destruction: a photo depicting the destruction in one of the rooms in building 101 (room 101D), at Tel ‘Eton 4.1 Map of sites mentioned in Chapter 4 4.2 A comparison of eighth- and seventh-century  settlement hierarchies in the territories of the kingdom of Israel 5.1 Schematic map outlining the production zones in the land of Israel in the seventh century  5.2 Schematic chart of the distribution of olive oil surpluses production centres in time and space (rounded dates) 6.1 Map showing the main sites mentioned in the text 6.2 Plans of various structures that were interpreted as Assyrian residencies in the Southern Levant: (a) ʾAyyelet ha-Šahar; : (b) Hazor, building 3002; (c) Megiddo, structures 1052, 1369 6.3 Plan of Assyrian Megiddo 6.4 Photos of the Assyrian palace at Ad Halom, near Ashdod 6.5 Plate with Assyrian Palace Wares 7.1 Schematic map of the southwestern provinces, indicating areas of actual Assyrian activity 7.2 The wedged-impressed bowls 7.3 (left) A general map of the country (with the location of the detailed map indicated on it); (right) Detailed map of the Apehk-Gezer area 10.1 A schematic map describing the advance of the Assyrian army in the Southern Levant, and the devastation of many regions, especially those annexed by the empire

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9 39 52 57 57 66 68 74 104 120 137 142

152 155 156 160 183 189 196

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Acknowledgements This book was a long time in the making. My interest in the Assyrian empire grew out of my work on the Iron Age II, but my first explicit discussion of the Assyrian policies in the southwest grew from my joint research with Ehud Weiss on the economy of the 7th century (Faust and Weiss 2005, later developed into Faust and Weiss 2011). This research was, unintentionally, initiated in 2002 when we were both carrying out postdoctoral research (on completely different topics) at Harvard. We began our collaboration in an attempt to understand the botanical finds at 7th century Ashkelon, but we quickly realized that the city was embedded within a much larger economic system and could not be studied in isolation. Understanding the larger economy of the 7th century exposed a major discrepancy between the common scholarly perception of the Assyrian involvement in the Southern Levant and the actual evidence “on the ground”. My later work on the period of Neo-Babylonian rule in the region, culminating in the book Judah in the Neo-Babylonian Period: The Archaeology of Desolation (Faust 2012b) did not directly discuss the period of Assyrian rule, but it forced me to study this era which served as background to the changes created by the Babylonian conquests. The more I studied the 7th century data in the areas annexed by the Neo-Assyrian empire, the more it appeared that the difference between the policies of the two empires was not as great as they were often described. Comparing the 6th and the 7th centuries BCE (i.e. the periods of Neo-Babylonian and Neo-Assyrian control) forced me to see that the reality in the 7th century, when the region was supposed to have prospered, was more complex, and while the clients flourished the Assyrian provinces were devastated. This resulted with a few more articles (such as Faust 2011a; Faust 2015a, and more). By that time it was clear to me that the economic and demographic reality under Neo-Assyrian rule, at least the way I understood it, was very different from most common interpretations (not all). I summarised some of the data in a few large articles (such as Faust 2018c; 2018d), and (with Shawn Aster) organised an international workshop on this topic which resulted with an edited volume. I realised, however, that a much more detailed and systematic treatment was needed—a treatment that would not only expand the discussion

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of the evidence from the Southern Levant, but would also put it within the context of the Neo-Assyrian empire at large and even within a broad study of ancient empires. In the summer of 2016 I was granted a Summer Visiting Fellowship at St. John’s College at the University of Oxford with the explicit aim of beginning a book project on this topic. While staying in Oxford I carried out some of the basic research for this study, outlined its structure, and wrote the book proposal which I submitted to Oxford University Press. While working on the book ever since, most of the research and writing was carried out during four subsequent academic breaks which I spent abroad. The first of these was in the Oriental Institute (OI) in the University of Chicago (in February 2018), and the other three were in Oxford. I am grateful to St. John’s College for granting me the Fellowship that initiated the research, to Prof. David Schloen for inviting me to the University of Chicago, to the OI for providing me with library services and office space, to Oxford libraries (especially the Sackler and the Bodleian), and to Bar-Ilan’s libraries. Thanks are also due to the many colleagues and friends who over the years discussed many of the issues addressed in this book with me, supplied advice and references, and helped in other ways, including David Schloen (University of Chicago), Daniel Master (Wheaton College), Shawn Zelig Aster, Joshua Schwartz, Zeev Safrai, Ehud Weiss, Eyal Baruch (Bar-Ilan University), Peter Machinist, Jason Ur, (the late) Larry Stager (Harvard University), Shlomo Bunimovitz, Zvi Lederman (Tel-Aviv University), Jan Joosten (Oxford University), Peter Dubovský (Pontifical Bible Institute), Chaim Ben-David, Hayah Katz (Kinneret College), Baruch Brandl (Israel Antiquities Authority), Gunnar Lehmann (Ben-Gurion Univeristy), Sandra Jacobs (King’s College London), and Peter Zilberg (the Hebrew University of Jerusalem). Special thanks are due to my former students Gilad Itach and Yair Sapir whose work on related topics are quoted in this book. I would also like to thank the participants of the workshop “The Assyrian Period in the Southern Levant”, which took place in Yad Ben-Zvi Institute in Jerusalem in November 11-12 2005, for their insightful papers and comments during the meeting. The book contains a vast amount of information, and not all of it is published (or, in the least, was not published when it was supplied to me), and I am very thankful to many colleagues who supplied me with this information, including Hagit Torge (IAA), Gilad Itach (BIU and IAA), Amit Shadman (IAA), Ron Tueg (IAA), Zvi Lederman (TAU), Jimmy Hardin

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(MSU), Chaim Ben-David (Kinneret College), and Hayah Katz (Kinneret College). Permission to use figures was granted by the Israel Exploration Society, The Israel Antiquities Authority, the Israel Geological Survey, Ronny Reich (Haifa University), and Ze’ev Herzog (Tel Aviv Univeristy). Tamar Roth-Fenster and Asnat Laufer helped in the preparation of the bibliography and of some of the figures. Tidhar Karo produced two of the maps, and three others were produced by Janet Jackson and Charles Wilson. Support was also provided by the Ingeborg Rennert Center. Special thanks are due to Daniela Dueck and especially Shawn Zelig Aster (both from Bar-Ilan University) who read parts of the book. Shawn’s help was extremely valuable in many respects, and I wish to thank him for his help and for his extreme generosity with his time. I am grateful for all those mentioned above, and apologise to all those whose contribution and help I failed to mention. Naturally, while all these greatly helped in improving the book, the responsibility for all the errors and omissions that remain is mine alone. Finally I would like to thank my family and especially my wife Iris for the support and understanding, and for allowing me to devote so much time to this book.

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1 Introduction Developing from a small core area in what is today northern Iraq, the Neo-Assyrian empire (tenth–seventh centuries ) was the first large empire of the ancient world, and some have even defined it as the first world empire (Bagg 2013; Radner 2015: 1). Its historical importance cannot be overestimated, as it initiated what is sometimes called the ‘Age of Empires’ (Altaweel and Squitieri 2018), i.e. a sequence of empires that ruled the Near East (and beyond) in tight succession until the twentieth century. The detailed descriptions of the Assyrian empire and its actions in the Hebrew Bible, followed by the spectacular discoveries of imperial palaces, royal inscriptions, and other impressive remains, had captured the public imagination, and resulted in a large number of studies that were devoted to this empire, its history, and structure. The Southern Levant—the lands of the Bible—formed the southwestern margins of the empire, and both the empire and the region have received a fair amount of research. Only a few, however, have until recently examined the empire within a large-scale comparative, or anthropologically oriented perspective, perhaps as a result of the strong historical bias of the region’s archaeology (e.g. Moorey 1991; Bunimovitz 1995; Bunimovitz and Faust 2010; Flannery 1998; Davis 2004). While this is gradually changing (see e.g. Bagg 2011; MacGinnis et al. 2016; Tyson and Rimmer Herrman 2018; Altaweel and Squitieri 2018), the potential of the empire to contribute to the study of empires and imperialism is greatly underutilized. The Southern Levant, moreover, has a number of advantages for the study of both Assyrian imperialism, and even empires at large. (i) The availability of a very large archaeological dataset—probably the largest in the world: while the area is quite small in geographical terms, hundreds of planned excavations have been carried out in it over the years, along with thousands of salvage excavations and detailed surveys. Hundreds of these excavations revealed remains from the periods discussed in this book, providing scholars with an unparalleled archaeological dataset. This wealth is augmented by (ii) a relatively large number of ancient texts that relate to the period under discussion, unearthed both in the region itself and in Mesopotamia. These The Neo-Assyrian Empire in the Southwest: Imperial Domination and Its Consequences. Avraham Faust, Oxford University Press (2021). © Avraham Faust. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198841630.003.0001

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include (cuneiform) royal inscriptions and administrative documents and correspondence relating to the region (and even these that relate to the Assyrian empire at large can teach us a great deal about its operation), as well as alphabetic ostraca from the area. Moreover, (iii) the biblical texts also provide detailed information on this period. While the different sources all have biases, taken together, the rich archaeological data, the Assyrian (and local) documentary information, and the biblical textual data provide exceptionally detailed evidence on the period in question, enabling us to study the nature of Assyrian rule in the area in great detail, and allowing it to serve as an excellent test case in which to study both the empire and its subjects. Finally (iv), the studied region, despite its limited size, is quite varied, and includes both provinces and client kingdoms, as well as diverse ecological niches, from highlands through fertile valleys to deserts. Thus, the unique combination of rich data on different political units and ecological zones enables a detailed comparative research that can compare both the different units (including provinces versus clients) and regions to each other, as well as the reality before and after the incorporation of the area within the Assyrian empire. Notably, the uniquely rich data at our disposable, including texts that were written by the conquered, illuminates not only the imperial actions and their outcomes, but also the local responses to imperial activity, both in the provinces and in the client kingdoms. Using a bottom-up approach, this book utilizes the unparalleled information available from the region to reconstruct its demography and economy before the Assyrian campaigns, and after them. Comparing these two snapshots forces us to appreciate the transformations the imperial takeover brought in its wake, and to rethink some accepted wisdom on the nature of Assyrian control. This is followed with an analysis of the actual Assyrian activities in the region, and the reality in the southwest is then compared to that in other regions. This comparison, once again, forces us to account for the differences encountered, resulting in a better appreciation of factors influencing imperial expansion, the considerations leading to annexation, and the imperial methods of control, challenging some old conventions about the development of the Assyrian empire and its rule. This leads to an examination of the Assyrian empire in comparison to other ancient Near Eastern empires, analysing the way ancient empires controlled remote provinces. Reviewing the development of ancient empires exposes not only the nature of Assyrian domination, but also one of the major changes in the nature of imperial control in antiquity, and to what we call the Achaemenid revolution.

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The book’s structure is outlined in greater details in ‘The Structure of the Book’ below, but first we should present background information of the study of empires at large, on the Assyrian empire and its rule in the southwest, and on the sources of information for this study.

Background Empires and the Study of Empires Empires have received a great deal of study,¹ and this brief introduction is only intended to present some of the basic concepts. The word ‘empire’ is derived from the Latin term imperium, originally meaning ‘to command, order, power, rule, or sovereignty’. The term, initially used to describe ‘the powers of rule and conquest granted to a Roman consul’, developed to denote the relevant territory, even if the nature of the control was not always clearly defined (Cline and Graham 2011: 3–4; see also Howe 2002: 13). The literature on empires is vast, and although definitions vary slightly in emphasis,² most have similar variables. Sinopoli (1994: 159), for example, noted that ‘Empires are geographically and politically expansive polities, composed of a diversity of localized communities and ethnic groups.’ Stark and Chance (2012: 194) offered a similar definition, emphasizing the large size of empires, and stating that empires are ‘expansionist states that incorporate diverse societies well beyond immediate neighbors’ (see also Schreiber 1992: 3). Altaweel (2008: 16) also notes that one of the characteristics of empires is control over foreign regions and population that were not originally part of it (also Cline and Graham 2011: 3–7). Howe (2002:15) suggested that ‘Empires, then, must by definition be big, and they must be composite entities, formed out of previously separate units. Diversity—ethnic, national, cultural, often religious—is their essence.’ Howe, however, added that ‘in many observers’ understanding, that cannot be a diversity of equals’. Indeed, many have stressed that the nature of the interaction is part of the definition of an empire (below). Sinopoli (1994:160) summarized that many definitions ‘share in common a view of empire as a territorially expansive and incorporative kind of state, ¹ E.g. Doyle 1986; Sinopoli 1994; Cline and Graham 2011; Alcock et al. 2001; Parsons 2010; Howe 2002; Morris and Scheidel 2009; Smith 2012. ² E.g. Sinopoli 1994: 159–60; Doyle 1986: 12; Liverani 2017: 1; Stark and Chance 2012: 194; Cline and Graham 2011: 3–7; Howe 2002: 13–15; Altaweel and Squitieri 2018: 4, and more.

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involving relationships in which one state exercises control over other socio-political entities (e.g. states, chiefdoms, non-stratified societies)’, and Howe (2002: 30) concluded that ‘An empire is a large, composite, multi-ethnic or multinational political unit, usually created by conquest, and divided between a dominant centre and subordinate, sometimes far distant, peripheries.’ During their expansion, however, the original polities did not only become larger, but were also transformed into something different. The result was the emergence of a new type of social organization, with a ‘new cultural logic and a new configuration of power’ (Woolf 1997: 347). It is not only that the centre that, by expanding to surrounding areas, changes the structure of its weaker neighbours, but also a new social and political entity is formed by the process. The ‘process of creating and maintaining empires’ is often called imperialism (Sinopoli 1994: 160), and the term is also used to describe the ‘actions and attitudes which create or uphold such big political units’ (Howe 2002: 30). Indeed, a second meaning stresses the nature of the relationship between the centre and the conquered areas, and Howe (2002: 13) noted that the term is used to denote any form of interaction between a more dominant group or polity and weaker ones, embracing all forms of control (Howe 2002: 30). Empires and imperialism are therefore, by definition, about hierarchy and inequality. Doyle (1986: 12), for example, referred to a system of interaction between two polities, in which the dominant (‘metropole’), exercises some control over both the internal and external policies of the weaker, adding that in order to understand these relations we must fathom the causes for the weakness of the inferior polity, just as we must appreciate the reasons for the strength and the motives of the more powerful one. The nature of the imperial relations are influenced by a number of factors, and Doyle (1986: 46) noted that: four interacting sources account for the imperial relationship: the metropolitan regime, its capacities and interests; the peripheral political society, its interests and weakness; the transnational system and its needs; and the international context and the incentives it creates.

In order to understand the nature of imperial dynamics and the forces that shape them, many scholars adopt Mann’s (1986: 2) view of the sources of social power, i.e. ideology, economics, the military, and politics (or IEMP) (e.g. Cline and Graham 2011: 5; Bagg 2013: 121), with different scholars stressing the importance of different types of power and control according to circumstances. Some view economic strategy as the most important one (Berdan and

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Smith 1996), while others stresses political control (Altaweel 2008: 16–17), or the ideological component, i.e. that proper empires use ideology (often in the form of religion) to justify their expansion and conquest. Sinopoli (1994: 167), for example, noted that ideology motivates action, especially imperial expansion, and is ‘providing legitimation for and explanations of extant and emerging inequalities’. Indeed, at times it is the appropriate ideology that enables empires to expand (Liverani 2017: 8), and Howe (2002: 83) noted that ‘The rulers of every major empire at least since the Romans . . . offered arguments and justifications for what they did.’ This, of course, applies to the Assyrian empire (e.g. Howe 2002: 36; Grayson 1995: 966; Liverani 2017). Empires use their power in different ways and Berdan and Smith (1996), for example, articulated a number of strategies that the Aztec empire used to further its interests, including political strategy, economic strategy, frontier strategy, and elite strategy. These were used to maintain the imperial control (see also Stark and Chance 2012: 197–9; see also Chapter 10). While control of the centre over the periphery is an essential part of being an empire,³ the nature of imperial control, or integration, varies greatly, and there is a continuum between ‘weakly integrated to more highly centralized polities’ (Sinopoli 1994: 160). Indeed, empires always employ some combination of both, direct and indirect control (Howe 2002: 15; also Altaweel 2008: 16). Various scholars use different terms to refer to the degree of integration of the peripheral areas into the empire, or the level of centralization exercised over remote territories. Thus, many refer to a more direct control as territorial, whereas an indirect control is seen as hegemonic (e.g. Luttwak 1976), and others use ‘formal’ versus ‘informal empire’ in what for our purposes can be used in a somewhat similar way (Doyle 1986). No matter which ‘binary’ system (as noted, the poles are part of a continuum) we prefer to use, it is important to stress that different methods of control often operate simultaneously in different parts of the empire, and that imperial policies varied across time and space, in accordance with the different, and changing, circumstances (e.g. Sinopoli 1994: 163–4; Howe 2002, and see Chapters 10–11). In many imperial contexts, the areas that were ruled directly by the empire are referred to as provinces, whereas the territories that were ruled indirectly are viewed as client or vassal kingdoms. In most cases, empires initially preferred indirect control, since the conquests required to obtain direct control are costly, and necessitate spending ³ Sinopoli 1994:161 noted the influence of the world system perspective on the study of empires (and see also Chapter 5).

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resources and lives, often leading to major destructions and upheavals that minimize the production capabilities in the conquered territories. The conquest, moreover, requires investing in administration and military in order to rule these territories. Diplomacy, even gun-boat diplomacy—i.e. the threat of power—is therefore usually preferred (Sinopoli 1994: 162–3, 167; Luttwak 1976). Conquest or destruction might result from the need to decimate a powerful enemy (Sinopoli 1994: 162–3), but in most cases the transition to direct rule was a result of continuous revolts.

The Study Area In modern terms, the southwestern periphery of the Assyrian empire incorporates the southern tip of Lebanon, as well as much of Israel, the Palestinian authority, and the western part of Jordan. The area is not large, and covers some 25,000 square km—something like Maryland in the US. There are many designations to this area in the scholarly literature, for example, the Land of Israel, Palestine, the Holy Land, the lands of the Bible, or the Southern Levant. In the Iron Age the region incorporated the kingdoms of Israel, Judah, Ammon, Moab, Edom, and the Philistine city states, as well as parts of the kingdoms of Tyre and Aram Damascus. Large parts of the region were turned into Assyrian provinces in the later part of the eighth century . Geographically, this small area incorporates diverse topographical and ecological niches (Figure 1.1). The Mediterranean coastal plain was of great economic significance, as its ports and anchorages supplied the area with access to the lucrative maritime trade, and its inner parts controlled the international highway, connecting Egypt and Syria–Mesopotamia. The central highland ridge, composed of the hills of Judea, Samaria, and farther north also the Galilee, although less accessible, could produce surpluses of wine and olive oil. The fertile northern valleys of modern Israel cut this highland ridge, and provided easy east–west access, thus hosting an important system of roads, including a few branches of the international highway. These valleys also served as the grain basket of the region. Further east, the region included the Jordan Valley—very fertile in the north, where it was part of the so-called northern valleys, and arid in the south—and the Transjordanian highlands. The important ‘King’s Highway’, connecting Arabia and Syria, passed through the latter. Finally, the region incorporated the semi-arid and arid Negev in the south, and the routes connecting the ‘King’s Highway’ and the Mediterranean ports of Gaza and Ashkelon.

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Figure 1.1 Map of the Southern Levant, with the main the geographical sub-units Source: After A. Curtis (2009) Oxford Bible Atlas, 4th edn, courtesy of Oxford University Press; additions made by Charles Wilson).

Since precipitation declines as one moves southward, and combined with the existence of large fertile valleys in the north, the latter had a much greater agricultural potential. The fact that the major roads crossed the north, as well as the latter’s proximity to Tyre, made its economic potential by far greater

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than that of the southern parts, and indeed, throughout history the north was politically and economically more important than the south.

The Assyrian Empire The Neo-Assyrian Empire: Brief Summary of Its Development and Basic Periodization The core of the Assyrian empire in northern Mesopotamia is a triangle between Assur in the south, Nineveh (Mosul) in the north, and Arbilu (Erbil) in the east (Radner 2014: 102; Hunt 2015: 20). This was a fertile area, with good climatic conditions, and it was easily accessible via rivers, leading to high economic potential for both agricultural production and trade (Figure 1.2). In the fourteenth century  Assyria grew from a city-state, dominated by Mittani, to an independent territorial state. Initially encompassing the cities of Nineveh, Kalhu, Kilizu, and Arbilu, it later also incorporated the remains of the Mittani, extending to the Euphrates. This era (1400–1200 ) is sometimes regarded as the period of ‘creation and original expansion’ of the Assyrian state. Subsequently, Assyria entered a period of recession that lasted into the tenth or even early ninth century  (e.g. Postgate 1992: 257; Radner 2014: 102). The re-establishment of the Assyrian state—the Neo-Assyrian kingdom— was a long process in which the Assyrian kings gradually regained their former territory. After the expansion of the late tenth and early ninth centuries came a phase of imperial consolidation. The first step in consolidating its control over conquered territories was to dismantle the local dynasties in the newly acquired regions, and replace them with governors from the core area, who were appointed by the king and were loyal to him. The empire also developed roads, which enabled speedy connections between the king and the governors of the more remote provinces, and the king built ‘royal cities’ with palaces throughout the empire, which he used from time to time (Radner 2014: 105). Assyria’s nominal extent was still relatively limited, similar to that of the thirteenth–twelfth centuries , i.e. limited by the Euphrates in the west. Its role, however, changed considerably and it exerted much influence over its neighbours, many of which became clients (Radner 2014: 103). Radner defined the changes that took place in the course of the ninth century as a transformation from a regional power to an hegemonic empire (see also Yamada 2000).

Source: Prepared by Yair Sapir and Tamar Roth-Fenster; courtesy of the Tel ‘Eton expedition.

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Figure 1.2 Map of the Assyrian empire, noting ‘the Assyrian triangle’, and highlighting the extent of the empire in the middle of the eighth century , and the areas conquered in the second half of this century (mostly by Tiglath-pileser III)

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10  -     The latter part of the ninth and first half of the eighth centuries did not see a significant expansion, and Assyria was (among other things) confronted by large powers (e.g. Urartu), which sometimes even defeated it and threatened the loyalty of its clients (Radner 2014: 103–4; for a different view of Adadnīrārī III’s rule, see Siddal 2013). The unrest following the defeat of Ashurnīrārī V by Urartu led to Tiglath-pileser III (747 ) seizing the throne, and soon after he embarked on campaigns in all fronts, greatly increasing the empire’s holdings. As Hunt (2015: 29) noted, in only twenty-two years, ‘the Neo-Assyrian empire doubled its territorial holdings and sphere of influence’. Not only did Tiglath-pileser III significantly expanded the empire, but he also made some substantial administrative changes, aiming to weaken the power of the governors and to strengthen that of the king. Thus, in addition to creating new provinces in the conquered territories, he reorganized the older provinces, replacing them with smaller ones, and hence increasing their number from twelve to twenty-five (e.g. Radner 2014: 108–9). Similarly, he divided some of the main military and administrative positions, and two individuals shared the responsibility, which had been heretofore held by one. The institution of eunuchs in some positions also supported these efforts, as it decreased the chances of officials establishing power and passing it to their sons (Van de Mieroop 2007: 248; see also Perčírková 1987: 173). This period is regarded as one of expansion (despite the crisis at the time of Shalmaneser V), lasting until the death of Sargon II in 705 . Most of the client kingdoms, as well as additional areas, were conquered and turned into provinces, and this was followed by another phase of consolidation (beginning after Sennacherib re-established imperial rule). In the period covering mainly the seventh century, the empire was at the height of its power, and as Parker (2012: 867) noted, it ‘claimed dominion over almost the entire Middle East, from the Persian Gulf to the Taurus mountains and from the Zagros mountains to the Mediterranean Sea. For a short period during the 7th century , the Assyrians even captured Egypt’ (see also Van de Mieroop 2007: 247). Most of the conquered areas were turned into provinces, and were regarded as part of Assyria. The territorial consolidation was accompanied by political changes. Sennacherib’s great investment in Nineveh, and the massive resettlement of deportees in this area (Radner 2014: 109; cf. Oded 1979: 28, and see more in the section ‘The Assyrian Deportation Policy: Causes and Consequences’ below) led to additional changes, as it shifted the distribution of power between the royal family and court on the one hand, and the officials in the provinces on the other. This strategy was continued by Sennacherib’s successors. Essarhadon twice ordered mass executions of state officials, and the fact that during the reign of Assurbanipal (and onwards) courtiers and palace

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officials received distinctions and privileges (rather than state officials) is another indication of the continued decrease in the power of those outside the palace (e.g. Radner 2014: 109, 111). The kings spent most of their time in the palace with their courtiers, rather than in the army, or even making public appearances (Radner 2014: 109). During the second half of the seventh century, the Assyrian empire weakened, as a result of various processes and decisions, and was eventually overthrown by the Babylonians (e.g. Liverani 2001; Kahn 2015). This long period of time—between 1400 and 650/600 —has been subdivided differently by various scholars, such as Postgate (1992), Bedford (2009: 39), and Liverani (2014: 481, 485). Combining these works, we will use the following, simplistic sub-division, which should be sufficient for our purposes: 1. the period of initial creation (1400–1200 ); 2. a period of recession (1200–934 ). These two phases are usually regarded as preceding the time of the Neo-Assyrian empire. They were followed by: 3. the period of initial Assyrian expansion, regaining the former boundaries of Ashur, and even extending beyond that (934–824 ); 4. a period of crisis (823–745 ); 5. a period of rapid expansion (744–705 ); 6. the peak of the Assyrian empire, sometimes referred to as the era of ‘Assyrian peace’ (although the term probably could not be applied to the first years of Sennacherib) (705–630 ); 7. the decline of the Assyrian empire (630–609 ; regardless of the exact dating, which is debated, e.g. Malamat 1973: 270–2; Eph’al 1979: 281–2; Kahn 2015). Phases 1–2, as well as 7, are not of concern here, and will be rarely mentioned. The earlier phases of Assyrian expansion and rule (phases 3–4) will be addressed in various parts of the book, mainly for comparative purposes, but the book mainly focuses on phases 5 and 6.

The Assyrian Empire: Forms of Control At its peak, the empire was an enormous polity, controlling areas from modern Iran to the Mediterranean, and from the Zagros to the Persian Gulf, the Arabian desert, and Egypt.

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12  -     Most of this area was divided into provinces and was ruled by Assyrian governors. Economically, this area paid taxes.⁴ On its edges were some semiindependent client states, buffering Assyria from the areas beyond it, paying tribute to the empire and, nominally at least, subordinated to it (e.g. Grayson 1995: 964; Postgate 1992; Van de Mieroop 2007: 248–50; see also Bagg 2013: 125). Similar phenomena are known from the fringes of many empires, and in the ‘Background’ section we referred to the distinction between areas of direct and indirect control, or between territorial and hegemonic empires. Most empires preferred indirect control, which although a less effective form of exploitation, was much cheaper, and did not require much investment (see also Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 378). The Assyrian empire was no exception. Grayson (1995: 964) noted that ‘the Assyrians preferred to receive without actually conquering’, adding that the empire ‘preferred to gain control over a foreign territory through diplomatic means’. This, however, was actually ‘gunboat diplomacy’ (Grayson 1995: 964), and the Assyrians used ‘psychological warfare to make the enemy submit without a fight’ (Grayson 1995: 960). According to Parker (2012: 871), ‘Vassalage was compromise between degree of control and cost’, and Bagg (2013: 11) noted that as long as the clients did not revolt, the system was very efficient. If it failed, however, then the empire waged war, leading to massive destruction (Grayson 1995: 961; also Van de Mieroop 2007: 250). Reasons for such conquests include mainly what the Assyrians considered disloyalty or rebellions, and this is seen also in the southwest, for example by the final annexation of the kingdom of Israel (Samaria). The area directly controlled by the Assyrians was apparently also not treated uniformly. Liverani (1988: 85) noted that there wasn’t necessarily any physical continuity between the different zones of direct and indirect control, and the empire was composed of ‘islands’ or ‘outposts’, adding (p. 86) that ‘the empire is not a spread of land but a network of communications over which material goods are carried’. This was supported by Parker (2012: 875), who stressed that, in contrast to the impression one might get from maps or verbal description in modern scholarly works, the empire was not ‘made up of a contiguous stretches of land’, and that much of the empire was made of a ‘patchwork’ of territories annexed to Assyria (provinces), client states, and buffer states.

⁴ We follow the common, even if schematic, distinction between taxes, paid by people within a polity on a regular basis, and tributes, paid by ‘foreign’ rulers (cf. Smith 2014; see also Bedford 2009: 35–6).

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The Land of Assur and the Yoke of Assur The above distinction between direct and indirect control fits nicely with Assyria’s treatment of its empire. The term māt Aššur (‘the Land of Assur’) refers to the areas officially annexed by Assyria (sometimes called ‘Assyria proper’) (Hunt 2015: 20–2; Van de Mieroop 2007: 242–4). It was apparently coined in the Middle Assyrian period, initially denoting the ‘Assyrian triangle’ (Postgate 1992: 252; see also Radner 2014: 102). Following the conquests of the thirteenth century (phase 1 in ‘The Neo-Assyrian Empire: Brief Summary of Its Development and Basic Periodization’ above), the term was expanded to incorporate also the Habur region. From this time onward, however, this was the term used to designate Assyria. Thus, ‘Territories freshly added to Assyria, or reclaimed, are said to be “turned into” or “returned to the land of Assur”’ (Postgate 1992: 252). Māt Aššur, therefore, included the Assyrian core (sometimes called the home provinces or the heartland of Assyria) and all the territories that were later annexed. They were all officially the Land of Assur, and their inhabitants became Assyrians. Thus, ‘to the land of Assur I added land, to its people I added people’ (Postgate 1992: 252; see also Radner 2015: 108; Liverani 2017: 207–8). Still, this ‘citizenship’ involved only ‘fiscal subjection’ (Liverani 2017: 187). The mere usage of the name ‘Assur’ for this purpose reflects the importance of Assur (the god) in Assyrian imperial ideology. Unlike other gods, Assur had only one temple, in Assur, underlining his significance as personification of the city and later state of Assur. Their incorporation within the land of Assur is symbolized by the fact that all provinces brought offerings to the temple, and all the annexed regions were forced to submit to the national god, Assur, although they did not have to abandon their own gods (Postgate 1992: 252–3; see also Van de Mieroop 2007: 243). The Yoke of Assur refers to the areas that were subjugated by Assyria, but not formally annexed, or in other words, to the client kingdoms. These regions were regarded as independent, and the local ruler, even if only a puppet placed by the Assyrian empire, was regarded as a king of his country, and the Assyrians interacted with him concerning his kingdom. Postgate (1992: 255) noted that the relations between the clients and the Assyrian kings were underlined by oaths, witnessed by Assur and the local gods, and their breach, therefore, constituted a major sin against Assur, and justified punishment by the Assyrian king. Such a breach could cause the empire to conquer the kingdom and annex it. Still, until this happened the Assyrians were not interested in the internal affairs of the client kingdoms, and they were not

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14  -     viewed as the land of Assur (Postgate 1992: 255; see also Hunt 2015: 22–4; Van de Mieroop 2007: 242–4). Accordingly, these regions were treated differently. They did not have Assyrian governors, nor did they usually bring offerings to the temple of Assur (Postgate 1992: 255). Rather, at least since the time of Tiglath-pileser I, the client states—those who bore the yoke of Assur—were expected to pay an annual tribute. Since this was not the Land of Assur, this was paid to the king, and not to Assur’s temple (Postgate 1992: 253–5). The provinces provided taxes, mainly the corn and straw tax, some of which remained in the provinces and supplied the army, and other parts of which were shipped (when possible), to the Assyrian heartland. The clients provided tribute, mostly in metals, luxury goods, Horses, and exotic items (Postgate 1992: 254; see also Grayson 1995: 962; Postgate 1974: 189; Eph’al 2010: 55–60). The taxes and tribute were paid annually (Grayson 1995: 96). A third form of income came from duties from trade. In theory, this could be taken from both provinces and client kingdoms, but Radner (2007: 225) claims that governors did not pay this tax (although there might have been exceptions). Corvée labour, too, was provided by both provinces and clients. Some kingdoms were left independent, and in practice served as a buffer area between the Assyrian empire and its enemies. Parker (2012: 871) believes that this was done on purpose. However, since an independent kingdom has no advantages in terms of ‘buffering’ over a client state, it is possible that kingdoms retained such status only when the Assyrian empire was not effectively able to turn them into full clients.

The Administration of the Assyrian Empire Assyria’s success was not only a result of its military capability to conquer new territories, but also of its ability to administer them (Parker 2012: 867). This was the responsibility of the empire’s administrators. In contrast to some other administrative systems in the ancient Near East, however, it appears that the Assyrian administration was quite thin and not very fixed, and the way it functioned remained ‘obscure’ (Postgate 2007: 331; see also Postgate 2016; Hunt 2015: 29). Neo-Assyrian administration appeared not to have been bureaucratic, and therefore did not leave much in the way of remains (see also Hunt 2015: 29; Ponchia 2012: 213). Postgate (2007: 331) called it ‘invisible hierarchy’, and Grayson (1995: 963) noted that ‘the chain of command was not entirely consistent’. While certain aspects of Assyrian administration are quite illusive, some observations, pertaining to both its development and function, can be made.

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According to Grayson (1995: 963), below the king were three officials: ‘the field marshal (turtānu), the vice-chancellor (ummānu) and majordomo (rab ša muḫḫi ekalli)’, Grayson adding that ‘The next rank of officials involved the domestic arrangements of the palace’, and included officers with ‘titles related to the running of the king’s household, including the chief cupbearer (rab šaqê), the steward (abarakku), and the palace herald (nāgir ekalli)’. The administration was composed (in addition to governors, discussed below) of a few departments, mostly located in the centre, and other civilian administrative functions were the responsibility of a department of officials collectively labelled civilian magnates or king’s magnates (see also Hunt 2015: 31; Postgate 2007; Mattila 2000). Notably, some high administration offices were also provincial governors, and this was ‘in effect, how they were remunerated’ (Grayson 1995: 963; more below, and Chapter 7). All these functions, conducted by different bodies in the centre, were the responsibility of the governors in the provinces (Hunt 2015: 32). Each governor had a palace, a court, and military units in the provincial capital (Grayson 1995: 963; more below). Many of the officials were traditionally from elite families, and this explains why, from a certain stage the king preferred eunuchs ( see ‘The Neo-Assyrian Empire: Brief Summary of Its Development and Basic Periodization’ above), as they did not have conflicting loyalties (Perčírková 1987: 174). Indeed, Radner (2014: 105, 107–8) noted ‘the creation of a new class of administrators— eunuchs of deliberately obscure origins but undoubted loyalty to the king’, adding that they ‘now were the preferred choice for the highest administrative and military appointments, at the expense of the members of the old urban elites’ (Radner 2015: 107). It is not clear, however, whether all, or even most, of the high-ranking officials were indeed eunuchs, and it appears as if both eunuchs and uncastrated men filled these positions (Mattila 2000: 133; see also Grayson 1995: 964), which sometimes were still passed on within the family (Postgate 1992: 252). It should be stressed that there was no distinction between administration and the military, and ‘Administration officials were usually army officers’ (Grayson 1995: 963). Grayson (1995: 966) noted that ‘In linking military rank with administrative functions, the Assyrians ensured that the necessary day-by-day running of affairs was backed by irresistible might.’ Indeed, it was the mighty Assyrian army that enabled imperial expansion. While initially based on recruiting the peasants for campaigns, the expansion itself allowed the recruitment of many more soldiers from the new provinces (Radner 2015: 96–7). Consequently, at the time discussed here the standing army was large enough and there was no need to recruit the tax-paying

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16  -     population for military service. While this vast human power was also used for public construction, this also meant that campaigning was possible throughout the year, not only in the summer months. The army was composed of chariotry, cavalry, and infantry (divided into archers and close-combat spearmen), and this was accompanied by auxiliary units (Radner 2015: 97–8). The navy was marginal, and when needed, the Assyrian empire had to rely on the Phoenicians, mainly Tyre (Grayson 1995: 960; Radner 2015: 100). During peace time, the main body of the army was located in four central locations that enabled control. It was not permanently under the command of the governors, and was rather under the command of the king (Radner 2015: 97; see also Ponchia 2007: 140).

The Land of Assur: The Provincial System Assyria was divided into administrative units, commonly referred to as provinces. Grayson (1995: 962–3) describes the development of imperial administration, noting that in the ninth century local centres were selected for Assyrian garrisons and were stocked with food for the soldiers, leading to the development of the provincial system. The older provinces were, naturally, more influenced by Assyrian culture (Liverani 2014: 506; see also 509). The system persisted until the end of the empire, with the required changes and modifications, as some provinces disappeared when the empire declined, and many others appeared (and reappeared) when the empire expanded, and some were divided (Postgate 1992: 252). Still, the Land of Assur was basically divided between equally ranking provinces. To be in Assur meant to be in a province. At its peak, ‘the Neo-Assyrian empire was composed of approximately 60 provinces occupying more than 540,543 square miles or 140,000,000 hectares’ (Hunt 2015:29). Some have suggested that the Assyrians attempted to ‘Assyrianise’ (culturally) the provinces (e.g. Parpola 2003; 2004), but this view has been rejected by others (e.g. Bagg 2011; 2013; Berlejung 2012).

The Provinces and the Governors Each province was headed by a governor (bēl pāḫiti), who was appointed by the king, and new kings sometimes replaced existing governors (Hunt 2015:

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29; Parker 2012: 873). They reported directly to the king, and were supposed to renew their oaths of loyalty personally to the king every year. While the provincial capitals were often the traditional local centres, the governors were usually not members of the local dynasties, but either eunuchs or members of Assur’s elite families. The governors were senior enough and were authorized to act independently (Hunt 2015: 30). Some were military commanders (Ponchia 2007: 140). The governor had a palace and commanded ‘his’ province and managed it (Grayson 1992: 200–1; see also Liverani 2014: 505), but he ‘might not always reside there’ (Grayson (1995: 963). Our information on the lower-ranking officials is more limited (Parker 2012: 873). There was a deputy governor (šaniu), a major-domo (rab bēti), a city overseer (ša muḫḫi āli) and a village inspector (rab ālāni). Each village or city had a mayor (ḫazannu), also appointed by the king, and reporting to the city overseer or village inspector (Postgate 2007; Hunt 2015: 30–1; also Liverani 2014: 504–5). Hunt (2015: 32) noted that these offices were run from the governor’s palace. The empire constructed local forts to provide protection and support tax collection, and their commanders, who reported to the governors, were also responsible for working the land in the vicinity (Perčírková 1987:170–1). The governors’ duties included the collecting and paying of taxes to the king (Hunt 2015: 30; Perčírková 1987: 167–9), and administering their realm (Parker 2012: 874), including: • agricultural (‘corn and straw’) taxes (Postgate 1974: 189; Perčírková 1987: 169; Liverani 2014: 506–7). The agricultural taxes were mainly grain and fodder, to feed the army and its horses, as well as the large cities (Kerekes 2011: 107; Radner 2015: 99; see also Liverani 2014: 506–7). According to Grayson (1995: 963), the taxes were divided into ‘land tax collected directly for the king, and land tax collectors for the provincial governor’. He (1995: 962) notes that some of the taxes were intended to support the garrison and never left provinces (at times, distance made transportation expensive; see also Perčírková 1987: 170; Kerekes 2011: 106). From some regions, the supply of horses to the Assyrian army was also a form of tax (Eph’al 2010: 62–3);⁵

⁵ There were also duties, but according to Radner (2007: 225) these were not collected by the governors, and will therefore be discussed in chapter 6below in connection with the client kingdoms.

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18  -     • human power (e.g. corvée labour, and cf. the ilku system) (Perčírková 1987: 169; Kerekes 2011: 107; also Zilberg 2018: 70–2; Fales 2012: 134), i.e. soldiers to the Assyrian army, and for construction. Additionally, the governors were expected to campaign with the king (Perčírková 1987: 170); • maintaining road stations and forts (Perčírková 1987: 170; see also Tudeau 2016: 83; Radner 2015: 105–6; Grayson 1995: 965–6). Some road stations were constructed within settlements, while others were built at new locations, with their own agricultural hinterland to support the staff, messengers, and animals (Radner 2015: 105); • paying the central temple (Perčírková 1987:170; Kerekes 2011: 107); • supplying intelligence (Kerekes 2011: 108; see also Fuchs 2011: 392–3); • sometimes requiring the governors to pay a special tax (Kerekes 2011: 106). Radner (2015: 97) notes that the governors did not have soldiers on a permanent basis. Officials that operated in the provinces were sometimes subordinated to the governors, but in other instances operated directly under the centre (Ponchia 2007).

The Governors’ Remuneration and the Local Economy Grayson (1995: 963) noted that ‘Public office carried with it . . . a great potential for enrichment, and provincial governorships were the most lucrative offices of all.’ Indeed, many administrative offices ‘carried governorship over provinces, which was, in effect, how they were remunerated’. This means that governors were paid by what they managed to cream off the province (Perčírková 1987: 174) and they were therefore more likely to take what they could. Grayson (1995: 963) further states that, ‘There was no distinction in Assyria between an official’s public and private life. A provincial governor regarded his province as his personal property, from which he attempted to derive as much profit as he could. Nor was there any sense of what is called today “integrity of office”’ (Perčírková 1987: 172; Kerekes 2011: 106). Indeed, there is evidence that governors did not always even pay what they owed. Perčírková (1987: 174) brings such an example from the time of Ashurbanipal, when a letter (SAA 10, 96) lists governors who did not send offerings for the temple of Assur. While she suggests that it this an exception, it is not the only known case, and in SAA 1,220 (from Samaria) an official complains that the tax hadn’t been paid for two years. Whether this is

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representative or not, it is clear that the situation in which the governors could cream the surpluses for themselves did not encourage investment and economic development, and could lead to what we would today call corruption (Grayson 1995: 963; Galil 2001: 25; see also Cole and Machinist 1998 (SAA 13): xviii–xix). Although the governors were supposed to advance the economy of the provinces, and while most governors were not ‘just a bunch of crooks’, and were rather quite able and conscientious (Grayson 1995: 963), the way the administrative system functioned encouraged them to work for their own benefit, sometimes leading to ‘extensive exploitation’ (Grayson 1995: 963; see also Grayson 1992: 216). Still, we should note that there were probably differences between the provinces (see Chapters 10–11).

The Client States The client states were not regarded as part of Assyria, and a client king, even if an Assyrian puppet, was regarded as the king of his country. The economic and administrative relations with Assyria were conducted from ‘apex to apex’, and regular Assyrian administration had no role in the internal affairs of the kingdom (Postgate 1992: 255; for the role of the qēpu, see below). This is corroborated by the Assyrian texts relating to the southwest, which do not mention any interest of the empire in the administration of the clients (e.g. Zilberg 2016, and below). The subordinate position of the client king was formalized in treaties and agreements, and is evident by both Assyrian text and iconography, where they kiss the Assyrian king’s feet and are held by rope. These agreements were also backed by religious sanctions, since their breach was a sin against Assur (and hence led to punitive actions by the empire; Postgate 1992: 255), but they were mostly ‘a secular agreement between two humans, not a contract between the Assyrian god and a foreign ruler’. The client kings did not become ‘worshipers of Assur’, and the tributes were brought to the king—not to the temple of Assur (Postgate 1992: 255). Breaching the agreement led to punitive actions and to conquest and destruction of cities, and sometimes whole regions, including their countryside, as well as executions, and even exile (cf. Postgate 1992: 255; Ussishkin 1982; Bahrani 2008). As Bagg (2013:119) noted, an empire like Assyria ‘could not allow herself to remain passive in the event of rebellion . . . not to react at all was not possible without endangering Assyria’s own position’. Conversely, acting mercilessly had an important deterring effect not only on the survivors,

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20  -     but also on resistance in other regions, since ‘word of such large-scale destruction no doubt spread rapidly’ (Sinopoli 1994: 167; cf. Parker 2012: 870). The Assyrian policy regarding the client states seems to have changed over time. Until the time of Tiglath-pileser III, the Assyrian military campaigns beyond the traditional territory of Assur were not aimed at expanding the actual territory of Assyria. Rather, they expanded Assyria’s influence and increased the booties and tribute paid from conquered regions (e.g. Van de Mieroop 2007: 240–2). The client kings were left in their seat, but had to pay annual tribute. When they failed to do so, they were often replaced by puppet rulers, who were regarded as more faithful to Assyria. At this stage, which often did not last long, however, the kingdoms were still regarded as independent, and were probably really so, as can be deduced from the fact that this phase often failed. If problems persisted (either tribute was not paid, or the kingdom was even involved in open rebellion), the polity was often annexed, and became an Assyrian province (e.g. Van de Mieroop 2007: 248–50). The duties of the clients included paying tribute and supplying manpower to Assyrian campaigns and construction activities, and supplying intelligence (Perčírková 1987: 166; Eph’al 2010: 60–1; see also Baruchi-Unna 2018: 124–6). The tribute was delivered annually, and included various luxury items, metals, and the like and, at least in the southwest, not agricultural products (Zilberg 2016: 395; see also Zilberg 2018). At times, clients were also supposed to manage strategic commodities (Eph’al 2010: 61). While the Assyrian administration was not involved in the managing of the clients, the Assyrian empire sometimes sent a special official, called a qēpu, who was appointed by the king for special missions, and sometimes they were sent to the court of less reliable clients (see Chapter 7; and Perčírková 1987: 166–7; Dubovský 2012).

The Assyrian Deportation Policy: Causes and Consequences One of the activities that is most closely associated with the Assyrian empire is the massive deportations. It is commonly estimated that some 4.5 million people were deported by the Assyrian empire, some 4 million of which at the time of Tiglath-pileser III, Sargon II, and Sennacherib (Oded 1979: 20–1; Liverani 2017: 255–6; see also Radner 2015: 109). This policy had a number of purposes.

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The deportations prevented future rebellions in the conquered territories, by removing the local elites (and others) and breaking the political and even social and ethnic frameworks, hence reducing the likelihood of organized antiAssyrian activities (Oded 1979: 41–5; Parker 2012: 870; Liverani 2014: 506, 566; see also Bagg 2013: 127; Grayson 1995: 961; Altaweel 2008: 20). This left the remaining inhabitants not only devastated by war, but also without leadership (also Olmstead 1918: 759). Settling the elites in other areas, sometimes among hostile indigenous population meant that they were dependent on the imperial authorities for survival. As noted by Olmstead (1918: 759): Revolt was stamped out by separating leaders and led, and by placing the former under such conditions as colonists that they secured only the hatred of the peoples among whom they were settled. Thus they were forced to look for protection to the very power which had dragged them across the empire.

The settled deportees were incorporated into existing systems, and gradually became acculturated, and often distanced from their original identity, thus decreasing the likelihood of rebellions in their new location (e.g. Parker 2012: 870). Additionally, the harsh deportation policy deterred potential rebellions in other regions who had heard about the consequences of such actions (cf. Parker 2012: 870; Sinopoli 1994: 167). Indeed, even the fear of deportation was a severe demoralizing factor. Deportations also served imperial needs by settling population in some regions, and supporting agriculture and economy in selected territories (Oded 1979; Parker 2012: 870; see also Altaweel 2008: 20; Grayson 1995: 961, 967). Not surprisingly, the Assyrians took special care to deport ‘individuals with technical competences for the court administration and the construction of buildings’ (Liverani 2014: 506; see also Radner 2015: 108). But the Assyrians also needed large quantities of workers to increase agricultural production in order to feed the growing urban centres in Assyria, and the deportations, the vast majority of which were sent to Mesopotamia, filled this urgent need (e.g. Liverani 2017: 194; see also Oded 1979: 27–32, 54–74; Grayson 1995: 967). As noted by Liverani (2017: 8, 265), importing manpower was a major aim of Assyrian imperialism. Given that deportations were not only punitive actions, and the empire needed the manpower, the Assyrians attempted to ensur that the deportees arrived at their destination, and that the

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22  -     system worked (Parker 2012; 870; also Radner 2015: 110). Still, it is clear that the deportations were not a simple trip, and many died in the process (Liverani 2017: 255–6, and more below). If one were to believe the Assyrian view of the process (see a possible depiction in II Kings 18:31–32), the demographic consequences of the exiles were minimal, as groups of people were simply exchanged between provinces (Kuhrt 1995: 536). Radner (2015: 108) even stated that: ‘“Deportation”, as the mass resettlement in the Assyrian empire is usually called . . . could indeed be regarded as a privilege rather than a punishment’ (see also 109). This, however, is difficult to accept. Regarding this ‘exchange’, we should first note that in the vast majority of cases the Assyrians did not swap peoples, and most deportees were transferred to the imperial core, rather than to distant provinces. Thus, Oded (1979: 28) noted that in 85 per cent of the cases in which the destination of the deportations is known, the deportees were sent to Assyria, and mainly to its four main cities of Ashur, Calah, Nineveh, and Dur Sharrukin (see also Liverani 2014: 506; Parker 2012: 870; Altaweel 2008: 123). The implications are clear, and ‘in spite of the “two-ways” deportation system employed by the Assyrians, the number of deportees from a given region outside Assyria far exceeded the number of those who were deported to that region . . . ’. This, of course, ‘ . . . created an imbalance . . . to the benefit of Assyria’ (Oded 1979: 28).⁶ As for the ‘privilege’ of being deported, in addition to the traumatic experience of being forced to leave one’s homeland, family, and fields, even the transit was a dreadful experience. Although the deportations were not meant to lead to further death (this phase was over, and now the empire wanted to resettle the deportees and hence attempted to guarantee their safety), this was inevitably the result. These were long marches of hundreds of kilometres on foot, conducted by a population that was not used to it and was already weakened by the wars and famine, in the hard climate of the Middle East. It is quite clear that not all of those who started the long trek finished it, and mortality was probably significant, perhaps up to one-third (Liverani 2017: 255–6). Exile also most likely limited the reproduction rate (see also Olmstead 1918: 759; Liverani 2014: 506). Deportations, therefore, had clear demographic implications, and along with the death that accompanied the wars (see Appendix 4.1), led to significant population decline in some of the conquered areas.

⁶ Note that no deportees were exiled to the client states (Eph’al 2010: 36).

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From Exploitation to Investment: Scholarly Assessment of Assyria’s Rule in the Southwest The process of the Assyrian conquest of the Southern Levant is detailed in Chapter 3, and below are a few introductory notes on the scholarly perceptions of this era. Despite a few earlier raids to the Phoenician cost, the empire arrived at the southwest only at the time of Tiglath-pileser III, when the kingdom of Aram Damascus and (most of) Israel were conquered, annexed, and turned into provinces. The kingdoms farther south—i.e. Judah, Ammon, Moab, Edom, and the Philistine cities, as well as the remainder of Israel (Samaria) and Tyre—became clients. The process of imperial expansion continued in the time of Shalmaneser V and Sargon II, and by the death of the latter, the imperial control was well established. The area of Samaria was also turned into a province and so was (for a time) the fate of Ashdod, and the imperial hold over the clients was strengthened. The unrest after Sargon’s death was suppressed by Sennacherib in 701 , and for most of the seventh century the region was pacified and under strong Assyrian control—this is the period that is often called ‘the Assyrian peace’—and there is plenty of evidence for economic prosperity and settlement expansion in the client kingdoms in the south. Writing some twenty-five years ago, Amilie Kuhrt (1995: 535–6) noted that: It has been the general assumption that the Assyrian king simply creamed off the profits from subject territories and failed to reinvest in provincial development, so that the formerly wealthy areas declined and stagnated economically . . . It is not hard to see how this impression has been created when we read the royal annals, where the literary genre demands that each place attacked by the king is razed to the ground, emptied of people and goods, and a smoking ruin left in the army’s wake. Sustained perusal of royal inscriptions and the royal correspondence, however, shows that the picture is more positive: there was extensive settlement of people in newly conquered areas (e.g., Hamath, Samaria); deportation was selective, limited to those needed for specific purposes; great efforts were made to expand the amount of land being worked; mass-deportation of people seem often to have been, in effect, ‘exchanges’ of populations . . . All around the empire denuded centers were rebuilt . . . sometimes larger than before . . . , repopulated either with defeated people from other regions or by Assyrians, and sometimes given a new Assyrian name. An important aim was security, but the effect was also to keep land under cultivation and trade routes open.

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24  -     This more ‘optimistic’ view is widespread today, and is prominent in studies of the southwest. Although not accepted by all, the ‘Assyrian peace’ became a widespread and influential concept in the study of the region during what came to be known as ‘the Assyrian century’, and it is commonly agreed that the strong rule of the Assyrian empire in the region led to stability and peace, which resulted in economic development, and even settlement expansion. There is much archaeological evidence for this prosperity, the most oftquoted example being the large centre for the production of olive oil unearthed in Ekron. In the seventh century , Ekron expanded dramatically, reaching a size of over 75 acres. It was a well-planned and fortified site in which industrial, domestic, and elite areas of occupation have been identified. Although only 4 per cent of the site was excavated, some 115 olive oil installations were discovered, and Gitin (1998: 276), the excavator, suggested that Ekron was the largest known ancient industrial centre for the production of olive oil, and that (Gitin 1995: 62) ‘this huge 7th century ... city, with its well-developed town plan and industrial center, resulted from the same NeoAssyrian interests that produced new urban and commercial centers and a new economic exchange system throughout the Mediterranean basin’, adding (1995: 69) that Ekron ‘is a prime example of the innovative Assyrian policy of industrial specialization and mass production which concentrated large-scale industrial activity in one center’. Ekron was an example for the accomplishment of the ‘long-standing Assyrian goal of urbanization of its territories’ (Gitin 1989b: 48). Gitin (1995: 61) suggested that the prosperity resulted from imperial ideology that was ‘based on the mercantile interests of the NeoAssyrian kings’, and ‘The effect was the formation of a new supernational system of political control in the eastern Mediterranean basin which produced the pax Assyriaca, 70 years of unparalleled growth and development, and an international trading network which spanned the Mediterranean, stimulating Phoenician trade and colonization in the west.’ Gitin’s insights were highly influential, and he was followed by many. Finkelstein and Singer-Avitz (2001: 253), for example, stressed Assyrian active involvement, suggesting that Ekron was ‘upgraded into an important regional centre’ by Sargon II. Ekron, however, was just the ‘prime’ example, and evidence for economic and settlement growth were found also in the Negev, especially the Beersheba and Arad valleys, where settlement in the seventh century  prospered and evidence for trade was abundant, including the large-scale importation of cedars from Lebanon. Na’aman (1995: 114) explained the prosperity as ‘the direct result of the pax Assyriaca and the growth of the Arabian caravan trade that stemmed from the economic activity

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of the Assyrian empire’ (also Na’aman 1987; 1995: 113). The same is true for southern Transjordan, where the surge in settlement in the late Iron Age and even the (re-)emergence of the Edomite state in the highlands were attributed to Assyrian activities and interest. Finkelstein (1995: 137), for example, noted that ‘Iron Age occupation at Edom reached its peak in the 8th–7th centuries , possibly as a result of Assyrian activity.’ Na’aman (1993: 118) too, attributed the prosperity in Edom to the Assyrian involvement in the Arabian trade, and perhaps also in the copper mining, and he even referred to ‘planned development’, adding (Na’aman 1995: 114) that ‘the pax Assyriaca and the economic prosperity brought about, for the first time in history, the emergence of a territorial kingdom in this remote arid zone’ (see also Gitin 1997; Knauf 1995: 98). The same is true also for Ammon, and Tyson (2014b: 500, n. 11) noted that the prosperity resulted not only from the stability brought about by the empire, but also from the economic networks it stimulated, and which created unique economic opportunities, otherwise not available for such a ‘landlocked polity in the semi-arid ecological niche’. These new discoveries had a large impact on broader studies of the Assyrian empire. Van de Mieroop (2007: 252), for example, wrote that: in the Philistine area, for example, Assyria’s influence changed the production of olive oil from a cottage industry to a centralized system that guaranteed supply to Assyria. Thus the empire cannot be considered as driven by mere desire to acquire territory. It was a structure that aimed at maximizing resources for its core.⁷

And elsewhere he noted (Van de Mieroop 2007: 259): ‘(S)ometimes the production of certain goods, such as olive oil in the Philistine areas, was reconstructed in order to increase supply.’ Despite its prevalence, however, this view is clearly not shared by all scholars. Elat (1978: 87, 88) had long ago—before the important discoveries at Ekron were made—claimed that the Assyrians did not initiate the trade, and Stager (1996) attributed the prosperity in Philistia to the period of the Egyptian hegemony over southern Israel (see Gitin’s 2003 reply). Na’aman had recently claimed that although the ‘stability produced by the pax Assyriace’ and ‘the new economic opportunity created by the empire’, along

⁷ The idea that the surpluses from the region were transported to Assyria seems to be shared by many, and see also e.g. Gitin 1995: 61, 69; Becking 2019: 32; Barstad 1996: 70–4.

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26  -     with ‘the results of Sennacherib’s campaign against Judah in 701 ’ were the reasons behind Ekron’s prosperity, it was not a ‘result of a deliberate imperial policy of economic development of its vassals’ (Na’aman 2003: 81; see also 87). Moreover, Schloen (2001: 146) noted that the Assyrians were not interested in the economic development of the territories they occupied, only in what they could confiscate or tax (see discussion at 141–7; see also Grayson 1995: 963). Walton (2018) also down-played the importance of economic considerations in the Assyrian westward expansion. Weiss and myself (Faust and Weiss 2005; 2011) had suggested that the prosperity of the Philistia and Judah resulted from the prosperous Phoenician maritime trade, which ‘consumed’ all the surpluses produced in these polities, and more recently I also attempted to show that the Assyrian provinces in the southwest experienced a settlement, demographic, and economic nadir at the time of Assyrian rule (e.g. Faust 2011d; 2015a). Liverani (2017: 55, 64, 193), too, referred to the overall neglect and devastation in the provinces, and claimed (241) that ‘imperial prosperity enriched the central core, but reduced and consigns new provinces to a state of underdevelopment’. Many of these themes will be developed and elaborated in the following chapters. Still, the ‘Assyrian peace’ paradigm is very dominant, and prosperity not only in the Levant, but even Phoenicia’s westwards expansion are sometimes attributed to it (e.g. Frankenstein 1979; Gitin 1995: 61). Lawson Younger (2015) had recently defended the paradigm of Assyrian investment. He scrutinized some texts, addressed archaeological information, and concluded that the empire was actively interested in economic growth and development in the provinces and the vassal states (see also Faust 2018c: 44–7).

The Sources for the Study As noted, the book takes a bottom-up approach, and the detailed archaeological information available forms the core of the analysis, which is supplemented by additional sources.

Archaeology The sources available include, first and foremost the unparalleled information from the many hundreds of excavations, both salvage and planned, which have produced finds from the eighth–seventh centuries  (Iron IIB–C),

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as well from the intensive surveys that have been carried out throughout the area. Although for many years Near Eastern (or biblical) archaeology served as the handmaiden of historical studies (Bunimovitz 1995; Moorey 1991; Davis 2004), and excavations focused on central, large sites in which the political and military history was played out (a tendency that led to its labelling as ‘tellminded archaeology’), this has gradually changed. The growing stress on regional studies which led to the emergence of large-scale regional surveys (e.g. Kochavi 1972; Finkelstein et al. 1997; Gal 1992; Ofer 1993; Dagan 2000, and many others), was a major step in this change, and while the data these surveys provided was far from satisfactory, it resulted in the incorporation of the ‘people without history’ in the study of the region (Bunimovitz 1995; Bunimovitz and Faust 2010). This was accompanied by the growing body of data from salvage excavations that were carried out mostly in small, nonurban sites (Faust and Safrai 2015), creating an unparalleled dataset. While the ‘historical bias’ is still hindering the systematic study of social formations, the gradual shift in the discipline is clearly evident, and the rich archaeological data at our disposal clearly facilitate such studies. Thus, combining the highquality data from excavations of mounds with the voluminous information from salvage excavations, along with other sources of information to be mentioned below, we are given a unique possibility to study ancient society in general, and the activities of the Assyrian empire in the southwest in particular. While the archaeological information serves as the foundation for this study, the region and the events and activities that took place in it are also mentioned, directly and indirectly, in a plethora of textual genres, including some which are unique to this region.

Assyrian Sources These sources are varied and composed of a number of genres. Assyrian royal inscriptions, including annals and summary texts, form a major source of information (e.g. Cogan 2008b: 1–6). Royal inscriptions were ideological compositions, not aiming to record history per se, but rather to memorialize the achievements of the king. The texts were: emblazed on the walls of palaces and temples, inscribed on large clay tablets and prisms, appeared on statues of the king and giant mythological figures

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28  -     that stood as guardians at thresholds and gates, and were displayed on stelae erected in conquered territories. Even the sides of high mountain passes in distant lands served as broadsides for these royal communications (Cogan 2008b: 1).

Annals were the hallmark of the Assyrian empire (Cogan 2008b: 2), and ‘describe year by year where the king campaigned, what places he conquered, and what booty he brought back with him’ (Van de Mieroop 2007: 180). Summary inscriptions (sometimes also referred to as ‘display inscriptions’) typically include the name of the king, his title, a summary of the king’s military activities, report on building projects, prayer, and the blessing of the god. The scope of the description of military campaign varies: some inscriptions are detailed, while others are brief and partial (Cogan 2008b: 6). We review some of the relevant inscriptions, and what they inform us about the stages of Assyrian involvement, in Chapter 3. Additional cuneiform sources include correspondence and legal and administrative documents (Chapter 6). Interestingly, most of the (relatively small) collection of texts that mention the region—both provinces and client kingdoms—were discovered outside it, and Zilberg’s recent summaries (2016; 2018⁸) refer to less than fifty such texts that were discovered outside the region (for the even fewer local discoveries, see below). Judah is mentioned in five documents, mainly in connection with tribute (Zilberg 2018: 66).⁹ Philistia is mentioned in at least eighteen documents (Zilberg 2016: 395; Luukko 2012, no. 28), almost all referring to tribute, and only one document refers to Assyrian official and the management of some regions within Philistia (Zilberg 2016: 397, n. 17, refers to SAA 19: 182, and SAA 17: 82). There is evidence for deportees sent there at the time of Sargon II (SAA 17: 82).¹⁰ The provinces of Samaria and Megiddo are mentioned in twenty-seven tablets.¹¹ While the number of texts mentioning the provinces is also very small, they do suggest a better familiarity with the activities in the region (Zilberg 2016: 394; 2018). The Transjordanian clients are mentioned even more rarely—Ammon is mentioned in only four tablets (Tyson 2014a: 77–8), also mostly in connection with tribute, and Millard (1992: 36) noted that no Edomite, and probably

⁸ I updated the figures below following Radner and Tushingham’s (2019: 156) comments, although the marginal omissions are immaterial for our purposes. ⁹ Another document from Nineveh mentioned a local transaction in Judean Se’ah (Zilberg 2016: 385–6), which might indicate a Judahite person living there. ¹⁰ Probably when Ashdod served as a province (Chapter 3). ¹¹ Note also that a legal text from Assur mentioned a Samarian (Radner 2019: 119).

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also Ammonite, names are mentioned in the Assyrian administrative and legal archives. Notably, not only is the number of references small, but in most cases, a number of client kingdoms are mentioned together (Zilberg 2016: 395), hence the total number of texts is even smaller than it might seem. Only a few Assyrian documents were discovered locally, including only ten or eleven¹² cuneiform texts of all genres (and only a few additional cuneiform objects). All were uncovered in the provinces: nine in the province of Samaria, mostly in its fringes, one fragmentary texts in the fringe of the province of Megiddo, and one in Ashdod, which served as a provincial capital for some time. Hence, no documents were apparently unearthed in the territories of the Philistine clients, and the same is apparently true for the Transjordanian clients, and even for Judah (see also Zilberg 2016: 383). The distribution of the texts is discussed in some detail in Chapter 6. The sources are partial, of course, highly biased, and represent the perspective of the empire.¹³ As for the local reaction to the empire, the Assyrian sources provide only a little information, mainly regarding overt, active resistance (and even for this, information is biased and partial, cf. Frahm 2016: 76).

The Bible While in many imperial settings, archaeology is the only way to give voice to the conquered people, in the present case we have textual sources written by one of the local groups, representing some of the local voices within the kingdom of Judah. Although problematic as a historical source, and itself composed in a long process of collation of many different texts with different agendas and biases (e.g. Friedman 1987; Schwartz 2011; Fleming 2012), it still provides valuable information on the period of Assyrian rule. Relevant information on both the historical events and the Judahite perspective, can be found in various biblical books, from II Kings, which partially describes this period, through the books of Isaiah and Micah, whose period of operation fall within the period discussed in this book, to other parts of the Bible which, according to various scholars, were partly composed at the time discussed here (e.g. at least parts of the Deuteronomic history, and perhaps also of the Priestly ¹² Following Cogan 2008a, and see Chapter 6. ¹³ Contrary to some assumptions, administrative texts are also biased, sometimes even in content (cf. Shveka 2005), but always in what they depict and what they ignore, and it is not always easy to use them to reconstruct reality.

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30  -     writings; for the dating of the biblical sources, see e.g. Friedman 1987; Schniedewind 2003; Schwartz 2011; Aster 2017; 2018b; Faust 2019b; Crouch 2014a; 2014b, and many references). While the Bible is an important source of information on Assyrian activities, and can complement the picture gained from the Assyrian sources, it is unique in that it allows some insights into the views of the conquered, which are lacking in other parts of the empire.

Vernacular Texts To the above, we should add the information gained from the hundreds of ostraca, seals, and impressions, unearthed in archaeological excavations in the southwest (e.g. Ahituv 2012). Although providing only limited information on the local administration, this can sometimes supplement additional sources, and enhance interpretations of the past. As noted in ‘Assyrian Sources’ and ‘The Bible’ above, despite the biased nature of all the texts, they provide us with a wealth of information, and are especially useful in cases when different genres, and especially texts from different points of view (e.g. Judahite and Assyrian) are describing the same event. In such cases, the sources can complement each other, and even contradictions between them can supply scholars with valuable information that can help not only to reconstruct the events more closely, but also to expose the biases of the different texts.

A Note on Chronology The use of  dates, as in the discussion of the expansion of Assyria, is quite straightforward, but correlating it with archaeological periods is more complex. The period preceding the Assyrian conquests of the last third of the eighth century is the Iron IIB period. Whereas the beginning of this phase is debated, its end is conventionally dated to the late eighth century and is attributed to Assyrian destruction during the conquest (e.g. Faust 2019a: 102–3, 140, and references). These massive destruction layers, and the well-preserved finds sealed within them (Chapter 2), are representative of the era just prior to the arrival of the empire, and since we are interested in the Iron IIB mainly as a baseline against which to examine the reality in the subsequent period, the dating seems to be perfectly suitable.

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The Iron IIC begins, naturally, right after the Iron IIB, i.e. after the destruction, and it ends at around 600 , with the destructions inflicted by the NeoBabylonian armies (604–586 ) on parts of the country (e.g. Barkay 1992: 305; Faust 2019a: 102–3, 175–6). While broadly overlapping the period of Assyrian rule, the matching is only partial, as the Iron IIC continues slightly after the collapse of the Assyrian empire. Events taking place in the Iron IIC could, therefore, postdate the Assyrian period, but given the extent of the overlap, we generally treat the Iron IIC (roughly the seventh century ) as correlating with the Neo-Assyrian period, and mention possible discrepancies whenever this is relevant (Chapters 4–5, Appendix 5.1, and more). We should also note that while the destruction layers that mark the beginning of this era and its end are clear archaeological markers, the Iron IIB ceramic assemblage did not change overnight following the Assyrian conquests, and lingered into the Iron IIC (even if probably not much; see the discussion of Tel Qudadi in Chapter 4).¹⁴

The Structure of the Book Following this introduction, the book includes the following chapters. Chapter 2 (‘Before the Empire: The Southern Levant in the 8th Century ’) lays the foundation for the research. In order to understand the impact of Assyrian imperial domination, one must reconstruct the reality on the ground before the arrival of the empire, and therefore this chapter describes the flourishing settlement of the mid-eighth century , its distribution across the landscape, and the economic significance of the various regions. Chapter 3 (‘Ah, Assyria, the Rod of My Anger’: The Assyrian Takeover of the Southwest’) briefly outlines the Assyrian interaction with the southwest, from the first contacts in the ninth century  to the conquests of the last third of the eighth. By the end of this century, the entire area was, directly or indirectly, under Assyrian control. The north was divided between Assyrian provinces, whereas the south was mostly comprised of semi-autonomous clients. Chapter 4 (‘Under the Empire: Settlement and Demography in the Southwestern Margins of the Assyrian Empire in the Seventh Century ’) describes the settlement and demography in the period of Assyrian control. ¹⁴ The Ceramic assemblages of the Iron IIB–C are very similar, and only some forms differ, leading to some problems in identifying the periods in surveys (see Chapter 4).

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32  -     Comparison with the information provided in Chapter 2 allows us to estimate what were the consequences of the imperial takeover. The evidence shows that the provinces in the north were devastated, whereas the client kingdom prospered and, moreover, for the first time in history the south flourished more than the north. The dramatic decline in the north is exemplified also by the large number of place names that were forgotten following the Assyrian conquests. The chapter ends with an appendix on the demographic significance of deportations. Chapter 5 (‘Prosperity, Depression, and the Empire: Economic Developments in the Southwest during the Seventh Century ’) reconstructs the economy of the region during the period of Assyrian rule, and the economic specialization that typified this period. The chapter is accompanied by two appendices, one on the importance of late seventh century Greek imports for understanding economic patterns in the period of Assyrian rule, and the second briefly reviewing the development of the olive oil industry—a topic that is prominent in many discussions of Assyrian imperial economy—in time and space. The evidence shows that while the south (and Tyre) developed and participated in international trade, the provinces did not produce much surplus, and did not take part in any significant trade. Chapter 6 (‘Assyrians in the Southwest? The Evidence for Assyrian Administration and Presence’) reviews the relevant evidence for the actual presence of Assyrian administration or individuals in the region, for example in the form of Assyrian administrative documents, Assyrian buildings, and more. Once identified, the nature of the evidence and their distribution is assessed in order to learn how much administration was involved in the running of the Southern Levant, and where it operated. The evidence shows that administration was very limited, and the limited data comes mostly from the fringes of the devastated provinces. Chapter 7 (‘The Empire in the Southwest: Reconstructing Assyrian Activity in the Provinces’) examines, in light of the information provided in the previous chapters, the way the empire operated in the southwestern provinces, including the activity of the local governors, the deportation of some of the population, and the settling of foreign deportees. The evidence shows that most of the provinces were not of much significance for the imperial authorities, which concentrated their efforts on the frontiers facing the flourishing clients. Chapter 8 (‘Local Responses to the Empire: From Armed Resistance to Integration’) is different from previous chapters in that it focuses not on the empire and its activities, but rather on the local responses to its rule. While

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such studies were conducted on other empires, they are somewhat rare regarding the Assyrian empire. The present case study, however, has a number of advantages. In addition to the large archaeological database available, we have a unique textual source, reflecting the voice of (some of) the conquered, i.e. the Hebrew Bible. Notably, most imperial settings texts, if they exist at all, represent the imperial view, and the Hebrew Bible, as complex as it is as a historical source, provides insights into the local views of imperial rule. The discrete lines of evidence allow us to reconstruct the local responses to Assyrian rule in different political units, and by various groups within these units, from armed resistance, through subtler forms of resistance, to cooperation, collaboration, and even integration. Chapter 9 (‘“They Make a Desolation and They Call it Peace”: ReExamining the Nature of the Imperial Peace’) reviews the concept of Assyrian peace that became popular over the years to describe the prospering economy during the period of Assyrian control, when no internal wars or imperial campaigns are evident. The information provided in the previous chapters, however, casts some doubt on the applicability of the term for the period under discussion, since the provinces in the southwest were devastated, and only the regions outside the official boundaries of Assyria prospered. Subsequently, the chapter re-evaluates not only the pax Assyriaca, but also the general concept of ‘imperial peace’ which was ‘imported’ from Rome (the pax Romana) into almost all imperial contexts. Chapter 10 (‘Empire by Design? Imperial Policies and Planning and the Conquest of the Southwest’) uses the detailed information available from the southwest, which does not always fit various generalizations regarding Assyrian imperial policies (based on studies from other provinces), to reevaluate these maxims, and offers some observations regarding the possible causes for the different treatment and strategies. The chapter discusses the various considerations that might have influenced the differentiated treatment (i) of diverse parts of the Assyrian empire (by comparing different provinces); and (ii) of empires at large (e.g. by comparing the treatment of the same regions over time). The chapter concludes with a new analysis of the process which led to the conquest of the area and the annexation of its northern part by Assyria, and of the Assyrian imperial strategy. The final chapter (‘A Province Too Far? The Assyrian Empire, Its Southwestern Margins, and the Dynamics of Imperial Expansion, Conquest, and Rule’) briefly reviews how imperial rule in the southwest unfolded, what were the consequences of the conquests and the establishment of provinces in large parts of the area, and the processes that took place during the century of

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34  -     Assyrian rule. The chapter reviews the main conclusions of the book concerning the imperial activity in the southwest, and the considerations that appeared to have guided its policies in general, and discusses the implications of this on the study of imperial strategies at large. Based on the differences in the ways the Neo-Assyrian, the Neo-Babylonian, and the Persian empires treated their remote provinces, the last part of the chapter discusses the implications of this research for the study of historical development of empires, and the ‘Achaemenid revolution’, which broke the limitations on the size of empires posed by earlier imperial mindsets.

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2 Before the Empire The Southern Levant in the Eighth Century 

This chapter reviews the settlement, demography, and economy of the Southern Levant during the eighth century , before the Assyrian conquests. The first parts of the chapter (‘The Prosperity of the Eighth Century : Historical Background’ and ‘Settlement and Demography in the Eighth Century : The Archaeological Evidence’) summarize the prosperity which characterized most of the eighth century  throughout the country, and review the dense settlement that existed at the time. The final part of the chapter, ‘The Northern and Southern Kingdoms in the Eighth Century : Some Demographic Comparisons’, reviews the differences between the more urbanized and productive north, namely the kingdom of Israel, and its southern part, i.e. the kingdom of Judah, the Philistine cities, and the Transjordanian kingdoms of Ammon, Moab, and Edom. This background serves as a baseline for the ensuing discussion, against which the developments of the Assyrian era are checked and to which the situation under Assyrian rule is compared.

The Prosperity of the Eighth Century : Historical Background Our historical information on the period preceding the direct Assyrian involvement in the region is derived from a number of sources, including a few scattered Assyrian sources (e.g. Cogan 2008b; Zilberg 2016; 2018, and references), as well as the more detailed, even if highly biased, information contained in various biblical books. The latter, despite their theological nature, do reflect on events that took place at this time and can—with care—be used in historical reconstructions of the eighth century  (e.g. Aster 2017; Crouch 2014a; 2014b; Friedman 1987; Schwartz 2011). These are supplemented by additional sources, and mainly by the information provided by archaeology, which will be addressed in the section ‘Settlement and Demography in the Eighth Century : The Archaeological Evidence’ later in the chapter. The Neo-Assyrian Empire in the Southwest: Imperial Domination and Its Consequences. Avraham Faust, Oxford University Press (2021). © Avraham Faust. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198841630.003.0002

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36  -     During the first half of the eighth century , the Assyrian empire was withdrawn to its core, and was not a major or imminent concern for the Southern Levantine kingdoms. The local kingdoms interacted mainly with each other, and the nearest major power was the kingdom of Aram Damascus, with whom the kingdom of Israel had a long and problematic relationship, with many ups and (mainly) downs from at least the ninth century . During the long reign of Hazael (844/2–800 ), in the later part of the ninth century, the Southern Levant was dominated by Aram Damascus. Adadnīrārī III, the Assyrian king (809–782 ), apparently defeated Aram at the beginning of the eighth century , an event that enabled the local kingdoms, and especially the kingdom of Israel, to regain their independence (perhaps hinted at in II Kings 13:5). Although the Assyrian army did not reach the region, the empire’s expansion at Aram’s expense extended its hegemony, and an inscription of Adad-nīrārī III indicates that the Joash, king of Israel (800–784 ), paid him tribute. Assyria’s lack of active involvement in the Southern Levant itself (see Chapter 3), however, allowed the local kings to continue the in-fighting, and hostility between Israel and Aram Damascus continued, resulting in the victory of the former, which regained some of the territories it had previously lost (II Kings 13:19). Thus, the weakening of Aram and the remoteness of Assyria enabled the local forces, and mainly the kingdom of Israel, to expand. According to the Bible, this period is also characterized by internal frictions within the land of Israel, from which the kingdom of Israel (and, to some extent, also Judah) benefitted. According to the Bible, Amazia (798–769), King of Judah, defeated the Edomites (II Kings 14:7), and he himself was subsequently defeated by Joash of Israel in a battle in the Shephelah (II Kings 14:11–12). The kingdom of Israel reached a political peak at the time of Joash’s son, Jeroboam II (784–748 ), who expanded the territories of Israel mainly at the expense of the Arameans (II Kings 14:25–28; see also Amos 6:13–14). In Judah, too, the Bible depicts this period—under Uzaiah’s rule (785/ 769–733 )—as one of prosperity, and perhaps even military expansion if II Chronicles 26:6, which describes the victory of Uziah over the Philistines, can be trusted.¹ According to II Chronicles (26:6–15), Uzaiah fought against the Philistines and ‘broke down the wall’ of Gath, Jabneh, and Ashdod, and built cities in some of the conquered territories. He also fought against the

¹ Due to the Bible’s interest in Judah—a bias which is far more pronounced in Chronicles—the reign of Uzaiah is described in relative detail (for a detailed discussion and many references, see Levin 2017: 237–63).

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       

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Arabs, and the Ammonites paid him tribute. He built towers in Jerusalem and in the wilderness, and he is described as having a very large and wellsupplied army. While the biblical description, especially in the pro-Judahite book of Chronicles, gives much weight to Judah, it is clear that Israel was the wealthier, more dominant polity, and that Judah was in its shadow. This is quite explicit in the biblical descriptions (e.g. II Kings 14:11–12), and can also be gleaned from the fact that until the time of Tiglath-pileser III, Assyrian inscriptions do not even mention Judah (see Chapter 3), and from the geopolitical circumstances and Israel’s location near the wealthy centre of Tyre, on major international routes and controlling large and fertile valleys, as well as from its size, greatly exceeding any other polity in the region (see the detailed discussion in ‘The Northern and the Southern Kingdoms in the Eighth Century : Some Demographic Comparisons’). Some even viewed Judah as a mere vassal of Israel (e.g. Miller and Hays 1986: 304; Finkelstein and Silberman 2001: 229–50), but even if one rejects such an extreme view, the centrality of the kingdom of Israel is widely accepted (see also Oded 1984: 135; Miller and Hays 1986:233–4; Finkelstein 1999; Faust 2012b: 27, 196–206, and below). One way or the other, and although highly exaggerated, the biblical description of the prosperity in Israel and Judah tallies with the additional information at our disposal, and which is described in detail below. It is possible that the success of the two kingdoms was, partially at least, a result of cooperation between them (e.g. Oded 1984: 151–2; Rainey and Notley 2006: 216–20). This prosperity ended towards the end of the second third of the eighth century  (II Kings 15:37), when following the Assyrian arrival in the region, power relations were drastically altered, and the situation deteriorated quickly. This phase, however, is discussed in some length in Chapter 3, and the present chapter describes the prosperity preceding this deterioration.

Settlement and Demography in the Eighth Century : The Archaeological Evidence The scholarly reconstruction of a prospering mid-eighth century , preAssyrian conquest Southern Levant, which was drawn on the basis of textual descriptions and coloured on the basis of the geopolitical significance of the various regions, is best illustrated by the detailed archaeological data available. As early as 1992, in an exhaustive study of the archaeological information

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38  -     known at the time, Broshi and Finkelstein reconstructed the demography of the region at the peak of the eighth century . After scrutinizing the available data from the excavation of many central mounds, and complementing the picture with the information available from the extensive surveys, Broshi and Finkelstein estimated the inhabited area west of the Jordan River as 1,608 hectares. Using a density coefficient of 250 people per hectare, they concluded that the population of the entire country, west of the Jordan River was some 403,000 people (Broshi and Finkelstein 1992: 64). Admittedly, not only is data in need of updating in light of the extensive research carried out over the past twenty-five to thirty years (see below), but even the logic behind the study is far from secure. Thus, the mere suitability of the data from surveys for such an exercise is highly questionable, and much of this information is based on assumptions; the dating of some of the surveyed Iron Age II sites specifically to the eighth century , for example, was based on the assumption that this was the peak period of occupation during the Iron II, and hence many sites that were dated to the Iron II in general (and especially its later half) were attributed specifically to this era (Finkelstein 1994; Faust 2008).² In a similar vein, the size of a surveyed site at any given period is in many cases no more than a guesswork. And the same applies to the estimation of the number of unknown sites, used to compensate for yet undiscovered settlements. Moreover, the mere density coefficient used by scholars is debated, and the available figures vary greatly (Postgate 1994; Faust 2005, and many references). Clearly, multiplying all these different variables, each of which is suspected, does not give much credence to the resulting population estimates. Still, despite all the shortcomings, the information provided by such demographic studies is valuable and important. Since the same methods were used in all studies, focusing on different periods, and as they were all based on the same data-sets, the various trends that result from these studies are relatively reliable. Other studies, using similar methods, data-sets, and density coefficients, resulted in only some 140,000–150,000 for the previous demographic peaks of the Early Bronze and Middle Bronze Ages (Broshi and Gophna 1984; 1986), and much lower figures for the intervening periods of the Intermediate Bronze Age (Gophna 1992: 155–6) and the Late Bronze Ages (e.g. Broshi 1993: 423). Thus, despite the reservations about the figures themselves, the resulting settlement fluctuations across time are relatively reliable, and the data collated by Broshi and Finkelstein indicate that the eighth century  ² In Chapter 4, we exemplify the damaging implications of this procedure.

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       

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Figure 2.1 Map of sites mentioned in Chapter 2. The box at the bottom right side includes sites in Edom, located rather south. Source: Prepared by Tidhar Karo; courtesy of the Tel ‘Eton expedition.

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40  -     was an unparalleled demographic zenith in the region, greatly exceeding earlier peaks. We address additional implications of Broshi and Finkelstein’s study below, but in the meantime would like to note that the archaeological data that has accumulated in the twenty-five or thirty years that have elapsed since the publication of Broshi and Finkelstein’s work seems, generally speaking, to substantiate their basic conclusions about the significant demographic peak of the eighth century  and the distribution of population at the time (e.g. Dever 2017: 451–3).³ In this section, I describe the prosperity of the eighth century  by listing excavated sites with remains from this period.⁴ The data is presented geographically,⁵ beginning with the various regions within the kingdom of Israel and moving to southern Phoenicia, Philistia, Judah, and the Transjordanian kingdoms (Figure 2.1). The data from the extensive surveys that were carried out over the years also demonstrate the great prosperity of this era, but given the difficulty of dating sites to a specific sub-phase within the Iron II, we will refer only to those that make the basic subdivision within this era.⁶

The Kingdom of Israel The settlement of the eighth century, in most regions, exceeded that of earlier epochs. Due to the large number of finds, we divide the discussion into subregions, discussed roughly from north to south.

Galilee A number of Iron Age IIB towns were excavated in the Galilee, including Qarney Hittin (Gal 1992), Tel Gath Hefer (Alexandre et al. 2003), Tel Yinʿam (Liebowitz 2000:17), and probably also Karm er-Ras (Alexandre 2008), as well as the village at Horvat Rosh Zayit (Gal and Alexandre 2000; Gal and Frankel 1993), and the fortified hamlet or farmstead at Horvat Malta (Covello-Paran

³ Although some regional corrections are in order (below). ⁴ The review of excavated sites below aims to be comprehensive, and while it is inevitable that some sites were missed, random omissions will not affect the overall picture. ⁵ The third part of the chapter analyses the settlement and demography of the various polities, but I should note that the sites addressed below do not constitute the basic data for this discussion, as the number of excavated sites per region is a result of multiple factors and does not necessarily reflect the importance of the different areas. Still, the changes experienced by the various regions can reveal significant trends (see Chapter 4; see also Faust and Safrai 2015). ⁶ Given the unreliability of the surveys and the problems that accompany their usage for such purposes (e.g. Faust and Safrai 2005; 2015 and references), we use the information obtained from surveys only sparingly in this book.

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       

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2008). As far as survey data is concerned, Gal (1992:107) identified 27 eighth century  sites in the Lower Galilee, an increase after the crisis of the ninth century  (after which only nineteen sites continued to exist).⁷

Northern Valleys The eighth century  was a settlement peak in the valleys, and remains were exposed in many excavated sites, including Dan (Biran 1992; 2008), Hazor (Ben-Tor 2008),⁸ Bethsaida (Arav 2004; 2009), Tel Hadar (Yadin and Kochavi 2008), ‘En Gev (Kochavi and Tsukimoto 2008), Kinrot (Fritz 2008), Beth Shean (Mazar 2008a), Tel Rehov (Mazar 2008b), Tell el-Hammah (Cahill and Tarler 1993), Megiddo (Finkelstein 2009; Ussishkin 2017), Tel Qiri (Ben-Tor 1987), Jokneam (Ben-Tor 1993a), and perhaps also Kedesh (Stern 1993).⁹ Significant remains, including a complete block of structures, were identified at Tell es-Saʿidieyh (Pritchard 1985: 15–38), and a prospering settlement at Tell Abu al-Kharaz (Fischer 2013: 516). Domestic remains were also exposed at Tell Deir Alla (Van der Kooj and Ibrahim 1989: 82–8), Nimrin (Herr 2008: 1847), and Tell al-Mazar (McCreery and Yassine 1997: 443) on the Transjordanian side of the Jordan Valley. Most of these were cities or towns of various sizes, which served as regional centres. It is possible that some sites were part of different political entities at the time, for example Bethsaida (the kingdom of Geshur, e.g. Arav 2004), as well as Nimrin, Tell al Mazar, and perhaps a few others (Ammon, e.g. Younker 2014).¹⁰ The various surveys, while showing a peak in the Iron II, do not usually provide subdivision of the Iron II, and cannot therefore be used for our purposes (e.g. Finkelstein et al. 2006; Kohn-Tavor 2012; see also Gadot 2006b).¹¹

⁷ The survey data from the Upper Galilee is too partial, as Frankel and colleagues were not able to attribute pottery specifically to this sub-period (Frankel et al. 2001: 59, 128). The situation at Tel Rekhesh is not clear, and there is currently no evidence that there was significant occupation at the site (see e.g. Hasegawa et al. 2018). ⁸ Interestingly, although Abel Beth Maacha is mentioned as a site that was destroyed by the Assyrians (II Kings 15:29), no stratified remains from this period were yet unearthed in the excavations (Mullins et al. 2019). ⁹ No settlement apparently existed at Taanach at the time (Glock 1993: 1432–3; see also SingerAvitz 2014: 136). ¹⁰ The situation at Pella is not clear, and even if there was a settlement at the time, the finds seem to be limited (e.g. Hennessy and Smith 1997: 258; Smith and Potts 1992: 101; Bourke 1997: 113; and see Chapter 4). ¹¹ Note that Kohn-Tavor (2010: 33–4) attempted to make some inner division within the Iron Age, but he does not provide figures for most sub-phases.

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42  -    

Samaria (and the Nearby Jordan Valley) Many Iron Age II sites were excavated in the region of Samaria, including the city of Samaria, which served as the capital of the kingdom of Israel (Tappy 2001; Master 2013a), the cities of Tell el-Farʿah (N) (biblical Tirzah; Chambon 1993; Jasmin 2013), Bethel (Kelso 1993; Greener 2013), Shechem (Campbell 1993; 2002), Kh. Marjameh (Mazar 1995), and probably also Tell Sophar (Yeivin 1973), and the villages of Kh. Jemein (Dar 1986a; 1986b), Kh. eshShajara (Yezerski 2013: 94), Beit Aryeh (Riklin 1997), Kh. Dawwar (Har Even 2012), Deir Daqla (Har Even 2011), Kh. Kla (Eitam 1983; 1987), the settlement at Shiloh (Livyatan Ben-Arie and Hizmi 2014; see also Har-Even and Adler 2017; contra the earlier interpretation of Finkelstein 1993b), and perhaps also the small site of Horvat ‘Eli (Hizmi 1998).¹² On the eastern slopes of Samaria and towards the Jordan Valley one can list the fortified small, round towers at Rogem Abu Mughaiyir and el-Makhruq (Yeivin 1992), as well as a larger rectangular one at el-Makhruq (near the formfkeer; Damati 1993), the fortified city at Kh. ‘Aujah el-Foqa (Zertal et al. 2009),¹³ and the small site at Maskiot (Greenfeld and Peleg 2009). As for the data from surveys, Zertal’s seven published volumes of the northern and eastern parts of the region apparently dated 558 sites to this phase (Zertal 1992: 54–5; 1996: 81–4; 2005: 69–74; 2012: 62–4; Zertal and Mirkam 2000: 47–8; Bar and Zertal 2016: 55–7; 2019: 37–40), whereas Finkelstein et al.’s (1997: 898–902) survey of southern Samaria reported some 241 eighth century  sites (cf. Finkelstein et al. 1997: 18), which represent a settlement peak of all times (Lev-Yadun 1997: 91). Gilead All the known excavated Iron Age sites in the region, i.e. Tell Ziraʿa (Vieweger and Häser 2007), Tell Rumeith (Lapp 1993; Barako 2015), and Irbid (Herr and Najjar 2008: 321) seem to have prospered in the eighth century . As far as surveys are concerned, their resolution is insufficient, and although it appears that the peak of the Iron II was just before the Assyrian conquest, this cannot be ascertained (e.g. Mittmann 1970). Central Coastal Plain (Mainly the Sharon) A number of sites were excavated in this region, but it must be stressed that unlike most other regions, the eighth century  was not a demographic peak ¹² Horvat ‘Eli was established in the eighth century , perhaps before the destruction of the kingdom of Israel, but this is not certain (and see now also Itach et al. 2018). ¹³ The site was only surveyed, but given the excellent preservation of this, mostly one-period site, and the collection of hundreds of indicative sherds, we carefully list it here.

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       

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and settlement in the area declined in comparison with the Iron Age IIA (Faust 2007d; 2018b, and references). In the northern part of the region, the major site along the Carmel coast was Dor (Stern 2008; Gilboa et al. 2015), and settlement was also identified at Tel Mevorakh (Segal 2014). At Tel Esur, in the northeastern Sharon, an isolated administrative building was constructed in the eighth century  (Bar 2016; Shalev and Bar 2017), and a settlement was also identified at Tel Zeror (Kochavi 1993c) in the northern part of the region. Some remains were also unearthed at (the villages of) Kh. Yama (Gal and Muqari 2002), Jatt (Porath et al. 1999), and Zur Natan (Hagit Torge, personal communication) in the westernmost hills of Samaria at the edge of the trough valley. At Tel Hefer (Paley and Porath 1993), some limited evidence for human activity in the eighth century  was unearthed, and although the remains were limited, it is possible that a small anchorage existed at Tel Mikhmoret (Porath et al. 1993). At Tel Michal, located 6.5 km north of the mouth of the River Yarkon, some human activity took place during the eighth century , most likely before the Assyrian conquest (Herzog 1993: 1038; Singer-Avitz 1989: 87). At Tel Qudadi, three Iron Age IIB levels were identified, one with a few Iron Age IIA pottery forms, so it is clear that there was some activity there before the Assyrian conquest (contrary to Fantalkin and Tal 2015, and see Chapter 4). A relatively large settlement also existed at Jaffa, the main port in this region, expanding beyond the old mound (Burke 2011: 73; Arbel et al. 2012). At Rosh Haʿayin (Avner-Levy and Torge 1999; Torge 2007), a village was unearthed, and it appears that Tel Hadid was also occupied at the time (Beit-Arieh 2008). As for the regional surveys, most do not subdivide the Iron II, and cannot be used in any straightforward manner (e.g. Kochavi and Beit-Arieh 1994; Gophna and Beit-Arieh 1997; Gophna and Ayalon 1998; see also Ne’eman et al. 2000; Olami et al. 2005). At the edge of the area, in the valley of Ayalon (nominally outside the coastal plain, but since it belonged to the kingdom of Israel we mention it here), Gezer was a major city (Dever 1993a; Ortiz and Wolff 2012). Shavit, who surveyed the region, noted that in the eighth century  there was a settlement peak, with forty-two sites (Shavit 2000: 218).

Southern Phoenicia and the Northern Coastal Plain Not much is known archaeologically about the relevant strata in the city of Tyre, as well as on sites in its immediate surrounding (within modern Lebanon), and most of the information at our disposal comes from the regions abutting it from the south. The political affiliation of many of the sites in the region is not clear, and it is likely that most of them (probably with the

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44  -     exception of the southernmost ones) were part of the economic hinterland of Tyre, which by that time was a major metropolis, whose colonies spread across the Mediterranean, and even along the Atlantic coasts of Iberia and North Africa (e.g. Aubet 2001; Elayi 2013). Many sites were excavated in this small area, and most flourished at the time, including Acco (Dothan 1993), Tel Keisan (Humbert 1993), Tell Abu Hawam (Balensi et al. 1993; Artzi, M. 2008), Kabri (Lehmann 2002: 85, with limited remains), and probably also Akhzib (Prausnitz 1993: 32), as well as Shikmona (Elgavish 1994) and Atlith (Haggi 2006) farther south. The surveys (Frankel and Getzov 1997; Lehmann and Peilstocker 2012; Olami et al. 2003; Ronen and Olami 1978) did not subdivide the Iron II, and cannot therefore be used here. Moving southward, to the regions of Philistia and Judah, the following picture emerges.

Southern Coastal Plain Many settlements in the Southern Coastal Plain prospered before the Assyrian conquest. Ashkelon seems to have been an active city at the time (Stager 2008), and so did Ashdod (Ben-Shlomo 2013) and Ekron (Dothan and Gitin 1993; 2008). These central sites were accompanied by sites like Ashdod Yam (Fantalkin 2018), Tell Jemmeh (Ben-Shlomo 2014), Tell el-Farʿah (south) (Lehmann et al. 2018: 118–43), Tel Sera (Oren 1993c), al-Blakhiyya (Burdajewicz 2003), Ruqeish (Oren 1993b: 1294), Tell Abu Salima (Sheikh Zuweid, stratum H; see Petrie and Eliss 1937; Reich 1984, and references), Tel Hamid (Wolff and Shavit 2008), Yavneh (Fischer and Taxel 2007: 217, 274), Tel Hesi (Hardin et al. 2012), Tel Nagila (Shai et al. 2011), Kh. Summeily (Hardin et al. 2012), and others. Still, it must be noted that the large eighth century  centres in Philistia were medium in size, and no mega-sites, which were prevalent in the region during the Iron Age I (Gath, Ashkelon, and Ekron), Iron Age IIA (Gath), or the Iron Age IIC (Ashkelon and Ekron), existed at the time. The medium-sized Tel Batash (Mazar 1997), and perhaps even the relatively small site that existed at Gath (Chadwick and Maeir 2012), were most likely part of Judah at the time (and some suggested that this was also the status of Tel Nagila, Tel Hesi, Kh. Summeily, and perhaps also Tel Hamid (Shai et al. 2011; Hardin et al. 2012, and see Chapter 4). As for survey data, while the Iron II was clearly a settlement peak in comparison with earlier periods, it is difficult to pinpoint the timing of this peak within the Iron II (e.g. Stark et al. 2005; Berman and Barda 2005; Berman et al. 2004; see also Huster 2015: 30–6).

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       

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The Kingdom of Judah Eighth-century  settlement in Judah exceeds that of all preceding eras. Due to the large number of sites, the discussion is divided by subregions (broadly speaking, from north to south).

The Region of Benjamin A number of excavated settlement to the north of Jerusalem existed at the time, including Tell en-Nasbeh (Zorn 1993a; 1993b), Gibeon (Pritchard 1962; 1964), and perhaps also (and this is doubted by some) Tell el-Fûl (Gibson 1996: 17*) and Nebi Samwil (Magen and Dadon 1999). In addition, a number of farmsteads were unearthed in this region, but these were mostly part of Jerusalem’s hinterland, and are therefore discussed in ‘Jerusalem and Its Environs’ below. As far as the survey is concerned, inner chronology within the Iron II is difficult to establish, and although eighth-century  settlement cleary exceeded that of earlier epochs, the frequency of late Iron Age forms (e.g. Finkelstein 1993a: 27) led Magen (2004: 1–2) to conclude that the peak of Iron Age settlement was in the seventh century . Jerusalem and Its Environs Judah’s capital expanded significantly at this time (whether this was a long process or not is matter of debate; Faust 2014b, and references), reaching some 65 hectares. The city’s hinterland also began to expand in the late eighth century , and although reaching a peak only in the seventh century , many farmsteads and villages dotted the countryside, for example the Pisgat Ze’ev A, French Hill, Kh. er-Ras, Ketef Hinnom, and Mevasseret Yerushalayim.¹⁴ As for the surveys, they did not differentiate between the various sub-phases of the Iron II, and while hundreds of Iron II sites were reported, there is a growing consensus that the peak was only in the seventh century (Faust 2005; 2014b: Na’aman 2007: 42; Gadot 2015). Iron IIB remains were also unearthed in Moza (Greenhut and De Groot 2009), Ramat Rahel (Lipschits et al. 2011), el-Burj (De Groot and WeinbergStern 2013), Qiryat Yeʿarim (Finkelstein et al. 2018), and probably Manahat (Moyal 2010: 101–2). ¹⁴ Gadot’s (2015) dating of the entire farmstead phenomenon to the seventh century  is based on a misunderstanding of the development of Jerusalem’s countryside (which he connects to a large extent to Ramat Rahel, whereas in practice the area around Ramat Rahel was devoid of farmsteads, and was actually disconnected from the farmsteads phenomenon; Moyal and Faust 2015), and on mixing data from surveys and from excavations, lumping them together.

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46  -    

The Shephelah The region reached a settlement peak at the time, and remains from this period were exposed in many excavated sites, including Lachish (Ussishkin 2004), Tell Beit Mirsim (Albright 1943), Tel ‘Eton (Faust 2011c; 2016), Tel Halif (Cole 2015), Beth-Shemesh (Bunimovitz and Lederman 2008; 2009), Tel Harasim (Givon and Byrne 2000: 15*, apparently contra Givon 2008: 1767), Tel Burna (Shai 2017), Tel Zayit (Tappy 2008), Tel ‘Azeka (Lipschits et al. 2018), Kh. el Qom (Dever 1993b; Defonzo 2005), and probably also Maresha (Avigad 1993a), Tel Goded (Gibson 1994), and Tel ‘Erani (Yeivin 1993). The region was surveyed extensively, and Dagan (2004: 26–81) estimated the number of eighth century  sites as 289, representing a peak in settlement.¹⁵ Judean Highlands Due to geopolitical reasons, this area is only partially studied (Faust 2014a). Excavated central sites with eighth century  remains include Beth Zur (Vaughn 1999: 42–3), Hebron (Eisenberg and Nagorski 2002; Eisenberg and Ben-Shlomo 2017), and Kh. Rabud (Kochavi 1993b). In addition, a number of eighth-century rural sites were unearthed, including, for example, a series of farmsteads in the southern Hebron hill-country (e.g. Batz 2006),¹⁶ as well as a fort at Kh. Anim (Amit et al. 2008).¹⁷ All in all, this represents a peak when compared with the previous periods. Ofer’s (1993: 2, 125) partial survey identified 122 sites from this era, representing a settlement peak when compared to previous eras. The Judean Desert and the Dead Sea Region The region east of Jerusalem, through the Judean desert to the Dead Sea shore, was only sparsely settled throughout history, but it is possible that the seventh century  settlement phenomenon (Chapter 4) was initiated already in the eighth (Vaughn 1999: 71–8; see also Finkelstein 1994: 175). An eighth century  settlement existed in Jericho (Weippert and Weippert 1976).

¹⁵ Dagan identified 731 Iron IIA–B finds-spots, but since in many cases sherds were brought to their present location as a by-product of removing soil for fertilizing the fields (e.g. Dagan 2004: 2681–2; Wilkinson, 1982; 1988; Dagan 2000: 75–7; Given 2004; Holland 2006: 6, 12; Faust 2014a: 129), he interpreted only 289 locations as habitation sites (including isolated structures). This distinction between finds-spots and habitation sites is important, but was not always paid attention to (more below). ¹⁶ One of the sites, Khallat Umm Sira, was later excavated (Peleg et al. 2011). ¹⁷ It is possible that some of the other rural settlements, discussed in Chapter 4, were founded already by the eighth century , but this is not always easy to establish, especially since the pottery finds were not always published

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The Negev The arid area of the Negev prospered in the eighth century  more than in the preceding periods. Excavated eighth century  sites include Beersheba (near the market; Lehmann 2013), Tel Beersheba (Herzog and Singer-Avitz 2016), Tel ‘Ira (Beit Arieh 1999), Arad (M. Aharoni 1993), Aroer (Thareani 2011), and Tel Malhata (Beit Arieh et al. 2015). As for the survey data, it is : quite clear the Iron Age II represents a significant increase, but inner division within the period is less clear (although it appears that the actual peak was in the seventh century ; Beit Arieh 2003: 11*–12*; see also Govrin 1991: 10*). The eighth century  was also a peak in the three Transjordanian kingdoms.

Ammon The number of Iron II remains grew with time (for a summary, see Tyson 2014a; Younker 2014), and remains from the Iron Age IIB were unearthed in the following (excavated) mounds: the Amman Citadel (Tyson 2014a: 27), Jalul (Herr 2008: 1844–5; Tyson 2014a: 28; Younker 2007: 132), Jawa (Herr 2008: 1845; Tyson 2014a: 28), Safu
t: (Tyson 2014a: 29), Sahab (very limited remains; Ji 1995: 125; Tyson 2014a: 29), Tall al-ʿUmayri (Tyson 2014a: 29), and Hesban (Geraty 1993: 628; Tyson 2014a: 27), as well as the recently discovered fort at Jamaan (Nigro and Gharib 2016).¹⁸ When surveys are considered, Tyson (2014b: 487, 489) estimated about 100 sites (many probably no more than sherds concentrations) in this period.

Moab The region was sparsely settled before the late ninth century  (for a general discussion, see Routledge 2004; Steiner 2014), and even later only two tiers of settlement were identified (Steiner 2014: 772). Eighth-century remains were unearthed in Dhibon (Porter et al. 2007: 318), the capital of the Moab, as well as Kh. al-Mudayna on Wadi ath-Thamad (Herr 2008: 1846), Tell Madaba (Harrison et al. 2007: 146–7), Kh. al-Ataruz (Ji and Bates 2014), and in the ¹⁸ The borders of Ammon are not clear, as can be seen by comparing the assessments of Tyson (2014a), Steiner (2014), Younker (2014), and Rainey and Notley (2006). The boundaries adopted here were minimal in the west, and maximal in the south, but we should bear in mind that some sites might have been Moabite, and a few others could have been Israelites.

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48  -     WT-13 cult site at wadi at-Thamad (Daviau 2017: 72; Steiner 2017: 176).¹⁹ Iron II sherds were identified in some 450 finds-spots (see Routledge 2004: 79 for a summary), but the surveys do not differentiate between sub-periods, and since the seventh century  represents a major growth, it is clear that only some of the sites existed in the eighth century .

Edom Edom prospered in the late Iron Age, and remains were uncovered in Busayra (Bienkowski 2002), the kingdom’s capital and only real city, as well as in a number of villages and farmsteads (some fortified), including Tawilan (Bennet and Bienkowski 1995), Kh. al-Mu’allaq (Lindner et al. 1996a), Ghrareh (Hart 1988), Kh. al-Kur (Hubner and Lindner 2003; the site was only surveyed), as well as a number of mountain-top sites, such as Umm al-Biyara (Bienkowski 2011), as-Sadeh (Lindner et al. 1990), Baja III (Lindner and Farajat 1987), Jabal al-Qseir (Lindner et al. 1996b), Qurayyat al-Manusr (Ben-David 2015: 230), and more (for a discussion of the phenomenon, see e.g. Ben-David 2015). The settlement picture in this region is quite uniform, and it is agreed that the Iron II wave of settlement started in the eighth century  and peaked in the seventh (e.g. Bienkowski 2014; and the extended and detailed discussion in MacDonald 2015, with references). While over 300 Iron II sites were reported in surveys (MacDonald 2015; most were tiny, i.e. finds-spots), exact division within the Iron II is not possible, and the vast majority of sites are probably later.

Intermediate Summary The data presented in this section shows that settlement in the eighth century  was indeed well developed, and most regions flourished more than ever before (with few, minor exceptions, like the Sharon). Naturally, most of the excavated sites were towns, but many rural sites were also excavated, mainly in salvage excavations, completing the settlement spectrum. The data from surveys, although problematic and its interpretation is in some cases based on assumptions, is clearly in line with this generalization, and in almost all ¹⁹ The date of the Iron II fort at Lehun is not clear, although it was suggested that it was erected at the time of Mesha (Homes-Fredriq 2000: 194; see also Routledge 2004: 193).

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regions this period is better represented than any earlier epoch. That the eighth century  was a settlement increase in comparison to earlier periods is therefore the first important conclusion derived from the data. But the data also expose differences between the northern and southern parts of the country. While these differences are not surprising, they are of great importance, and worthy of some elaboration.

The Northern and the Southern Kingdoms in the Eighth Century : Some Demographic Comparisons Although the eighth century  was, by and large, a period of prosperity in almost all regions, many have noted that the nature of this prosperity differed geographically. We have seen that the impression one gets from the various sources, and especially the Bible (despite its pro-Judahite bias) is that the kingdom of Israel was larger and more important than its ‘sister’ (e.g. Broshi and Finkelstein: 1992: 54; Oded 1984: 135; Miller and Hayes 1986: 233–4; Finkelstein 1999; Faust 2012b: 27, 196–206, and more below). Some scholars even interpret the data as if Judah was, from the ninth century  onward, a client of Israel (Miller and Hayes 2006: 304; Finkelstein and Silberman 2001: 229–50), and Finkelstein and Silberman (2001: 159) noted that ‘Judah was little more than Israel’s rural hinterland’. But even if one does not go that far (see the detailed discussion in Na’aman 2013: 258–61), the disparity between the two is quite clear—Israel being by far the more important kingdom, larger than all other polities in the southern Levant, and (most of the time) playing on equal terms with polities like Aram Damascus. The reasons behind the importance of Israel are quite clear. We will elaborate on this issue later in this section, but in a nutshell, the kingdom of Israel was larger than all other polities (on both sides of the Jordan River), and incorporated within it larger fertile valleys, which with higher precipitation than the more southern polities resulted in a much higher agricultural potential. The kingdom also controlled segments of all major roads in the region, i.e. the international highway connecting Syria–Mesopotamia with Egypt, and the King’s Highway, connecting Syria–Mesopotamia and Arabia (and the Arabian trade). The kingdom was also closely associated with prospering Phoenicia, and to some extent served as its hinterland, hence benefiting greatly from the enormous economic success of the latter. The kingdom of Israel was subsequently also richer and more populated than what may be regarded as its peers (for the geopolitics, see Aharoni 1979; Rainey and Notely 2006). The disparity is

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50  -     also clearly seen in the archaeological record, including in the data presented by Broshi and Finkelstein (1992). On the basis of the same set of data noted in ‘Settlement and Demography in the Eighth Century : The Archaeological Evidence’ earlier, they concluded that the number of inhabitants of the kingdom of Israel, west of the Jordan, was 222,500 (Broshi and Finkelstein 1992: 53–4), and that the total number of inhabitants of this polity (including the Gilead) was some 350,000. The number of inhabitants of mid-eighth century  Judah was estimated as some 110,000 people, and that of Philistia as some 50,000. Based on updated information on Israel, Judah, and Philistia, and with fresh assessments of the situation in the Transjordanian kingdoms, as well as taking into account the existence of (limited) pastoral population, we would like to offer the following updated estimates. Keeping in mind the strong reservations on the use of numbers, we use the 350,000 peoples in Israel as our baseline, and the other figures are relative to this (the figures should not be trusted as standalone figures).²⁰ Since recent studies showed that settlement in the Shephelah was more extensive than known in 1992 (Dagan 2000)²¹ and because the Judean highlands are the least studied part of the region (Faust 2014a), hence requiring more ‘compensation’ for unknown sites than other areas west of the Jordan river, and when taking into account the existence of some pastoral population in the south, it appears that the eighth-century population of Judah should be increased to some 140,000–150,000 inhabitants. As for Philistia, it appears that no major new discoveries were made, and the information possessed by Broshi and Finkelstein is quite comprehensive—the 50,000 people is therefore reasonable (including some pastoral population in the fringe areas). Broshi and Finkelstein did not evaluate the number of inhabitants of the Transjordian kingdoms, and given the accumulated data, we can cautiously suggest the following estimates, taking into consideration the existence of substantial pastoral population: Ammon’s population could have reached some 30,000–50,000 peoples, and Moab’s population could have been some 25,000–40,000 peoples. Settlement at Edom was only in its beginning, and with the pastoral population could have been some 15,000–30,000 people at most. As Finkelstein and Silberman (2001: 193) noticed, ‘Israel was surely the most densely populated state in the Levant, with far more inhabitants than Judah, Moab, or Ammon. Its only possible rival was the kingdom of Aram Damascus in southern Syria.’ ²⁰ Broshi and Finkelstein did not take into account sufficient pastoral population in the kingdom of Israel, but I think they overestimated the population of the Gilead, so the 350,000 figure can still stand. ²¹ Leading Finkelstein (1994: 176) to ‘increase’ the total number of inhabitants in Judah at the time to 120,000.

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This, of course, is only to be expected. As noted by many, given the topographical, climatic, and geopolitical differences between the north and south, this was the typical long-term structure of the region, whereas the south was only a shadow of the north (e.g. Finkelstein 1999). These differences between the rich and wealthy north and the more backwater south are expressed in many additional facets of life, including (i) settlement and urbanization; (ii) economy; and (iii) social structure.

The Nature of Urbanization We have seen that Judah, Philistia, and the Transjordanian kingdoms were much less settled than Israel. The gap is apparent not only in the number and density of sites, but also in their sizes, where the average size of sites in the north greatly exceeds that of sites in the south. The differences in the number and, mainly, the sizes of settlements are important, revealing something about the nature of urbanization. Since Philistia and the Transjordanian kingdoms were relatively small at this time, we compare the two larger polities, i.e. Israel and Judah. A systematic study of the information on the larger sites in these two polities (based on all lines of evidence, excavations, and surveys alike) reveals that while both were urbanized in the eighth century , there were some interesting differences between them concerning the nature of urbanization. Both kingdoms had a developed settlement hierarchy, from large capital cities (Samaria, Jerusalem), through administrative cities (Dan, Hazor, Megiddo, Gezer, Lachish; Beersheba), to provincial towns (Tell Beit-Mirsim, Mizpah [Tell en-Nasbeh], and perhaps also Tirzah [Tell el-Farah, North]), down to townships, villages, and farms. The mere existence of such a developed settlement hierarchy clearly indicates a high level of social complexity in both kingdoms (Faust 2012b; cf. Renfrew and Bahn 2004: 183). But a closer look at the data reveals that while the largest cities—the kingdoms’ capitals—were quite large and perhaps similar in size (both Jerusalem and Samaria were apparently around 60 hectares, although some claim that Samaria was smaller; e.g. Herzog 1997a: 229), there were significant differences in the size of the mid-sized and small sites (see the extensive discussion in Faust 2012b: 198–206). Thus, while the kingdom of Israel boasted a number of mid-sized settlements, like Dan (around 200 dunams), Judah lacked such sites, and the largest second-tier sites in Judah were similar in size to relatively small centres in Israel. Furthermore, even the small towns

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52  -     60

Settlement size (in hectares)

50

40

30

20

10

0 1

3

5 7 9 11 13 15 17 The sites (arranged by size, from left [largest] to right [smallest])

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Figure 2.2 Settlement hierarchy in the kingdoms of Israel and Judah

in Israel were larger than their counterparts in Judah (see the extensive discussion in Faust 2012b: 198–206, and references).²² Plotting the twenty largest settlement in both kingdoms on a graph (from larger to smaller, see below), results in the following graphs (Figure 2.2). One can see three graphs. The dotted line represents the kingdom of Israel, and the dashed line represents the kingdom of Judah. The upper, full line represents a pattern known as the ‘rank–size distribution’. This ‘rank–size distribution’ reveals a certain ratio between the city’s size and its place within the settlement hierarchy (compared with the biggest city); when a settlement system fits the rank–size distribution, the second city will have half the population of the largest city, the third city will have one-third of this population, and so on (e.g. Zipf 1941).²³ As can be seen, the situation in Israel fits quite nicely with the rank–size distribution model. The situation in ²² This difference continues further down the scale, as the countryside in Israel is dominated by villages (some quite large), whereas that of Judah is dominated by small villages and farmsteads. ²³ The basic datum used by geographers is population, but since this information is not readily available for archaeologists, the latter use settlement size as a substitute. Notably, the correlation between the two, at least within the same culture, stands at the heart of all ancient demographical studies (e.g. Broshi and Gophna 1984; 1986; Broshi and Finkelstein 1992).

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Judah is different, and mid-sized sites are lacking. The situation in Judah fits nicely with the ‘law of the primate city’, which refers to a phenomenon whereby the largest city in a polity (the primate city) is often several times larger than the next city in the ranking (Jefferson 1939; for Judah, see Barkay 1988). These differences reveal something about the nature of urbanization in both kingdoms, since the ‘primate city’ model is often characteristic of the urban hierarchy in undeveloped states or states whose level of urban development is low (Gibbon 1984: 294–8; Jones 1990: 7–11),²⁴ whereas the ‘rank–size distribution’ model characterizes polities with more advanced urban development (Efrat 1995: 73; cf. Nolan and Lenski 2004: 151–2, fig. 7.4; Jones 1990: 10). While clearly not a one-directional, evolutionary process, the transition from a state fitting the primate city model to a ratio appropriate to the ‘rank–size distribution’ often depends on several factors, such as the duration of the urbanization process or the complexity of the economic and political systems. In young and simple urban societies, there are fewer forces and factors pulling towards the ‘rank–size distribution’ model, and the urban hierarchy will be similar to the ‘primate city’ model, with clear gaps in the settlement hierarchy. As the process of urbanization continues, and societies become larger and more complex, the number of forces pulling towards the ‘rank–size distribution’ model increases; settlements of all sizes are formed, and the graph is ‘completed’ (Gibbon 1984: 294–8). The differences, therefore, indicate that in the Iron IIB period, Israel was more urbanized than Judah.

Economy Although the economy throughout the country flourished in the eighth century , differences between north and south are evident in this realm too, and the olive oil and wine industry (the former is discussed at more detail in Chapter 5) can exemplify the differences. Olive oil had already become a major component of the typical Mediterranean economy by the Chalcolithic period, and installations for the production of olive oil are relatively abundant. Still, evidence for the production of significant amounts of surpluses are not common. Thus, while evidence for the production of olive oil are (not surprisingly) found throughout the country during the Iron Age IIB, and even Iron Age IIA and Iron I (e.g. at ²⁴ A similar phenomenon can occur with the capital of an empire, but the reason is, of course, similar.

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54  -     Hazor, Shechem, Gath, Beth-Shemesh, and more; see Faust 2011d; 2014c), evidence for concentrations of installations and the production of large quantities of surpluses (i.e. greatly exceeding the needs of the local population) are known during most of these periods only from the kingdom of Israel. Such concentration were found, for example, at Kh. Rosh Zayit in the Galilee (Gal and Frankel 1993), Kh. Kla’ (Eitam 1987), Kh. Deir Daqla (Har-Even 2011), Kh. Tibna (Finkelstein et al. 1997: 367), Kurnet Bir et-Tell (Finkelstein 1988: 166; Finkelstein et al. 1997: 447), Sheikh ‘Issa (Faust 2011d: 67), Kh. Bannat Bar (Eitam 1980; 1987: 24; Kochavi 1989), Beit Arye (Eitam 1992b), and Deir el Mir (Gophna and Porath 1972: 232; Eitam 1980) in western Samaria, and more (and see a detailed discussion in Faust 2011d; 2012b). No similar finds, attesting the manufacture of surpluses well beyond the needs of the producing settlement, have been unearthed in the south yet (although it is only to be expected that a few such sites did exist). A few sites in Judah, for example Tell Beit Mirsim (Albright 1943: 55–63; Eitan-Katz 1994: 30–3) and Tel BethShemesh (Bunimovitz and Lederman 2000: 255; 2008: 1648; Eitan-Katz 1994: 24–9), exhibit clear evidence for production of surpluses at the very end of the eighth century  (probably only during the period of Assyrian control of the region, and see Chapter 5 for the significance of this data), but not before, and in most southern sites no such evidence was found even then (for the seventh century  surpluses, see Chapter 5). The same applies to wine. Although installations for the production of wine are typically located in the fields, near the vineyards (e.g. Faust 2003a: 95; Safrai 1995: 206), and cannot therefore be used to learn about production (they are rarely found, and even more rarely securely dated), a large number of wine cellars have been found over the years. But while some seventh century  wine cellars are known from the kingdom of Judah (e.g. Gibeon and Kh. el-Burj; see Pritchard 1964; De Groot and Weinberger-Stern 2013, respectively), all the known eighth century  wine-cellars were found in sites in the kingdom of Israel, for example at Kh. Jemein (Dar 1986a; 1986b), Kh. Urma (Frumkin 2005: 53), Sheikh ‘Issa (Frumkin 2005), Kh. Deir Daqla (Eitam 1980: 49), Kh. et-Tell (Tavgar et al. 2016: 18), and others.²⁵

²⁵ Since it is much easier to date the end of a phenomenon rather that its earlier phases (e.g. Faust and Sapir 2018), and since most highland sites in Judah were not destroyed in the eighth century  (see Chapters 3 and 4), it is possible that in this case there is some bias towards the seventh century  in Judah, and some of the wine cellars in Judah were constructed earlier. Still, since some sites were destroyed in the eighth century , including the Shephelah (see Chapter 4), I find this reservation insufficient to account for the difference, and even if the phenomenon did start earlier, the evidence in the north is far greater than that in the south.

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       

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The economic data shows that while the entire country prospered during the eighth century , the north produced far more surpluses than the south. This is not surprising, of course, and should be viewed in conjunction with the different economic potential of the different regions. As already noted, the basic conditions favour the north over the south in practically every respect. • While the land of Israel as a whole suffers from severe fluctuations in rainfall, average rainfall declines as one moves southward. Furthermore, much of the south is at the edge of the desert, and suffers much more from droughts (Bailey 1957: 41–66; Aharoni 1979: 8–11). • The northern valleys include the best agricultural land in the entire country (Aharoni 1979: 12, 24; see also Bailey 1957: 148–54). This is followed by parts of the coastal plain, as well as large valleys like the valley of Ayalon, which was also part of the kingdom of Israel, and only then come smaller highland valleys, which existed also in Judah (see the discussion in Aharoni 1979; Bailey 1957). • The major highway in the region was the international highway that connected Syria–Mesopotamia with Egypt (e.g. Bailey 1957: 113, and see fig. 23; Aharoni 1979: 45–54). The highway crossed the northern valleys, and then moved along the trough valley between the hills of Samaria and the Sharon. Although, before arriving at the Sharon, the highway had more than one possible route, the alternative routes were all controlled by the kingdom of Israel, thus enabling it to reduce possible competition and maintain higher taxes. Along the Sharon, due to the topography and ecology of this region, there was only one route, and it was also controlled by Israel. Once reaching Aphek, however, the highway split into a number of routes, moving along the coastal plain, and practically outside the kingdom of Judah. The Philistine cities benefited from the road to some extent, depending on the exact political situation and their control over segments of the road, which had alternative routes in the southern coastal plain, thus encouraging competition and reducing duties. The second important highway was the so-called King’s Highway in Transjordan, connecting Arabia and the Arabian trade with SyroMesopotamia (Bailey 1957: 113, and fig. 23; Aharoni 1979: 54–7). Although crossing the local Transjordanian kingdoms, the highway also passed through the kingdom of Israel in the Gilead. The control over the major roads secured income from duties, and was therefore an important economic factor, increasing the prosperity in the kingdom of Israel (see also Aharoni 1979: 15–16; Holladay 1995; 2009). Judah and

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56  -     Philistia controlled an off-shoot of the King’s Highway, connecting it with the southern coastal plain (for its importance, see also Finkelstein 1994; Holladay 1995). • Unlike Judah, the kingdom of Israel had access to the sea. While evidence suggests that for various reasons maritime trade was not significant in the kingdom of Israel (e.g. Faust 2006c; 2011e; Gilboa et al. 2015), direct access to the sea secured income from services, and indirectly also from trade and its outcomes (see also Aharoni 1979: 17–18; Holladay 2009). Additionally, it improved Israel’s geopolitical standing, and its importance for Tyre (see below), which inevitably had economic manifestations. • Finally, some parts of the north also formed an agricultural hinterland of Phoenicia, especially Tyre, and hence benefited greatly from the huge economic prosperity of this polity, which at the time discussed here controlled much of the Mediterranean trade, and had colonies throughout the Mediterranean and even on the Atlantic coasts of Iberia and North Africa (Aubet 2001; Elayi 2013).

Social Structure While settlement, demography, and economy are the major issues that are relevant to the discussion of the reality under Assyrian rule in the coming chapters, it must be stressed that differences between Israel and Judah were also observed in social structure (Faust 2012b).²⁶ On the common side, both kingdoms exhibit evidence for state apparatus, expressed in tax collection, maintenance of forts, construction of public buildings, such as storehouses, and perhaps also stables, as well as the massive fortifications that encircled the various cities (Barkay 1992; Herzog 1997a; Faust 2012b; 2019a, and references). In settlements in which there is evidence for such state activity (mostly towns and cities), one finds little evidence for community organization, and the size, quality, and inner division of buildings suggest that the vast majority of them housed small, nuclear families (Faust 2012b). Some dwellings, however, were much larger than the others, had different planning, and were of high quality. These were the houses of the large families of the urban elite (and probably some functionaries), exposing

²⁶ Information on the Philistine cities and the Transjordanian kingdoms is insufficient to allow detailed social analysis.

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       

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Figure 2.3 Socioeconomic stratification in the kingdom of Judah

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Figure 2.4 Socioeconomic stratification in the kingdom of Israel

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58  -     severe socioeconomic stratification in most towns and cities (Faust 2012b, and references).²⁷ While socioeconomic stratification can be easily identified in urban settlements in both kingdoms, there is a clear difference in the form of stratification. An analysis of Judahite settlements in which a sufficient number of houses were exposed shows that during the eighth century  there were usually only two distinctive social classes (see Figure 2.3):²⁸ (i) a lower class, composed of the vast majority of the population (composed of various sub-groups, of course); and (ii) a very limited upper class of the rich. In contrast, the cities in Israel exhibit a sort of spectrum between the richest and the poorest (Figure 2.4). The socioeconomic gap in Israel was no smaller, but there were also middle classes (Faust 2012b). The difference in the nature of stratification is in line with Israel and Judah being different types of agrarian societies (somewhat comparable to the abovementioned differences in the nature of urbanization). Nolan and Lenski (2004: 135–73), for example, divided agrarian societies into ‘advanced’ and ‘simple’. One of the differences is that in a simple agrarian society there are only two socio-economic strata: a very limited wealthy class, and a very widespread lower class (Nolan and Lenski 2004: 143), while in an advanced agrarian society there is a larger number of social strata (Nolan and Lenski 2004: 168–70). Thus, while the architectural data derived from the urban sector of both kingdoms is indicative of economic inequality and social stratification, the lack of a middle class in Judah reveals that it was less ‘complex’, while Israel was more advanced, in line with other types of evidence mentioned in this section.

Summary Despite local confrontations of various sorts, in the eighth century  the Southern Levant experienced several generations of relative peace, and this was expressed in settlement peak and economic prosperity. Many cities prospered, and there is strong evidence for advanced administration. In almost all parts of the country, settlement in the eighth century  exceeded that of all earlier periods. Settlement development was also very pronounced in the

²⁷ It appears that in the rural sector, the situation was different, and the traditional kinship structure was preserved there, but this is irrelevant for the present study (see Faust 2000; 2012b). ²⁸ Jerusalem is apparently an exception.

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       

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rural sector. There were also economic development, and there is strong evidence for the production of surpluses of wine and olive oil in many settlements, especially in the north (see also Appendix 5.2). Although evident throughout most of the country, prosperity was far more pronounced in the north, where both settlement (and hence demography) and economic activity exceeded that in the south. This should not come as a surprise, of course, as the north enjoyed many geo-political advantages, stemming from its climate, control of roads, and access to the sea, as well as the existence of large, fertile valleys. This is how the country looked before the direct impact of the Assyrian empire was felt. Once the latter polity appeared with all its might in the last third of the century, drastic transformations ensued. Chapter 3 reviews the arrival of the Assyrians in the southern Levant.

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3 ‘Ah, Assyria, the Rod of My Anger’ The Assyrian Takeover of the Southwest

The world we described in Chapter 2 was the culmination of centuries of evolving complexity. These gradual processes, however, came to an abrupt end in the last third of the eighth century , as a consequence of the Assyrian conquests of the region. Before describing the new, post-conquest world which is the focus of this book, it is the aim of the present chapter to briefly summarize the Assyrian takeover itself, from the empire’s early encounters with the region in the ninth century , through the first conquests at the time of Tiglath-pileser III, to the time of Sennacherib’s western campaign in 701  and the subsequent pacification of the region.

Beyond the Horizon: Assyria and the Levant Prior to the Time of Tiglath-Pileser III As far as the southern Levant was concerned, Assyria first appeared just behind the horizon around the middle of the ninth century , as part of the empire’s expansion at the time of Shalmaneser III.¹ Shalmaneser was the last king of what we defined as phase 3 of Assyrian expansion (see Chapter 1), and he strove to reach the west, most likely in an attempt to extract tribute from the prospering Phoenician trade and from some nearby regions. We know of this attempt from various annals and from the Kurkh monolith, describing the king’s first six years, including the battle of Qarqar (northern Syria), which took place in 853  (e.g. Cogan 2008b: 13–22). The texts describe the king’s victory over an allied army of Aramean kingdoms, the Phoenician cities, and some of the kingdoms in their vicinity, including Israel. The first kings mentioned are Hadad-ezer of Damascus and Irhuleni of

¹ Even the southernmost place mentioned in connection with Tiglath-pileser I’s campaigns (in the late second millennium ) was located to the north of the discussed area (e.g. Rainey and Notley 2006: 106–7).

The Neo-Assyrian Empire in the Southwest: Imperial Domination and Its Consequences. Avraham Faust, Oxford University Press (2021). © Avraham Faust. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198841630.003.0003

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     

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Hamath, followed by Ahab of Israel, and then others.² According to the Kurkh inscription, Ahab contributed to the coalition against Assyria the largest chariot force and one of the largest infantry forces.³ Despite the intensity of this campaign (and others), when viewed in perspective it did not lead to real expansion,⁴ and despite boasting Assyrian victory, the actual results of the battle are not completely clear, as in subsequent years the Assyrian army continued to march in Syria, often meeting fierce opposition. Only gradually did Assyria get some footing in northern and central Syria. Despite its historical importance, however, the battle and the Assyrian advance did not (yet) have any direct or long-lasting impact on the situation in the Southern Levant. Another text, inscribed on a large marble slab uncovered on Ashur’s wall, mentioned the surrender of Jehu of Israel in 841 , just twelve years after the battle of Qarqar (Cogan 2008b: 27–8). The inscription mentions the destruction of many cities in Syria, and the surrender of the kings of Tyre and Israel, suggesting that Assyria was beginning to exert some pressure on the Southern Levant, even if its army probably did not physically arrive there. Jehu’s surrender is also mentioned in the black obelisk (in 838 ), when Shalmaneser is said to have received tribute from the peoples of the Lebanese coast, Tyre, Sidon, and Byblos, as well as Jehu, king of Israel (Cogan 2008b: 26). While many cities in Syria were apparently devastated, as stated in the Black Obelisk and elsewhere (Cogan 2008b: 22–31), and although Shalmaneser III reached the Mediterranean—perhaps near the Carmel or Rosh Haniqra (Aharoni 1979: 341; Cogan 2008b: 28–9; see also Bagg 2013, n. 12)—the actual impact on the Southern Levant was still limited. The tribute was no doubt a burden, but it is doubted how much influence Assyria exerted on the local population. There is no clear evidence for devastation of sites in the region during the event, and as far as we know, this is not even proclaimed by the Assyrians themselves. The Assyrian pressure was felt by the kings of the Southern Levant, and to some extent also by local armies that were sent to face the Assyrians at Qarqar. But tribute was apparently occasional, Assyrian soldiers and officials were not permanently stationed in the Southern Levant, and the empire at large was still beyond the horizon, at least as far as the daily life of the local population was concerned.

² Some scholars suggested that Ammon is also mentioned (on line 95, e.g. Millard 1992: 35; Tyson 2014a: 72–5), but this is rejected by many others (see Tyson 2014a: 72–4 for references, and see also Cogan 2008b: 20). ³ The battle is also mentioned, with some differences, on the black obelisk (Cogan 2008b: 22–4). ⁴ When viewing their results, some campaigns were no more than huge ‘raids’ (cf. Fuchs 2011: 390).

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62  -     Moreover, even the immediate regions beyond the horizons were not annexed by the Assyrian empire, and maintained their status as (semi-)independent kingdoms. Despite Assyrian campaigns in Syria, Aram Damascus remained independent, and for a generation, at the time of Hazael, even became a regional empire. Hazael, who survived the Assyrian pressure, expanded southward, and brought about destruction to many sites in the Southern Levant, in Israel, Philistia, and perhaps elsewhere (Oded 1984: 146–50; Rainey and Notley 2006: 214). It is only after a gap of about two generations that there is again some reference to the Southern Levant in Assyrian sources. Adad-nīrārī III (809–782) mentioned that Joash of Samaria paid him tribute (perhaps in 797 ). This episode, like all other episodes involving Assyria at this early stage, is not mentioned in the Bible (more below), but it is possible that the event is hinted at in II Kings 13:5, which informs that Israel was ‘delivered’ from Aram; it is often suggested that the Assyrian attacks on Aram forced the latter to ease the pressure on the kingdom of Israel, which willingly capitulated to the Assyrian ‘deliverer’ (Cogan 2008b: 39–41; see also Oded 1984: 148). While Assyrian pressure on Aram Damascus is noted in some Assyrian inscriptions of this period, of the more southern kingdoms only Israel is frequently mentioned, and in one instance (a stone tablet from Calah (Cogan 2008b: 33–6; Millard 1992: 35), Edom and Philistia are also reported as paying tribute. Other polities are not mentioned even once.⁵ Moreover, it appears that after this incidental reference to the Southern Levant, the Assyrians again withdrew, and the region was again well beyond their orbit. While Israel was more populated, wealthy, and powerful by comparison to other local kingdoms, with the absence of a real superpower, all polities should be regarded as peers. Thus, the period of a few generations that followed the ‘deliverance’ of Israel and preceded the arrival of the Assyrian armies at the time of Tiglath-pileser III was relatively peaceful, and experienced, as we have seen in Chapter 2, economic and demographic growth. All this clearly suggests that while Assyria had some interactions with the land of Israel even before Tiglath-pileser III, this was usually done from a distance, and no permanent Assyrian presence was felt in the region. The tribute was most likely sporadic, and although no details are given, it would be reasonable to assume that it was significant, but probably not sufficiently so as to influence the daily lives of the local population. Moreover, only Israel is systematically mentioned as paying tribute, and most polities—for example, Judah and Moab—are not mentioned even once in known Assyrian sources. ⁵ For the possibility that Ammon was mentioned once in the ninth century, see above.

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     

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Furthermore, none of the above events is mentioned in the Bible, and it appears that Assyria had not yet left any clear imprint on the region’s collective memory. This, however, was all about to change.

The Assyrians are Coming: Tiglath-Pileser III and the Subjugation of the Levant Tiglath-pileser III resumed Assyria’s expansionist policy in 744 , greatly expanding the empire, in what Cogan (2008b: 47) defined as ‘the most aggressive period of Assyrian expansion’. During his reign, ‘the NeoAssyrian empire doubled its territorial holdings and sphere of influence’ (Hunt 2015: 29). Tiglath-pileser III’s rise to power clearly signals the end of phase 4 in Assyrian history—a period in which the empire was in some crisis, and when officials took over many of the king’s roles. Tiglath-pileser III ‘began his imperial renewal by circumscribing the territories of the provincial governors, and their responsibilities’, and this was followed ‘with a series of military campaigns that brought Assyria back to its former predominant position ‘from the Upper Sea (= Mediterranean) to the Lower Sea (= Persian Gulf)’ (Cogan 2008b: 47, and see also Chapter 1). While Tiglath-pileser III began his expansionist policy early in his reign, it initially concentrated on regions closer to Assyria and, as far as the west was concerned, on the northern parts of Syria and Lebanon, only gradually moving southward. Thus, in 738 , in an annal fragment, Menahem king of Israel, is mentioned, along with other western kings (Tyre, Byblos, Carchemish, Hamath, Sam’al, and more) as paying tribute to Assyria (Cogan 2008b: 51–3). A year later, in 737, the Iran Stella mentions a number of kings who paid tribute to Assyria, including Menahem, king of Israel (Samaria), Tuba’il king of Tyre, Rezin of Damascus, and others, like Byblos, the Kedarites, and more (Cogan 2008b: 54–6). Another campaign in the same year is mentioned in summary inscription 9 (Cogan 2008b: 51–3). What is important to emphasize is that at this stage only Israel is mentioned (and also the Arabs), but the other Southern Levantine polities, including Judah, Ammon, Moab, and Edom, are not (Millard 1992: 36). The 734–732  campaign was more significant. Campaigning against Gaza in 734, Tiglath-pileser III conquered Philistia (Oded 1984: 153; Rainey and Notely 2006: 229; see also Cogan 2015), and a year later, he increased his pressure on Aram and Israel (733–732 ; see Rainey and Notley 2006: 229). It was in 732  that Tiglath-pileser III

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64  -     finally conquered Damascus, which together with Israel, Tyre, Ashkelon, and Gaza, rebelled against Assyria. As far as the Southern Levant is concerned, the 734–732  campaign is probably the most important campaign in the history of the region, and from then until the twentieth century (with few brief interludes), the region would be under imperial yoke. Not only were large parts of the region destroyed and\or annexed to Assyria, but this is also the first time that the entire region came within the Assyrian orbit. I refer to the actual campaign below, but it is interesting to note it is only from this point onward that Assyrian inscriptions mention all the kingdoms of the Southern Levant. Thus, a summary inscription that was not updated until Tiglath-pileser III’s seventeenth year (i.e. 729 ), but apparently reflecting the situation in 734 , in addition to kings\kingdoms noted in previous inscriptions, also mentions the kings of Ashkelon, Gaza, Judah, Edom, Moab, and Ammon as paying tribute (Cogan 2008b: 56–60; see also Millard 1992: 36).⁶ It appears that until the conquest of Southern Syria in the 730s , the Assyrians did not have close interaction with the kingdoms of the southern Levant, and satisfied themselves with taking tribute from the major ones (politically and economically, i.e. Damascus, Israel, and Tyre). Once Damascus and Israel rebelled, the Assyrians moved southward, and while being physically present, they quickly also subjugated the smaller, more southern polities, which were until this time beyond the Assyrian horizon.⁷ It is not only the Southern Levant that finally came fully into the Assyrian horizon (i.e. appearing in Assyrian inscriptions), but this is also the first time that the Assyrians appear explicitly in biblical descriptions. Thus, from a textual perspective, the appearance of the Assyrian empire was not gradual. The empire arrived in the region with all its might in 734 , when Ahaz capitulated to Assyria. It is also likely that the background of the events surrounding this capitulation (II Kings 15:37, 16:5–9; Isaiah 7:1–9), in which Rezin king of Damascus and Pekah king of Israel besieged Jerusalem, is the rebellion against Assyria by the more central kingdoms of Aram and Israel, and their attempt to force Judah to join the anti-Assyrian coalition (perhaps in an attempt to replicate the coalition that fought the Assyrians at Qarqar; Oded 1984: 152–3; see also Cogan 2008b: 61). The Assyrian army, however, crushed the rebellion. Tyre had apparently already surrendered in the first stage of the ⁶ Missing from the list are the kings of Tyre and Israel that were in rebellion at the time, and this is part of the reason why Cogan dates the list to 734 . ⁷ Some scholars suggest that Azariah, mentioned in one of Tiglath-pileser III’s inscriptions (740 ) as a king defeated in Syria is Uzzaiah, but not only is this debated (e.g. Oded 1984: 151; Rainey and Notley 2006: 219–20), but it also does not make much chronological difference.

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     

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campaign, in 734 , Damascus fell in 732  following a two-year siege, and Tiglath-pileser III also captured the northern part of the kingdom of Israel. The new king of Israel surrendered and was left only with (most of) the southern part of the polity, mainly in the hilly region of Samaria (Oded 1984: 154; Cogan 2008b: 73; Rainey and Notley 2006: 232). Tiglath-pileser III’s campaign to the Southern Levant is well documented in a number of summary inscriptions unearthed in various parts of the empire (nos 4, 8, 9, and 13 in Cogan 2008b: 60–73), in a few annal fragments detailing the fall of Damascus and the conquest of the Galilee (Cogan 2008b: 74–8), as well as in the Bible, where the conquest of Galilee is described in II Kings 15:29, and the subjugation of Samaria is described in II Kings 17:3–6 (see also various papers in Hasegawa et al. 2019). While Syria and the northern part of the kingdom of Israel were turned into provinces, the remainder of the kingdom of Israel (centred on Samaria) as well as most other kingdoms in the region, which were now all within the Assyrian orbit, became clients (Figure 3.1). Given the detailed archaeological information at our disposal, it is not surprising that the footprints of the campaigns are found throughout the region. Thus, the outcomes of Tiglath-pileser III’s campaign to the north, mentioned both in the Assyrian sources and the Bible, are identified (in the form of destruction or abandonment) in many sites, for example in Hazor, Kinrot, Bethsaida, Ein Gev, Tel Hadar, Tel Rehov, Jokneam, Tel Qiri, Tell Ziraʿa, Irbid, Tell Rumeith, and many others (see the extended discussion in Chapter 4). As for the southern parts of the country, given the repeating Assyrian campaign to some regions in the times of Sargon II and Sennacherib, it is difficult to attribute specific destructions to Tiglath-pileser III, but on the basis of both text and archaeology it appears that he captured Gezer, in the southern edge of the kingdom of Israel (e.g. Cogan 2015; see also Dubovský 2006: 166; Aster and Faust 2015: 298–9; Fantalkin and Tal 2015: 210; Ornan, Ortiz and Wolff 2013: 7), and perhaps even some sites in Judah (according to Blakely and Hardin 2002, but see Finkelstein and Na’aman 2004; Na’aman 2016: 119). Thus, within the scope of these three years the entire southern Levant— most polities of which were until now beyond the Assyrian horizon and were not even mentioned in the texts—became either part of Assyria (māt Aššur) or under its yoke.⁸ ⁸ The Assyrian takeover of the west as a whole was a complex process, and Bagg (2013: 119) mentioned that there were sixty-seven Assyrian campaigns to the region.

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66  -    

Figure 3.1 Schematic map detailing the Assyrian expansion in the Southern Levant Note: Boundaries are very approximate and reflect an early stage of control, soon after the Assyrian conquests, when Tyre apparently maintained much of its hinterland. The estimated territory of Ashdod is marked separately with diagonal lines because it was, for a time, a province, and the Shephelah is marked because much of it changed its status after Sennacherib’s campaign. Source: Base map courtesy of Gunnar Lehmann, prepared by Charles Wilson; courtesy of the Tel ‘Eton expedition.

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Stabilising Assyrian Control: The Rule of Shalmaneser V and Sargon II Tiglath-pileser III died in 727 , and was replaced by his son, Shalmaneser V. The latter’s rule was quite short (727–722 ), and the Assyrian sources do not contribute much information concerning his activities in the region. According to the Bible, however: ³ Shalmaneser king of Assyria came up to attack Hoshea, who had been Shalmaneser’s vassal and had paid him tribute. ⁴ But the king of Assyria discovered that Hoshea was a traitor, for he had sent envoys to So king of Egypt, and he no longer paid tribute to the king of Assyria, as he had done year by year. Therefore Shalmaneser seized him and put him in prison. ⁵ The king of Assyria invaded the entire land, marched against Samaria and laid siege to it for three years. ⁶ In the ninth year of Hoshea, the king of Assyria captured Samaria and deported the Israelites to Assyria. He settled them in Halah, in Gozan on the Habor River and in the towns of the Medes (II Kings 17:3–6).

The situation, however, is not as straightforward as it might seem from these verses, since the Assyrian sources are not silent on Samaria’s conquest, and a number of texts (e.g. the Khorasbad summary inscription, the Calah summary inscription, and the Khorasbad annals; Cogan 2008b: 82–96) explicitly attribute the conquest of Samaria to Sargon II (722–705 ). Various attempts were made to reconcile the contradicting data, for example suggesting that Shalmaneser V began the siege, and perhaps even broke the walls, but then died, and the Assyrian army returned to Assyria and Sargon II had to recapture the city in 720  (and see Tadmor 1958; Oded 1984: 155). What is important, however, is that by the late 720s , after repeating revolts, Samaria ceased to be a client state, and was annexed and became a province (Tadmor 1958; Oded 1984: 155–6; Becking 1992; Younger 1999; see also various papers in Hasegawa et al. 2019). Archaeologically speaking, the conquest of Samaria was accompanied by large-scale destruction and abandonment that can be seen, for example, in Tell el-Farah (N), Khirbet Marjameh, Kh. Jemein, Beit Arye, Deir Diqla, Kh. Kla, and many others (see the detailed discussion in Chapter 4).

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68  -    

Figure 3.2 An Assyrian destruction: a photo depicting the destruction in one of the rooms in building 101 (room 101D), at Tel ‘Eton. Note: The site was destroyed during one of the Assyrian campaigns of the late eighth century . Note the smashed vessels (discovered with their content) and the remains of ceiling (white layer) on top of them. Source: Courtesy of the Tel ‘Eton expedition; photographed by Avraham Faust.

Sargon also boasted the conquest of Judah (he is described as ‘the subduer of the land of Judah’), and it is possible that he campaigned against Judah at the same time when he subdued the rebellion in Samaria (Rainey and Notley 2006: 234–5). He also campaigned against Philistia, and his final battle in 720  was at Raphah, probably in connection with Gaza (Rainey and Notley 2006: 235–6). An additional campaign was apparently carried out in 716–715  (Rainely and Notley 2006: 236; Aster 2017: 154–7). Finally, in 712 ,⁹ he campaigned against Ashdod (Rainey and Notley 2006: 236; cf. Isaiah 20:1). Although it is not always easy to distinguish between the destruction levels attributed to the different Assyrian campaigns, a number of destruction layers are attributed to Sargon II’s campaigns, for example Ashdod (e.g Ben-Shlomo 2013) in Philistia, and perhaps also a few in Judah (e.g. Na’aman 2016, but see Blakely and Hardin 2002) (Figure 3.2). Clearly, Sargon stabilized the Assyrian control in the region, completing the process that was initiated by Tiglath-pileser III. ⁹ Or 711  (Fuchs 1998).

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Holding the Empire: The First Years of Sennacherib Sargon II died in a battle in the Land of Tabal in 705 , and his body was not recovered and was not brought for burial. Many inhabitants of the ancient Near East saw this as a sign that Sargon had sinned and angered the gods (e.g. Tadmor et al. 1989, and references). While Sennacherib, Sargon’s son and successor, attempted to discover what had been Sargon’s sin in order to make up for it, many of the clients saw this ‘anger’ of the gods as a sign that they could rebel (according to some, this is reflected in Isaiah 14), and the disorder in Assyria was perhaps too good an opportunity to miss. Sennacherib, therefore, had to spend his first years on the throne campaigning throughout the Near East, pacifying the region (Rainey and Notley 2006: 240–1; Cogan 2008b: 110). A description of Sennacherib’s campaign to the west was preserved in a number of prisms (Tadmor 1984; 2011: 653–76; Cogan 2008b: 110–23, and references). The detailed description begins with the surrender of the Phoenicians, and the fleeing of Luli, king of Sidon, overseas. Sennacherib accepted the surrender of many kings, including some from the Lebanese coast, as well as the kings of Ashdod, Ammon, Moab, and Edom, that paid him tribute. The campaign proceeded south, towards Philistia, and the inscription describes the exile of the king of Ashkelon, and the capturing of many of the kingdom’s cities. The prism then describes the conquest of the Ekron, the defeat of the rebels who assumed power, and the reinstating of the deposed king, Padi, who was held captive in Jerusalem. A brief description of an encounter with the Egyptian army is embedded within this part of the campaign. The last, and longest, part of the description is devoted to the war against Judah. The prism details the great loot taken from this polity, the enormous devastation brought on it, as well as the confinement of Hezekiah in Jerusalem like ‘a bird in a cage’. While the Bible (mostly II Kings 18–19; Isaiah 36–37) seems to portray the opposite picture, a closer reading of all texts suggests that the different sources do not really contradict each other. Each is attempting to ‘conceal’ the unpleasant elements (the defeat and surrender of Judah in the Bible, and the survival of Jerusalem and Hezekiah in the Assyrian texts), which are only briefly described (but they are mentioned), mixed with other components of the events which are expanded and glorified (the survival of Jerusalem in the case of the Bible, and the defeat and surrender of Judah in the Assyrian texts) (e.g. Tadmor 1984; Eshel 1991; Faust 2017).¹⁰ ¹⁰ And in the Bible, there is also the addition of the miraculous saving of the city (II Kings 19–35), but the text explicitly acknowledges Judah’s devastation and Hezekiah’s surrender (II Kings 18:13–15).

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70  -     It is quite clear that Assyria won, the rebellious polities surrendered to Assyria either without war (e.g. Ashdod, Ammon, Moab, and Edom) or following one (e.g. Ashkelon and Judah) and the rebellious kings, with the exception of Hezekiah, were deposed. The provinces did not rebel, and the Transjordanian kingdoms surrendered early on, so the campaign focused on Phoenicia and the southern part of Cisjordan (Judah and Philistia). Some destruction in these regions can be attributed to Sennacherib, but as noted in the sections above, it is difficult to distinguish such episodes from the destructions inflicted on these regions by Tiglath-pileser III and Sargon II. As far as Judah is concerned, earlier campaigns either left it unharmed or caused only incidental damage, and most of the late eighth century  destructions are typically attributed to the 701  campaign (although this is perhaps not always justified). Notably, most of our information is on the destruction of the Shephelah, and we have more limited evidence from other regions, where devastation was partial (Faust 2008, and references). Sites that were impacted in the Shephelah (though the attribution of the destruction to Sennacherib is not always certain) include, for example, Lachish (whose conquest was depicted on the walls of a room in Sennacherib’s palace), Beth-Shemesh, Tel Halif, Tel Beth-Shemesh, Tel Goded, Khirbet el-Qom, and many others, and destruction in other regions was also identified, for example, in Hebron, BethZur and Kh. Rabud (see Chapter 4 for a detailed discussion). By the end of Sennacherib’s campaign, the southwest was pacified, and 701 , therefore, conveniently close the period of the Assyrian takeover of the region, lasting a third of a century (734–701 ). By that time, the northern part of the country—directly controlled by Assyria (the land of Assur)—was divided into a number of provinces, probably Qarnayim, Megiddo, and Samaria (for the provinces, and the status of Dor, see detailed discussion in Chapter 7). It is not clear when the provinces were established, but it could be assumed that the process had already been initiated at the time of Tiglathpileser III (e.g. Oded 1984: 154–5; van de Mieroop 2007: 251). In the southern part of the region, the semi-independent kingdoms of Judah, Ammon, Moab, Edom and (some of) the Philistine city states maintained some autonomy, in the shadow of Assyria, and this was also the fate of Tyre (van de Mieroop 2007: 248–52; see also Rainey and Notely 2006: 238–50).¹¹

¹¹ It appears that Ashdod was annexed in 712 , re-established as a kingdom after Sargon’s death, turned into a province again (as the 669  eponym was the city’s governor), but later kings were reinstated (see Tadmor 1966: 94–5; Aster 2018b: 285).

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Summary During the crisis of 823–745 , the Assyrian empire occasionally extended formal domination over some of the larger polities of the Levant (Damscus, Tyre, and Israel), acquiring tribute. Still, even these kingdoms were not under direct Assyrian control, and most of the southern Levantine polities were outside the Assyrian horizon, and are not even mentioned in the various Assyrian sources. Similarly, at this stage Assyria is not mentioned in the Bible. Tiglath-pileser III’s expansionist policy completely transformed the situation. He initiated a policy of aggressive expansion, and harshly reacted to rebellions of some of the local kingdoms (Damascus, Israel, and Tyre), which apparently ceased to pay tribute. Damascus, one of the mightiest kingdoms in the region was completely crushed in 732, and the kingdom of Israel—its competitor for the hegemony in the region for generations—also fell prey to Assyrian expansion. The former ceased to exist, while the latter was significantly reduced in size and most of its territories turned into provinces. Only the region of Samaria received a grace period of about a decade, and remained semi-independent. This region, however, along with other parts of the Southern Levant that were not turned into māt Aššur at the time, came under indirect Assyrian control, and paid tribute to the empire. It appears that despite its nominal subordination to Assyria and the fact that it paid tribute, the mere existence of Damascus held Assyria back, and shielded the Southern Levant from directly interacting with it. Once Damascus was out of the picture (first besieged and then conquered), the might of Assyria appeared in the southwest. The kingdom of Israel was devastated, and the new king was left with only his capital and a very small territory around it. The rest of the kingdom was annexed. We now also hear that all the local kingdoms are paying tribute to Assyria. Not only was much of the Southern Levant turned into Assyria proper, but even the regions that were under the yoke of Assyria were now in close proximity to Assyrian centres of power, unlike the situation until a few years earlier, when the kingdom of Israel, for example, was very far from the nearest Assyrian official—something that made subordination to Assyria less embedded in daily practices. Within three years, the entire southern Levant came into close contact with Assyria’s might. While the conquest of the region by Tiglath-pileser III is no doubt the cornerstone of the change, it appears that Sargon II consolidated Assyria’s control, relentlessly campaigning, conquering and pacifying various parts of the empire, including the Southern Levant. While during most of his rule

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72  -     Sennacherib enacted a different policy, in his first years on the throne he was busy reconquering the empire. By 701 , however, the stabilization of Assyrian control in the southwest had ended, and the enterprise that started in 734  was complete. This is when the period that is sometimes called ‘the Assyrian Peace’ begins (cf. Chapter 1, and see detailed discussion in Chapter 9). The processes that accompanied the incorporation of the southern Levant within the Assyrian empire had a substantial impact on life in the region. Chapters 4 and 5 aim to reconstruct the settlement, demography, and economy of the region in the wake of these campaigns, when the region was under direct and indirect Assyrian control.

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4 Under the Empire Settlement and Demography in the Southwestern Periphery of the Assyrian Empire in the Seventh Century 

What was the settlement reality in the southwest under Assyrian rule? We have seen that in most areas, the eighth century  settlement was larger and denser than that of any previous era, and it is usually agreed that the eighth century  was the settlement peak in most parts of the region. Instances of seventh century  settlement expansion into marginal, desert areas, were explained as resulting from the ‘Assyrian peace’, and even imperial investments in trade and economic development. It appears, however, that the overall settlement reality was far more complex, as expansion and development occurred in many subregions, all located in the client states, whereas the Assyrian provinces experienced severe decline. The relations between seventh century  settlement expansion and contraction and Assyrian policies and actions are therefore far more complex than many scholars had previously suggested. The actual Assyrian policies and actions are discussed at length in later chapters in the book, and the following review serves as a foundation for the discussion, as it allows easy comparison with the situation prior to the Assyrian conquests of the region, presented in Chapter 2, and thus serves as first step in an assessment of the Assyrian impact.

Settlement and Demography in the Seventh Century  The overall settlement and demography of the Southern Levant during the Iron Age IIC (roughly seventh century ) were not studied systematically. A number of relatively broad studies were conducted over the years, but unlike, for example, Broshi and Finkelstein 1992’s study of the eighth century  (Chapter 2), these did not address the country as a whole. Some regions, for example Judah or parts thereof, were studies (Finkelstein 1994; Faust

The Neo-Assyrian Empire in the Southwest: Imperial Domination and Its Consequences. Avraham Faust, Oxford University Press (2021). © Avraham Faust. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198841630.003.0004

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74  -    

Figure 4.1 Map of sites mentioned in Chapter 4. The Box in the bottom right of the map shows the sites in Edom, farther south. Source: Prepared by Tidhar Karo; courtesy of the Tel ‘Eton expedition.

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2008), and a prosperity and expansion into desert areas were noted (see also Stager 1976; Thareani Sussely 2007), but the overall patterns throughout the country were obliterated, and did not receive much attention. A systematic examination of the settlement, and by extension also the demography (see the sections below, and Faust 2018c; 2018d), of the region during the Iron Age IIC reveals a markedly different picture from that of the eighth century . While the picture is complex and some regions prospered, whereas other declined (sometimes dramatically), it appears that the changes were not random, and clear patterns can be observed. In the following sections we present the data, mainly from excavated sites (see Figure 4.1), according to regions (not necessarily corresponding with provincial divisions). In each region, we review the fate of the eighth century  settlements discussed in Chapter 2, and present finds from new seventh-century  sites.¹

The Annexed Territories in the Northern Part of the Country The Galilee A small number of sites were excavated in the hilly parts of the Galilee, and the region was extensively surveyed. Qarney Hittin. The ‘large Iron Age II city’ was destroyed in Tiglath-pileser III’s campaign (Gal 1992: 44). Tel Gath Hefer. The planned town that existed in the Iron Age was destroyed in the second half of the eighth century , probably by Tiglathpileser III, and the site was then abandoned for about 300 years (Alexandre et al. 2003: 168). Tel Yinʿam. Despite partial exposure, it appears that the Iron Age II city did not continue to exist during the Iron Age IIC (Liebowitz 2000: 17). Karm er-Ras. The Iron Age II town was destroyed in the eighth century , and the excavator (Alexandre 2008: 574) stressed the absence of ‘architectural and artifact remains from the late eighth–fifth centuries  (Iron IIC–early Persian period)’. Horvat Rosh Zayit. This olive-oil-producing village (Gal and Frankel 1993; Gal and Alexandre 2000: 164–7, 178, 200), ceased to exist in the late eighth ¹ The review aims to be comprehensive, but it is inevitable that some sites were missed. It is unlikely, however, that a random omission would have an impact on the overall picture.

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76  -     century , probably during the campaign of Tiglath-pileser III (Gal and Alexandre 2000: 178, 201). Horvat Malta. The Iron Age hamlet or fortified farmstead existed until some point in the eighth century , and the site was then abandoned for a few centuries (Covello-Paran 2008: 46, 75). Although the sample is quite small, all the excavated sites in the Galilee ceased to exist following the Assyrian conquest, and the destruction and abandonment seem to have been significant. This is in line with the results of the survey, and according to Gal (1992: 108–9; 1993: 451) the Galilee was almost empty following the Assyrian destructions and deportations. This seems to be true for both the urban and rural sectors. Recovery was slow, and even in the Persian period it was only partial (e.g. Gal 1993: 451). Interestingly, a large, perhaps administrative, building was erected at Tel Rekhesh in the seventh century  (Hasegawa et al. 2018), and two tiny sites were discovered in recent years in salvage excavations, one just north of Tel ‘En Zippori, and the other near Horvat Yiftachel (Gal 2009; Oshri and Gal 2010). These tiny sites were not settled in the eighth century  (the situation at Tel Rekhesh is not clear), and represent the very limited settlement that existed in this region at the time (see also Chapter 7).

The Northern Valleys A relatively large number of sites were excavated in this region, and almost all experienced destruction or decline. It is likely that a few settlements were under Aramean (e.g. Bethsaida) or Ammonite (e.g. Nimrin or Tell al-Mazar) control for at least part of the time before the Assyrian conquest, and were therefore outside the kingdom of Israel. However, since the fate of those sites is similar to the other sites discussed here, and as they are located within the same (loosely defined) geographical unit, they are discussed under the regional heading.² Dan. The fortifications were destroyed in the eighth century , probably in 732  (Biran 2008: 1688, 1689), but it appears that the city continued to prosper (Biran 2008: 1689). Notably, recent analysis suggests that the city that existed under Assyrian rule was large and impressive, and perhaps even included an Assyrian residency (Thareani 2016).

² The sites were probably part of different provinces, which are discussed in Chapter 7.

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Hazor. The excavator noted that only few remains were dated to after the 732  destruction, probably indicating some brief squatting (Ben-Tor 2008: 1775; 2016: 157; see also Yadin 1993: 603). Remains of a public building were exposed on top of the Bronze Age ceremonial area, and were dated on circumstantial grounds to the Assyrian period (Ben-Tor 2016: 167–9) and another post-Israelite Age fort was exposed by the earlier expedition (Yadin et al. 1958: 64–5; Yadin 1972: 191–5; and see Chapter 6). Bethsaida. The Iron Age city (stratum V)—perhaps the capital of Geshur— was systematically destroyed by the Assyrians (Arav 2009: 64–70, 114–15), though the destruction was not even, and some parts of the city fared better than others (ibid., 70). Arav (2009: 114–15) concluded: ‘the conqueror carried away the upper echelon of society, took the means of livelihood, and utterly destroyed the economic infrastructure in such a way that there could be no revival. Bethsaida the capital of the kingdom of Geshur was no more’ (see also Arav 2004: 15). Kinrot. The stratum II city was destroyed by the Assyrians. A small settlement (stratum I) was subsequently constructed, but it was destroyed after a short period of time, and the site was subsequently abandoned (Fritz 2008: 1685). En Gev. The original excavator, Benjamin Mazar (1993: 411), believed that the last settlement was destroyed in 732 . Later excavations also noted that the last Iron Age stratum should be dated to the eighth century , and that the subsequent (limited) remains are dated to the Persian period (Kochavi and Tsukimoto 2008: 1725). Tel Hadar. Stratum I of the eighth century  is the last settlement on the mound (Yadin and Kochavi 2008: 1757). Beth Shean. Mazar (2008a: 1621) wrote that the site was destroyed in 732 , adding that ‘(F)ollowing the violent destruction of stratum P7 was a short period of activity (stratum P6) with a few floors and scanty walls left by squatters, perhaps dated to the last decades of the eighth century ’. Tel Rehov. The excavator noted that the Iron IIB city was smaller than its predecessor, and was destroyed by the Assyrians (Mazar 2008b: 2018), adding that ‘(T)he Assyrian conquest of 732  is dramatically documented by evidence of total destruction and slaughter. Two graves with Assyrians pottery, as well as scant occupational remains (stratum II), attest to a short period of activity after the Assyrian conquest, but the site was soon abandoned.’ There was no resettlement until the early Muslim period. Tell el-Hammah. The situation during the Neo-Assyrian period is not clear. Some publications suggest that most of the finds date to the twelfth–eighth

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78  -     centuries  (e.g. Tarler et al. 1989: 134), but in others, finds from the seventh century are also mentioned (e.g. Cahill et al. 1988: 191; Cahill and Tarler 1993: 561). We will therefore treat this site as possibly showing continuity into the period of Assyrian domination. Kedesh (in the Jezreel Valley). It is not clear from the description when was the Iron II settlement destroyed, but it is quite clear that the site was not occupied during the Assyrian period (Stern 1993: 860). Megiddo. Megiddo IVA, the last Israelite settlement, was apparently destroyed by the Assyrians, though according to Finkelstein the destruction was partial, and settlement continued afterwards (Finkelstein 2009: 118–19; 120). Megiddo III, serving as a provincial capital, appears to have been the only city the Assyrians built in the region (Stern 2001: 48; Herzog 1997a: 254). The finds include Assyrian-style buildings (see also Chapter 6). Jokneam. The impressive Iron Age fortification system went out of use in the Assyrian period, whose remains ‘represent a poor, unwalled settlement’ (Ben-Tor 1993a: 807; see also the table on p. 811). Tel Qiri. During the Iron Age, this was an unfortified village. It appears that some occupation continued into the Assyrian period (Ben-Tor 1993b: 1228), but the remains from this period are meager (Ben-Tor 1987: 103–5; 110, 116; see also Hunt 1987: 208, where the seventh century is missing altogether). Tell Abu al-Kharaz. The prospering, fortified Iron IIB settlement was destroyed, most likely by the Assyrians, and in its stead, there was only an ‘impoverished small settlement’ (Fischer 2013: 516).³ Tell es-Saʿidiyeh. The eighth-century  block of houses (and additional remains) ceased to exist, and the Assyrian period remains included many pits and a few silos (Pritchard 1985: 39–42). Tell Deir Alla. The eighth century  settlement was destroyed and completely transformed in the wake of the Assyrian conquest, and ‘the new inhabitants began by carrying out a large levelling off of the site’ (Van der Kooj and Ibrahim 1989: 88). Nimrin. The Iron IIB settlement was apparently destroyed, and the seventh century  remains seems more limited (Herr 2008: 1847). Tell al-Mazar. The Iron IIB settlement was destroyed, but seventh-century  domestic remains were unearthed (McCreery and Yassine 1997: 443).

³ The situation at Pella is not clear, and the finds from the Iron Age seems to be limited (e.g. Hennessy and Smith 1997: 258; Smith and Potts 1992: 101). If, however, the meagre finds indicate settlement decrease in the Iron IIC (Bourke 1997: 113), then it is likely that it occurred following the Assyrian conquest, rather than the Babylonian one.

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The last few sites might have been part of the kingdom of Ammon at this time (Younker 2014, and see more in ‘The Semi-Independent Kingdoms in the Southern Part of the Country’ below). All in all, the Northern Valleys were devastated, and the region suffered a major blow (also Pakkala et al. 2004: 25) and this is also expressed in surveys (e.g. Kohn-Tavor 2010: 33–4, 36). Most sites ceased to exist, but in quite a few there was some evidence of squatting, usually very limited in both scope and time. Some settlements continued to exist, however, even if on a diminished scale (such as Jokneam and Tel Qiri). Megiddo is the only city for which we have evidence that it was (re)built by the Assyrians. It served as a provincial capital, and might even have had a sort of sparse hinterland (e.g. Jokneam and Qiri). Dan also prospered at the time, and apparently served as another centre.⁴ Some scholars have suggested that there were Assyrian centres or forts at ʾAyyelet ha-Šahar, Kinrot, and Hazor (Kletter and Zwickel 2006 and refer: ences; but see Stern 2001: 312–13). The date of the structures is not always secure, and their ‘Assyrian’ nature is doubted, even when the date is secure. None of the structures exhibit any Assyrian artefact or symbol of authority, nor any cuneiform texts which might strengthen this suggestion. The issue is addressed in Chapter 6, but regardless of their exact nature, and even if they should be dated to this era, these isolated structures do not change the gloomy demography of the Northern valleys.

Samaria (Highlands) Many eighth-century  sites were excavated in this region.⁵ Samaria. Avigad (1993b: 1306) noted that ‘very few remains survived from the Assyrian, Babylonian and Persian periods’, adding that Sargon did not destroy the city, and walls were still standing. Tappy (2001) also believes that the Assyrians used the city as their centre. According to Gilboa (1996: 122), the Iron Age fortifications were used in the Hellenistic period, but it is not clear whether or not they were used in the intermediate period. A small number

⁴ While Glock (1993: 1432–3) suggested that there was a gap in Taanach at the time; Singer-Avitz (2014: 136) believes there was some scant occupation there. ⁵ In the past, eighth century  remains were reported at Tel Dothan, but following the publication of the report, it appears that no settlement existed at the site at the time. The remains from the Assyrian period include only a number of tombs (Master 2013b).

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80  -     of Assyrian objects, including a few cuneiform texts, were also found (see Chapter 6). The remains from the Assyrian provincial capital were therefore very limited, regardless of the question of the site’s destruction, and it clearly had a much more limited role at this time (Master 2013a). Tell el-Farʿah (N). According to Chambon (1993: 440), stratum VIId was devastated by the Assyrians. Strata VIIe and VIIe1 represent a resettlement after the destruction, but remains were limited to a number of areas. The gate was blocked, though there is continuity in the palace area (see also Jasmin 2013). Generally speaking, a gradual decline is evident. Based on (imitation of) Assyrian Palace Ware found there, Chambon (1993: 440) suggested that perhaps there was an Assyrian garrison at the site, or that some colonists settled there. Shechem. The city was destroyed during the conquest, and there was only ‘limited occupation at the site in the Assyrian period’ (Campbell 1993: 1353; see also Bornstein 2013: 354). The Persian remains were also ‘scanty’ (Campbell 1993: 1353; Lapp 2008). Kh. Marjameh. According to Mazar (1993a: 966), ‘(T)he ceramic evidence points to a destruction of the site in 722 , with the fall of the Israelite kingdom.’ Tell Sophar. The excavator reported remains from a number of phases, including the late ‘Israelite’ period, and this was followed by remains from the Persian-Hellenistic period (Yeivin 1973), suggesting that no Assyrian period remains were unearthed. Still, given the nature of the very brief report, this cannot be determined with certainty, and the conclusion can only be tentative. Kh. Jemein. The Iron II village (Dar 1986a; 1986b) did not continue into the Assyrian period (Yezerski 2013: 94). Kh. esh-Shajara. The finds in this Iron Age site in central Samaria do not continue beyond the eighth century  (Yezerski 2013: 94). Beit Aryeh. This olive-oil-producing village (Eitam 1992a; 1992b; Riklin 1997) ceased to exist in the late eighth century  (Riklin 1997: 19). Kh. Dawwar. The small fortified settlement dates to the eighth century , and the site did not exist during the era of Assyrian rule (Har Even 2012). Deir Daqla. The olive-oil-producing village was destroyed towards the end of the eighth century , during the Assyrian conquest (Har Even 2011). Kh. Kla. The small-scale excavations indicate that the village was destroyed in the late eighth century , probably during the Assyrian conquest (Eitam 1987: 24–6). Bethel. Many believe that the city prospered in the seventh century , and perhaps even into the sixth century (e.g. Kelso 1968: 37, 51; 1993; also Sinclair

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1968; Stern 2001: 321; Lipschits 2005: 242–3). Still, Dever (1971: 468–9) noted that the 6th century  date was based on an out-of-context corpus, and that the occupation at the site ended in the early sixth century  (Dever 1997: 301), and Finkelstein and Singer-Avitz (2009: 42), even claimed that most of the pottery associated with the sixth century  should be dated to the Iron Age IIB, and it appears that during the seventh century  settlement in the site declined (also Greener 2013). Shiloh. The situation at Shiloh is not clear. In the past, it was suggested that there was a gap in the site during most of the Iron Age II (Finkelstein 1993b), until a small and short-lived hamlet was established there in the seventh century (Finkelstein 1993b: 389). Recent excavation shows that settlement existed also in the Iron Age II, and there was a destruction in the late eighth century , probably as a result of the Assyrian conquest (Livyatan-Ben Arie and Hizmi 2014: 121–9; Har-Even and Adler 2017). Still, it is possible that some sparse occupations continued in other parts of the mound (see also Livyatan-Ben Arie and Hizmi 2014: 128). Horvat ‘Eli. Two structures, one of them of the four-room type, were unearthed (Hizmi 1998). The site was probably established in the eighth century  and existed throughout the period of Assyrian rule and afterwards (Hizmi 1998), but it is also possible that it was erected only after the conquest (Itach et al. 2018). The finds include wedged bowls, as well as foreign/ Mesopotamian-style items (Chapter 6). Jibeit (Giv’it). The evidence suggests that a new site was established here in the seventh century  (Ilan and Dinur 1987), though it is likely that it postdates the period of Assyrian rule. Miras ed-Din. This small site in eastern Samaria (perhaps a farm) was established in the Iron IIC (Bar 2017). Rogem Abu Mughaiyir. This small, fortified watchtower ceased to exist during the Assyrian conquest (Yeivin 1992). el-Makhruq. This small, fortified watchtower apparently ceased to exist during the Assyrian conquest (Yeivin 1992), and this was also the fate of the larger rectangular one unearthed nearby (Damati 1993). Maskiot. This small site ceased to exist, and did not continue into the period of Assyrian rule (Greenfeld and Peleg 2009). Kh. ‘Aujah el-Foqa. This large, fortified Iron Age settlement was only surveyed, but given the state of preservation of this mostly one-period site and the collection of hundreds of indicative sherds, its analysis is worth noting. According to Zertal et al. (2009), the site ceased to exist in the course of the Assyrian takeover of the area.

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82  -     Sheikh Diab. The excavations conducted at the site suggest that the site was founded, probably as a fort, in the late eighth century  (Zertal et al. 2012). All in all, it is quite clear that the region was devastated by the Assyrians, and did not recover. In the north, one can observe some squatting, and even limited continuation (e.g. Tell el-Farah, N; Samaria), but in the south and east devastation was almost total, with the exception of (the demographically insignificant) Horvat Eli and perhaps some occupation at Shiloh and Bethel (where activity is most likely related to Judah), and the new sites at Sheikh Diab and Miras ed-Din. The site at Jibeit is not only insignificant demographically, but is probably later than the discussed period, and should apparently be associated with Judahite activity (for the overall patterns, see also Tavgar 2012). Clearly, during the seventh century  the region was at a demographic nadir, and this is supported by the surveys. The first five volumes of Zertal’s survey identified 75 sites from this period, whereas 406 were attributed to the Iron II (Zertal 1992: 55; 1996: 85; 2005: 74; 2012: 64; Zertal and Mirkam 2000: 48).⁶ The major decrease is reflected not only in the number of sites, but also in their small size.⁷

Gileʿad (Highlands) Only three Iron Age II sites were excavated in the region. Tell Ziraʿa. Vieweger and Häser (2007: 165) observe that ‘the Neo-Assyrian conquest of the eighth century  led to dramatic changes, and ’Tall Zira’a also lost its urban character in this period’. Tell Rumeith. According to Lapp (1993: 1291–2), ‘The mound’s main stratigraphy represent an occupation of about two centuries, ending with Tiglath-Pileser III’s destructive campaign in about 733 ’ (see also Lapp 1993: 1293, and the recently published report; Barako 2015: 190, table 4.1, 194). Irbid. Some of the publications suggest that the settlement existed until about 800  (e.g. Lenzen 1992: 456), but it is not clear when and how the settlement ended, and it is more likely that the settlement existed also during much of the eighth century  (Herr and Najjar 2008: 321). ⁶ Volumes 6 and 7 identified additional 152 Iron II sites, but did not provide exact figures for the Iron III, either noting that sites continued to exist but without elaborating (Bar and Zertal 2016: 56, for volume VI), or stating that there is evidence that some sites continued to exist, but that understanding the scope of the continuity requires additional research (Bar and Zertal 2019: 40, for Volume VII). ⁷ Finkelstein et al.’s (1997: 18) southern Samaria survey did not identify this period (most likely as a result of the poor remains).

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While the number of published excavations in the Gilead is limited, Vieweger and Häser’s (2007: 165) observation on the implication of the Assyrian conquest is quite revealing: ‘everything changed dramatically with the Neo-Assyrian occupation of the eighth century ; the cities of northern Transjordan ceased to exist . . . While the Kingdoms of Ammon and Moab further south flourished under Assyrian control, northern Gilead became a rural backwater.’ Herr and Najjar (2008: 323) also wrote that ‘(T)his part of the country seems to have been largely bereft of settlement. The Assyrian destruction seems to have destroyed the local will to establish significant settlements in the area.’

Southern Phoenicia and the Northern Coastal Plain Part of the area might have officially belonged to Tyre, but most of it was probably part of the Assyrian provincial system, even if the area functioned as the city’s hinterland.⁸ Many sites were excavated in this area, and most experienced drastic changes with the transition to Assyrian rule. Acco. Dothan (1993: 21–2) suggests that the city was destroyed by the Assyrians, but continued to exist after the destruction (the site is currently being re-excavated). Akhzib. The site was probably enlarged in the late eighth century  (Yasur-Landau et al. 2016). Kabri. According to Lehmann (2002: 85), ‘the end of Stratum E4 and the beginning of Stratum E3 might reflect political events following the campaigns of Tiglath-Pileser III’. During the period of Assyrian rule, a large fortress was built at the summit (area E), but its nature, and whether it represents ‘Assyrian presence’ are uncertain (Lehmann 2002: 86). Yasur-Landau et al. (2016) date the structure’s erection to the late eighth century  and connect it with Phoenician involvement. Tel Keisan. The Iron IIA–B is represented by impressive settlement continuity (levels 6–8). The subsequent levels (5–4), of the Neo-Assyrian period, are much more poorly preserved. Level 5 was apparently destroyed at about 700 , and level 4 covers most of the seventh century . The limited remains might indicate decline, but the settlement exhibits many foreign influences and connections (Humbert 1993: 866–7), including a set of Assyrian ⁸ Given the strained relations between Tyre and Assyria during most of the period discussed here, it is likely that the official hinterland was quite limited (e.g. Na’aman 2009c: 99).

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84  -     Palace Ware, as well as a cuneiform inscription (see Chapter 6). The site is currently being re-excavated, and it is likely that the results, once published, will shed more light on this period. Tell Abu Hawam. Stratum III is estimated to have existed until 750–725 , and this was apparently followed by a settlement gap (Balensi et al. 1993: 10; see also the table in Artzi, M. 2008: 1554). Shaʿar-Ha-ʿAmakim. While no Iron Age architecture was unearthed, the pottery discovered during the excavations of the later fort suggests that a settlement existed there during the period of Assyrian rule, and it was suggested that the site served as a watchtower (Burdajewicz 2015). Shikmona. Town D was destroyed in the second half of the eighth century  (Elgavish 1993: 1375), and only a few remains were found from the seventh century , ‘indicating that it probably does not represent a very densely settled phase’.⁹ Atlith. The port, established in the late ninth or early eighth century, apparently continued until the fourth century  (Haggi 2006: 54), but the history of the city is practically unknown. Apparently, all the sites were impacted by the Assyrian conquest, and most of them experienced decline. Still, the level of continuity, despite the destruction, is larger than in other regions discussed so far, and there is also evidence of new construction, especially in the north. This might have been a result of the fact that much of the region was Tyre’s hinterland, and perhaps also because of the importance of the coastal plain for the empire (Chapters 6–7).¹⁰

The Central Coastal Plain A number of sites were excavated in this area and along its hilly fringes, allowing us to reconstruct its settlement history. Dor. The seventh century  remains include mainly pits (Stern 2008: 1699), but also fortifications (Gilboa 1996: 122; also Stern 1990) and a large amount of Assyrianized and Phoenician pottery, and it appears that the site was a relatively central one (Gilboa and Sharon 2016). The important role of Dor is also reflected in the Assyrian sources (Gilboa 1996: 131–2; Gilboa and Sharon 2016; Na’aman 2009c). Still, although it is ‘one of the very few sites in ⁹ This is based on the partial publication of the older excavations. The site is currently being reexcavated and the older material being re-studied, and there might therefore be some changes in the dating. ¹⁰ The region’s surveys do not contribute to the discussion (Chapter 2).

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ex-Israel’s lowlands where some sort of “urbanism” survived’, the architectural finds are limited, and the site did not function as a centre of settlement for its hinterland, and was most likely a port serving the Mediterranean maritime trade (Gilboa and Sharon 2016: 249, and extensive discussion in Chapter 7). Tel Mevorakh. The Iron II site ceased to exist following the Assyrian conquest (Segal 2014). Tel Esur. This isolated, large administrative building ceased to exist at the time (Bar 2016; Shalev and Bar 2017). ‘En Haggit. A new small site was founded in the Neo-Assyrian period in this hilly area (Wolff 2008: 1727), probably on a road connecting the coastal plain with the Jezreel Valley.¹¹ Tel Zeror. This Iron II village was destroyed by the Assyrians, but some later Iron Age remains were reported (Kochavi 1993c). Kh. Zaqzuq. A new farmstead was established at the time on the hills, just to the east of the plain (Dar et al. 1986: 113–14). Umm Reihan. Another farmstead was erected in northwestern Samaria, near the coastal plain (Dar et al. 1986: 107–10). Jatt. This site is located on a hill overlooking the international highway that passed through the trough valley. Pottery unearthed at the site suggests that the site continued to exist in this period (Porath et al. 1999).¹² Kh. Yama. The site is located on a hill overlooking the international highway. Pottery unearthed at the site suggests that the site continued to exist in this period (Gal and Muqari 2002).¹³ Zur Natan. The site is located on a hill overlooking the international highway. Salvage excavations at the western part of the site exposed parts of a large building, perhaps a farmstead (Torge, personal communication). Tel Hefer. The limited eighth-century  remains (Paley and Porath 1993) probably reflect some occupation before the Assyrian conquest. No later Iron Age remains were reported. Tel Mikhmoret. No clear remains from this period were unearthed (Porath et al. 1993), but given the poor preservations of the early remains, this negative evidence should be treated with care. Tel Michal. The site was abandoned during most of the Iron II, but it appears that some human activity took place during the eighth century  ¹¹ The site is located between the Jezreel valley and the coastal plain, and is therefore discussed here. ¹² Jatt, Kh. Yama and Zur Natan (and probably also the more inland sites of Kh. Zaqzuq and Umm Reihan) are located on the westernmost hills of Samaria, but are probably connected with the road that passed through the trough valley (part of the coastal plain), and are therefore mentioned here (see also Chapter 7). ¹³ A fragment of an Assyrian inscription was reported from nearby Qaqun; see Chapter 6 for a detailed discussion.

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86  -     (Herzog 1993: 1038; Singer-Avitz 1989: 87), most likely predating the Assyrian conquest, and the mound was probably not occupied at the time discussed here. Tel Qasile. After a settlement hiatus during most of the Iron Age II, limited human activity is attested in the seventh century  (Mazar 1985; 1993). It is possible, however, that this activity post-dates the Assyrian rule in this region (Mazar 1985: 128, and more below). Tell Qudadi. Fantalkin and Tal (2015) had recently suggested that the fortress was built by the Assyrians, but since the pottery is typical of the entire Iron Age IIB spectrum, and even includes a few earlier forms (Fantalkin and Tal 2015: 187–9), this is unlikely. While their re-analysis of the old excavations is exemplary, the ascription of the fort to the Assyrians is based solely on historical reasoning which stems from their understanding of the ‘Assyrian peace’.¹⁴ The eighth century  pottery unearthed at the site probably represents a long period, which clearly includes pre-Assyrian occupation. The finding of a few later Greek sherds (e.g. Fantalkin and Tal 2015: 189–90) indicates that the site continued to exist for some time after the Assyrian conquest. Still, the phenomenon was short-lived, and the fort ceased to exist in the first half of the seventh century. Jaffa. Very little is known about the settlement, but the city apparently existed, and was relatively large, extending beyond the mound (Burke 2011: 73; see also Arbel et al. 2012). Many sites in the central coastal plain declined significantly following the Assyrian conquests. The sites on the westernmost hills of Samaria, just above the international highway, however, exhibit continuity, and a few farmsteads were even established there, probably due to the significance of the road for the empire.¹⁵ The few settlements that existed at the southern edge of the region, for example Tell Qudadi and Tel Qasile, if indeed from this period, are likely connected to the settlement on Samaria’s foothills, to be discussed next.

Samaria’s Foothills and the Aphek-Gezer Area This is not a geographical region that is usually discussed in its own right, but the evidence indicates that it had a unique history at the time discussed here (see extensive discussion in Chapters 6–7).

¹⁴ Fantalkin and Tal (2015: 197–8) acknowledge that the construction itself is local. ¹⁵ The surveys conducted in this region treat the Iron Age II as one unit, and cannot help in studying the period of Assyrian rule (Chapter 2).

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Rosh Haʿayin. This village existed throughout the Iron II (including the Assyrian era), the Persian and Hellenistic periods, until the second century  (Avner-Levy and Torge 1999; Torge 2007). Farmsteads on Samaria’s Foothills. In the late eighth century , at the time of Assyrian rule, a wave of settlement took place in an area that had not been settled before (Finkelstein 1981; Faust 2006a). Many farmsteads, and perhaps a few hamlets, were established in an ecologically inferior microregion on Samaria’s foothills—nineteen of which were excavated (e.g. Faust 2012a: 57–60; Haddad et al. 2015; Tendler and Shadman 2015; Shadman et al. 2015, and references).¹⁶ It is likely that the reason behind the establishment of these farms was the growing importance of the nearby international highway, and the importance of this region to the Assyrian empire (see Chapter 6). The population in the farmsteads probably included some peoples from the coastal plain, but also (and probably mainly) deportees from Mesopotamia (see Chapter 7), as well as populations from other nearby regions. Most of these farms continued to exist, almost unchanged, until the middle of the second century , when the aftermath of the Hasmonean revolt probably brought this settlement phenomenon to an end (see Chapters 6–7). Tel Hadid. Remains from the Assyrian period were unearthed below the mound (Beit Arieh 2008: 1758), including a few structures and many olive presses (Brand 1998). Two cuneiform texts were unearthed in the excavations (Na’aman and Zadok 2000). It is likely that this occupation near Tel Hadid was associated with the above-mentioned farmsteads phenomenon (see Chapters 6–7).¹⁷ Horbat Avimor. Although located farther south than the Samaria’s foothills farmstead phenomenon, the site seems to have had a somewhat similar history. The excavation exposed late Iron Age and Persian period pottery (Golani 2005). Gezer. The Iron Age gate and the palace existed until stratum IV and were destroyed when the entire stratum was devastated, probably by Tiglat-pileser III (Dever 1993a: 505; Ortiz and Wolff 2012: 16). Stratum V (late eighth and seventh century ) ‘was of little importance’, but it supplies the contexts for the Neo-Assyrian tablets found by Maclister (Dever 1993a: 505). The recent excavations also unearthed some limited remains dated to this period (Ortiz and Wolff 2012: 16). Still, the relatively large number of small objects that ¹⁶ I am grateful to Hagit Torge, Amit Shadman, Gilad Itach, and Ron Tueg for supplying me with unpublished information on these farms. ¹⁷ A fragment of an Assyrian inscription was also discovered in nearby Ben-Shemen forest, outside any known settlement (see Chapter 6).

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88  -     might be connected with Assyria, along with the few cuneiform documents and perhaps some architectural finds, support the suggestion that an Assyrian administrative building stood on the mound, resulting from its strategic importance (Reich and Brandl 1985; Ornan et al. 2013). Although insignificant demographically, settlement in the Aphek-Gezer region grew, and perhaps even expanded during the time discussed in this chapter. This is in contrast with practically every other region in the territories of what used to be the kingdom of Israel, and was a result of the importance of the region for the Assyrians (Chapter 7).

The Semi-Independent Kingdoms in the Southern Part of the Country This section reviews the information, mainly from excavated sites, on the settlement in the semi-independent south, in the kingdom of Judah, the Philistine polities, and the southern Transjordanian kingdoms of Ammon, Moab, and Edom.

The Southern Coastal Plain (Philistia) This was one of the important regions of the country at this time, and a relatively large number of sites was excavated there, including the following. Rishon Leziyon. A square building was excavated near Rishon Leziyon, and while some interpreted it as an Assyrian fortress, the excavators noted that a fort of a more local nature could not be ruled out (Levy et al. 2004: 94; Levy and Peilstocker 2008: 2022; Chapter 7). Tel Hamid. It appears that there was no occupation at the site during the seventh century  (Wolff and Shavit 2008: 1763), perhaps because it was part of the Judahite Shephelah settlement system in the eighth century , and did not recover (see below). Yavneh. It appears that settlement continued in the seventh century  (Fischer and Taxel 2007: 217, 274). Tel Batash. The site recovered after the destruction of 701, and seems to have prospered (probably as part of Philistia) until the Babylonian destruction in the late seventh century  (Mazar and Panitz-Cohen 2001: 281–2). Ashdod. It appears that the site continued to exist during the seventh century , but the remains and their quality declined (Ben-Shlomo 2003;

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2005; 2013: 71). The importance of the site as this time is evident by the written sources (for a different interpretation, see Finkelstein and Singer-Avitz 2001; 2004). A broken Assyrian royal inscription was unearthed at the site (Horowitz and Oshima 2006: 40–1; see Chapter 6). The Assyrian Palace at Ashdod. An impressive building, interpreted as an Assyrian palace, was unearthed below the mound of Ashdod (Kogan-Zehavi 2005; Shanks 2007). The structure had two seventh century  phases (Kogan-Zehavi 2005), but was destroyed during this century in ‘an intense fiery conflagration’ (Shanks 2007: 60). The pottery, both the local and the few imported Greek sherds, was of the same nature as that of seventh-century  Ekron and Ashkelon. Although (only) a limited amount of Assyrian Palace Ware was unearthed, this is one of the only ‘secured’ Assyrian structures in the region (Chapter 6). Ashdod Yam. Massive mud-brick fortifications, as well as additional mud-brick buildings and Assyrian-style pottery, were unearthed at the site (although there is nothing clearly Assyrian in the finds; Fantalkin 2018). Ekron. This site expanded dramatically at the time, becoming a mega-city of more than 30 hectares. It was well planned and fortified, and ‘included industrial, domestic and elite zones of occupation . . .’. Well over 100 olive presses were found in the site, which was obviously of great economic importance (Gitin 1998: 276; see also Eitam 1987; 1996; see Chapter 5).¹⁸ Gath. The eighth-century  site was abandoned and not settled (perhaps because it was part of the Judahite Shephelah settlement system in the eighth century ; Chadwick and Maeir 2012). Ashkelon. The only real coastal city south of Jaffa, Ashkelon was a megacity of some 60 hectares in the seventh century , and the excavator estimates its population as 10,000–12,000 inhabitants (Stager 1996: 62*; see also Stager 2008). Tel Sera. The site probably served as a military fort during the seventh century , and it was suggested that it was used by the Assyrians (Oren 1993c: 1333–4; Stern 2001: 26). Tel Jemme. The site is usually regarded as an important Assyrian centre on the empire’s southern border, and the finds include impressive, Mesopotamianlike architecture and objects (e.g. Assyrian Palace Ware) (e.g. Ben-Shlomo and Van Beek 2014; Ben-Shlomo 2014). According to Van Beek (1993: 672), ‘(T)he typical Assyrian plan, the style of vaulting, and the great quantity of ¹⁸ For the possibility that Ekron’s peak was only in the later part of the seventh century , see Chapter 5.

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90  -     palace ware suggest that the building was built by Assyrians as the residence of the Assyrian king, military governor, or other ranking official’ (see also Stern 2001: 25–6; the site is discussed at length in Chapter 6). Tel Haror. The late eighth- and seventh-century  settlement, erected following a gap, was impressive, with massive fortification and additional remains, and was attributed to Assyrian administration (Oren 1993a: 583–4). Tell el-Farah (S). The site was apparently settled in the seventh century , although there is no clear evidence for contacts with Assyria (Lehmann et al. 2018: 118–20, 143–4). al-Blakhiyya. The Iron Age site continued to exist in the seventh century , and the fortifications were strengthened (Burdajewicz 2003: 31). Rueqeish. Strata III and II represents the seventh and perhaps also the sixth centuries  at this fortified site. Many Phoenicians objects were unearthed in the excavations (Culican 1973; Hestrin and Dayagi-Mendels 1983; Oren 1993b). Tell Abu Salima (Sheikh Zuweid). A large mud-brick fortress was attributed by many to the Assyrians (Petrie and Ellis 1937; Reich 1984). The Haserim in the Southern Coastal Plain (North-Western Negev). Quite a few late Iron Age tiny rural sites were reported by Gophna in this region (1963; 1964; 1966; 1970; see also Gazit 2008; Lehmann et al. 2010, and below). While some of the sites were excavated on a small scale, others were only surveyed, even if extensively, and although the information collected is also based on the finds from trenches dug into the sites during construction or agricultural activities, the data should be treated with caution. All in all, Gophna reported nineteen Iron Age sites, dating from various parts of the Iron Age, and an additional site was excavated recently by Lehmann et al. (2010), of which twelve sites existed during the time discussed here. Those are sites 3, 4, 5 (Gophna 1963), F, G, H (Gophna 1964), Mefalsim (Gophna 1966), Kh. Ruweiba, Horvat Khasif, Kh. Suleyib, Kh. Huga (Gophna 1970), and Qubur al Walaydah (Lehmann et al. 2010: 156–7). All in all, the seventh century  saw a great increase in settlement (in number, and in size, e.g. at Ekron and Ashkleon) along the southern coast, which probably resulted from the growing importance of this region, which had always served as a land bridge between Mesopotamia–Syria and Egypt and was of crucial importance, especially when the hegemonic empire had interests in the other end of this road. Maritime trade, conducted mainly by the Phoenicians (e.g. Elat 1990: 83–7; Sherratt and Sherratt 1993; Markoe 2000; Aubet 2001; Elayi 2013), became more important as the Iron Age progressed, and this also had an important impact on settlement patterns along the coast.

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The Kingdom of Judah Just like Philistia, in most parts of the kingdom of Judah the seventh century  was a settlement and demographic peak. Due to the large number of sites, we divided the kingdom into subregions (cf. Chapter 2).

The Region of Benjamin A large number of Iron Age sites were excavated in Benjamin, just north of Jerusalem, and it appears that the seventh century  was the peak of settlement in this region. Tell en-Nasbeh (Biblical Mizpah). The site was a relatively central town in this region. The stratigraphy of the site is not clear, but it seems that the town was established in the early Iron Age IIA, was enlarged and heavily fortified in the ninth century , and continued uninterruptedly until the sixth century  (Zorn 1993a; 1993b; 1997; see also Vaughn 1999: 34–7). Gibeon. The stratigraphy is unclear,¹⁹ but it seems that the town existed throughout the Iron II without interruption (Pritchard 1962; 1964; see also Vaughn 1999: 37–8). Pritchard (1962: 161–2) noted that the site was not destroyed during the Iron Age, adding that ‘the frequent invasions of the Assyrian kings in the eighth and seventh century apparently bypassed the city’. It is likely that the settlement’s peak was during the seventh century  (e.g. Pritchard 1962: 162–3). Tell el-Fûl. Lapp suggested that the last Iron Age settlement at this site was established in the second half of the seventh century , after a gap of a few centuries (Lapp 1978a; 1978b: 81–101). It is possible that this occupation had already started in the eighth century , but it is clear that the peak was in the seventh century . Nebi Samwil. Many Iron Age finds—mainly pottery, but also lmlk, and rosette handles—were reported. These finds indicate settlement in the eighth– seventh centuries  (Magen and Dadon 1999: 62–3). Ras el Kharrûbeh. Very little Iron Age pottery was unearthed in the excavations, indicating that the site was of little importance. These limited finds, however, are dated to the seventh century  (Biran 1985: 209–10).

¹⁹ It is likely that one reason for the lack of clear stratigraphy at both Gibeon and Tell en-Nasbeh was the lack of destruction layers during the Iron Age. This further supports the view that nothing of importance occurred at the sites in the late eighth century .

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92  -     Deir es-Sid. This is a fairly large site (over 3 hectares), identified with biblical Anathoth. The finds were dated almost exclusively to the seventh and early sixth centuries  (Biran 1985: 211–13). Kh. Shilhah. A small farmstead or an estate was unearthed in the desert fringe of Benjamin, on the route to Jericho. According to the excavators, the site was established in the seventh century  (Mazar et al. 1996). Mezad Michmas. An isolated seventh-century  structure was unearthed in eastern Benjamin (Riklin 1995). Notably, it appears that the seventh-century  was the peak of Iron Age settlement in this region,²⁰ and this is represented also in the surveys (e.g. Finkelstein 1993a: 27; see also Magen 2004: 1–2).

Jerusalem and Its Environs Jerusalem. The city flourished in the seventh century , and this was apparently also its demographic peak (Barkay 1988; Faust 2005; 2008b; 2014b, and references).²¹ Some scholars have even suggested that at this time the population of Jerusalem and its surroundings was equal to that of the rest of Judah, and that this probably lies behind the common term ‘Judah and Jerusalem’ (Barkay 1988: 125). Seventh-century  Jerusalem was a metropolis of some 68 hectares of intramural neighbourhoods, and some 30hectares of extramural settlements. The city was the primate city in seventh-century  Judah (Barkay 1988; Faust 2005 and references). Seventh-century  pottery was found throughout the western hill, indicating continued occupation from the eighth century  (Faust 2014b). The dense nature of the settlement within the city is also supported by its countryside, which peaked at the time. Jerusalem Countryside. The evidence from Jerusalem’s environments indicates that settlement intensified in the seventh century  in comparison with the eighth century .²² While survey data is not sufficiently detailed (Kloner 2003: 20), a wealth of excavated sites in Jerusalem’s environs exists (also Chapter 2), enabling detailed discussion. These sites include the village at Kh.

²⁰ Other rural sites unearthed north of Jerusalem also exhibit a settlement peak in the seventh century , and are discussed below. ²¹ Geva (2003: 522–3; 2014), along with others after him (e.g. Na’aman 2007; 2009b), claimed that Jerusalem’s population decreased in the seventh century . This view, however, runs against the evidence in our possession, and appears to be a projection of the older (and incorrect) assessment that Judah experienced a demographic decline in the seventh century , to the city of Jerusalem itself (see the extensive discussion in Faust 2005; 2014b; 2017). ²² The exact boundaries between the land of Benjamin and Jerusalem’s environment are not clear, and the distinction here is very schematic.

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er-Ras (Edelstein 2000; Feig 1995; Gadot 2015), and the farmsteads of Nahal Zimri (Yogev 1985), the French Hill (Mazor 2006), Ketef Hinnom (Barkay 1995), Pisgat Zeev A (Seligman 1994), Pisgat Zeev D (Nadelman 1993), Givat Homa (May 1999), Kh. ‘Alona (Weksler-Bdolah 1999; see also Faust 2003b: 40), Mevasseret Yerushalayim (Edelstein and Kislev 1981), the Ramot farmsteads (five isolated buildings; Davidovitz et al., 2006: 68–79, 91–3), the Ramat Beit Ha-Kerem farmstead (Davidovitz et al. 2006: 80–2, 86–7, 93–4), Beit HaKerem (Billig 2007), Mamilla (Amit 2009), Talpiyot East (Solimany and Barzel 2008) and a settlement near the Rambam Cave (Zissu 2006), and more (see also the assessments in Faust 1997; 2007a). All in all, some twenty excavated Iron II rural sites are reported to have existed at the end of the Iron Age, and according to the excavators, all the sites seem to have existed during the seventh century . In addition to these farmsteads, larger settlements existed in Kh. el-Burj (De Groot and Weinberg-Stern 2013), and probably also at Manahat (Moyal 2010, and references) and Qiryat Yeʿarim (Finkelstein et al. 2018), and a royal estates was unearthed at Moza (Greenhut and De Groot 2009; Moyal and Faust 2015), and another at Ramat Rahel (it appears as if the palace was a centre of a royal estate).²³ Settlement in Jerusalem and its surroundings, therefore, peaked during the seventh century .

The Shephelah The Shephelah is an exception to the general rule. During the eighth century , the region was densely settled, but all sites were apparently destroyed by the Assyrians, and most did not recover. Of the existing sites, some of the western ones might be associated with flourishing Philistia. Tel Beth-Shemesh. The last Iron Age city was destroyed by Sennacherib. The site was deserted during the seventh century , though some pottery unearthed in the blocking of the water system might indicate a small-scale attempt at reuse (Bunimovitz and Lederman 2003; 2009; see also Fantalkin 2004), probably in connection with the large industrial complex unearthed to the east and southeast of the mound, and uncovered recently in salvage excavations (Zvi Lederman, oral communication; see already Dagan 2010: 14–17).

²³ For previous excavations, see Y. Aharoni 1993; Barkay 2006; for the recent ones, see Lipschits et al. 2011. An analysis of the finds from the site and its surroundings suggests that the site served as a royal estate and as a centre for the production of wine (Moyal and Faust 2015, and references).

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94  -     Tel Goded. According to Gibson’s (1994) detailed re-analysis of the old excavations, the city ceased to exist in 701, but the data should be treated with caution. Tel Burna. Remains from the seventh century  were unearthed, although the inner fortifications (at least) apparently went out of use at this time (Shai 2017). Tel Harasim. The finds from this period were apparently limited, but remains from the late seventh century  were reported (Givon 2008: 1767). Tel Nagila. Remains from the seventh century were discovered (Shai et-al. 2011). Kh. Summeily. Located in the coastal plain, but assumed to have been part of Judah in the eighth century ), the site apparently did not exist at the time (Jimmy Hardin, personal communication). Tel ‘Azeka. The site apparently existed in the seventh century , but the excavators suggest that this followed a gap during most of the Assyrian century (Lipschits et al. 2018: 85, 96). Tel Zayit. The situation at this site is not clear (Tappy 2008: 2083), which suggests that occupation from this era, even if it existed, was limited. Tel ‘Erani. Some remains were apparently unearthed (Yeivin 1993), but the finds have not yet been published in a final manner, so caution should be practised. Maresha. The original excavations were carried out over a century ago, and the published data is problematic. Comparisons of the findings suggested that there was settlement at the site during the ninth–eighth centuries , though not during the seventh century  (Vaughn 1999: 27). Still, additional excavations have revealed some remains from this period (Kloner and Eshel 1999, especially p. 150, and additional references). Lachish. Despite limited recovery after Sennacherib’s campaign, the site was much smaller than its eighth-century  predecessor (Ussishkin 2004: 90–2). Tel ‘Eton. The excavations carried out at the site did not produce pottery from this era, and it appears that the last Iron Age city on the mound was destroyed by the Assyrians during the late eighth century  (Faust 2011c; 2016, Katz and Faust 2012). Still, recent excavations in the plain northeast of the mound revealed remains from this period (Sapir and Faust 2016). Tell Beit Mirsim. The last Iron Age city was apparently destroyed in 701 , and the seventh-century  occupation was of limited nature only (e.g. R. Greenberg 1997; see also Finkelstein and Na’aman 2004: 61–4; Blakely and Hardin 2002: 14–24).

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Tel Halif. Following the Assyrian destruction, a brief phase of resettlement took place, but the site was soon abandoned, probably during the early part of the seventh century  (Cole 2015: 33–7; see also Seger 1993: 558; Finkelstein and Na’aman 2004: 64; note that Blakely and Hardin 2002: 24 attribute this phase to the late eighth century ). Kh. el Qom. The site was also destroyed in the late eighth century , and did not recover (Defonzo 2005, contra previous summaries). In addition, a few isolated agriculture structures, were discovered recently: Tower near Kh. Qeiyafa. An isloated seventh-century  agricultural tower was reported just below Kh. Qeiyafa (Weiss et al. 2017). Benē Dekalim. A seventh-century  isolated structure and a few installations were unearthed between Horbat Hazzan and Horbat Avraq (Peretz and Talis 2012). Farmstead near Tell Beit Mirsim. An isolated, seventh-century  farmstead was recently discovered south of the mound (Ganor et al. 2019). While demographically insignificant, these farmsteads are evidence for new constructions (even if limited) after the eighth century  devastation, but could also post-date Assyrian rule. Our data show that the sites of the Shephelah were destroyed by the Assyrians, mostly at the time of Sennacherib. Most sites were not resettled, and only a number of towns began to recover, most of them not reaching their previous status and population. The recent discoveries at Tel ‘Eton and BethShemesh might indicate the existence of additional lower settlements, and it is possible that the Assyrians forbade the inhabitants from resettling on the mounds (Chapter 7). A few farmsteads or isolated structures are also evidence of the limited human activity of the seventh century . Still, even if this was more widespread than known until now, it does not alter the gloomy demographic reality in the Shephelah. Moreover, similar pictures arose from the surveys which were supposed to have also identified these sites.²⁴ Yehuda Dagan’s extensive survey estimated the number of eighth-century  sites as 3.3 times larger than that of the seventh century , and the population as being larger by a factor of three (Dagan 2000: 210). Although such calculations and comparisons are problematic on several levels, it is clear that the Shephelah in the eighth century  was much more settled than in the seventh century , and the decline was significant. Finally, it is not clear how many of the seventh century settlements existed during the period of ²⁴ But see Sapir and Faust 2016, who identified the occupation below Tel ‘Eton, where the settlement was not observed in the survey.

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96  -     Assyrian rule, and how many were established only afterwards, towards the end of the seventh century .²⁵

The Highlands of Judah The Judean highlands, along with the area of Jerusalem, formed the core of Judah. Relatively few sites in this region were excavated. Excavated, central sites, include: Beth Zur. The excavators identified a large gap in the settlement of the site during the Iron II, and concluded that resettlement occurred only in the seventh century  (Funk 1968: 8). Hebron. An eighth-century  destruction layer was observed in the excavations (Eisenberg and Nagorski 2002: 92*; Eisenberg 2016: 98–9). A seventh-century  occupation was unearthed in the excavation area, located down the slope (Eisenberg and Nagorski 2002: 92*; Eisenberg 2016: 98–9; see also Ben-Shlomo and Eisenberg 2016: 102–4), indicating that the settlement at the time was fairly large. Kh. Rabud. The eighth-century  city was destroyed, probably by Sennacherib, but settlement resumed, and even expanded in the seventh century . Kochavi wrote: ‘(T)he wall was rebuilt . . . and it was even widened in places to 7 m . . . An unwalled settlement was also established in this period on a lower terrace northeast of the mound’ (Kochavi 1993b: 1252; see also Kochavi 1974). All the urban sites excavated in the Judean highlands existed in the seventh century , and most of them reached a settlement peak during this time. The data from the rural sector is similar: Farmsteads and Villages in the Gush Etzion–Bethlehem Region. Late Iron Age rural settlements, mainly farmsteads, were reported at Khirbet Abu Shawan (Baruch 2001), Kh. el-Qatt (Amit 1989–90a; Amit and CohenAmin in press), Har Gillo (West) (Peleg and Feller 2004a), southeast of Wadi Fukin (Amit 1991a: 77), R.P. 1618/1239 (Amit 1991a, with another farmstead nearby), Kh. Jarish (Kochavi 1972: 38; Amit 1989–90b; Ofer 1993, 2: 88–9; and see now Amit and Cohen-Amin (in press), Fajer-South (a wine press—probably representing agricultural usage of the area; Ofer 1993, 2: 87–8), Kh. abu et-Twein (Mazar 1982; below the fort), el-’Id (Baruch 1997; below the fort), and Kh. Hilal (Amit 1991b). Many of these sites existed from

²⁵ This is irrelevant for other parts of Judah, as it is clear that when sites existed continuously, this also covered the early seventh century . Since the Shephelah was devastated, one needs to ask when the recovery took place.

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the eighth century  to the Babylonian destruction, while some were established only in the seventh century . None, however, ceased to exist after the eighth century , hence indicating the strength of the seventhcentury  settlement also in this sector. Farmsteads in the Southern Hebron Hill Country. Khallat Umm-Sira (Peleg et al. 2011) seems to have continued to exist at the time, and Kh. Anim seems to have turned into a rural site during the seventh century  (after the earlier fort ceased to exist; Amit et al. 2008). Kh. Sansanna (Peleg and Feller 2004b: 65*) and Kh. Shimʿa (Peleg and Feller 2004c: 64*) seem to have been established only in the seventh century . Interestingly, Batz (2006) published, in a preliminary fashion, a group of farmsteads in the southern Hebron highlands which, according to him, existed only at the end of the eighth century . While it is possible that this microregion is an exception, a re-examination of the data seems to indicate that the sites existed also in the seventh century  (Faust 2012a: 164).²⁶ In summary, it is clear from the above that whenever there is sufficient information, the seventh-century  settlement in the highlands was at least similar to that of the eighth century , and in most cases it was even larger.²⁷

The Judean Desert While the Judean Desert was hardly settled in the eighth century  (Stern 1994: 406–7; 2001: 137; Vaughn 1999: 71–8), settlement peaked in the seventh century . The following list, however, includes mainly small sites. Ein Gedi. The central settlement in the Judean Desert. The excavators attributed the site to the seventh century  (Mazar et al. 1966; Yezerski 2007: 107), and even if it was already founded by the eighth century  (see, e.g., Finkelstein 1994: 175; Vaughn 1999: 72–4), it clearly prospered in the seventh.

²⁶ Since the eighth century  was assumed to be the settlement peak of Judah, and since most of the pottery forms of the eighth–seventh centuries  are similar, when these forms are found in surveys they are typically attributed to the eighth century only (and only when one of the few forms which are unique to the seventh century are found is a site dated to this period). Batz seems to have followed this logic, which creates a strong bias in favour of the eighth century  (see Faust 2008; 2014a; Finkelstein 1994). Note that the excavators of Khallat Umm Sira (one of the sites mentioned by Batz) tend to date it to the eighth–seventh centuries  time-span (Har-Even and Aronshtam 2011). ²⁷ Interestingly, the data from the excavations of both major tells and small rural sites (the only possible exceptions are Batz’s sites, discussed above) seem to be contradicted by the data from the survey, as Ofer (1998: 46–7; 2001: 28–9) concluded that settlement was significantly reduced after Sennacherib’s campaign (see also his estimates of Kh. Rabud; Ofer 1993, 2: 64). His conclusions, however, were based on an assumption, referred to in n. 25, and cannot be maintained (cf. Finkelstein 1994; Faust 2008; 2014a).

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98  -     Rujm el-Bahr. Here there is a late Iron Age fort, located on the northeastern shore of the Dead Sea (Bar-Adon 1989: 3–14). Qumran. The earliest settlement at Qumran was during the late Iron Age. Other Iron Age remains were found nearby (De Vaux 1973: 1–3, 58–60, 91–3; 1993: 1236). Khirbet Mazin/Qasr el-Yahud. Another late Iron Age fort was excavated near the outlet of the Qidron wadi to the Dead Sea. The findings included pottery from the seventh century , although the relative frequency of burnished bowls might hint that the site was already established by the eighth century  (Bar Adon 1989: 18–29). It is likely that it was related to a nearby village (Bar-Adon 1972: 126 [site 114]; Ofer 1999: 25). Ein el-Ghuweir. The findings indicate that the site existed in the late Iron Age. South of the site, a long wall with rooms and houses that were built adjacent to it was discovered (Bar Adon 1989: 33–40). The rooms and houses were found on the way to the nearby site of Ein et-Turaba, and it is possible that both sites were actually one (Ofer 1999: 20, 29). Ein et-Turaba. A large and well-built structure with a courtyard was excavated. The site seemed to have existed in the eighth–seventh centuries  (Bar Adon 1989: 41–8), and was part of a larger settlement, which spread along the coast to Ein el-Ghuweir. Rujm esh-Shajra. This was small late Iron Age structure (fort?) near the coast of the Dead Sea (Bar Adon 1989: 86).

The Boqe’ah Valley Sites. According to Stager (1976: 145), Khirbet Abu Tabaq, Khirbet es-Samrah, and Khirbet el-Maqari were ‘paramilitary outposts’, which were supposed to guard the road(s) leading from the Dead Sea to Jerusalem. The sites, along with ‘outliers and nearby desert farms’, were ‘established in the Buqe’ah wasteland in the 7th century ’, and were destroyed in the early sixth century  (Stager 1976; see also Cross and Milik 1956). Vaughn (1999: 75–8) dates their foundation to the eighth century . Vered Yericho. A well-built, late seventh–early sixth century  structure was discovered just north of the Judean Desert, near Jericho (Eitan 1983). Wadi Qelt. About 3 km north of Vered Yericho, a large, seventh-century  site (about 30 dunams) was unearthed on the southern bank of Wadi Qelt, near Jericho (Eitan 1983; also Stern 2001: 134). Jericho (Tell es-Sultan). The city seems to have flourished during the last phase of the Iron Age (Stern 1994: 400, and references), and remains from this period were also recovered by the new expedition to the site (Nigro 2016: 16).

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While it is clear that the seventh-century  is the settlement peak in the Judean Desert, we concur with Vaughn (1999: 71–8) that the settlement wave had already started in the eighth century  (see also Bar Adon 1989).²⁸

The Negev The seventh century  was also the peak of settlement in the Negev (Finkelstein 1994: 176; 1995: 144–9; Herzog 1997b: 239–42; Na’aman 1987: 4–6). While some eighth-century  sites were destroyed and abandoned (e.g. Tel Beersheba; Herzog and Singer-Avitz 2016), most continued to exist, and additional sites were established only in the seventh century  Arad. The Iron Age fort continued to function (M. Aharoni 1993: 85; Herzog 1997b: 242, 244, 245). Tel Malhata. The eighth-century  city continued to exist in the seventh century  (Kochavi 1993a; Beit Arieh et al. 2015: 740–2). Beer-Sheva, near the Old Market. A large Iron Age site was revealed in the modern city of Beer-Sheva below the Beduin market (e.g. Gophna and Yisraeli 1973: 115–18). According to some, this could have been the location of the seventh-century  city (but see Panitz-Cohen 2005; Fabian and Gilead 2007). Tel ‘Ira. The earlier Iron Age city continued to exist, and the last Judahite city (stratum 6) was built in the mid-seventh century  (Beit Arieh 1999: 176–7; Beit Arieh 1993a: 644). Aroer. The excavator dated the three Iron Age strata at the site to the seventh century  (Biran 1993), although recent analysis showed that the settlement had already started in the eighth century  (Thareani Sussely 2007; Thareani 2011). The sites listed above continued to exist from the eighth century to the seventh century . In the Negev, however, there were also a number sites which were established only in the seventh century . Tel Masos. After a gap of a few hundred years, a new settlement was erected nearby. The seventh century  site was quite small, and perhaps served as a fort or a road station (e.g. Kempinski 1993a: 989). Horvat Uza. A fort and a nearby village were established in the seventh century  (Beit Arieh 1993c; 2007). Horvat Radum. This is a small fort from the seventh century  (Beit Arieh 1993b; 2007). ²⁸ As the peak was towards the end of the Iron Age, it is possible that some sites were established only after the period of Assyrian rule.

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100  -     Qitmit. A small unfortified site, most likely a road-shrine, was excavated in the southeastern part of the biblical Negev (Beit Arieh 1995). It is usually attributed to Edomite presence (e.g. Beit Arieh 1991; 1995), but it is more likely that it was used by various peoples, mainly those involved in the Arabian trade (e.g. Finkelstein 1992; 1995: 139–53; Beck 1995; 1996). Kh. Tov. This is a seventh-century fort  (Cohen 1995: 115–16). Clearly, the seventh century  represents a settlement peak in the Negev, exceeding that of earlier phases of the Iron Age (or of the Bronze Age, for that matter). Most regions of Judah, with the exception of the Shephelah, prospered in the seventh century .

The Kingdoms of Transjordan A similar picture emerges when one examines the reality in the semiindependent Transjordanian kingdoms.²⁹

Ammon Ammon exhibit a relatively complex (for Transjordan), three-level settlement hierarchy (Younker 2014: 762). The seventh-century  reflects both quantitative and qualitative increase in settlement. Amman Citadel. Seventh-century  finds seem more numerous than earlier ones (Tyson 2014a: 34). Jalul. Significant increase in settlement is evident (Herr 2008: 1844–5; Tyson 2014a: 35). Safut. The settlement expanded significantly, and apparently include a lower town (Herr 2008: 1847; Tyson 2014a: 36). Sahab. Earlier Iron II remains were limited, and it is doubted whether a real settlement existed before the seventh century , when remains are substantial, representing a town (Ji 1995: 125; Tyson 2014a: 36). Tall al-ʿUmayri. Iron IIC occupation at the site was substantial (Tyson 2014a: 36), and the era is probably the peak of settlement (Herr 2008: 1850).

²⁹ The discussion follows the regional division conducted in Chapter 2, but one must remember that the allocation of some sites to this or that polity can be disputed.

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Hesban. The finds at the site include architecture, and it appears that the settlement reached its Iron II peak at the time (Geraty 1993: 628; Tyson 2014a: 35). Jawa. Significant remains, including public construction such as a gate were unearthed (Herr 2008: 1845; Tyson 2014a: 35). Jamaan. The recently discovered Iron II fort apparently continued to exist at the time (Nigro and Gharib 2016). The excavations at the large and central sites show that Iron IIC settlement was more significant than its predecessor, and the data from surveys complement this assessment. The overall number of sites, mainly small ones, grew from 100 in the eighth century  to 300 during the seventh (Tyson 2014a: 50; 2014b: 487, 489). It must be stressed, however, that the new sites are mostly farmsteads and forts, i.e. isolated structures (Tyson 2014a: 45–9; Younker 2014: 761).³⁰ Groot (2014: 62) also noted that ‘the Iron Age IIc (734–580 ) is regarded by scholars as the golden age of the central Transjordanian kingdom of Ammon’, and Herr and Najjar (2008: 323) suggested that ‘this was the era of greatest prosperity for Ammon’ (see also Daviau and Dion 2007: 305–6; Younker 2014; Tyson 2014a: 501).

Moab Moab also flourished in the Neo-Assyrian period. The kingdom was probably less complex than most others in the southern Levant, and had a settlement hierarchy of only two levels (Steiner 2014: 772).³¹ Kh. Mudayna on Wadi ath-Thamad. The site continued from the Iron IIB, and many remains from this period were unearthed (Herr 2008: 1846; see also Daviau and Dion 2002). Cult Site at Wadi ath-Thamad (WT-13). This open cult site continued to exist and flourish at the time discussed here (Daviau 2017: 72; Steiner 2017: 176).

³⁰ While 300 sites might sound a lot, we should remember that many of the places where Iron Age pottery was found were not real settlements or were, at most, isolated structures, and might even indicate agricultural activity. Just for comparison, in the Shephelah subregion of Judah, Iron IIA–B pottery was unearthed in 731 locations, but most were probably not settlement sites (above, and see Dagan 2004: 2681–2). ³¹ Some of the archaeological sites are quite large, but it is not clear how much of each were actually settled in each phase (e.g. Routledge 2004: 191–2; Steiner 2014: 772). As for Lehun, the situation in the Iron IIC is not clear (see Chapter 2).

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102  -     Kh. al-Ataruz. Despite some changes, settlement continued from the Iron IIB (Ji and Bates 2014: 51). Baluʿ. A large structure was apparently erected at this phase, some suggesting that it was connected with the Assyrians (Herr 2008: 1843). Dhiban. Settlement continued to exist in the Iron IIC, but appears to have declined (Porter et al. 2007: 318). Tell Madaba. The earlier Iron II settlement continued into the Iron IIC, but it appears to have declined. The excavators compared the situation to that at Dhiban, noting that these were exceptions to the overall picture of prosperity (Harrison et al. 2007: 147). All in all, some 450 Iron II sites (or finds-spots) were identified in the surveys, and it is likely that most of them existed in the seventh century  (see also Routledge 2004: 79, table 4.2, and also pp. 192–3, 195, 200).³² It appears as if settlement, so far concentrating in the western part of Moab, developed also in its eastern part (Routledge 2004: 191). Clearly, as noted by Steiner (2014: 779), ‘the Assyrian campaigns . . . did not seriously alter the organization of the state’ in Moab.

Edom The highland kingdom of Edom was the least complex polity in the Iron II Southern Levant (regardless of its connection with the early Iron Age polity in the Feinan region). This was also expressed in the existence of basically two tiers of settlements, including only one town (Busayra, with a few public buildings) and a larger number of small sites, including villages, and forts, like Tawilan, Kh. al-Mu’allaq, Ghrareh, and Kh. ad-Dabba, as well as hilltop fortified refuges, like Umm al-Biyara, as-Sadeh, Baja III, Jabal al-Qseir, Qurayyat al-Manusr, and more (e.g. Bienkowski 2014: 788–9; MacDonald 2015; Ben-David 2015). Chronologically speaking, many of the sites were apparently established already before the Assyrian empire arrived in the region, but this is not accepted by all, and some believe that they were established only during the late eighth and seventh centuries . Hence, we will not review the fate of the sites during the transitional period, as even if the sites were established earlier (as I think), the transition to the period of Assyrian

³² Most ‘sites’ were probably not settlements, but rather isolated structures, or even only indication of agricultural activity (Routlege 2004: 200–1; cf. the 731 Shephelah finds-spots discussed above, most of which were not settlements; Dagan 2004: 2681–2).

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hegemony was smooth, and no destruction or abandonments took place. As for the surveys, over 300 Iron II sites were reported (MacDonald 2015), and in light of the above it is clear that the vast majority should be dated to the Iron IIC. Most of these sites, however, were very small, and many do not even represent real settlement (merely finds-spots).³³ Clearly, the period of Assyrian domination was the peak of settlement in this remote highland kingdom (e.g. Bienkowski 2008; 2014; MacDonald 2015, and references), and Herr and Najjar (2008:326) flatly stated that ‘almost all Iron Age remains in Edom date to this period’.

Discussion Settlement patterns in the Southern Levant under Assyrian rule reveals a striking picture, reversing millennia old demographic patterns in both absolute and relative terms. The dramatic changes are clearly seen when comparing the reality under Neo-Assyrian rule to the situation in the mid-eighth century , prior to the Assyrian conquests.

Settlement in the New Assyrian Provinces The north, which comprised the centre of settlements in the centuries preceding the Assyrian conquests, experienced drastic decline after the takeover. It appears as if almost all the excavated eighth-century  sites in the new provinces show signs of destruction, damage, and decline following the conquest, and most did not recover. Of the sixty eighth-century sites excavated in what was now the provinces (we exclude the northern coastal plain, which might have been part of Phoenicia), forty-eight were apparently devastated or abandoned, and show no signs of settlement in the subsequent periods (twenty-nine), or exhibit relatively poor remains, some probably only squatting (nineteen).³⁴ Continuity is apparently evident in eight sites, mostly small, all located in the central coastal plain, either along the international highway or on the coast. Significant (re)settlement, following destruction, is evidenced at Megiddo and Dan, and

³³ Here, too, the comparison with the Shephelah (see earlier in this section) is instructive. ³⁴ The squatting might not even be settlement, but rather temporary camps before deportation (cf. Chapter 7).

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104  -     it appears that there was also significant occupation at Samaria and Dor, although in greatly diminished form.³⁵ New sites were few, small (and hence insignificant demographically), and concentrated in limited areas. Clearly, the catastrophe was severe. The data from surveys, when the resolution is sufficiently fine, reveals a similar pattern. The changes can be exemplified in Figure 4.2, which compares settlement hierarchies in eighth-century Israel (dotted line) with that in the same region during Assyrian rule (dashed line).³⁶ 60

Settlement size (in hectares)

50

40

30

20

10

0 1

2

3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 The sites (arranged by size, from largest on the left, to smallest to the right)

Figure 4.2 A comparison of eighth- and seventh-century  settlement hierarchies in the territories of the kingdom of Israel

³⁵ Although data from Pella indicate some decline (see ‘The Annexed Territories in the Northern Part of the Country’ above), this is not clear, and we have therefore not counted the site. ³⁶ There are many ways in which archaeological data can be quantified to express the changes (e.g. Altaweel and Squitieri 2018: 57–123, and references). Most, however, rely heavily on data from surveys, and while Southern Levantine survey data is better than that of most parts of the world, it is still far less reliable than excavations data, which is abundant in our region. Hence, while survey data could be used to demonstrate the decline quantitatively in additional ways, I prefer to limit its usage when more reliable data is readily available.

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Notably, this figure is not used to identify hierarchy trends (cf. Chapter 2),³⁷ and we present the data simply to exemplify the great settlement decline experienced by the larger sites in the region; what is important is not the nature of the figure, but the scales we are talking about.³⁸ The decline is not uniform, however, and the hilly regions suffered far more devastation. In the Samarian hill country, the north was severely harmed, but the south was almost completely abandoned.³⁹ This was also the situation in the hilly Galilee. The topographically lower regions (valleys) were also severely damaged, if to a somewhat less degree. The somewhat exceptional area is the central coastal plain. Although most of this demographically marginal area was also devastated, we have seen that a number of (small) sites along the international highway continued to exist. Furthermore, the southern edge of this region, bordering Philistia and Judah, even prospered at the time. Not only did the few eighth-century sites continue to exist there (although some of them decreased in size), but many sites—although small and demographically insignificant—were established. This unique phenomenon is of great importance, as it can teach us a great deal about the Assyrian administration and the Assyrian interests (see the detailed discussion in Chapters 6–7). All in all, however, most sites, especially the large and mid-sized ones, either ceased to exist or were in severe decline, and the overall picture in the provinces was therefore quite dark, and cannot be viewed as anything but a settlement collapse. The northern coastal plain, apparently serving as Tyre’s hinterland (regardless of its political status, which probably changed over time), fared better than other regions. While sites there were damaged, settlement significantly recovered. This was probably because of the region’s proximity to, and connections with, Tyre (see Chapters 6–7). Notably, Singer-Avitz’s (2014) recent suggestion that sites with Iron IIC finds in the north should be subdivided into two phases has significant implications on the discussion. Singer-Avitz suggests that the majority of the Iron IIC sites she studied were established only in the later part of this period, perhaps even only after the Assyrian withdrawal near the end of the seventh century . Thus, not only is it the case that not all the sites in the north

³⁷ It should be noted that the dashed line is somewhat fictive as far as settlement hierarchy is concerned (cf. Chapter 2), as it incorporates a few separate administrative units. ³⁸ The situation in other parts of the Near East is different (e.g. Altaweel and Squitieri 2018: 157–8), and the discrepancies are discussed in Chapters 10–11. ³⁹ Towards the southern edge, there is some evidence for recovery, but these areas were probably connected with Judah and recovery most likely post-date Assyrian rule.

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106  -     coexisted (thereby reducing the number of sites that existed at any given moment under Assyrian rule in the north even farther), but also that only a minority of the sites listed in this chapter (as existing in the seventh century ) existed in the first generation or two after the Assyrian conquest. This means that the settlement collapse was more severe than the (quite gloomy) picture presented above.

Settlement in the Semi-Independent Kingdoms in the South The situation in the semi-independent south, and apparently also Phoenicia, is the opposite of that in the provinces in the north, and with the exception of one subregion, the autonomous kingdoms witnessed settlement increase in comparison to the situation in the eighth century . Given the drastic decline in the north, the increase in the south is dramatic, and for the first time in the history of the region, the south became the denser, more settled, and more prosperous part of the country. As far as the territories of the kingdom of Judah are concerned, in five out of six subregions, seventh-century  settlement exceeded that of the eighth century. Therefore, most parts of Judah prospered in the seventh century  and settlement was denser than before. Only in the Shephelah did we observe the ‘expected’ pattern, in which the seventh century  was a shadow of the eighth. Despite the upheavals caused by Sennacherib’s campaign throughout Judah, the destruction was not complete, and the recovery significant. It is likely that the campaign concentrated on the Shephelah, and hence other regions were only partially destroyed (or not destroyed at all) and recovery was fast (Faust 2008; also Greenhut and De Groot 2009: 227). This is also the situation in the southern coastal plain, and both the number of settlements and their size increased at the time. Interestingly, the comparison with the eighth century  is illuminating, as the Iron IIB was apparently the only sub-period within the Iron Age in which no mega-sites existed in Philistia, whereas in the seventh century  two such sites (re)emerged (Ashkelon and Ekron). A similar picture emerges when one examines the reality in the semiindependent regions of central and southern Transjordan. While the number of excavations in this region is far more limited than in Cisjordan, the picture is still very clear, indicating that the transition to the Assyrian period was not only smooth, but that the seventh century  was clearly the golden age of

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these kingdoms (Groot 2014: 62; Herr and Najjar 2008: 323, 326; Daviau and Dion 2007: 305–6; Tyson 2014a; Younker 2014; Steiner 2014: 779). The bottom line is that we witness a complete revolution in the settlement history and demographic reality in the region. Not only did settlement in the north decline dramatically and that in the south substantially expand (an interesting phenomenon in its own right), but for the first time in history the south is more important than the north, and by far.

The Demography of the Seventh Century  As noted in Chapter 2, population estimates cannot be trusted—only the broad trends. The figures used in this book can serve only comparative purposes, and the actual demography likely differed from the numbers presented. Given the common scholarly use of previous estimates of eighthcentury  Cisjordan (Broshi and Finkelstein 1992), in Chapter 2, I used these figures as a baseline, against which I (updated and) estimated the population of various polities in the region. Below, I extend this comparative outlook to the seventh century . Thus, although the figures cannot be used as valid population estimates, they can be used as a rough estimate of the relative settlement and population of the various polities. Before presenting the figures, however, three additional points need to be considered: 1. Some of the period’s new sites were established in low places, for example the tiny settlements in the lower Galilee (Gal 2009; Oshri and Gal 2010), as well as the sites below Tel ‘Eton (Sapir and Faust 2016) and Tel Beth-Shemesh (Zvi Lederman, personal communication). It appears that the phenomenon should be attributed to an Assyrian policy of settling people in low, indefensible locations (cf. Sinopoli 1994:171, and I elaborate on this in Chapter 7). While this might mean that more such sites have not yet been identified, the small size of most sites (especially in the north) means that they were demographically insignificant (in the Shephelah, this could be more significant, even if not substantially so), and their impact on demographic reconstructions would be small. We attempted to take such—yet undiscovered—sites, into consideration. 2. We should also consider the possibility that the squatting identified in many sites might have resulted from temporary camps of the deportees,

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108  -     until deportation (see also Chapter 7). If this is the case, the remains are even more limited than it seems at first. However, the demographic significance of these remains is so minimal that the differences are minor. 3. Some of the discussed sites might have been established only after the time of Assyrian rule. Thus, while correctly reflecting the situation in the seventh century , the figures for the period of Assyrian rule might be slightly exaggerated. Using the population of the kingdom of Israel during the eighth century  as reference, then the seventh-century  population in the territories of the former kingdom of Israel was anything between 20,000 and 30,000 (40,000 at most). The population of the kingdom Judah increased slightly to 150,000–160,000 (demographic increase in most regions was substantial, but the drastic decline in the Shephelah led to a very modest overall increase). The population of Philistia grew significantly, and was in the scale of some 70,000 (not only were there more sites, but Ashkelon and Ekron became mega-cities at the time discussed). As for the Transjordanian kingdoms, all became denser at the time, and (taking into account the presence of pastoral groups) it can be suggested that the population of Ammon was on a scale of 40,000–70,000 people, that of Moab was around 35,000–50,000 people, and at Edom, including a more substantial presence of none-settled groups, some 25,000–40,000. No matter how one wishes to manipulate the data, this is a complete reversal of millennia-old patterns. The great crisis in the north, however, can be seen in other methods as well.

Settlement Continuity and the Evidence of Place Names The preservation of ancient names is one of the basic principles of historical geography in the Near East, and the remains of hundreds of ancient sites were identified by studying toponymy (e.g. Elizur 2004; see also Aharoni 1979: 105–30; Rainey and Notely 2006: 14–21). Thus, Aharoni (1979: 128–9) noted that some 190 out of the 475 place names that are mentioned in the biblical sources (40 per cent) were identified in this way, and Ahituv (1996), who studied the book of Joshua, identified 41 per cent (149) out of the 358 place names he examined (Ben-David 2001: 153). Chaim Ben-David (e.g. 2001), however, noted that the preservation greatly differs between regions. Ben-David re-analysed the works of Aharoni (1979), Ahituv (1996), and Kalai (1967), and noted an interesting pattern. When

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examining the preservation of fifty-five biblical place names mentioned in Judah, Ahituv identified thirty-three names (60 per cent), Kalai thirty-one (56 per cent), and Aharoni identified twenty-eight names (51 per cent), but in the Galilee Ahituv identified only nineteen (34 per cent) biblical place names out of fifty-five, Kalai only sixteen (29 per cent), and Aharoni only seventeen (31 per cent).⁴⁰ What can account for this major difference? Name preservation depends on settlement continuity. When settlement exists continuously (even if not on the same sites), it is likely that the name will be preserved, whereas if an area was abandoned, new names are likely to be invented when it is resettled. Different settlement history might therefore explain the gap between the Galilee and Judah, but when did the history of the two regions differed so drastically? Ben-David (2001) notes that when we study the preservation of place names from the classical periods, not only is the preservation (not surprisingly) much better, but there is no gap between the two regions. Thus, Tsafrir Di Segni and Green (1994), who studied the later names, identified some 75 per cent out of the 450 classical place names examined throughout the country (see extensive study and details in Ben-David 2001). Still, when examining the two regions, the degree of preservation is identical, 80 per cent in the Galilee and 78 per cent in Judah (Ben-David 2001: 153–4). This shows that the settlement crisis which led to the invention of new names in the Galilee occurred between the Iron Age and the HellenisticRoman period (Ben-David 2001: 154–5). The only candidate for this crisis is the Assyrian conquest, which devastated the Galilee (Ben-David 2001: 155). This is supported by the wider appearance of a new component in place names, i.e. ‫כפר‬, which is probably of an Aramean origin. Not surprisingly, it is much more common in the north, another indication of the post-Iron Age crisis.⁴¹ Notably, in order for a name to be forgotten, it is not enough for some sites to be abandoned, and it is necessary that entire regions would be completely devastated, which is a very rare occurrence! Hence, place names are another indication for the major devastation in the north.⁴² ⁴⁰ The situation in Transjordan is similar, and names in north (Gilead) are lost, while more to the south (Moab), preservation is much better (Chaim Ben-David, personal communication). ⁴¹ It must be stressed that the names disappeared because of a crisis, and were not changed. While many empires did change names (in many cases, with only limited success), including the Assyrian, we see in Chapter 6 that the Assyrian empire did not practice this in the southwest. ⁴² Ben-David’s study did not review the situation in other regions, like Samaria, but we would expect better preservation there, since it was close to the settled territories of Benjamin, and hence it would have been likely there were people who could preserve the name.

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Summary The detailed information in our possession shows that, following the Assyrian campaigns, settlement in the newly established provinces was at an unparalleled nadir (see also Liverani 2014: 506). Settlement in most parts of the semiindependent kingdoms, however, flourished at the time. Not only did the provinces decline and the clients prosper, but the changes were so drastic that for the first time in the history of the Southern Levant the south was more significant than the north, reversing millennia-old patterns. In the appendix to this chapter we discuss the causes for the great settlement decline in the north, but even without going into the exact mechanisms that led to population decrease, it is quite clear that it was a result of the Assyrian conquests, and that the two cannot be separated. Naturally, the decline in settlement and demography was accompanied by major changes in economic activities, which are discussed in Chapter 5 (see also Faust 2012a: 140–3).

APPENDIX 4.1

The Causes for Settlement Decline We have seen that most regions in the northern part of the country suffered a major demographic decline after their incorporation within the Assyrian empire, and it is even suggested that the decline reached some 90 per cent. Is it possible that a region suffered so much, or is it only a problem with the interpretation of the archaeological finds? And if indeed the decline was real, what were the causes for it? While deportations were a notoriously common component of Assyrian policy, could they be responsible for such a decline? As there is a tendency to downplay the demographic significance of deportations (e.g. for the Babylonian empire, Lemche 1988: 175–9; Barstad 1996; Lipschits 2005: 59–62), it is the aim of this appendix to answer these two questions.⁴³

Is Such a Drastic Settlement Decline Possible? Indeed, history is full of similar cases. When societies collapse, for whatever reason, the consequences can be grave. Joseph Tainter’s (1999: 1010) cross-cultural examination showed that depopulation could reach 75–90 per cent, and even 94 per cent (Tainter 1999: 1016)! This does not mean that this is what happened following the Assyrian conquests, of course, but it clearly shows that it is possible. Tainter provided various examples to such depopulation, ranging from Rome, to Ur, to the lowland Maya. Conlee (2006: 106–7), too, referred to an extreme abandonment in Nasca, Peru, where ‘almost all

⁴³ The significance of deportations is discussed in Chapter 10.

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existing settlements were abandoned’. Extreme collapse (demographic and cultural alike) has occurred even as a result of modern imperialism (Howe 2002: 126), and in equatorial Africa, for example, the population was reduced to some 50 per cent of its previous level. According to Howe (2002: 125), ‘This was “an apocalyptic conquest”, which killed approximately half of the area’s total population and left the remainder as “cultural schizophrenics . . . bereft of common mind and purpose”.’ Modern colonial powers needed the human resources in the conquered territories (Parsons 2010: 18), and the actual conquests were shorter and usually less bloody than those in the ancient Near East, due, among other things, to (i) the great imbalance of power that led to the surrender of the weaker side; (ii) the modern medical treatment that reduced epidemics; and (iii) the ability of the imperial powers to use modern methods to limit famine. Hence, the situation in antiquity is expected to be more severe. Moving to our region, we can also use the Intermediate Bronze Age in the Southern Levant as another example. The urbanized Early Bronze Age is usually regarded as a settlement peak of 140,000 people (e.g. Broshi and Gophnah 1984). The succeeding intermediate Bronze Age, however, presents us with one of the lowest periods in the settlement and demography of the region. Not only were the urban centres destroyed or abandoned, but the estimated population (using the same methods and density coefficients) was about 10,000–15,000 people, which was some 10 per cent of that of the preceding and succeeding period (for the Intermediate Bronze Age, see e.g. Gophna 1992: 155–6, and for the Middle Bronze II, see Broshi and Gophna 1986). A similar case of extreme demographic collapse took place in Judah and Philistia about a century after the time discussed here, when they were incorporated within the Neo-Babylonian empire, which succeeded the Neo-Assyrian one. Mario Liverani (2005:195-196) noted that ‘(A)ll the archaeological indicators point to a real collapse’, and estimated ‘a population collapse of 85–90 percent’ (195). I discussed this issue at length, and showed that all lines of evidence suggest that the collapse was indeed extreme, and a conservative estimate of the population of Judah under the Neo-Babylonian empire would put it as less than 20 per cent of that of the seventh century , and probably much less, nearing 10 per cent (Faust 2012a: 119–48). Clearly, there is nothing impossible regarding the situation in the new Assyrian provinces in both northern Cisjordan and Transjordan during the Neo-Assyrian period.

The Causes for the Decline? But what were the causes for the decline? Surely, such a collapse was not in the interest of the empire. And is it possible that the Assyrians deported so many people? Moreover, what about the people that were deported to this region—part of the Assyrian two-way exile policy—often referred to as ‘exchange’ of population? The question of exile and deportation is discussed at some length in Chapters 7 and 10, but as we will presently see, it is a misconception to attribute demographic decline to deportation only. Although often ignored in the study of the demographic impact of the Mesopotamian empires of Assyria and Babylonia, as scholars were fascinated with the study of ‘exile’ (especially given its major impact on the Bible and theological concepts), there were other important mechanisms of demographic decline, namely death in the wars, including in executions following the defeat, and in the epidemics and famine which inevitably occurred during the war, and followed it, as well as of people who fled to other regions (Weinberg 1969: 84; Stern 2001: 323; Jamieson-Drake 1991: 75, 145–7; Melville 2018: 30–1). Following the debate over the reality in Judah during the Neo-Babylonian period, the issue was

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112  -     addressed recently in some detail (Faust 2011a; 2012a, and many references), and the following is an updated recapitulation of the major arguments.

Death in Battle The toll of death in wars in antiquity was usually quite high. With the lack of any real evacuation, effective medicine, or sterile conditions, many wounds ended in death (cf. Salazar 2000). And this was even more so during and after siege warfare. The death toll amongst the defenders, if they lost (as was the case here), was great (c.f. Eph’al 1997: 37–9; Kern 1999).

Famine and Epidemics War, and especially during siege (and afterwards, see below), led to famine among the besieged, and hence a growing rate of death (Eph’al 1997: 57–64; c.f. also 2 Kgs 6:28–29; Lam 2:20; 4:10). The poor conditions in the besieged cities, where dead were lying around, also resulted in the spread of epidemics, which accelerated the rate of death enormously (Eph’al 1997: 64–5). Notably, famine further lowered the ability of the local population to resist diseases, increasing the rate of death.

Executions Following the war, the conquerors executed many of the survivors, especially members of the royalty, military commanders, leaders, etc. (e.g. Kern 1999: 69–71, 73, 75; see also Bahrani 2008; Melville 2018: 30–1). This can be seen, for example, in the Lachish reliefs (uncovered at Sennacherib’s palace at Ninveh), depicting the conquest of the city (e.g. Barnett 1958; Ussishkin 1982). While this might seem unnecessary, and perhaps even be attributed to the sadistic nature of some rulers, this does not seem to be the case, and brutality and executions following the fall of a besieged city seem to have been a deliberate and calculated policy. Saggs (1984: 248) explained that in order to maintain stability in the region, the Assyrians had to ‘persuade’ their potential foes or rebels that it would be futile to oppose Assyria. This was done by demonstrating an overwhelming might, as well as by propaganda. Demonstration of power, including punishment of offenders, was consciously directed not only towards those who suffered directly, ‘but also upon those who heard of it at a distance’. Saggs added that by using atrocities as psychological warfare, the Assyrians drove their opponents into panic.

The Overall Impact of Death during the Hostilities The overall death toll among the population was therefore great. A similar picture can be seen from various ancient sources. Assyrian sources from the time of Ashurbanipal, for example, claim twenty-one times that conquered cities were totally destroyed; nine times did Ashurbanipal claim that he killed all the people, and in six cases, he said he killed many of the people. In eleven cases, figures are supplied, ranging from 50 to 3,000 (average of 1,079). Kern suggests that the figures were reached by counting heads (Kern 1999: 69–70).

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Similar descriptions can be seen in other accounts. Herodotus (6:19–20) describes the destruction of Miletus in 494 , and the killing, enslavement, or exile of its entire population (see also Demand 1990: 165; Kern 1999:78–9). A hint that this was a reality (rather than a literary construction) can be seen by the thousands of burials unearthed at Lachish and Ashdod. At both sites, mass burials, probably dated to the eighth century  were unearthed (Eph’al 1997: 37–8): • At Ashdod (Eph’al 1997: 37; Haas 1971: 212–14), in locus 1151, remains of 2,434 human beings were unearthed, 22.1 per cent of which (i.e. 538 individuals) were less than 15 years old at the time of death. In another locus (1114), the remains of 376 people were found, the majority of which died below the age of 15 years. And in other loci (1115, 1113, 1006), additional skeletons were found (all in all remains of sixty-one or sixty-two individuals in these loci), many of whom were apparently beheaded. They were probably massacred during Sargon’s conquest of the city in the late eighth century  (Dothan 1971: 21). Eph’al (1997: 37, n. 67) notes that those whose heads were cut off, were usually buried separately, and it is likely that they were executed after the war ended. As only a small part of the city was excavated, it is likely that more burials are still lying below the ground, but even these figures present us with the horrible outcomes of the siege and the executions that followed. • At Lachish, too, mass burials were discovered in a few caves during the excavations in the 1930s (Eph’al 1997: 37–8). Remains of more than 1,500 individuals were thrown into the caves (caves 107, 108, 116, 120), probably as a result of a massacre following the conquest of the city by Sennacherib (Ussishkin 1982: 56–8; although other campaigns cannot be ruled out, e.g. the devastation of the Late Bronze Age city; Eph’al 1997: 38). Again, it is likely that not all the dead were unearthed, but the above figure is sufficient to present us with the horrible outcomes of the war. These are just chance finds and it is clear that the fate of the defenders was probably the same in many cities. Death in the war was, therefore, a major cause for population decline. But the forces leading to population decline did not end when hostilities ceased.

Demographic Decline after the War All of these factors made famine and epidemics even worse, leading to more and more death even after the hostilities and the subsequent executions had ended. Since ancient armies did not have supply units which shipped the required food from army stores in the ‘home country’, they had to rely on what they found in the field (e.g. Fuchs 2011: 390; Marriott and Radner 2015: 133; Fales 2014: 420; Radner 2015: 99; see also Wiseman 1989: 51; Van Creveld 2004: 37; Erdkamp 1998: 13; Kern 1999: 73). They therefore sacked all the food they could find, hence increasing famine among the remaining population. The corpses which were still lying around probably increased epidemics, and the hungry population had low resistance. Furthermore, the agricultural areas were devastated (cf. Faust 2008: 184–5; Kern 1999: 73; Eph’al 1997: 54), so production was limited and needed a lengthy process of recovery. The collapse of the administration, along with the exile of the elite (see ‘Deportations’ below), led to farther famine, since there was no one to organize production. This situation could last for years after the war ended, especially in areas which specialized in the production of specific agricultural products—for example wine, oil, and even grains—before the war, and were now incapable of supplying their own

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Refugees Fleeing the Region The devastation of cities and villages lead to a process in which many of the survivors fled the region and migrated to safer and more hospitable places (cf. Jeremiah 41–44 for the Babylonian conquests). The imperial authorities clearly attempted to reduce such largescale movement of population, as they could have emptied the conquered territories even further. Still, the legislation against it (Na’aman 2007; Bloch 2018, and references) suggest that it was a real problem, and on the basis of the evidence from other empires, such efforts were often futile (see the discussion in Chapter 8). Under such circumstances, safety was shattered. The conquering army could do as it please, killing peoples, robbing property, and raping women (e.g. Kern 1999: 81). This resulted in a period of lawlessness, and gangs, composed of both the survivors and outsiders, roamed the area (Tainter 1999: 1023). This led to more death, lack of food (famine), and eventually, additional migration.

Deportations Deportations were practiced by many empires (e.g. Sinopoli 1994: 165), including the Assyrian and the Babylonian (Oded 1979; 2010; Liverani 2014: 506; Kuhrt 1995: 532–4). The deportations were usually partial, but the evidence suggests that they were very significant even in absolute numbers, let alone when compared to the number of people who remained alive in a devastated region (see below).⁴⁴ We have seen in Chapter 1 that a number of scholars believe that about 4 million people were deported at the time of Tiglathpileser III, Sargon, and Sennacherib (e.g. Oded 1979: 20–1; Liverani 2017: 255–6; see also Radner 2015: 109), and while it would be futile to compare these figures with the population estimates carried out in Chapter 2 and earlier in this chapter (as they derive from different sources, and given the problematic nature of each different set of data, a comparison cannot be sustained), the figures show that exile was clearly significant. Later (Chapters 7, 10, and 11), we will also see that, contrary to the assumption that it was against the interest of the empire to deport too many people (as to devastate the region), the Assyrians had an interest in deporting many, and sometimes perhaps as many as they could, from the southern Levant(see also Liverani 2017: 8, 365). Still, even if one believes that deportations were marginal demographically when compared to the former mechanisms of population decline, they clearly added to it, directly and indirectly. The direct impact was by adding to the decline by deporting population (even the figure was smaller than those who died).⁴⁵ The indirect impact was because the deported included the elite, craftsmen, etc., hence contributing also to the demoralization, lack of organization, and hence continued famine and insecurity, even beyond its mere

⁴⁴ D’Altroy (2015: 373) estimates that the Incas deported between one-quarter and one-third of the population. ⁴⁵ Notably, since many died, the percentage of the exiled from among the survivors was most likely significant, and hence the strong symbolic and psychological importance of deportations. Those who remained alive suffered again from the deportation of friends, neighbours, relatives, and leaders.

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demographic significance (e.g. Olmstead 1918: 758; see also Chapter 1). The remaining population became almost completely dependent on the Assyrians for their immediate leadership. In reality, the remainder needed help even in producing food in the first few years (see Chapter 7), given that in many cases the area was completely sacked and devastated, and that previous regional agro-economic specializations could not continue (see also Chapter 5). Additionally, the deportations tore apart the remaining population (Radner 2015: 108), leading to further societal collapse, even beyond the devastation already inflicted. Clearly, the newly arrived elite could not have filled the role of the deported elite, and could therefore not speed up the recovery. It is quite clear that, in addition to the furthering of the demographic damage, the deportations led to continued social collapse, and to hostility between members of the different groups that resided in each territory— hostility that probably took generations to decline (cf. Olmstead 1918: 759). Furthermore, it should be stressed that, contrary to the common view (e.g. Kuhrt 1995: 536), the deportations were not simple ‘exchanges’ of population (see Chapter 1). This, for two reasons: (i) not all the deported population reached its final destination. While not meant as death marches, travelling was hard, and the toll of death was clearly heavy (even if Assyrian officials attempted to reduce it)—according to Liverani (2017: 255–6), about one-third died during transit (see Chapter 1); (ii) more importantly, most of the exiles (about 85 per cent) were not sent to other, newly acquired provinces, but rather to the centre in Mesopotamia (e.g. Oded 1979: 28, and additional references and discussion in Chapters 1 and 7), and only a mere 15 per cent, on average, was sent to peripheral regions. And as just noted, not all of this 15 per cent arrived at their destination! One way or another, the population that was deported to the region itself did not compensate even for those deported from it, let alone for the dead. The deportations, which perhaps more than anything else are identified with the Assyrian empire, are more systematically discussed in Chapter 7.

Summary It is commonly agreed that such a collapse was not in the interests of the empire, but not only are the processes of collapse, once unleashed, difficult to stop, but we will also see (Chapters 10–11) that it is doubted whether this was always against the interests of the empire, and that sometimes, perhaps, the empire preferred to use the inhabitants of the remote provinces in other regions, where they could serve it better. One way or the other, and regardless of the question of ‘intentionality’, all the mechanisms mentioned here were operating, leading to the demographic collapse of the conquered territories, as is clearly evident in the archaeological record.

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5 Prosperity, Depression, and the Empire Economic Developments in the Southwest during the Seventh Century 

The settlement growth in the south was accompanied by economic prosperity, expressed, for example, in increased olive oil production and enhanced trade, which received a great deal of scholarly attention. Given that this prosperity coincided with the period of Assyrian rule, most scholars associated the two, and attributed the prosperity to Assyrian policy, and even imperial investment (Chapter 1). The attribution of the prosperity in the south to Assyria, however, ignores the situation in the north—in the Assyrian provinces themselves—and presents a very partial outlook at best. In order to get a more complete picture of the economy of the seventh century  and its causes, this chapter reviews the evidence of economic prosperity, and analyses it within broader frameworks: i.e. geographical (the entire southern Levant), chronological (compared with the eighth century ), and topical (i.e. compared with additional types of finds). This allows us to compare the economy of the provinces and the clients, and to reconstruct the entire economic system of the time, and hence to evaluate the causes for the prosperity in the south, and the role the Assyrian empire played in these developments.¹

Economy and Trade in the South during the Seventh Century  The evidence for economic prosperity and for enhanced trade are all taken from the semi-independent clients, mainly Philistia, but also Judah, and to some extent also southern Transjordan.

¹ Large parts of this chapter are summarizing and updating previous publications (e.g. Faust and Weiss 2005; 2011; Faust 2011d).

The Neo-Assyrian Empire in the Southwest: Imperial Domination and Its Consequences. Avraham Faust, Oxford University Press (2021). © Avraham Faust. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198841630.003.0005

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Economy and Trade in Philistia and the Southern Coastal Plain We have seen in previous chapters that settlement in Philistia thrived in the seventh century , and there is also ample evidence for economic prosperity there. This is exemplified by the finds in several excavated sites in Philistia. Ashkelon is the only real coastal city south of Jaffa, and was a mega-city of some 60 hectares at this time. Various imports unearthed at the site suggest that it participated in international maritime trade (e.g. Master 2003; see also Stager et al. 2011).² Economic activity, and even prosperity, is also evidenced by the major architectural find, the winery. This was a large building whose construction involved ashlars and timber, and it represents what was probably the main agricultural activity in the area—wine production. According to Stager (1996: 64*; more below) ‘(T)he royal winery at Ashkelon . . . suggest(s) that coastal Philistia was already an important producer of wine both for local consumption and for export.’ Various agricultural products were naturally imported to Ashkelon, whose ‘natural’ hinterland was limited, since it was located on the shore of the Mediterranean, and in the midst of sand dunes. Olive oil was probably imported from the inner coastal plain and the Shephelah (below), while grains were, as Weiss and Kislev (2004) clearly showed, imported from even farther inland, i.e. from Judah, and perhaps also from the Sharon.³ It is likely that Ashkelon, due to its location, was also an important fishing centre. Ekron, the second mega-city in Philistia (some 30 hectares), is probably the most famous example of the seventh-century  prosperity. The site, which expanded dramatically at the time, was well planned and fortified, and ‘included industrial, domestic and elite zones of occupation . . . With only 4 percent of the tel excavated, 115 olive oil installations have been identified . . . making Ekron the largest ancient industrial center for the production of olive oil excavated to date’ (Gitin 1998: 276; see also Eitam 1987; 1996). The small finds include a small number of imports, including many Egyptian artefacts, attributed either to the period of Egyptian rule in the coastal plain (Dothan and Gitin 1993: 1058), or to booty brought by the Assyrians (Gitin 2003: 59*–60*, n. 6).

² The site clearly served as an outlet of the lucrative Arabian trade, but direct evidence for this trade is, of course, hard to find. ³ When examining the weeds that were found with the wheat, Weiss and Kislev (2004) noticed that in one pile, at least, those could have originated only from Judah, while the second could have arrived from Judah or the Sharon.

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118  -     Additional installations for the production of olive oil were unearthed in Timnah, which perhaps served as an additional, smaller, centre for the production of olive oil, but the exposure is too limited to ascertain it.

Economy and Trade in Judah The data from seventh-century  Judah also seem very instructive, and some economy-related archaeological finds present us with evidence for the prosperity that Judah experienced and the international trade in which it participated. Jerusalem, the capital, exhibits many signs of trade (Faust and Weiss 2005: 75). An analysis of the fish bones found indicates an intensive and well-organized trade with the Mediterranean and the southern coastal plain (Lernau and Lernau 1992: 136). Shells also indicate trade, and according to Mienis (1992: 129), they ‘had their origin in the Mediterranean Sea, the Red Sea, and the River Nile’, and ‘point to an intensive trade between those areas and the . . . city’. An examination of a small collection of wood remains reveals that about 8 per cent were imported from relatively long distances (Liphschitz 1989: 142–3). Several inscriptions might indicate trade with South Arabia (Shiloh 1987), or perhaps Greece (Sass 1990). Evidence for trade was also found in other regions within Judah. Liphshitz and Biger (1991: 172), for example, have analysed wood remains from the Beersheba and Arad valleys, and found that cedar comprised about 10 per cent of the finds, concluding that this ‘indicates the wealth and widespread commercial activities of a regime which was able to use such an expensive import in the building of monumental constructions’ (see also Singer-Avitz 2018). As for production, in the hill country, especially around Jerusalem there is much evidence for wine production, in the form of wine presses unearthed in many farmsteads, and large wineries, unearthed, for example, in Gibeon and el-Burj (e.g. De Groot and Weinberger-Stern 2013; Moyal and Faust 2015). Recently, a large industrial complex, perhaps for the production of oil, was unearthed below the mound of Beth-Shemesh (Lederman, personal communication), suggesting that Judah also participated in the flourishing oil industry. A large grain storage centre was discovered in Moza (Greenhut and De Groot 2009), and it had been suggested that the settlement growth in the peripheral areas, in addition to its role in the Arabian trade (which did not require much settlement), enabled the growing of grain. This was probably the situation in the southern Hebron hill country and the Beersheba valley

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(Finkelstein 1994; Beit Arieh 2015:14, and more below), and perhaps also in some of the valleys in the Judean desert, even if on a much smaller scale (Stager 1976; Finkelstein 1994). This type of production does not leave clear archaeological traces, but the settlement growth in the regions in which nothing more substantial can be grown is clear. While some have questioned whether these fringe areas can produce grain surpluses (e.g. Master 2009), evidence suggest that it is possible (e.g. Finkelstein 1994; Beit Arieh 2015: 14, and references).⁴ Most of the Judean desert and the southern parts of the Beersheba-Arad valleys were used for grazing. As for Transjordan, we have seen wealth of evidence for settlement growth in the desert fringes, and it is clear that much of it is related to agricultural production (e.g. Tyson 2014b: 489; Routledge 2004: 191–201). Clearly, the seventh century  experienced an economic prosperity, expressed in both increased production and trade. But what lies behind these developments? In order to understand them, we need to embed the data presented briefly above within their geographical and economical context.

Analysing Agricultural Production in the Seventh Century  From the data presented above, one can reconstruct several zones of agricultural production (following Faust and Weiss 2005; 2011; Figure 5.1). Ashkelon and the nearby coastal region specialized in growing vines, and the production of wine (e.g. Stager 1996: 64*; Johnson and Stager 1995). The inner coastal plain and the Shephelah grew mainly olives, specializing in olive oil production (Eitam 1987; 1996). Indeed, there is evidence that the Shephelah was used for such purposes in many periods (e.g. Drori 1979: 70–2). Further inland, some parts of the highlands, especially the slopes, were used for growing vines, and probably also olives, whereas other parts, mainly the valleys with their heavy soils, are suitable for growing grain (e.g. the Soreq valley near Moza; see e.g. Greenhut and De Groot 2009), and also the desert fringe, and even the Negev (see e.g. Shmueli 1980: 158–9; Finkelstein 1994; Beit Arieh 2015:14).

⁴ Beit Arieh’s calculations suggest that there are some 7,000 hectares of arable land in the AradBeersheba valley, and the grain harvest in an average year is about 600 kg per hectare, i.e. a total of ca. 4,200,000 kg, supplying the needs of some 14,000 individuals. This, of course, greatly surpassed the number of residents in the region, which Beit Arieh estimates as 3,600.

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Figure 5.1 Schematic map outlining the production zones in the land of Israel in the seventh century 

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The semi-arid parts of Judah specialized also in herding, supplying herd products to more settled regions. Apparently, such ‘zoning’ is expected. After all, the coastal plain is well suited for the growing of vines, and hence wine production. The Shephelah is suited for the growing of olives, and hence olive oil production. Some parts of the highlands are suitable for growing grain, and so is the desert fringe. The desert fringe, and even parts of the desert itself, are, of course, also suitable for herding. Ecological zoning, however, while tempting, falls short of explaining the phenomenon discussed here. For example, the coastal plain is also suitable for growing cereals. Why did Ashkelon choose to concentrate on vines and not on wheat, which was, partly at least, imported from Judah? Furthermore, while parts of Judah are suitable for grain, this is not typical of Judah as a whole. Ecologically speaking, one would expect Judah to be exporting wine, not wheat. Still, various lines of evidence, in addition to the Judahite wheat unearthed in Ashkelon, indicate that in the late Iron Age Judah was perceived as a grain-producing region, perhaps even as the grain basket of the region: 1. Ezekiel 27 (the lamentation over Tyre). Most scholars agree that the list of Tyre’s trading partners in the passage is authentic and is approximately contemporary with Ezekiel, i.e. it reflects an early sixth- (or late seventh-) century  reality (Wevers 1969: 205; Eichrodt 1970: 387; see also Goldstein 2012; M. Greenberg 1997: 556; Diakonoff 1992; Stager 2003). It is therefore interesting that the only supplier of wheat to Tyre is ‘Judah and the Land of Israel’ (verse 17). 2. Elat (1977: 196) notes that the various texts that describe Israel’s relations with Tyre, whatever the historical reality behind them, indicate Israel’s role in the exchange as providing grain. 3. It is also worth mentioning a legal document from Nineveh that mentions wheat sold according to Judahite Se’ah (sutu) (Elat 1977: 197). This means that wheat from Judah must have been something that people were familiar with. This is not ‘expected’ ecologically. Also, while the Judean desert and the Negev can produce cereal surpluses, this is not usually the case, and there must have been a serious incentive for this to happen. We believe that the reasons behind the above-mentioned patterns rests in larger economical considerations. In order to understand them, we need to realizse the ‘profitability’ of the various activities.

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Explaining the Pattern: Prices and ‘Profits’ The most widely grown and important crops in ancient Israel were grain (wheat, and to a lesser extent barley), olives, and grapes, and to this one should add herding. A comprehensive analysis of the economic potential of these crops indicates that wine production was the most ‘profitable’, the second most ‘profitable’ crop was olives, and then came grain (e.g. Safrai 1994: 126–8, 355), followed by herding (for a detailed discussion, with references, see also Faust and Weiss 2005: 76–7).⁵ When reviewing our four zones of production, in light of their ‘profitability’, it is clear that while the zones correspond to a large extent with ecological zoning, they are also organized according to profitability, in direct relation to the distance to the sea—the closer the zone is, the more profitable its typical crop. The differences in profitability can easily explain why Ashkelon specialized in wine production, and chose to import its wheat. But why did Judah become an important grain producer? After all, grain is located quite low on the ‘profitability scale’. We believe that this can be explained when we examine all four zones as comprising a single economical system. Various scholars have acknowledged (following von Thünen 1826 [Hall 1966]; see also Chisholm 1979) that location and ‘profitability’, mainly as a combination of the price of the products and land and transportation costs, play a major role in determining the choice of crops for production. According to Wheeler and Muller (1986: 318; emphasis added): ‘if environment variables are held constant, then the . . . product that achieves the highest profit will outbid all other products in the competition for location’. One can therefore expect that the most ‘profitable’ activities will be conducted in the best location, i.e. nearer the ‘centres’. The less ‘profitable’ the activity is, the farther away it is expected to be, as long as this is permitted by the ecological conditions, of course. Similar variation of production zones can cover extensive regions, crossing political boundaries and ecological niches (e.g. Peet 1969; see also Bradford and Kent 1977: 39; DeBlij 1977: 303; Wheeler and Muller 1986: 326–41).

⁵ Notably, although oil was more expensive than wine (e.g. Dar 1986b: 159), a hectare of vines produced much more wine than a hectare of olives produced oil (Faust and Weiss 2005: 76–7 and many references). This difference compensates, and more, for the lower price of wine, and makes the growing of vines more ‘profitable’.

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Reconstructing the Economic Prosperity of the Seventh Century  When these economic considerations are taken into account, along with the ecological ones, we believe that all the archaeological data become complementary. The archaeological evidence indicates that the economy of the desert and the highland (Judah), as well as the lowland (inner coastal plain and the Shephelah) and the southern coastal plain (e.g. Ashkelon) was highly integrated in the seventh century , both within these regions, and as we will see later, mainly in the section ‘The Local System and the Greater World’, also with international trade. At the heart of the local system was Ashkelon (and probably also Gaza, on which we know nothing archaeologically). Being the major port of the south, it was the gate through which desired imports came to the region, and through which surpluses were exported. Ashkelon itself must have imported products for export and food for its own consumption. Located on the coast, in the midst of dunes, this mega-city could not have supported itself agriculturally, and must have imported most of its food. Forming the ‘best location’, Ashkelon had used its own (limited) hinterland mainly, though probably not solely, for the production of wine. The second zone was in the inner coastal plain and the Shephelah. Here the major product was olive oil, represented by the huge production centre of Ekron. Olive oil, however, was produced at other sites, for example Tel Batash (e.g. Mazar 1997: 211–18), Tel Beth-Shemesh (Zvi Lederman, personal communication), and even as far as Tel Hadid (Brand 1998, and see more below). At the latter site, a large industrial area with twenty-five oil presses was excavated, and it represents another centre of production at the edge of this zone.⁶ While the local population probably produced some wine and grain, olive oil production was the major field there. Interestingly, this also explains the somewhat awkward situation of Ekron in relation to the probable location of most of the olive groves. Ekron, as noted by Eitam and Shomroni (1987: 49; see also Eitam 1996: 184), is situated on the edge of the olive-growing area rather than in its midst, and it therefore seems that it became the major production centre not because of its central location as far as the olivesupplying area was concerned, but because of its proximity to the coast and its ports. ⁶ Tel Hadid is located on the edge of the province of Samaria, and this differs from the other centres discussed in this chapter (see Chapter 6–7).

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124  -     The third zone was mostly in Judah, which manufactured surpluses of what the other areas, and especially Ashkelon, needed—grain. We should note that while it is clear that Judah also produced wine and olive oil (Faust and Weiss 2005: 80–2), this is expected even according to the theoretical model, which acknowledges the existence of secondary centres (e.g. Bradford and Kent 1977: 34, and see Figure 5.1). Still, its contribution to the overall system was grain. This explains why Judah had expanded into the inhospitable regions of the desert and the desert fringe.⁷ These regions apparently produced grain surpluses; obviously, the limited surpluses of the Judean desert did not go to Ashkelon. These surpluses supplied a small part of the needs of the Jerusalem area, but this ‘freed’ other grain-producing areas farther west, and those fed Ashkelon. The fourth zone was grazing, mainly in the Judean desert and the Negev, as well as some parts of Transjordan. It is more than likely that even southern Transjordan was influenced and became part of the system, and that this is also (in addition to the growth of the Arabian trade) the cause for the settlement prosperity there. The surpluses from Transjodan were not transported to Ashkelon, but it is possible that they supplied nearer regions, enabling the specialized system to grow, and benefited from it. This explains why Ashkelon grew vines and imported grain, why Ekron produced so much olive oil, why Judah expanded to the desert, and how Judah paid for its cedars and fish, etc. All lines of evidence seem, therefore, to converge.⁸ But what was the role of the empire in this complex economic system? In order to understand this, we first need to address the elephant in the room: the Assyrian provinces in the north.

The Role of the North in the Economic Prosperity of the Seventh Century  Notably, all studies that referred to the economic prosperity of the seventh century  addressed only the south—the north was almost never even ⁷ In addition to the benefits of the Arabian trade, which are also partially responsible for the settlement there. ⁸ If the finds at Ekron date to the late seventh century  and post-date the period of Assyrian rule (Stager 1996, but see Gitin 2003’s response), then the area was not even a secondary centre at the time discussed here. This, however, does not detract from the importance of the larger economic system for understanding the economy of the Assyrian period, and cf. Appendix 5.1.

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mentioned. The reasons are quite clear—it is only in the south that evidence for prosperity were found! It is ironic that all the studies that attributed this prosperity to Assyria ignored the fact that no evidence for this prosperity was unearthed in the Assyrian provinces. It is worth quoting Finkelstein and Ussishkin’s (2000: 602) reference to this prosperity when discussing the situation in Megiddo—the capital of one of the provinces in the north: ‘It seems that southern Palestine was the focus of Assyrian economic activity in the region, which included the foundation of central emporia and overland trade with Arabia, Transjordan and Egypt’, adding that, ‘The north may have been pivotal in the Assyrian administration in Palestine, but it seems to have played only a secondary role in the thriving international trade of the 7th century ...’ The fact that when discussing the capital of one of the Assyrian provinces Finkelstein and Ussishkin could not bring any evidence for prosperity from the site or its vicinity, and had to recourse to evidence from the client states farther south is revealing. The region simply did not produce any relevant evidence. Moreover, not only is evidence for prosperity not available, but we have seen that we have ‘positive’ evidence for destruction and depression in this region (see Chapter 4, as well as Appendix 5.2 below). While this in itself is quite telling about the role (or lack therefore) of Assyria in the economy of the region and in initiating prosperity (more in ‘The Local System and the Greater World’ below, and in later chapters), it appears that a better understanding of the prosperity in the south can shed further light on Assyria’s role, interests, and policies.

The Local System and the Greater World What initiated the prosperity of the south? Clearly, Judah and Philistia exported surpluses to another region, and the entire system described here was peripheral to the larger economic system into which it was incorporated. Did the oil surpluses supply the oil needs of Mesopotamia, as was suggested by some (e.g. Gitin, Van de Mieroop, Barstad, and Becking, and see Chapter 1)? And where did the wine surpluses from Ashkelon go to?

Assyria The dominant political power in the region during most of the seventh century  was, of course, Assyria, and it clearly had economic interests in the region.

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126  -     Indeed, we have already seen that the common view ascribes the economic prosperity in the region to the ‘Assyrian peace’, but the evidence all runs against this suggestion. Although the region was subordinated to Assyria, it is clear that (i) the destination of the commodities was elsewhere; and that (ii) Assyria did not initiate the prosperity, for the following reasons (some will be farther elaborated in Chapters 10–11). 1. First and foremost, if the Assyrians had an interest in the agricultural products of the region, they could have restored the large wine and oil industry that existed in Samaria and the Galilee during the eighth century  (see the extensive discussion in Appendix 5.2; see also Gal and Frankel 1993; Eitam 1979; 1980; 1992b; Faust 2011d). Samaria and the Galilee, unlike Ekron, were Assyrian ‘territories’ (using Gitin’s 1989b: 48 term), i.e. māt Aššur. Furthermore, those regions were more suitable for growing olives than the inner coastal plain, and had a longer history of producing surpluses of olive oil. We discuss this issue in Appendix 5.2, but suffice it to note here that the mere fact that all these sites were destroyed by the Assyrians and were not rebuilt indicates that the Assyrians were not interested in maximizing productivity in the region, not even in ‘their’ territories. This, of course, also explains why we do not have evidence for prosperity in the north, as noted above. 2. While some have suggested that Assyria encouraged the production of wine or oil because it lacked these resources, Mesopotamia is simply too far away for commercial land transportation from the Land of Israel. Such transportation would have been far too expensive and impractical (see also Chapters 10–11; from a different perspective, see Machinist 1992: 76). Moreover, the available data on importation of wine to Assyria indicates that it was indeed brought from much nearer locations, and whenever possible was transported by river (see e.g. Liverani 1992: 158, fig. 22; Yamada 2000: 270–1, 416). This is corroborated by the fact that: 3. The available evidence suggests that Judah and its neighbours paid tribute to Assyria in ‘exotic’ commodities or items, not in heavy agricultural products (Elat 1978: 30–1; 1991: 21–2; Tadmor 1975: 37; Schloen 2001: 146–7, n. 17; Zilberg 2018; see also Yamada 2000: 265, 414). We have no evidence for the payment of wheat, olive oil, or wine by Judah to Assyria, and in the words of Zilberg (2016: 396): ‘in the tribute lists from the West we do not find agricultural produce such as

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oil or wine’.⁹ Judah and its neighbours used their agricultural surpluses to acquire other commodities, and those were paid as tribute to Assyria. 4. Finally, the above-presented local system of the south is no doubt directed towards port cities, i.e. the Mediterranean world and its maritime trade, and not towards Mesopotamia. It is centred around Ashkelon (and probably also Gaza) on the coast, and ‘has its back’ so to speak, to the north and east.

Phoenicia and the Mediterranean World The Phoenicians had a major role in the Iron Age Mediterranean trade (e.g. Markoe 2000; Aubet 2001; Elayi 2013). From the early first millennium  onwards, the Phoenicians were engaged in trade in various parts of the Mediterranean, and from the ninth century  at the latest, they were active in its far western part, and even in the Atlantic (Aubet 2001 and references; see also Nijboer and van der Plicht 2006: 31, 35–6; Lopez Castro et al. 2016, and more below). In the seventh century , the Phoenicians were at the peak of their commercial success and were responsible for the majority of the Mediterranean trade, including the transportation of commodities to and from Ashkelon (Master 2003). Since the entire system focused on the sea, it is quite clear that it was the Phoenician trade that served as an impetus for the development of the economic system discussed here. The Phoenician demand for products was initially influential along the coast, but gradually percolated inland, altering the local economy. This process is to some extent similar to what happened in other regions, for example in Spain, where the local society was altered by contacts with the Phoenicians (e.g. Aubet 2001; see also Hodos 2006; various papers in Bierling and Gitin 2002; Delgado and Ferrer 2007). While the Phoenicians conducted this trade, and benefited from it, it is clear that they did not consume all the goods that they transported. The products were transported throughout the Mediterranean, and it is likely that special attention should be focused on Egypt. The seventh century , and especially its latter half, was a flourishing period in Egypt, from both political and economic perspectives (see e.g. Lloyd 2000: 369–83; Kuhrt 1995: 636–46;

⁹ According to Zilberg (2016: 395–6) there is a possible example for ‘oil being brought from the western territories’, but this refers to an amphora filled with ‘precious oil’ that ‘was taken as booty with other treasures. Thus, it cannot be considered evidence for import of oil from the West.’

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128  -     Redford 1992: 433–44; see also Markoe 2000: 44–6). Redford (1992: 433) refers to the twenty-sixth (Saite) dynasty (664–525 ) as ‘the last period of imperial and cultural renewal of ancient inspiration ancient Egypt was to experience’. The growing market of Egypt seems to have been the destination of much of the export, as Egyptian agriculture does not usually produce the necessary quantities of olives and grapevines (see also Stager 1996: 70–1). Still, Egypt should be viewed as a component, even if an important one, of the larger Mediterranean system, driven mainly by the Phoenicians.

The Mediterranean Economy and Assyria But what was the role of the Assyrians in the creation of the Mediterranean economic system itself? Assyria—the dominant Mesopotamian empire—no doubt benefited from the prosperity (e.g. Parpola and Watanabe 1988 [SAA 2]: 24–7), and some have suggested that the Assyrians’ demand for tribute forced the Levantine states to look for more sources of income, hence altering the economy (Frankenstein 1979; see also Sherratt and Sherratt 1993: 366, 370; Hopkins 1997: 29; Bedford 2005: 72–3). Thus, it has been claimed that the Assyrians drove the Phoenicians deep into the western Mediterranean, and by doing so created the Mediterranean system. Frankenstein (1979: 273), in a highly influential paper, wrote ‘ . . . the Phoenicians became the main suppliers of primary materials to their Assyrian and other partners in the regional trading system’, adding: (I)n order to meet the new demands from within the regional trading system, the Phoenician cities were forced to extend their exchange relations . . . expansion beyond the regular, established trading network within the Eastern Mediterranean would have been the means by which the Phoenician cities could maintain themselves whilst maintaining their role within the Assyrian dominated regional economy. In fact, the Assyrians’ demands forced the Phoenician cities to become suppliers of raw materials for the production centers of trading partners and in order to obtain these raw materials the Phoenician cities had to enlarge their trading sphere.¹⁰

¹⁰ This view (see also Gitin 1995: 61; Bagg 2013: 131) is influenced by the world system theory jargon, which had greatly influenced the study of empires (Sinopoli 1994: 61). Still, a cursory look would show that the Southern Levant does not fit the theory, even if the data at hand was correct, as no raw materials were taken from this region to the core of Mesopotamia, and no finished products from the core were traded with the local population in exchange (Chapter 6).

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According to this suggestion, the Assyrian demands for tribute forced the Phoenicians to look for more sources of income, and especially of silver, and hence actively encouraged the Phoenician colonization of the west. Should this be true, the driving force behind the prosperity in Philistia and Judah would indeed have been the Assyrians, and they should be brought back to a central role. This oft-quoted view, however, is contradicted by all the available evidence, and it is clear that Assyria did not initiate the economic prosperity in the Mediterranean, and was not directly involved in its development. The first point to bear in mind when considering the role of Assyria in the development of the Mediterranean economy is that the maritime international trade started long before the Assyrian empire had a foothold in the Mediterranean coast. While the dates of the initial Phoenician colonization of the west were debated until recently, it is quite clear today that Phoenician trade started in the early first millennium  (e.g. at Kition; Aubet 2001: 51–2), and, furthermore, it is quite certain that the Phoenicians reached as far as Iberia as early as ‘the first half of the 9th century  if not before’ (Nijboer and van der Plicht 2006: 31, 35–6; see also Gonzalez de Canales et al. 2006; for further discussion and additional dates from Spain in the ninth century , see Aubet 2001: 372–81; Nijboer 2004: 539). Carbon-14 dates from Carthage also seem to date the initial Phoenician settlement there to the later part of the ninth century  (Nijboer 2004: 536–7; Docter et al. 2004; Docter et al. 2006; Nijober and van der Plicht 2006: 33–5), and recent dates from Utica point to the late tenth century  (Lopez Castro et al. 2016). It is quite clear, therefore, that the Phoenician expansion westward started long before the Assyrian hegemony in Phoenicia was established, and that it cannot be a result of Assyrian policy.¹¹ Moreover, the local system described above (that was part of the Mediterranean one) evolved outside the boundaries of Assyria,¹² and we have seen that the Assyrian provinces in the west, for example Samaria and Megiddo, were not part of this system, and actually did not prosper at the time. This is despite the fact that during the eighth century  this was the central area in which olive oil was produced. Had the empire any role in encouraging

¹¹ Fales (2017: 271) attempted recently to advocate what he viewed as a middle position, but the mere fact that the Tyrian westward expansion started long before Assyria arrived on the scene (a point he acknowledged elsewhere, e.g. p. 269, n. 376) suggests that whatever the empire’s intentions were, it was (at best) piggybacking on an existing enterprise. His reconstruction on p. 272 is, when stripping it to its base, similar to what we suggest here, i.e. that the empire saw an opportunity, and made sure it would take its share. ¹² Even if Ashdod, for instance, became a province for a short while (e.g. Na’aman 2001 and many others; for the status of the region, see also Tadmor 1966: 87; 2006: 253; Eph’al 1979: 86).

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130  -     production for this system, rather than only reaping the cream off an existing one, they would have developed production in the provinces. Interestingly, the impact of the Mesopotamian empires on the local economies of the Southern Levant can be seen not only in the relative ‘backwardness’ of Samaria and other provinces in the seventh century , but also in the cessation of the discussed (seventh-century ) system as a result of the activities of Assyria’s successor as the dominant Mesopotamian empire— Babylonia. The Babylonian campaigns in the late seventh and the early sixth centuries  brought an end to this flourishing system (e.g. Stager 1996; Stern 2001; Faust 2012a). After the Babylonian campaigns, the entire system described above was in ruins, and did not participate in the flourishing Mediterranean trade of the sixth century . This is evident not only from the conflagrations (or at least evidence for large-scale abandonment) unearthed at practically all sites (Stager 1996; Mazar and Panitz-Cohen 2001: 282; Gitin 1995: 74–5; 1998: 276; Stern 2001; Faust 2012a, and many references), but also by the almost complete lack of imported sixth-century  Greek pottery throughout the region (e.g. Weinberg 1969: 78, 89–90; Boardman 1999: 52; Stern 2001: 344; Waldbaum 2003: 301–302; Fantalkin 2006: 204, and see Appendix 5.1). Clearly, the prosperity was always beyond Assyria’s (or Babylonia’s) advancing frontiers in the Levant. In a sense, Babylonia wasn’t much worse than Assyria, and simply extended the latter’s policies to newly acquired territories. Once a prosperous southern Levantine area was incorporated within the boundaries of the empire, usually following conquests and massive destructions, it was in relative ruin and its economy was weak and of a local nature at best (see Chapter 11 for the reasons). Thus, as many pointed out, the Assyrians were not interested in manipulating the economy—only in extracting wealth (e.g. Postgate 1979: 214; Schloen 2001: 146; Grayson 1992: 216, and see Chapters 9–11). Finally, while we have seen that the suggestion that Assyria is responsible for the development of the Mediterranean system is wrong on a factual basis (i.e. Phoenician commercial activity in the west started long before the Assyrian pressure was felt), we find it to be conceptually very problematic. Taking the risk of somewhat overstating the case, I would argue that crediting Assyria with the development of the system based on the demand for tribute (even if not already disproven on a factual basis), would be conceptually like crediting a bully who comes to prospering stores, demanding ‘protection’ money, with promoting the economy, claiming that the large sums the bully took forced the owners to work harder in order to keep the stores profitable, and that the owners subsequently looked for new customers. But can we call

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this bully the ‘core’ of the system because he is ‘politically’ or ‘militarily’ superior to the store owners? Can we credit the bully’s ‘demands’ as being the driving force behind the development of the economy? We think not.

Summary and Conclusions It is well known that the Southern Levant flourished in the seventh century , and this prosperity is usually attributed to the ‘Assyrian peace’ and even to purposeful Assyrian policy of increasing production, trade, and urbanization.¹³ These suggestions, however, ignore the fact that only part of the region flourished, and that all the evidence for prosperity comes from the client kingdoms, and not from the Assyrian provinces. Moreover, the flourishing semi-independent regions of Philistia, Judah, and perhaps even southern Transjordan, seems to have been part of a single economic system, crossing political boundaries, that developed as a secondary element of Mediterranean economic world system, driven by the Phoenicians, and was not directly related to Assyria, whose provinces were left out of it. Extensive trade throughout the Mediterranean¹⁴ created a large demand for various products, and modified production processes until the entire south became a single economic system, with production zones arranged according to their distance from the ports. At the centre of the system stood the major port of Ashkelon (and probably also the one at Gaza), and it was oriented towards the Mediterranean. While the area was subordinated to Assyria, which greatly benefitted from the economical advances through the tribute it demanded, it is likely that the economic system of the Mediterranean was a system in its own right, encompassing most of the Mediterranean, and even beyond, and was not directly related to Assyria. Interestingly, and probably most revealing, despite the magnitude of the economic (world-) system that covered the Mediterranean and many tributary regions, the northern part of the land of Israel—which was until recently its economic hub—did not participate in the international trade, even in a secondary role. The reason for the lack of evidence for trade there (see also Appendix 5.1 below) is related, of course, to the devastation of the region, which did not produce any surpluses, and had nothing to offer to the international Maritime trade.

¹³ Fales (2017) recently attempted to defend the concept of ‘Assyrian peace’ in this context, and see Chapter 9. ¹⁴ The Arabian trade that reached the coast was a subsidiary element of it.

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132  -     It is ironic that all the evidence for the prosperity under the ‘Assyrian peace’ in the southwest are brought from regions that were outside Assyria proper, whereas there is no evidence for prosperity within Assyrian provinces there (see the extensive discussion in Chapter 9). The prosperity that characterized the north until the Assyrian conquests ceased once the region was annexed by the empire. This sheds some new light on the role of the Assyrian empire in initiating economic prosperity—should the empire invest in order to advance the economy, this would have been done in the provinces (as happened in other regions of the empire, see Chapters 6, 10–11). The prosperity in the south was therefore not a result of Assyrian investment there, but simply because it was not devastated by the empire, and because it subsequently maintained its semi-autonomous status. This allowed the region to recover from the partial destruction and to become involved in the Mediterranean economy, whereas the regions that were annexed to Assyria remained in desolation. The causes for the economic stagnation in the provinces is further discussed in Chapter 7 (see also Grayson 1995: 967, and Chapters 10–11), but the evidence suggest that prosperity in the southwest was always beyond the imperial boundary. The Assyrian empire, of course, benefited greatly from the prosperity through tribute and taxation, and even held back and did not destroy it (Chapter 7), but it did nor plan or initiate it. In Chapter 6, we further analyse the role of the Assyrian empire by scrutinizing the evidence for Assyrian administration and personnel in the region, and this further enable us to evaluate the economic significance of the provinces and the clients (Chapters 6–7). But first I would like to present two appendices, discussing (i) the significance of late seventh-century  Greek imported pottery for the study of economic prosperity under Assyrian rule; and (ii) the distribution of centres producing surpluses of olive oil in time and space, and its significance for understanding the role of the empire in the economy of the region.

APPENDIX 5.1

Evidence for International Trade in the Late Seventh Century, and Its Implications for the Study of the Economy of the Southwest under Assyrian Domination The distribution of imported East Greek pottery in the late seventh century , mainly after the time of the Neo-Assyrian empire, can serve as another indication for the economic

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potential of the different regions, as it clearly shows that trade at that time concentrated in the south, and the north was not a significant part of it. We first briefly describe the phenomenon, and then explain the implications of the findings on our understanding of the reality at the time of the Neo-Assyrian empire. Painted Greek pottery is well studied, and while not without chronological problems, its sequence seems sound (e.g. Cook 1997; Cook and Dupont 1998; see also Coldstream 2003: 247). Painted Greek pottery from the seventh century  onwards is dated with precision, often to specific sub-phases of several decades. As Greek decorated pottery is also easily identified, it is often used to date assemblages elsewhere. Distribution of Greek pottery of earlier phases of the Iron Age is admittedly limited. It is not surprising that the existing evidence is concentrated in the north, and such pottery was found only in three sites in the south (Philistia) (e.g. Waldbaum 1994: 54–9; Fantalkin 2001; 2008: 196; Maeir et al. 2009, see esp. p. 74, n. 96). While it was quite rare during most of the seventh century  (Waldbaum 1994: 59; Fantalkin 2006: 201–2; 2008), it reappears in greater quantities in the late seventh century , mainly in southern and coastal sites (Fantalkin 2008: 236; Waldbaum 1994: 59–60). Late Iron Age coastal sites in which Greek pottery is found include¹⁵ Ashkelon (Stager 1996; Master 2003; Niemeier 2001: 16; Stager et al. 2011), Tel Qudadi (Fantalkin and Tal 2015),¹⁶ Mezad Hashavyahu (Naveh 1962; Fantalkin 2001; Niemeier 2001), Dor (Gilboa and Sharon 2016: 247), Kabri (Niemeier 1990: XXXV, fig. 22: 2; 2001), and Tell Keisan (Briend and Humbert 1980: 125, fig. 35), whereas more inland sites are Tel Malhata (Kochavi 1993a; 1998: 35), Jerusalem (Auld and Steiner 1996: 70), Ekron (Tel Miqne; Gitin 1989b: 40, 48; 1995: 70, 71; see also Waldbaum 2007), Tel Batash (Magness 2001; also Niemeier 2001: 16; Waldbaum 2007: 64), Tell en-Nasbeh (Zorn 1993a: 1102; von Bothmer 1947), Tell el-Farʿah (South) (Lehmann et al. 2018: 120, 144), and Dan (Niemeier 2001: 16).¹⁷ Not only is the vast majority of inland sites concentrated in the south, but the quantities of this pottery there are far larger. Again, this completely reversed the situation in earlier phases of the Iron Age, when the south was marginal. The exact nature of the connection between these sites and the Greek world has been a topic of some debate (e.g. Waldbaum 1994; 1997; 2007; Boardman 1999; see also Stern 2001: 217–27; Sorensen 1997; Stager 1996; Fantalkin 2006). While some scholars suggested that the pottery indicates the presence of Greek settlers, merchants, mercenaries, or soldiers, this view is not accepted by the majority of scholars today, and most researchers associate Greek imports also to trade (e.g. Luke 2003: 60; Dominguez and Sanchez 2001; Waldbaum 1997; 2007, see also Aubet 2007: 447, 448, 450–8). Aubet (2007: 450–3) showed that East Greek and Etruscan pottery were often found in Phoenician colonial contexts, and arrived through trade, and Waldbaum (2007: 64–5) demonstrated that seventh century  contexts of this pottery varied greatly, from bazaar quarters (Ashkelon), through domestic contexts (Timnah and Ekron), to Greek mercenary garrisons (Mesad Hashavyahu). The view that imported pottery does not necessarily signify the presence of foreign population is also shared by some of those who do stress the movement of people in the Mediterranean, for example Boardman (1999: 16, 272; see also Faust 2012a: 74–8). While these seventh-century  imports date mainly from the period after Assyrian rule, they still serve as clear evidence for the economic potential of the different regions.

¹⁵ The list below is taken from Waldbaum 1994, and is updated; see also Niemeier 2001. ¹⁶ In this case, the pottery is earlier, and does not belong to the late seventh century . ¹⁷ A few sherds were recently uncovered in an unstratified context at Tel Rosh in the upper Galilee (Hayah Katz, personal communication).

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134  -     Whatever the cause for the rarity of Greek imports during most of the seventh century  (Waldbaum 1994: 59; Fantalkin 2006: 201–2), it is clear that once this reason vanished, those vessels (whether as commodities or containers) reached only the area that was integrated with the Mediterranean trade. Its concentration in the south indicates that this is the region that prospered. The data, therefore, supply some indication on the economic potential of the various regions within the country, showing that the Assyrian provinces were extremely marginal.¹⁸

APPENDIX 5.2

The Olive Oil Industry in Time and Space Olive oil production has a long history in the Land of Israel, beginning probably in the Chalcolithic. Installations for the production of this important commodity are therefore a common feature in various periods and in many sites, including all phases of the Iron Age (see ‘Iron Age Olive Oil Production’ below). Still, a review of the evidence for the production of significant surpluses of olive oil during the Iron Age indicates that there were major transformations at the time discussed here.¹⁹

Iron Age Olive Oil Production Installations for the production of olive oil were discovered in many Iron Age sites, covering all its sub-phases. Among the sites in which earlier installations were unearthed are Shechem (Campbell 2002:271–3), Hazor (Yadin et al. 1961, pl. XXVI), Gath (Zukerman and Maeir 2012), Tel Qiri (Portugali 1987: 134–6), Tel Rekhesh (Tsukimoto et al. 2013), Beth-Shemesh (Bunimovitz and Lederman 2016), and many others. One can identify differences in technology over time and regions, and in some cases a number of installations were unearthed nearby, forming production zones. It is clear that, in some cases, production exceeds the local needs, and surpluses were traded with other sites and regions. Still, the evidence is fairly limited and is mainly circumstantial. So far, no clear evidence for the production of significant olive oil surpluses—i.e. quantities greatly exceeding the needs of the producing site²⁰—were uncovered before the ninth and mainly the eighth century .²¹ Most of the evidence for significant surplus in this period are located in the territory of the kingdom of Israel, including the following: Kh. Rosh-Zayit. After the destruction of the Phoenician fort in the early ninth century , a village was established at the site, and a relatively large number of installations for the

¹⁸ Notably, the northern finds concentrate almost solely in the northern coastal plain (Dan and Tel Rosh are the exceptions), which was probably part of Tyre’s hinterland (and see more in Chapter 7). ¹⁹ The discussion below updates previous treatments, e.g. Faust 2011d. ²⁰ The larger the site, the larger the quantities of olive oil that were consumed locally, so larger numbers of installations are needed to demonstrate surpluses. ²¹ While it is expected that such evidence will be discovered in the future, as there must have been many centres that produced surpluses throughout the Iron Age, it is unlikely that the overall pattern presented here will change, i.e. there was a growth in the production of surpluses as the Iron Age unfolded, and that the seventh century  surpluses production was larger than earlier ones.

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production of olive oil were uncovered (Gal and Frankel 1993; Gal and Alexandre 2000: 164–7, 178, 200). The village and the oil presses went out of use in the late eighth century , probably during the campaign of Tiglath-pileser III (Gal and Alexandre 2000: 178, 201). Shiqmona. The excavator noticed that in the eighth century , ‘(t)he excavated area was completely occupied by three olive presses’, adding that ‘Shiqmona in this era was probably a centre for the production of olive oil on an almost industrial scale’ (Elgavish 1994: 64). Beit Aryeh. About thirty-three installations, mainly for the production of olive oil, were identified in the survey (Eitam 1992a; 1992b), and a number of them were later excavated in salvage excavations (Riklin 1997). The village ceased to exist in the late eighth century  (Riklin 1997: 19). Kh. Kla. Two concentrations of oil presses were identified in the small village, one of which was excavated. Twenty-nine olive presses (and two wine-presses) were found (Eitam 1981: 17). It appears that the site was destroyed in the late eighth century , probably in the course of the Assyrian campaign (Eitam 1987: 24–6). Deir Daqla. An industrial area with installations for the production of olive oil was unearthed in salvage excavations (Har-Even 2011). Kh. Dawwar. A small, industrial area with installations for the production of olive oil were unearthed, along with installations inside the settlement (Har-Even 2012). Concentrations of olive presses were also surveyed in the region (western Samaria), for example at the following five sites, all located in the same area as Beit Aryeh and Kh. Kla:. Kh. Banat Barr. Dozens of rock-cut olive presses were identified, in a number of concentrations (Eitam 1980; 1987: 24; Kochavi 1989). Kurnet Bir e-Tel. A concentration of ten rock-cut olive presses was identified (Finkelstein et al. 1997: 447). Deir el-Mir. A few concentrations of olive presses were identified in this large village (The Sharon Survey 1973; Eitam 1987: 24). Sheikh ‘Issa. A large concentration of Iron Age rock-cut olive presses was identified at the site (the olive presses were observed during a visit to the site by the author on 3 August 2008). Kh. Tibna. A large concentration of Iron Age rock-cut olive-presses was identified at the site (Finkelstein et al. 1997: 367; many installations were observed during the author’s visit to the site on 3 August 2008). Although the last five sites were only surveyed, they seem to ‘date to the 9th–8th centuries, largely to the latter’ (Eitam 1979: 153; see also Eitam 1983: 26). Eitam (1983: 26) notes that settlement in the surveyed sites ‘dwindles or even completely ceased in the 7th century ’. This is corroborated by the better data from excavations; when examining the destruction or abandonment dates of the excavated sites in this region (e.g. Beit Arye, Kh. Dawwar, Deir Daqla, and Kh. Kla), it is clear that the phenomenon of large-scale olive oil production in Samaria did not continue after the Assyrian conquest (Riklin 1997: 19; Eitam 1980: 96; Har-Even 2011; 2012). Concentrations of installations are known also from the kingdom of Judah, mainly dating to the late eighth century . Tell Beit Mirsim. Some thirteen eighth-century  installations for the production of olive oil were found in the two neighbourhoods (Eitan-Katz 1994: 30–3).²²

²² Although, given the area exposed, it is not clear whether this represents substantial surpluses.

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136  -     Beth Shemesh. About twenty eighth-century installations for the production of olive oil were unearthed at the site (Eitan-Katz 1994: 24–9). Other eighth-century  installations for the production of olive oil were found by the new expedition (Bunimovitz and Lederman 2008: 1648; 2016), and the excavators concluded that ‘it is apparent that the production of olive oil [. . .] was an important component in the economy of Beth-Shemesh on the eve of Sennacherib’s campaign’, adding that ‘this industry came to an end in 701 when the town was abandoned’ (Bunimovitz and Lederman 2008: 1648). The later industrial complex is discussed shortly. Additional, usually larger, concentrations of installations for the production of olive oil developed in the seventh century  in Philistia and its periphery, and the best known example of this is, of course, Ekron. Ekron appears to be, as noted above, the largest centre for the production of olive oil known to date in the ancient world (Gitin 1989b; 1998; see above). It clearly functioned during part of the seventh century .²³ Tel Hadid. Some twenty-five olive presses, dated to the seventh century , were excavated in salvage excavations carried out at the site (Brand 1998). Beth-Shemesh. Salvage excavations just outside the mound exposed a seventh-century  industrial complex, with many installations, some probably for the production of olive oil (Zvi Lederman, personal communication). This site is located in western Judah.

The Economy of the Oil Presses The economic systems in which the presses functioned can be divided into three different ‘ideal’ types (see the extended discussion in Faust 2007b; 2011b). 1. The concentration of olive presses in villages such as Beit Aryeh, Kh. Kla, Kurnet Bir e-Tel, as well as in the largest site of Kh. Banat Barr, and probably also at Kh. RoshZayit functioned in what can be regarded as the traditional lineage economy of ancient Israel. Each concentration of installations seems to have been operated and used by one lineage. At times, there was only one lineage at a village, but in some cases there were as many as four or five, each with its own production facilities (on the economy and society of those rural settlements, see also Faust 2000; 2007b; 2011b; 2012b). It is clear, however, that these villages produced surpluses, and that they were part of a larger economic system (Faust 2007b: 50–1). 2. The olive presses found at Tell Beit Mirsim and Tel Beth Shemesh, and probably also the similar (but less numerous)²⁴ installations discovered in and between houses in Hazor (Yadin et al. 1961: pl. XXVI; Ben-Tor 1992: 254–6), Shechem (Campbell 2002: 271–3), ninth-century  Shikmona (Elgavish 1994: 59–61), and many other sites, reflect installations that were used by a single family, whether nuclear (most likely) or extended, to produce its livelihood (or part of it). Those were private installations, which functioned within the urban economic system, and part of the oil was exchanged for other goods or products or paid as tax (Faust 2007b). The large ²³ Tel Batash (Mazar 1997: 262–3), where a few installations were found, might have been part of the Ekron phenomenon, and the relatively small number of installations that were unearthed could have resulted from the limited extent of the excavations. Still, the number of installations uncovered is too limited to include the site among the surplus-producing centres. ²⁴ The smaller number of installations probably resulted also from the somewhat limited scale of the excavations, and more will be discovered in the future.

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number of installations uncovered at Beth Shemesh and Tell Beit Mirsim does not reflect a different economic system; rather. it shows the importance of olive oil production in the economy of those cities. 3. The olive presses found in the much larger concentration of installations at Ekron and its vicinity were no doubt part of a royal economy, which was oriented directly towards larger markets and was most probably a result of a higher level of organization than those of types 1–2 (Faust and Weiss 2005; Faust 2007b: 46–49).

The Development of the Olive Oil Industry through Time and Space While it is clear that olive oil surpluses were produced in many regions throughout the Iron Age, and even before, this production was not completely uniform across time and space. The result of the hundreds of excavations carried out so far in the region seem to be representative, and they show a spatial and temporal pattern. Concentration of centres for the production of significant surpluses of olive oil are initially found in the kingdom of Israel. Here, such concentrations appears, even if as part of a lineage economy, no later than the ninth century  (e.g. at Kh. Rosh Zayit), and they existed until the Assyrian campaigns of the last third of the eighth century . Concentrations of many installations for the production of olive oil were found in various sites in the kingdom of Judah, mainly in the Shephalah, and seem to have been slightly later, and are mainly dated to the eighth century , probably to its later part, or even after the destruction of the kingdom of Israel. While Judah clearly produced surpluses even before the eighth century , the pattern shows an increase in production, peaking in the later eighth century . The installations were also operated by single households (even if, taken together, they produced surpluses), and went out of use when the settlements were themselves destroyed towards the very end of this century.

900 850 800 750 700 650 600 550 Israel

Judah

Philistia

500

Figure 5.2 Schematic chart of the distribution of olive oil surpluses production centres in time and space (rounded dates)

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138  -     The large concentrations of olive presses at Ekron, below Tel Beth-Shemesh, and Tel Hadid are dated to the seventh century , and were to some extent a result of state activity. Not only are the large centres of olive oil production in Philistia²⁵ and Judah later, but at the time when they were established, those in the kingdom of Israel were already destroyed and did not function anymore (Figure 5.2).

Summary The overall pattern that can be deduced from the distribution of surplus production centres in time and space enables us to put the seventh-century  olive oil industry in Philistia within a broader context, and clearly disassociate it from Assyria. The earlier ‘centres’ for the production of olive oil surpluses developed in the kingdom of Israel, and only later were similar centres developed in the south. This, of course, fits with the political and economic importance of the north in comparison to the more marginal (during most of the Iron Age) south. What is striking, therefore, is not the situation during the tenth–eighth centuries, but rather the unique situation in the seventh century , when the previous centres for the production of olive oil surpluses in the north were all destroyed. Had the empire been interested in the olive oil industry, as argued by scholars who believe that the Assyrians initiated and encouraged the industry at Ekron (and even ‘needed’ the oil for consumption in the Assyrian heartland, see ‘The Local System and Greater World’ and Chapter 1 above), it would not have destroyed this extensive industry. Or, at least, it would have restored it. Not only would the above option have been easier, simpler, and cheaper, than creating a new industry in the south, but it would have been much preferable from the imperial perspective. First of all, we are talking of māt Aššur, whereas the south was not an Assyrian territory. Additionally, the north was also geographically closer to Assyria. That this did not happen, suggests that the Assyrian empire was not interested in encouraging the olive oil industry, not in Assyria proper (e.g. Samaria and the Galilee), let alone outside its border (i.e. in the client kingdoms), nor in ‘encouraging’ the region to participate in international trade. Prosperity in the south was therefore not a direct result of intentional Assyrian policy, but mainly because of the market forces that operated in the way described throughout this chapter. The empire, of course, taxed the flourishing industries in the south, but it did not encourage it, nor support it.²⁶

²⁵ While surpluses of olive oil were produced earlier in this region too, the situation in the seventh century  clearly indicates a noticeable increase. ²⁶ The Assyrians did not destroy the industry in the south (this can be said in their credit), and it is possible that the destruction of the northern centres helped the one in the south grow. None of these, however, could be viewed as purposeful encouragement of the olive oil industry.

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6 Assyrians in the Southwest? The Evidence for Assyrian Administration and Presence

Chapters 4 and 5 reviewed the demography and economy of the southwest under Assyrian hegemony, and a clear contrast emerged between the severely devastated Assyrian provinces and the prospering semi-independent clients. This and the following chapters aim to probe deeper into the activity of the empire in its southwestern periphery, and to evaluate the evidence for actual Assyrian presence and administration (this chapter), which will allow us (Chapter 7) to reconstruct Assyrian imperial activities. We begin our survey by the most direct evidence for Assyrian presence, in the form of Assyrian cuneiform texts, and this is followed by a discussion of various structures that were interpreted as Assyrian palaces or residencies, and the distribution of additional artefacts that were suggested to indicate Assyrian presence and administration, such as Assyrian Palace Ware, Assyrian glazed pottery, Assyrian seals, and more.

Assyrian Cuneiform Texts in the Southwest The most direct and unequivocal evidence for Assyrian administration is, of course, Assyrian cuneiform texts. While we later consider the possibility that some documents were written in local scripts (e.g. Parpola 1981; Tadmor 1991; Eph’al 2010: 49–50; Zilberg 2018: 76–7), the majority were likely written in cuneiform, in line with Sargon’s decree (SAA 17, 2) that official documents should be written in Akkadian. Such documents are abundant in some parts of the empire, serving as direct evidence for the presence of imperial administration, and as a source to study its activities. Shawn-Zelig Aster and I have recently analysed the distribution of cuneiform texts unearthed in the southwest, and a surprising picture emerged (Aster and Faust 2015, with fuller discussion). Seven cuneiform administrative

The Neo-Assyrian Empire in the Southwest: Imperial Domination and Its Consequences. Avraham Faust, Oxford University Press (2021). © Avraham Faust. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198841630.003.0006

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140  -     texts have so far been unearthed: one in Samaria (Reisner et al. 1924: 56; Na’aman and Zadok 2000: 176; Horowitz and Oshima 2006: 113–14), two in Tel Hadid (Na’aman and Zadok 2000), and an additional two in Gezer (Horowitz and Oshima 2006: 55–9, with previous literature), along with a fragmentary administrative text that was discovered at Kh. Kusiya (Horowitz and Oshima 2006: 100–1), near Qaqun, and a fragmentary administrative text from Tel Keisan that has the character of a list (Sigrist 1982: 32–5; Horowitz and Oshima 2006: 98–9; also Zilberg 2015). In addition, fragments of Assyrian royal inscriptions were unearthed at Ashdod (Tadmor 1971; Horowitz and Oshima 2006: 40–1), Samaria (Crowfoot et al. 1957: 35; Horowitz and Oshima 2006: 115), Qaqun (Horowitz and Oshima 2006: 111), and Ben-Shemen (Cogan 2008a). All in all, we have fragments of eleven cuneiform texts, but Cogan (2008a) suggested that the Qaqun and Ben-Shemen inscriptions were fragments of the same stele, decreasing the total number to ten. In order to err on the side of caution, we treat the fragments as if representing different texts, and only in brackets do we mention the implications of their being parts of the same stele.¹

The Rarity of Cuneiform Texts and Its Significance Before analysing the unique distribution of the cuneiform texts, we stress that such texts are extremely rare in the southwest (also Bagg 2013: 125). This is a somewhat unique phenomenon, since the region was excavated much more intensively than any other. Still, despite the wide exposure, tablets are present in much lower numbers than in other parts of the empire. We believe that this rarity indicates that Assyrian administrative activity in the new southwestern provinces was relatively sparse. Later, we will see that this is in line with other types of evidence, but in the meantime we would like to show that this conclusion is supported not only by the rarity of cuneiform documents in the region, but also by the distribution of the few texts that were unearthed.² ¹ The Qaqun fragment was found in Kibbutz Maʿapilim, within rubble brought for construction, allegedly from Qaqun. Given the unsecure provenance, we tend to attribute the original stele, if indeed it is one, to the area of Ben-Shemen. ² This is corroborated also by the relatively small number of cuneiform texts discovered throughout the empire that mention the region (for a review, see Zilberg 2018, especially pp. 66, 77; see also Chapters 1 and 7).

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The Distribution of the Existing Cuneiform Texts and Its Implication for Understanding Assyrian Administration in the Southwest The presence of one administrative and one royal text at Samaria, the capital of an Assyrian province, is expected, and the relative importance of the site is indeed reflected in the content of a few other Assyrian texts (and is also in line with the two additional inscribed objects found there, and discussed below). This is also true of Ashdod, where a royal inscription was found, and which apparently served as a provincial capital for some time (Chapter 3). Surprisingly, however, five texts out of eleven (or even ten) were discovered in a very small area between Tel Hadid and Gezer. The four administrative texts from Gezer and Tel Hadid (out of seven in the entire country) and the fragment of royal inscription found at Ben-Shemen, were all found within a limited geographical area of some 12 km in length. Quantitatively, these five texts represent about half of the total finds of cuneiform texts from the period of Assyrian rule in the entire country (ten or eleven), and 60 per cent of administrative texts. Qaqun lies some 43 km to the north of Tel Hadid, and Kh. Kusiya is 7 km further north, both along the international highway, whereas Ashdod is located some 27 km southwest of this area, also along the highway. And Samaria is 41 km to its northeast. Thus, with but one fragmentary exception (Tel Keisan, discussed below), all the finds are located in the small Tel Hadid-Gezer area, at the actual edge of māt Aššur, or within some 30–50 km distance from it, mostly along the international highway (Figure 6.1). It is difficult to view the distribution of these texts, and especially the large concentration in the Tel Hadid-Gezer area, as the result of mere chance. Other regions and sites have been extensively excavated, including two provincial capitals (Megiddo and Samaria)—one of which was excavated almost in its entirety (Megiddo)—and yet very few inscriptions have emerged (so far, two in Samaria and none in Megiddo).³ Clearly, the over-representation of a small geographic area at the tip of the southwestern edge of māt Aššur requires an explanation.

Tel Hadid-Gezer Area and Its Importance for Imperial Administration Interestingly, this concentration is in line with the data presented so far on settlement and economy in the region (see also Chapter 7), and is representative ³ As noted below, I assume that the palaces were located below the mounds, and hope that once these areas are excavated, more tablets will be found (see especially Chapter 7).

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Figure 6.1 Map showing the main sites mentioned in the text Note: Sites in which cuneiform texts were discovered are marked with a star. Source: Prepared by Tamar Roth-Fenster and Asnat Laufer; courtesy of the Tel ‘Eton expedition.

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of the geopolitical importance of this tiny area for the empire (Aster and Faust 2015): • Being the ‘last’ region under direct Assyrian control in the southwest, the region served as the starting point for campaigns towards Egypt or the clients to the south, and as a place for gathering troops as a show of might towards Judah and the Philistine cities that could perhaps prevent the need for actual campaigns. • This was also the region into which the tribute from the southern clients was probably brought, and where it was stored until it was shipped to the north. Tribute from the prospering clients was of great economic importance, especially when compared to the impoverished provinces (below), and hence the significance of the region for both storing the tribute until its shipment to an imperial centre and for preventing rebellions that would prevent its future collection. • In theory, the region also enabled the extraction of customs duties from traders passing south of it, on the important trade routes in the region, serving Philistia, its ports, and the access to Egypt. Since this region was so important for the passage of troops, the empire established supply posts and stored provisions for Assyrian troops and messengers there,⁴ and maintained some troops, which also led to the settlement of loyal settlers in the region, to supply food and manpower (see Chapter 7). Due to all the above, Assyrian administration concentrated in the region, and this activity left a relatively large number of cuneiform texts. This also explains why this is the only micro-region in the new provinces which experienced settlement growth after its conquest (Chapter 4, see also Faust 2006a; Faust 2015a; Aster and Faust 2015, and references there).⁵ While insignificant demographically, this unique pattern shows how important was this remote corner for the Assyrian empire (Chapter 7). The pattern suggests that Assyrian administration concentrated much of its efforts in the Tel Hadid-Gezer area, indicating that administration focused not on the provinces within the Assyrian (directly controlled) territory, but rather on the regions outside it (the client kingdoms). ⁴ With the lack of supply units, this is the last point in which the Assyrian army could be supplied and stocked. Once crossing this area, the army had to rely on what it could loot (e.g. Fuchs 2011: 390; Marriott and Radner 2015: 133; Radner 2015: 99; Fales 2014: 420; see also Appendix 4.1). ⁵ The growth is only in the Aphek-Gezer area, and Gezer itself, despite its importance, apparently declined (unless the expected finds below the mound prove to be very significant).

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144  -     In order to better appreciate this distribution of settlement and cuneiform texts, we need to evaluate the economic potential of the southwest for the Assyrian empire. Simplistically put, the economic benefits the southwest provided the empire included tribute from clients, taxes from the annexed territories, and duties from caravans passing through the region. The clients were the source of tribute, and from whose traders duties could be extracted. The concentration of Assyrian administration on the border with the clients, therefore, sheds interesting light on the relative economic insignificance of other parts of the province of Samaria. Apparently, the Tel Hadid-Gezer area, which was part of the province of Samaria, was important primarily because of its position on the border with the semi-independent regions to the south. When we take into consideration not only the distribution of the cuneiform texts, but also the data on the economy of the region in the eighth–seventh centuries  and the clear demographic patterns observed (Chapters 4 and 5), we can reach more definitive conclusions. These support the assessment that the importance of the Aphek-Gezer area was due to its position as the gateway to the ‘south’ (the clients), and that these areas supplied the empire with more wealth, from tribute, from customs duties, and sometimes also from booty, than the province of Samaria itself (Aster and Faust 2015, and see Chapter 7). This understanding sheds a new light also on the isolated text unearthed at Tel Keisan. We noted that it was the only text that was not found within a distance of some 50 km from the Tel Hadid-Gezer area, but this was because it was located near another prospering semi-independent region, Tyre. While the main ‘gate’ towards this autonomous territory was most likely located more to the north, in the less excavated area of present-day southern Lebanon, Tel Keisan is located in the southern part of this area, and it is likely that the inscription is representative of the Assyrian interest in Tyre. This is corroborated, as we will see, throughout this chapter and Chapter 7, with additional lines of evidence, and it fits nicely with the great prosperity of Tyre at this time and with the settlement data from its periphery (Chapter 4). Hence, the text from Tel Keisan is not an ‘exception’ in terms of its location, but rather part of a similar imperial ‘edge’, facing another prospering, autonomous region.

Non-Cuneiform Administration? We must also address the possibility that despite Sargon’s well-known decree (SAA 17, 2), some administrative correspondence was done in Aramean (e.g.

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Parpola 1981; see also Tadmor 1991; Eph’al 2010: 49–50). This, however, only strengthens the above conclusion, since hardly any such documents (and related items like bullae or clay dockets, and even tablets written in Aramaic) were found in the Neo-Assyrian levels in the extensively excavated region discussed here,⁶ while many were found in (sparsely excavated) Syria (Bunnens 2009: 81; Zilberg 2018: 76, and many references). This, again, highlights the marginality of the region for the Assyrian administration.

Cuneiform Texts: An Intermediate Summary The number of cuneiform texts uncovered in the southwest is small, despite the wide exposure and hundreds of excavations, and this is indirect evidence for the relatively marginal interest of the Assyrian administration in the region. This is further supported by the concentration of the existing evidence in the southwestern edge of the provinces in the region, towards the empire’s clients, showing that the empire’s interest was in the prospering regions beyond the border, rather than in the impoverished southwestern provinces themselves.

Imperial Architecture and Objects: Background While cuneiform texts offer the most direct indication for Assyrian administration, additional objects may also, if uncovered in the right context, indicate Assyrian presence, or at least direct contact with the empire. Imperial authorities used material objects to dominate and control, and its agents were making extensive use of imperial items and styles to establish their status and even to manipulate and control the local groups, especially the elites (cf. Chapter 8). Tudeau (2016: 82–3) noted that ‘Temples, palaces and forts were markers of a permanent imperial presence . . . they were mirrors of the empire and it was of prime importance to invest as much energy as possible into their construction and maintenance.’ It is therefore expected that Assyrian presence would leave clear material marks in the areas under its hegemony (also

⁶ A trianbular Aramaic docket was discovered at Dor (Zilberg 2018: 48), and a bulla that was discovered in Samaria, although written in cuneiform, might also indicate that it sealed a letter that was written in a vernacular language (Eph’al 2010: 49, and more below). These, however, only exemplify how scarce are the finds.

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146  -     Sinopoli 1994: 169), and even beyond it, and Postgate (1992: 258) noted that Assyrian control was expected to lead ‘towards cultural conformity, especially in the elite items’. Various members of the elite and officials were expected to emulate their superiors, and ultimately the king, in the process adopting ‘a toned-down version of the royal ceremonial’ (Postgate 1992: 258).

The Power of Assyrian Objects Before presenting the finds, however, we should understand the importance of the Assyrian objects and style for the imperial administrators. The significance of material culture in interaction between a colonial or imperial power (the two are not the same, of course, but both are of relevance here) and local subjects cannot be overestimated. According to Gosden (2004: 3), material objects attach people to new values, and those values have a ‘centre’, real or symbolic. He noted that ‘Power emanates from artefacts and practices connected to that centre’ (2004: 3), and the associated objects and practices appeal to people. As noted by many (e.g. Thomas 1991), a ‘thing’ maintains a link to ‘those through whose hands it has passed, even though it may take a new significance’ (Gosden 2004: 20). Objects, and styles, can be used to convey messages about one’s personal status, sometimes called assertive style, or about group affiliation, sometimes referred to as emblemic style (e.g. Wiessner 1990). Sometimes both messages can be transmitted via the same object and, moreover, in some contexts group affiliation can be a major statement on one’s status. Settlers in imperial settings often maintain the ‘old habits’ and sometimes attempt ‘to transplant the habits of their homeland wholsale’ (Howe 2002: 74). This is ‘even where adapting indigenous ways might have been thought to be far more rational’ (Howe 2002: 75; see also Rodman 2001). An Assyrian governor was therefore expected to use both items that conveyed his status as a governor and items that identified him as an Assyrian. Often the same object could convey both messages. As the governor was a toned-down version of the king (Postgate 1992), this was transmitted through material culture. It had to be visible. Provincial palaces, while clearly ‘less’ than the imperial ones, were still expected to be reminiscent of the latter, and with relatively little local influence, at least concerning some features that were consciously seen as ‘Assyrian’, i.e. transmitting the message of ‘Assyrianess’. This is not to say that there were no local ‘influences’ on the palace and its construction—such

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are, of course, inevitable. Still, these influences would be manifested in the elements that the governor did not consider important for transmitting the message of ‘Assyrianess’. For example, if building material were not part of what the governor viewed as ‘Assyrian’ but the plan was, local materials and traditions would be readily incorporated, while the ‘Assyrian’ plan would be followed more closely. Thus, a ‘general’ and ‘broad’ examination of structures will always reveal local features, but these might have been ‘local’ only from an etic perspective, whereas only what the people (the governor in this case) considered important (emic) would strictly follow the Assyrian way of doing things.⁷ Deviating from the Assyrian way of doing things would have missed the point, and might have even been looked upon unfavourably. Postgate (1992: 259) described the provincial palace at Til-Barsip and noted that the palace ‘has many of the characteristics of a royal palace, including the throne room, but no reliefs: instead the walls were decorated with almost identical painted scenes’, concluding that it was ‘“provincial Assyrian”, with hardly a breath of the Aramaean traditions of the immediate area or of the contemporary styles in use across the frontier’. A similar relationship can also be seen in smaller mobile objects. The governor used Assyrian objects that symbolized his statuses in relation to the king (subordinate), his subjects (superior), and other officials (varies). This can be seen, for example, in the Assyrian Palace Ware (APW). According to Hunt (2015: 190–1), the form A bowls were given to officials and marked their status, for example through the material of which they were made. These, as well as other types of APW (and other objects), could signify the status of the official in relation to his king, his subjects, and his peers (more in ‘Emulating Assyria’ and throughout the rest of this chapter). Thus, the Assyrian governor (and other Assyrian individuals) had to impress his subjects and subordinates, and at the same time to show allegiance to his superiors, and maintained a more complex relationships with his peers. The governor’s material culture and signs of power should have therefore been moulded on Assyria. The same applies to other officials. They needed the ‘real’ things.⁸

⁷ While the issue is beyond the scope of this book, there are methods of identifying the emic perspective, e.g. if all Assyrian palaces (in unequivocal cases) persistently use some features, for instance their plan, while the material used changed according to ecology. This might suggest that the plan was important, and therefore strictly followed, whereas other elements were not seen as a demarcating feature, and more freedom was therefore given to the builders. ⁸ This is also true for other empires of course; cf. Alconini 2010: 17.

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Emulating Assyria The power of the centre could have also been exploited through emulation by the local population,⁹ and we should therefore differentiate between finds that might indicate the presence of Assyrian individuals (which is our interest in this chapter) and finds that indicate emulation (to be discussed in Chapter 8). Clearly, using artefacts or items of foreign powers or centres, or similar styles, could improve the users’ status and enhance their position (e.g. Thomas 1991). Usually, those who could use these items to advance their standing were the local elites (Arnold 2001; Baltali 2007; Gosden 2004; Thomas 1991; see also Higginbotham 1996; 2000; Baltali 2007:10; Faust 2015b). Arnold (2001:215), who studied Iron Age Europe, noted that ‘West Hallstatt elite mortuary ritual is literally global’ as ‘it draws on the “center out there,” i.e., the Mediterranean world, in its acquisition of elite status markers’. And Petrie et al. (2008: 1) claimed that ‘dominated’ elites emulated the ruling elites in order to enhance their own prestige or stress ‘political affinity’. By associating themselves with the prestigious centre, the local rulers increased their own prestige, and they therefore ‘adopt and adapt features . . . such as language, attire, artistic and architectural styles and, of course, symbols of governance’ (Higginbotham 1996: 155). Specifically for the Assyrian empire, Postgate (1992: 259–60) noted that ‘Assyrian influence is plainly visible across the frontiers: not as the homogeneous replication we would expect within Assyria, but as selective borrowings. The sheikh’s hall at Tell Halaf is a wondrous amalgam of local and imported style . . . ’.¹⁰ Notably, for the local elites, wishing to emulate the empire and to benefit from this association, there was often no need (and often no ability) to use actual Assyrian objects, or even to do things exactly in the Assyrian way, as such fine distinctions would have been lost on those who did not come from Assyria themselves. Thus, for those who did not know the imperial ‘vocabulary’ well, any resemblance to Assyria would have done the trick. In Chapter 8, we will see that emulation is a complex, active, process (for Assyria, see also Postgate 1992: 260; Hunt 2015: 24), and that it is only one of

⁹ It should be noted that influences can be channelled through various other mechanisms, not necessarily involving direct importation or emulation, such as creolization, amalgamation, etc. (see Liebmann 2013; Faust 2015b, and additional references). The exact relationships between the various mechanisms (and the impact on the centre itself), and the precise way in which the influences were absorbed, however, are of less importance for our purposes. ¹⁰ Influences fly both ways, and the centre is also impacted, see e.g. Burke 2009; Gosden 2004.

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the many possible courses of action open for the local population during imperial encounters. Still, it is a very common one, and given the power of the Assyrian empire on the one hand and its relatively long rule over the region on the other, one could expect to find many Assyrian artefacts in the region (see also Hunt 2015: 34–6), as well as extensive evidence for emulation by the local elites. The large number of excavations only increases the chances of finding numerous such objects, but we should be careful to distinguish between evidence for presence of Assyrian personnel (our interest here) and mere emulation (discussed in Chapter 8). We might identify Assyrian officials by the use of specific symbols of power assigned to them (e.g. Hunt 2015: 34–6), but such items are mobile, and could occasionally be used or possessed by others (e.g. Orser and Fagan 1995: 193–4; Faust 2012b: 117–20). Specific types of behaviours, for example the specific Assyrian way of feasting, are a more promising avenue (e.g. Hunt 2015: 34–6; cf. McGuire 1982; Faust 2006b: 15–17). Still, it appears as if ‘only the combination of several elements of elite culture, such as glazed pottery, reliefs/sculptures, public buildings or texts, help us to define sites as centres of colonial power’ (Hausleiter 2008: 23; this theme is elaborated throughout the chapter).

Assyrian Style and Objects in Other Provincial Centres An example of how Assyrian governors presented themselves can be seen in many provincial centres, and in order to put the information discussed below from the southwest in context we briefly address three provincial centres in the Assyrian west. Dur-Katlimmu (Modern Tell Šēḫ Hamad). The site is located on the lower
Habur, and was reincorporated into the Assyrian empire in the ninth century  (Kuhne 1997: 25). Initially, it was part of the province of Rasapa, but after the reforms of Tiglath-pileser III, it became part of the Laqe province. It served as an administrative, and perhaps even provincial, capital, and a garrison for elite troops was located there (Hunt 2015: 98–9; Kuhne 1997: 25). In the eighth century , the walled area grew in size to some 55 ha. and there were also extramural suburbs, in a total area of some 110–120 ha. The new areas were apparently used to build official architecture, including a building F (palace), building G, and more (Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 379; Kuhne 1997: 25). Kuhne (1997: 25) notes that the lower city was dominated by broad streets and open spaces, and there were at least two gates, and perhaps even a small (river) harbour. Akkermans and Schwartz (2003: 384)

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150  -     even compares some of the imperial buildings uncovered at the site to buildings in Assur itself. Indeed, Kertai referred to a series of buildings uncovered at the site, noting that, ‘The elite residences at Sheikh-Hamad form our main source for Assyrian elite residences during the seventh century’ (Kertai 2018: 149). In building F, a small archive with cuneiform texts, as well as ‘triangular clay dockets with Aramaic inscriptions’, was uncovered (Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 384), apparently a palatial archive. Around the site, which is located outside the rain-fed agricultural zone, canals were built (Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 379; see also Hunt 2015: 100; Kuhne 1997: 25). Akkermans and Schwartz (2003: 381) note that ‘The evidence indicates a centrally planned project of agricultural and demographic development, sponsored by the imperial authority.’ Til-Barsip (Modern Tell Ahmar). The site, located on the Euphrates, was : conquered in the ninth century  by Shalmaneser III, who also changed its name to Kar-Shalmaneser (Dornemann 1997; Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 382). The city was, at times, the seat of ‘the most important governor in the west’ (Postgate 1992: 259). The site included a lower city, and covered some 50 ha. An elaborate, large governor’s residency or a palace was found, along with monumental art, even if in provincial form, including statutes of guarding lions in the gate, and a number of Assyrian inscriptions, including two stelae of Essarhadon, and another dedicated to Ishtar. In the palace, ‘polychrome murals were preserved on the walls’, describing military victories, royal lion hunting, royal rituals, etc., similar to the reliefs from Ninveh, Khorsabad, and Nimrud (Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 382; Dornemann 1997: 209–10). Salvage excavations in the lower city revealed large houses, built around a yard, and black-and-white pebble mosaic floors, as well as worked ivories, palace ware, cylinder and scarab seals (and additional objects), and even an archive of cuneiform texts (Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 382; see also Dornemann 1997: 209–10; Dalley 1996–97). One of the gates was decorated with large lion orthostats (Dornemann 1997: 210). Postgate (1992: 259) labelled the (above-mentioned) palace ‘The best known provincial palace’, noting that it is similar to royal palaces, but lacking a few elements, and hence it is ‘provincial Assyrian’, but with hardly any Aramean or other influences. Kertai (2018: 142), when discussing the Assyrian palatial tradition, noted that ‘The most famous examples were found in Til Barsip and Ḫaddatu.’ Kinalua (Biblical Calneh, Modern Tell Tayinat). The site is located on the northern bend of the Orontes river, much farther west than the former two

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sites. While the former sites had a longer history of association and contacts with Assyria, Tell Tayinat was annexed only at the time of Tiglath-pileser III, and is therefore very relevant for our purposes. A Neo-Assyrian governor’s residency was unearthed in the upper part of the mound, probably built at the time of Tiglath-pileser III, and is ‘closely resembling structures that had been discovered at Tell Ahmar (ancient Til Barsip) and Arslan Tash (ancient Hadātu)’ (Harrison 2005: 26). There was extensive use of both baked and unbaked mud-bricks, as well as blue-painted plaster and pebble pavement (pp. 27–8). According to Harrison (2005: 28), ‘the architectural elements and layout . . . clearly mark it as a proto-typical Neo-Assyrian palatial complex’ (Kertai 2018: 143, 145, labelled it ‘Syro-Anatolian’). Also found were curved orthostats, several cuneiform inscriptions, inscribed stone fragments, five clay tablets, a stone cylinder seal, a dedication ‘for the life of Tiglath-pileser, King of Assyria’ that was engraved on an ornamental copper disk, and a small figure of a kneeling bearded male, made of bronze (Harrison 2005: 29). These were found despite the resolution of the old excavations, and ‘although the evidence is fragmentary’ (p. 29). The older excavations also revealed ‘small quantities of the distinctive Assyrian Glazed and Palace Wares’ (Harrison 2005: 29; Harrison and Osborne 2012: 129). Recent excavations (2008–09) of the Assyrian sacred precinct (Harrison and Osborne 2012) unearthed burnt cultic objects and eleven cuneiform texts, as well as objects made of gold, bronze, iron, faience, glazed Assyrian pottery, and more (see also Harrison 2016). The above examples (out of many) exhibit what we should expect to find in Assyrian provincial cities. Kinalua is especially relevant, since it was annexed at the same time as the southwest.

Assyrian Palaces, Residencies, and Forts in the Southern Levant Given the scale of excavations in the southwest, a large number of structures were suggested to have served as Assyrian residencies and palaces (see as early as Petrie 1928), including structures at Dan, ʾAyyelet ha-Šahar, : Hazor, Kinrot, Megiddo, Gezer, Ashdod, Tel Jemmeh, Busayra, Ramat Rahel, and more (e.g. Stern 2001: 18–31; 2003: 223; Bagg 2014; Reich 1975; 1992; 2003; Reich and Brandl 1985; Lipschits 1990; Kogan Zehavi 2005; Kletter and Zwickel 2006; Fantalkin and Tal 2015; Ben-Shlomo 2014; Ben-Shlomo and van Beek 2014) (Figure 6.2).

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Figure 6.2 Plans of various structures that were interpreted as Assyrian residencies in the Southern Levant: (a) ʾAyyelet ha-Šahar; : (b) Hazor, building 3002; (c) Megiddo, structures 1052, 1369 Source: Reich 1992: 215, 216; courtesy of Ronny Reich and the Israel Exploration Society.

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While the existence of Mesopotamian features in some (not all) of the buildings is quite clear, their Assyrian nature is much less so. Manualli (2009: 124), who studied many of the structures in detail, concluded that the various buildings exhibit ‘full persistence of local traditions’ (more below), and Kertai (2018) recently demonstrated that much of the previous discussion is based on dated information regarding the different Mesopotamian styles and their time. Based on a detailed overview, Kertai identified an architectural style he called ‘Assyrian Composite Tradition’ as being typical of the Neo-Assyrian period. While differing from the typical Assyrian structures in some features (Kertai 2018: 149–50), ‘The installations and architectural features of buildings of this tradition were typically Assyrian and included the so-called tram-rails, stone plates for moveable braziers; stone plates placed against the long wall probably intended for libations or storage jars; Assyrian types of door sockets; and bathrooms.’ When examining the various characteristics in different structures attributed to Assyrian officials in the southwest, Kertai concluded that their affinities with the Assyrian style were very limited, to say the least, and that many of them were influenced by the Neo-Babylonian tradition. This architectural style has no parallels in Assyria at this time, and since it is unlikely that it arrived in the southwest before it reached Assyria, Kertai (2018: 150, 153–6) concludes that it probably arrived in the region only during the Persian period. In the following sections, we survey structures with Mesopotamian features that were identified as Assyrian buildings in the southwest, beginning in the provinces and proceeding to the clients.

Suggested Assyrian Palaces and Residencies in the Provinces Dan. Thareani (2016) has recently suggested that a partially excavated building at Tel Dan was an Assyrian residency. While an Assyrian building might be expected here, and some features are indeed Mesopotamian, the plan is too partial to reach definitive conclusions (below), and the absence of any significant amount of Assyrian objects does not support this suggestion. If not a residency of an Assyrian official, it might have been used by a local strongman.¹¹ ʾAyyelet ha-Šahar. : The pottery from the site, located just below the mound of Hazor, was initially identified as mostly Persian (Guy 1957: 20), and the site ¹¹ The seventh structure at Tel Rekhesh (Chapter 4) might have served such a function.

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154  -     was subsequently dated to this period (e.g. Yeivin 1960: 27–9). Reich (1975) later suggested that it was an Assyrian administrative centre. Kletter and Zwickel (2006) noted that the structure was built in the Neo-Babylonian style, but since this style was already in use in Babylonia in Neo-Assyrian times, the ʾAyyelet ha-Šahar : structure was also built during the time of Assyrian rule (also Bagg 2013: 128). Still, Kertai (2018: 155) noted that the building cannot be reconstructed in the manner suggested by Reich, concluding that it ‘should be dated to post-Assyrian times’.¹² Kertai’s observation, and the fact that the in situ pottery unearthed is from the Persian period (also Reich 2011a), are sufficient to conclude that while the structure clearly had Mesopotamian features, it was not an Assyrian residency, and was most likely erected in the Persian period. Hazor. A fort was unearthed near the upper part of the mound of Hazor (Yadin et al. 1958: 64–5; Yadin 1972: 191–5). This post-Iron Age structure had two phases. Yadin dated the first to the Neo-Assyrian period¹³ and the second to the Persian period, while Stern tended to date both of them to the Persian period (e.g. 2001: 312–13). Others, however, follow Yadin and date the first phase to the Neo-Assyrian period (e.g. Bagg 2013: 128; Kletter and Zwickel 2006: 169, and references). But not only was no Iron II pottery associated with these finds, but even the plan—which served as the basis for the early dating— does not fit an Assyrian building. Kertai (2018: 154–5) lists the building among those he believes are connected to the Neo-Babylonian tradition, which apparently arrived in the region only during the Persian period (see also Manuelli 2009:124). The recent excavations at Hazor exposed a large building constructed over the ceremonial palace of the Late Bronze Age, and Ben-Tor (2016: 167–9) dates it to the Assyrian period on circumstantial evidence. There is yet no material to substantiate the date, and regardless of its date, the building itself is apparently not Assyrian in style. Kinrot. The excavator (Fritz 1993: 193) only noted that the building dates to the seventh century  or later. Stern (2001: 312–13), dated this building to the Persian period, whereas Kletter and Zwickel (2006: 175–8) suggest that it might also have been built in the Neo-Assyrian period. The lack of dated pottery from this phase casts a shadow on this suggestion, and the later features observed suggest that it is more likely also to be dated to the Persian period (Kertai 2018: 154–5). ¹² See also Manuelli 2009: 124 (but see Manuelli 2009: 115). ¹³ Yadin (1972: 194) also considered a Neo-Babylonian date, but preferred the Neo-Assyrian one.

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Figure 6.3 Plan of Assyrian Megiddo Source: Courtesy of Zeev Herzog.

Megiddo. Megiddo was built as a completely new city by the Neo-Assyrian empire (e.g. Stern 2001: 48; Ussishkin 2017; see Figure 6.3). In addition to many houses, two larger residencies (buildings 1052/1369) were identified as Assyrian on the basis of their architectural plan and some special architectural features (Reich 1992: 216–19; Stern 2001: 27–9; Bagg 2013: 128; Ussishkin 2017: 360–2).¹⁴ Indeed, when discussing the composite Assyrian tradition, Kertai (2018: 150) concludes that examples ‘seem limited to complex 1052/ 1369 in Megiddo’. Gezer. Reich and Brandl (1985) had published a list of Assyrian objects unearthed at this site, and suggested that an Assyrian administrative building was erected on the high part of the mound. The limited architectural evidence cannot substantiate this suggestion, although the presence of relatively many Assyrian (and Assyrianized) objects support the notion that such a building existed (also Ornan et al. 2013). It is also possible that the residency was built below the mound (more below, and Chapter 7). ¹⁴ Kempinski (1993b: 109) suggested that perhaps the real Assyrian palaces were built in the plain below the mound, and we accept this suggestion (see more in ‘Discussion and Conclusions’ below).

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Suggested Assyrian Structures outside the Land of Assur A number of sites in the south were interpreted as Assyrian centres,¹⁵ and this section briefly summarizes the information from a few of these sites. The Assyrian Palace at Ashdod (Ad Halom). An impressive, large (at least one hectare in size), mud-brick building was partially excavated below the mound of Ashdod (Kogan-Zehavi 2005; Shanks 2007). The excavator claims that the building was built in an ‘Assyrian style’, on top of a podium that was 2–3m higher than its surroundings (Figure 6.4). Both the podium and the upper structure were built with square mud-bricks, whose dimensions were similar to these in the Neo-Assyrian palaces in Ashur. Two ceramic baths and one stone bath were unearthed in the northwestern part of the structure. Some of the rooms were plastered (Kogan-Zehavi 2005: 87). Bowls of the APW family were unearthed in one of these rooms (Kogan-Zehavi 2005: 88), but the amount was apparently very limited (Lehmann 2015). While the plan is incomplete, this is one of the clearest examples for Mesopotamian construction tradition in the region. The structure had two seventh-century  phases (Kogan-Zehavi 2005), and was destroyed during this century (Shanks 2007: 60). The pottery, both the local and the few imported Greek sherds, was of the same nature as that of seventh-century Ekron and Ashkelon. The building was located within the territory of Ashdod, a client kingdom during much of the

Figure 6.4 Photos of the Assyrian palace at Ad Halom, near Ashdod Source: E. Kogan-Zehavi (2007) ‘Tel Ashdod’, ESI, 118: 451–7, figs 4, 6, 8; courtesy of the IAA.

¹⁵ Quite a few were even identified specifically as ‘the sealed kāru of Egypt’ (e.g. Singer-Avitz 2018, and many references, and see Chapter 8).

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time, but was most likely built when it served as a capital of a province (see Chapter 3).¹⁶ Tel Jemmeh. The site is usually regarded as an important Assyrian centre on the empire’s southern border. The finds include mud-brick public buildings with vaults, and a significant amount of locally produced APW (see also Ben-Shlomo and Van Beek 2014, and below). According to Van Beek (1993: 672), ‘(T)he typical Assyrian plan, the style of vaulting, and the great quantity of palace ware suggest that the building was built by Assyrians as the residence of the Assyrian king, military governor, or other ranking official’ (see also Stern 2001: 25–6; Manuelli 2009: 121). Na’aman (2016: 277–8) suggested that an Assyrian governor was placed there when the area was temporarily annexed, and he was responsible for the Besor area. On the basis of an ostraca with foreign names, perhaps from Iran, he believes that deportees were settled there. Ben-Shlomo (2014: 84), who published the material, carefully considered the pros and cons, and noted that ‘The architectural plans . . . do not clearly resemble palatial or imperial Assyrian architecture.’ Despite the possible reservation, however, he cautiously concluded that, ‘As we stand today’, it is likely that the site ‘did experience, at least for an interlude of several decades, a foreign presence related to the Neo-Assyrian Empire’. We return to Tel Jemmeh below. Tel Sera. A mud-brick structure, dated to the seventh–sixth centuries  was unearthed at the site by Eliezer Oren, and ‘Finds of Assyrian origin were uncovered in the spaces between the walls’ (Stern 2001: 26). Ashdod Yam. The mound was fortified by a massive mud-brick wall. Mudbrick architecture is common also in the acropolis, and orthostats, similar to these of the Ashdod palace, along with ‘Assyrian-style pottery’, was also unearthed (Fantalkin 2018: 175). The various bits of evidence (e.g. the size of the mud-bricks), however, ‘support the notion that the defensive wall represents a local construction and not an Assyrian one’, and although Fantalkin leaves open the question of the status of the city, he notes ‘the absence of Assyrian architectural features’ (Fantalkin 2018: 174). Tell Abu Salima (Sheikh Zuweid). The finds include a building whose plan consists of a series of rooms surrounding a central courtyard, and a wall ‘supported by an earthen fill’, as is common in Assyrian construction. A small temple was unearthed, and it had been suggested that it served the Assyrian officials. Stern notes that, ‘The most distinctive Assyrian element was ¹⁶ The small finds represent mainly the later part of the seventh century , when the region was semi-independent again.

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158  -     the floor of the cella, which was paved with square, fired bricks’ (Stern 2001: 26). Ramat Rahel. The building was excavated by Yohanan Aharoni, and interpreted as a Judahite palace (e.g. Y. Aharoni 1993). Later, Na’aman (2001; see also Reich 2003) suggested that this was an Assyrian residency, and this apparently led to the renewed excavations at the site (e.g. Lipschits et al. 2011). These excavations suggested amendments to the stratigraphy of the site, but did not unearth Assyrian objects. While this is indeed a magnificent palace, the plan and construction are local (see also Kletter and Zwickel 2006:178; Zilberg 2016: 394–6), probably a palace of a local king (also Moyal and Faust 2015). Busayra. On the basis of the preliminary publication of C.M. Bennet (1977), Reich (1992) suggested that the building was an Assyrian residency. The final publication of the site, however, transforms the understanding of the building (Bienkowski 2002: 478–82), and rejects this interpretation (but see Reich 2011b). There is nothing Assyrian or Mesopotamian in the building, and it is more likely to be a local emulation (see now also Brown 2018). There were also a number of fortified buildings—for example Kabri, Rishon Leziyon, and Tel Qudadi—that were interpreted as Assyrian forts (see above Chapter 4), but there is nothing inherently Assyrian, or even Mesopotamian in the structures themselves, and they were probably operated by the local polities.¹⁷

Discussion and an Intermediate Summary While many structures were identified as Assyrian residencies and forts, reality was clearly different, and only a few were apparently related to Assyria. As Manuelli (2009: 124) wrote in his detailed review, the buildings in the region show ‘full persistence of local traditions’, adding (p. 125) that ‘the provincial buildings appear influenced by the strict architectonic rule typical of the Assyrian ideology with difficulty. At the same time the local characteristics can operate freely . . . ’. Indeed, as Kertai (2018: 150, emphasis added) noted, ‘As an Assyrian tradition common among elite, non-royal, residences, the composite tradition might have been expected to influence and appear in the Southern Levant. Examples, however, seem limited to complex 1052/1369 in ¹⁷ Should Kabri have been part of the Megiddo province, it might have been operated by the Assyrians, but this is speculative.

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Megiddo.’ Kertai (2018: 150–6) further notes that the other structures which he reviewed, including the one at ʾAyyelet ha-Šahar, were later, probably : Persian period in date (in line with the actual archaeological finds in many of them). Kertai (2018: 156, emphasis added) concluded that, ‘This type of architecture does not seem to have influenced the traditions of the Southern Levant. The current corpus of elite residences excavated there suggests that the Mesopotamian architecture of hospitality remained elusive during the Assyrian period.’ When assessing previous scholarship on this matter, we should remember that the architectural similarities with Assyrian residencies are partial at best, and simply betray Mesopotamian influences, mainly later in time and, moreover, many of the suggested Assyrian residencies do not even belong to this period. The only buildings which were clearly built by the Assyrian administration, and most likely served officials, are the residencies at Megiddo and the palace below the mound of Ashdod.¹⁸ As far as Megiddo is concerned, although the small finds that are supposed to be associated with such buildings are lacking (below), the location of the buildings within a provincial capital—and the only city completely built the Assyrians—along with the architecture itself, strongly support this association. As for Ashdod, it appears that both the architecture and to some (limited) extent the finds within the building strongly support this attribution, and it is perhaps the best example of an imperial administrative building in the southwest. It is likely that the remains at Gezer also indicate that there was an administrative building there, but this is based mainly on small finds and circumstantial evidence. Clearly, there were additional Assyrian residencies, not yet excavated, for example at Samaria. Most of the above-discussed structures, however, if not later in date altogether, were local imitations of Assyrian buildings that were apparently used by the local elites (when data exists, this is also supplemented by the finds unearthed in them). While the future discovery of additional structures will be a welcome addition, given the number of excavations in the region, it is unlikely that the overall picture will be significantly altered; and this is also the case if one were to reject Kertai’s and Manuelli’s studies, and date a few more buildings to the Neo-Assyrian era. Clearly, despite the wide exposure, and although easily identified archaeologically (as seen in other provinces), evidence for Assyrian construction seems ‘limited’ (Kertai 2018), ¹⁸ And it is possible that additional structures in the Besor basin, such as at Tell Jemmeh, were erected when part of the region was temporarily annexed by Assyria (see below).

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Assyrian Palace Ware APW was the luxury vessel of the Neo-Assyrian empire (Oates 1959; Engstrom 2004: 70; Hunt 2015). ‘It was a wheel-thrown ware produced in a variety of forms including bowls, beakers, and miniature jars and bottles as well as goblets, all with everted, carinated rims. The common denominator among all these forms is the extreme thinness of the body walls and the fine levigation of the clay’ (Engstrom 2004: 70–1; also Rawson 1954; Hunt 2015; see Figure 6.5). The production the thin body walls of this ware required highly skilled potters (Engstrom 2004; Rawson 1954; Hunt 2015).

Meaning APW has been long associated with the Assyrian empire. Hunt (2015) defined a number of Palace Ware forms, which were used in ceremonial drinking. Forms A and B (cups) were relatively small, and were used for individual consumption, whereas form C (a jar) was slightly larger and was either used for communal drinking or to fill the forms A and B (Hunt 2015: 183). The smallest vessel is the form A cup, and it appears that the ceramic vessels are imitations of metal ones (Hunt 2015: 188–91; see also Routledge 1997: 34–5; Stern 2015: 533). These cups were used in elaborate ceremonies and Hunt (2015: 188–90) noted that metal and stone form A bowls were often decorated, and usually even inscribed ‘with official titles and/or offices’. She suggested

Figure 6.5 Assyrian Palace Wares Source: R. Amiran (1969) Ancient Pottery of the Holy Land: From Its Beginnings in the Neolithic Period to the End of the Iron Age. Jerusalem: IES, plate 99; courtesy of the IES.

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that the cups served as ‘honour-gifts’ for social and political goals, adding (2015: 190) that by the act of inscribing the rank or office on these honourgifts, the bowls became ‘symbols or icons of office and/or imperial power’ and, like the imperial stamp seals, marked their owners as belonging to the NeoAssyrian administration, while at the same time reaffirming the owner that his status resulted from his being part of this very administration. In addition to signalling that the owner of the bowl belonged to a limited Assyrian elite circle (which might be, in some contexts, an emblemic message), it also served to signify status (assertive message). The material itself composed another layer of meaning, serving to distinguish between the different ranks of the elite: ‘gold, glass and stone for the highest ranking members of the royal family; silver for lesser members of the royal family; bronze for the highest state officials, including provincial governors and their cabinet; and ceramic for lesser state officials’. Hunt added that since the material varied, the shape of the vessels was apparently ‘iconic’, and this might be the reason why only form A bowls do not have any (known) common ware equivalent, adding that ‘the shape was universally recognised in the Central Polity as associated with and a symbol of imperial power and fealty to the Neo-Assyrian empire and its king’ (Hunt 2015: 190–1). Forms B and C were used in the consumption of grape wine—which in the Assyrian empire was a rare commodity and its drinking was restricted—as a form of conspicuous consumption (Hunt 2015: 191, see also 192).¹⁹ Hunt noted (p. 192) that the use of these vessels had a number of layers of meaning. The first was simply to denote access to grape wine and its consumption, in ‘itself a reflection of the power and position’. The second is related not to the consumption of the substance, but rather to the vessels themselves. These vessels were easily distinguished from common vessels, and using them indicated social and political importance. Since the grape wine was rationed, it is also possible that the size of the cup indicated the amount allotted to its owner, and hence also signified social and political importance. The messages were very clear to any member of the Assyrian administration, and perhaps even to the Assyrian upper class. These objects, however, travelled far. According to Hunt (2015: 182), ‘Palace Ware was transported across the Neo-Assyrian imperial landscape as a concept or social practice and adapted and modified to meet the social and symbolic needs of its consumers.’

¹⁹ Hunt (2015: 37) explains that wine was a prestigious liquid and the Assyrians used it to symbolize status. In the eighth–seventh centuries  it became more accessible to the higher classes, but not very common; wine was under the imperial administration and was rationed.

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162  -     There were differences in colour, style, and size of the APW in the provinces, and a mixture of local and Assyrian features in the client kingdoms, indicating ‘context driven social function and semiotic meaning’. The new meanings and practices, however, were all rooted in ‘the social function and symbolic meaning of Palace Ware in the Central Polity and imperial administration where the concept and social practice originated’. Indeed, Hunt (2015) showed that the way the vessels were used varied by context. She differentiated between the heart of the empire (the ‘central provinces’, exemplified by Nimrud, Nineveh, and Assur), the annexed provinces (exemplified by Guzana and Dur-Katlimmu), and the client kingdoms (‘unincorporated territories’, exemplified by Tel Jemmeh). On the basis of the above, we would like to stress the following: (i) Since the APW were highly specialized objects, one should distinguish ‘original’ artefacts from emulated ones. The presence of ‘real’ APW can therefore be highly significant, and Ohtsu (1991: 141) even claimed that the mere presence of APW might be indicative of officials.²⁰ (ii) Moreover, one should distinguish between different uses of the objects, and ascertain whether they were used in a similar manner to that of the Assyrian heartland (Hunt 2015, and more in ‘APW in the Southwest’ and ‘Discussion and Conclusions’ below). Thus, even good locally produced APW might be sufficient to indicate Assyrian presence, if their use followed the Assyrian ‘vocabulary’ (rephrasing Hunt’s conclusions). (iii) Given the ‘mobility’ of such objects (Faust 2012b: 118–20, and references), we should examine the context, and look for ‘assmblages’ (cf. Hausleiter 2008: 223).

APW in the Southwest The distribution of APW exposes some important patterns.

The Extreme Rarity of ‘Real’ APW First, we should note that practically all the APW discovered in the southwest were local imitations, and not imports (e.g. Anastasio 2010: 25; Bienkowski 2000: 51; Ben-Shlomo 2014; Engstrom 2004; Bagg 2013: 128; Na’aman and Thareani-Sussely 2006; Singer-Avitz 2007; Routledge 1997: 35; Hunt 2015; Stern 2015: 533). According to Anastasio (2010: 25), ‘the general impression of ²⁰ This is challenged by Hausleiter (2008: 223–4), who noted that even Assyrian pottery is no evidence for administration, since the high officials used other, more expensive materials.

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pottery production both in Israel and Transjordan is that of a prevalently local production, with imitations . . . which are . . . always slightly different from actual Assyrian productions, from the morphological point of view of their shapes’. Anastasio (2010: 25) added that ‘analysis of known repertories clearly shows that a true Assyrian pottery production is never found in this region’, and he (2010: 32) goes on to note that the mere use of the term ‘Palace ware’ is ‘misleading’ (the only exception was perhaps Tel Keisan: Anastasio 2010: 25, and see below). While it is likely that more vessels will be discovered in the future, it is unlikely that the overall picture will be transformed. Thus, this potential route to identifying high-ranking officials seems blocked and unproductive. We are simply lacking the finds that ‘might’ be taken to pin-point such individuals (the unique sites of Tel Keisan and Tel Jemmeh are discussed below).²¹

The Rarity of Imitations Moreover, even APW imitations are not widespread. They are completely absent from most settlements, and are usually a rare find even in the sites in which they are discovered (Singer-Avitz 2007: 185; see also Tappy 2001: 314).²² This is indeed a point that repeats itself in the discussion of many traits (below). Not only is the number of ‘real’ objects extremely low (often practically non-existent), but the number of imitations is also very low. This is true even in Megiddo—a provincial capital that was excavated in its entirety! As Novacek (2011: 94) wrote: “Despite this radical shift in population and organization, the material culture from Assyrian Megiddo does not display the degree of foreign influence that one might expect. In fact, true Assyrian pottery is quite rare at the site’ (see also Kempinski 1993b: 109; Ussishkin 2017: 366).²³ The small number of finds is astonishing, given that emulation, at least, is expected (see Chapter 8, and see also Ohnersorgen 2006: 23; Skoglund et al. 2006). Such a dearth of finds could have resulted either from a form of ‘resistance’ or (more likely) from the remoteness and unimportance of the region (below, and Chapter 8).

²¹ Whether such objects could be used to signify the presence of Assyrian officials (e.g. Ohtsu 1991: 141) or not (e.g. Hausleiter 2008: 223–4), they are practically absent. ²² For the distribution, see also Gilboa 1996: 125–6; Stern 2001: 36–9; 2003: 225–6; Bagg 2013: 132–5). Concentration of Assyrianized pottery was also unearthed in Dor. ²³ Even if, as we suspect, the main palace was below the mound (more below), this does not explain the extreme rarity of finds in the city itself.

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The Imitations are Concentrated in Parts of the South Interestingly, although the provinces are supposed to be more influenced by the empire, the imitations are concentrated mainly in the southern coastal plain, the Negev, and the Akko plain, and are rare in most of the provinces (also Na’aman and Thareani-Sussely 2006: 72). Notably, just like so many other features, the south shows more signs of prosperity and international connections than the Assyrian north. Perhaps, however, this is not surprising anymore (cf. Chapters 4 and 5). The north was devastated, and did not require much administration on the one hand, nor did it have many local elites that could emulate APW, on the other. There were Assyrian governors and administrators, of course, but their presence was apparently limited.²⁴ In the client kingdoms there were elites, and hence people who could emulate this pottery. As Assyrians were not present there on a permanent basis, the emulation was probably indirect, i.e. some of these items were used by peoples who emulated other elites: a sort of ‘down-the-line emulation’ (and some imitation in Philistia was probably initiated when Ashdod was annexed). There were differences, however, within the clients, and more imitations were discovered in the southern coastal plain, and to some extent also in the Beersheba valley and the Akko plain, and much less in Judah proper, where it is practically absent. The difference could result from the greater exposure of the elites in some regions to the Assyrian army and administration and to the international trade (and hence they acquired international ‘taste’), or from different reactions of the local population to the Assyrian empire (Chapter 8). Interestingly, the mere distribution of APW, mainly outside the provinces, supports their identification as emulation rather than something used by officials, as the latter was supposed to have concentrated in the provinces.

Exceptional Sites Tel Keisan. Anastasio (2010: 25) mentions Tell Keisan (level V) as an exceptional case in which many relevant items were found, noting that it was ‘perhaps the result of importation of a “personal” set’. Interestingly, this ‘exception’ is accompanied by other ‘exceptional’ features, such as the above-

²⁴ It is tempting to view the metal bowl (similar to Hunt’s Form A in shape and size) unearthed in a grave at Tel Rehov (Mazar and Ahituv 2011: 274, 275, fig. 8.6) as belonging to an Assyrian official, but no additional finds support this yet.

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mentioned administrative text unearthed at the site, and along with other evidence (discussed in the following chapters) suggests that this was a unique site, connected with administrating Assyria’s affairs with prospering Tyre. Tell Jemmeh. A large concentration of vessels was unearthed at Tel Jemmeh, and there were scholars who viewed it as an indication that the site served Assyrian administrators. Van Beek (1993: 672), the excavator, suggested that the structure was actually built as the palace of an Assyrian official (above; see also Mattingly 1980; Na’aman 2001; 2016: 277–8). Still, a thorough examination of the finds indicates that caution should be exercised before such a conclusion is reached. Ben-Shlomo (2014: 84) noted that all the vessels are local imitations, and Hunt even showed that the vessels were used in a different way than these uncovered in both imperial centres and provinces, suggesting (Hunt 2015: 204) that the local elite used the vessels in order to gain prestige and establish their status by using objects that were associated with Assyria (i.e. the imperial centre), and things identified with it. She noted that ‘Assyrian-style vessels were valued for their foreignness and identified the consumer as cosmopolitan, part of the internationally savvy at Jemmeh.’ Hence, accurately reproducing the Assyrian objects was not important, and for the local consumers it was sufficient to use ‘idealised’, and even ‘exaggerated . . . forms and styles’ (cf. Gosden 2004: 39). Hunt noted that form A bowls were popular in Tell Jemmeh because the consumption of grape wine was not restricted here as it was in Mesopotamia, and probably also because these bowls were ‘associated with the rulers of the city and/or international travel’ (since Tel Jemmeh is located in an area in which wine was produced, it is clear that the mere drinking of wine could not have maintained its excluding status; see also Hunt 2016: 76). Notably, while Ben-Shlomo (2014: 85) cautiously believes that there were some direct connections with Assyria (see above), he acknowledges that the question is still open, and if one accepts Hunt’s conclusions, even these finds cannot be directly associated with Assyrian individuals or imperial administration (see also Hunt 2016), but rather with elite emulation. We will return to Tel Jemmeh later. The two exceptional sites of Tel Keisan and Tel Jemmeh, however, reflect the overall pattern. Tel Jemmeh is located outside the provinces, and here there were local elites that could emulate the Assyrian style and adopt it. Such elites all but disappeared in the devastated provinces, and hence imitation there was minimal. As for Tel Keisan, its uniqueness is indicative of the importance of the region, which even if under Assyrian control (cf. Na’aman 2009c: 99), was of great importance because it was one of the gates to

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166  -     prospering Tyre. Thus, it reflects the prosperity just beyond the border (cf. the importance of the Gezer-Tel Hadid-Aphek region, discussed above). In summary, not only cannot the Assyrian administration be identified by the presence of APW, but even emulations are rare.

Additional Small Finds There are additional Assyrian or Assyrianized objects (e.g. Stern 2001; Bagg 2011; 2013), which although extremely rare, might be connected with Assyrian presence, or in the least, with elite emulation.

Assyrian Glazed Pottery Glazed pottery is known in Assyria from the middle of the second millennium , but there was apparently a break in its production after the twelfth century , and it was renewed in the Neo-Assyrian period (Moorey 1999: 159–62). This type of pottery is found in the main Assyrian centres, and become rare as one moves further away. It is found, however, in a provincial capital like Kinalua, annexed only at the time of Tiglath-pileser III (Harrison 2005: 29; Anastasio 2010: 24). It is practically absent from the southwest, and is not found even in provincial capitals, including Megiddo. The only example from the region was unearthed (in a pit) in Lachish (Magrill 1989). Its almost complete absence from the southwest is another indication for the marginality of the region, whereas the presence of the sole find outside the provinces, if worth mentioning, strengthens the case for prosperity beyond Assyria’s nominal borders.

Additional Possible Evidence for Assyrian Administration There are additional items that can be connected with Assyrian administration, including seals as well as Lamashtu inscriptions (or other ‘cuneiformed’ objects) and clay tokens. All the traits discussed below, however, are mobile items and are easily transportable. It is therefore insufficient to use their mere presence, if and when they exist, in order to learn about the presence of Assyrians at a given site. Such items can be lost, or taken by others to enhance their own status. Only when they are found within a complex that can be

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associated with Assyrian administration can we treat them as indicating Assyrian presence. In such a case, they can strengthen the interpretation of a complex as Assyrian.²⁵

Assyrian Seals Seals were used by different officials: the king had a golden seal, whereas lower-ranking officials had seals made of other materials (e.g. Hunt 2015: 34–5; Radner 2008). Isolated seals, mostly Assyrianized, were discovered, for example, in Tel Keisan, Acco, Beth-Shean, Megiddo, Dor, Shechem, Samaria, Gezer, Arad, and more (e.g. Stern 2001: 16–18; Bagg 2013: 132–5), as well as at Nahshonim (see also Keel 1977: 294), Khallat es-Sihrij : (Brandl and Itach 2019), Horvat Omrit (Brandl and Grossmark 2016), and Jerusalem (see also Ornan et al. 2008; Winderbaum 2012). Notably, while such objects are mobile, their rarity is astounding. Interestingly, in this case the majority of the finds did come from the provinces, and might indeed be residual from the limited administration there, and perhaps some emulation by strongmen in the region. Additional Neo-Assyrian Objects with Cuneiform Inscriptions A very small number of cuneiform objects have been unearthed over the years. A Lamashtu inscription was found by chance in the Shephelah (not within an archaeological site), and it was suggested that it was used by an Assyrian soldier during one of the campaigns (e.g. Cogan 1995; Horowitz and Oshima 2006: 126; Stern 2001: 15–17). Cylinder seals with inscriptions were unearthed in Beersheba and at the Wingate Institute in the Sharon (where it was a chance find, perhaps related to a road) (Horowitz and Oshima 2006: 44, 153), as well as in the provincial capital of Samaria (Crowfoot et al. 1957, pl. XV and p. 35; Horowitz and Oshima 2006: 113–14). An additional object, unearthed in Samaria, is a bulla with a brief and extremely fragmentary inscription (Reisner et al. 1924, pl. 56a and p. 247; Horowitz and Oshima 2006: 112). Another relevant text, although written in alphabetic script and consisting of a list of personal names (possibly deportees) whose precise significance remains unclear, was discovered at Tel Jemmeh and was interpreted as an administrative document (Naveh 1985; Ahituv 2012: 337–40).²⁶ This suggestion, ²⁵ Locally produced imitations are, of course, irrelevant. ²⁶ An alphabetic inscription from Tell en-Nasbeh might include a reference to an Akkadian name (Zilberg 2016: 386–7), but it appears that this alphabetic inscription is from the Neo-Babylonian period (Lemaire 2003: 292–3).

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168  -     however, is problematic, since the area is outside the empire, but it might have been part of a province when Ashdod was temporarily annexed, so the possibility exists. Given the combination of its unique features, Tell Jemmeh is discussed in ‘Discussion and Conclusions’ below in more detail. All in all, however, the finds are extremely rare, again signifying the ephemeral nature of Assyrian administrative activity. In their broad study, Horowitz and Oshima (2006: 22) claimed that the sample is ‘too small and too scattered . . . to reach any definite conclusion about the chronology and nature of the Assyrian occupation of Philistia, the former territory of the northern kingdom, and parts of Judah’. Given the extent of the excavations in the region, the almost complete lack of cuneiforms is striking, and can be used to learn about the ephemeral nature of Assyrian administration in the region.

Assyrian Clay Tokens or Administrative Paraphernalia Tokens that were probably used for administrative purposes were unearthed in various sites, for example at Kinalua, Dur-Katlimmu, and Tušhan (Ziyaret Tepe), along with a variety of objects that can be defined as administrative paraphernalia (MacGinnis et al. 2014; Monroe 2016). The objects were found in residences and palaces, and Monroe (2016: 47) summarized their importance in Tušhan: ‘The cuneiform archival tablets, seals, weights, storage vessels and now tokens combine to help us form a picture of an administrative material culture whose archaeological context is securely fixed in the architectural complex excavated in Operation G/R.’ The lack, or extreme rarity, of any such tokens or any equivalent finds in the southwest is quite striking.²⁷

Various Assyrian or Assyrianized Items Ossuaries According to Stern (2001: 33) ossuaries, which represent a Mesopotamian burial tradition, alien to the southwest, were found in Hazor, Tell Qitaf, Jezreel, Megiddo, Dothan, and Dor, as well as in Tell el-Farʿah (S), and near Amman in Transjordan, and Bagg (2013: 132–5) adds to the list also Tell Abu Hawwam, Shechem, Tel Halif, Tell el-Mazar, Mount Nebo, Tell en-Nasbeh, and Tel Rehov (see also Itach 2019). Not all the identifications are secure, and all are isolated and rare, so their presence is isoteric. Interestingly, ossuaries, ²⁷ I would like to thank Baruch Brandl for clarifying some issues regarding this type of finds for me.

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too, were discovered mainly in the provinces, suggesting also that it was a result of (rare) contact with Assyrians or Assyrian culture. The following categories are so rare, that we can only mention some of the places in which they were found, but no real analysis of each class of finds in itself would be worthwhile.

Glyptic Finds Such finds are very rare, and were unearthed, for example, at Dor, Tell Keisan, and Gath. Some have suggested that a painted sherd from Ramat Rahel should be included in the list. According to Stern (2001: 34), all of these mix Assyrian prototypes with local characteristics and should be viewed as local imitations. Stone Vessels A complete vessel was unearthed in an ossuary at Tell Qitaf (Stern 2001: 39–40), and Bagg (2013: 132–5) adds to the list also Gezer, Umm el-Biyara, and Gath. Glass Vessels Glass vessels were discovered in Aroer, Megiddo, Gezer (Stern 2001: 40), and perhaps also in Arad and Kinneret (Bagg 2013: 132–5). A glass juglet was found in Tomb 120 at Lachish (Barag 1970: 164). Metal Objects Metal objects, perhaps with Assyrian connections, were discovered in Samaria, Tell en-Nasbeh, Amman, Arad, Shechem, Beth-Shean, Tel Rehov, Gezer, Lachish, Tell Mazar, Megido, Ekron, Qitmit, Tel Sera, and Umm Uthainah (Bagg 2013: 132–4; Stern 2001: 40). Especially worthy of mention is the bowl from Tel Rehov (Mazar and Ahituv 2011). Weights and Measures According to Stern (2001: 40), ‘Nothing in the way of weights and measures has yet been recovered in the area of three Assyrian dominated provinces . . . ’. He notes that a few ‘non-epigraphic’ weights, which probably imitate Assyrian prototype were unearthed in the Negev and Philistia (Stern 2001: 41). In summary, what is striking is the relative rarity of Assyrian, and even Assyrianized, objects.

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Intermediate Summary Various studies stressed the many Assyrian influences on the region. Still, collating the various finds and presenting them as indicating much influence (e.g. Stern 2001) is a mirage, which resulted from focusing on the rare finds and ignoring the overall pattern, i.e. the rarity of these finds even in what were supposed to be major Assyrian centres, and their absence from most sites. As noted by Bagg (2011: 128), ‘the archaeological material is often overrated as evidence for the assumed Assyrianization, because, in comparison to the few archaeological finds from the Neo-Babylonian period, it appears more important than it actually is’. Some of the expected items are completely missing from our region, signalling its marginality. Other objects are found in small numbers in various sites, but usually not within Assyrian complexes, and are just chance finds and might at best only indicate that some Assyrians—for example soldiers, or even administrators—were present somewhere in the region, occasionally using them (perhaps ossuaries), and in most cases either lost them or traded with them (e.g. seals). Some of these isolated finds, even if ‘real’ Assyrian artefacts, were probably used—in the contexts in which they were found—by locals to enhance their status. And others are just local imitations, used to enhance the status of local elites or strongmen, and often did not emulate Assyria as such, but rather a broader, ‘international’ style that was perhaps perceived as Assyrian, but shows little familiarity with it (more below). Moreover, while cuneiform texts or objects were, not surprisingly, more prevalent (or less rare) in the provinces, many other classes of finds were found more often outside the provinces, showing that they were mostly used by local elites, and that in their final resting place the items cannot be associated with Assyrians. Likewise, Routledge (1997: 38–9) noted that the Assyrianized objects in Transjordan are always found with other imports, are more international than Mesopotamian, and have ‘a role in defining and expressing elite identity’ (p. 39). Bienkowski (2000: 53) also noted that the evidence brought for Assyrian presence is ‘at most, . . . selective borrowings’ (see also Brown 2018). The situation in Cisjordan is clearly the same (cf. Hunt 2015: 204). All in all, what is really striking is the almost complete lack of Assyrian objects, and the extreme rarity of Assyrianized objects. Since nobody would deny the presence of Assyrian officials, and even Mesopotamian settlers, in the

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region, and in light of the extensive exposure, this situation is puzzling (more in ‘Discussions and Conclusions’ below). While acknowledging that the extreme rarity of the finds might make any pattern wanting, we may tentatively suggest that some items were more common (or less rare) in the north (such as ossuaries and seals), and were probably an outcome of the presence of Assyrian administration (even if we cannot directly pinpoint such officials), whereas others were found more in the south, probably resulting from ‘indirect’ emulation by the local elites of an ‘international’ style, which they probably perceived as Assyrian.

Discussion and Conclusions When examining the evidence that might indicate Assyrian presence in the southwest, a number of surprising patterns emerge. First of all, the relative scarceness of the relevant finds is simply overwhelming. The region was under Assyrian control for about a century, parts of it under direct control in the form of provinces, and it has been extensively studied, with many excavations revealing finds from the relevant period. Still, the evidence is extremely limited. This is true for both the architecture, as almost all the ‘Assyrian’ residencies appear to be local buildings (also Manuelli 2009; Kertai 2018), and for the APW and other mobile finds. Thus, the finds show little evidence for Assyrian presence in the region, even in places like Megiddo, where Assyrians were clearly present, probably on a large scale (e.g. Novacek 2011: 94; Kempinski 1993b: 109; Ussishkin 2017: 366). It is likely that the main palaces, which must have existed, were located below the mounds, but while such future discoveries will help to put some flesh on the reconstructions presented in the sections above, they will not change the overall patterns (see below, and mainly Chapter 7). The second amazing feature is the distribution of the limited Assyrian, and mainly Assyrianized, evidence that was unearthed. Cuneiform finds, perhaps the most important class of finds in this regard, are more common in the provinces, since there were, after all, more Assyrians there, but their distribution is mainly along the roads, and especially at the edge of the land of Ashur, toward the client kingdoms. As we have seen earlier in the chapter, this indicates that the regions behind the borders were more important for the Assyrian empire than the impoverished southwestern provinces. Some categories, like seals and ossuaries, while extremely rare, are more common in the provinces, again indicating some Assyrian presence in the

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172  -     region at large (not in every finds-spot), or at least closer contact with them. As for the other finds, most categories are present more outside the Assyrian territories than inside them. This is true for the APW (Na’aman and ThareaniSussely 2006), and even structures with Mesopotamian influences that were dated to this era are more common in the south, for example at Ashdod (Ad Halom), Tel Jemmeh, Ashdod Yam, Tell Abu Salima, and Tel Sera. This is probably connected with the prosperity there, as has already been noted in the study of settlement, demography, and economy in Chapters 4 and 5. This, of course, strengthens the notion that we are not discussing real Assyrian presence, which is typically expected to be found mainly in the provinces, but rather local emulation. In the following, I would like to elaborate on these patterns.

The Southwest as a Backwater The first conclusion is that the Southwest was marginal. There is surprisingly little evidence of Assyrian administration or even presence in the region, both in the provinces and outside them.

Administration The number of texts unearthed in the region is surprisingly low, especially given the large number of excavations and the presence of other types of texts (e.g. ostraca, which are usually more difficult to identify than clay tablets). This suggests, first and foremost, that Assyrian administration in the region was very thin. The texts that were found reveal an interesting pattern (more below), but the overall number of finds is limited. Architecture Very few structures can be identified as imperial or Assyrian in construction, and therefore in use. Again, this is in line with limited administration. Some of the structures identified in the past as Assyrian are apparently later in date, and are therefore irrelevant for the discussion. A few others were probably built by local kings, rulers, or even regional leaders, and are therefore indicative of Assyrian influence, but not of Assyrian presence. While the limited number of Assyrian structures is an indication, first and foremost, for the marginality of the region, the few such structures that were unearthed indicate, again, what within the region was important for the Assyrian empire, and I develop this below in the section on ‘Assyrian Presence’ and in subsequent chapters.

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Assyrian Palace Ware Hardly any real APW was unearthed, and even good emulations were quite rare. Again, this is an indication for the limited presence of Assyrian officials in the region. Most of the pottery unearthed was probably used by the local elites, for whom emulation was sufficient (also Hunt 2015: 204), but even emulation is more limited than can be expected. Here, too, most of the vessels were found outside the Assyrian provinces. Only one item of Assyrian glazed pottery was unearthed, and even this was outside the provinces (Magrill 1989). Additional Items And the same applies to tokens, seals, metal, glass, and stone objects, which are limited to non-existent. Finally, in not a single site were the full scale of indicators for Assyrian presence found—not even in the provincial capitals of Samaria and Megiddo. Not a single site in the region exhibits such ‘a combination of finds’ (Hausleiter 2008: 23), which is expected from an Assyrian centre. And even limited sets are very rare. The region was quite marginal as far as the Assyrian empire was concerned, and it was interested only in some small ‘islands’ that were of importance (and where partial sets were discovered). A few sites, such as Megiddo and Samaria, as well as in Ashdod, Tel Keisan, the Tel Hadid– Gezer region, and perhaps also Dor, exhibit more features, probably indicating some Assyrian presence, but this ‘indication’ is also based on the ‘knowledge’ that there must have been Assyrians there, and not only on the finds themselves. The problematic nature of the finds is easily exemplified if we compare the finds in Megiddo or Samaria to these in Kinalua, let alone older provincial capitals like Til-Barsip and Dur-Katlimmu.

Assyrian Presence And what about these ‘islands’ of Assyrian interest? The issue is addressed in Chapter 7, and the following are just a few preliminary observations. The provincial capitals were relatively important—more than the surrounding areas—and relatively significant remains are indeed found at central sites like Megiddo and Samaria. In the former, buildings in Assyrian style were found, but the number of “Assyrian” artefacts is surprisingly low. At Samaria, more artefacts were found, although their number is still very low, but no

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174  -     Assyrian structures have yet been unearthed. Dor, whose political status is debated (Chapter 7), was also relatively important at the time, and also exhibits limited evidence of Assyrian ‘connections’ (mostly Assyrianized pottery). Both architecture and (some) smaller items were unearthed in Ashdod, and this is perhaps the best concentration of finds that can indicate Assyrian presence. At any event, these are central sites, and it should not come as a surprise that some evidence for Assyrian administration is found there. Again, a comparison with Kinalua exemplifies the gap.²⁸ In addition to these centres, there are a few additional concentrations of Assyrian or Assyrianized finds (including tablets), including Tel Keisan (and the Acco plain), and the Gezer-Hadid-Aphek area, both of which were probably connected to Assyrian administration, and will be discussed at length in Chapter 7 (the finds at Tel Jemmeh are discussed in ‘Assyrians at TelJemmeh?’ below).²⁹

A Brief Note on Emulation: A Regional Analysis Emulation is discussed in more detail in Chapter 8, but a brief note on the distribution of imitations is in order here. The relevant finds (e.g. imitations of APW), are relatively few in most sites, but higher concentrations were found in the Negev, and mainly in the southern coastal plain. The rarity of emulation in the provinces is striking. It appears as if the devastation of these regions resulted in a shattered society, with very limited elites, and with no significant trade or production.

Assyrian Presence in the Client Kingdoms? All this has clear implications for the suggestion that there was a permanent Assyrian presence in Judah, and that Ramat Rahel served as a residency of an Assyrian official (Na’aman 2001), leading some scholars to raise new reconstructions of the development of taxation in Judah, and to claim that Ramat Rahel served as centre for the collection of taxes (e.g. Gadot 2015, and ²⁸ Even if, as suggested above, a palace, and even a few more buildings (with the associated finds) will be discovered below Megiddo, for example, the disparity with Kinalua or Til-Barsip will remain enormous, highlighting the gap. ²⁹ The evidence at Dan is very partial, but since Thareani-Sussely 2019 did not supply quantities, her claims cannot be substantiated.

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references). These far-reaching suggestions, however, resulted only from assumptions on the nature of Assyrian rule and the supposed impact of the Assyrian peace (Chapter 9), are not based on any data, and actually counter all the information available. The unlikelihood of the suggestion is apparent, first and foremost, from the fact that the clients were not run by the Assyrian administration (see Chapters 1 and 7). The local king managed his affairs with the king of Assyria, and was regarded as independent (see also Postgate 1992: 255). Na’aman (2001) originally attempted to counter that by pointing out the existence of a qēpu (i.e. a high-ranking official, appointed by the king to carry out special missions: see also Chapter 7; Dubovský 2012) in some vassal kingdoms. The relevant texts, however, pertained to Tyre, and not to Judah, and given the differences between the two polities (Chapter 7), it is wrong to project from the former on the latter, and it is therefore extremely unlikely that there was a qēpu in Judah on a permanent basis. Not only did the suggestion not rely on Assyrian practice or a specific text, and was based on (unfounded in my view) assumptions and expectations, but it runs counter to the reality on the ground, in which no hints of Assyrian presence were unearthed at Ramat Rahel, and all the finds indicate a local palatial compound. We have seen that there is a complete lack of textual and material evidence for Assyrian presence at the site, and that there is nothing Assyrian in the building, which simply served as a residency of the local kings (above, and also Zilberg 2016: 394–6). This palatial compound, moreover, was embedded within the local economic system, and served as an estate responsible for production (Moyal and Faust 2015), which was clearly not what a qēpu would do (cf. Chapters 1 and 7). Hence, the evidence clearly shows that if there was a qēpu, he did not reside in Ramat Rahel (also Kletter and Zwickel 2006:178; Zilberg 2016: 394–6). A similar idea was raised regarding Busayra (e.g. Reich 1992), but Bienkowski (2002: 199) noted that there are differences between this building and the Assyrian parallels mentioned, concluding that ‘the actual plan of the building is unique’, and since there is also nothing specifically Assyrian in the finds, it is far more likely that the building served a local ruler, emulating what it considered Mesopotamian or perhaps even ‘international’ style. Brown (2018: 171 also stated that ‘the material language with which . . . [the Edomites] “spoke” seems to have been one grounded in Levantine, rather than Assyrian, traditions and value regimes’. Indeed, evidence for emulation is more common in Philistia than in other southern regions. Apparently, due to the region’s geopolitical importance, it

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176  -     experienced more Assyrian presence (even if not on a permanent basis). Hence, the prospering elites there emulated the Assyrians (the issue is discussed in Chapter 8). Other regions did not often emulate Assyrian style directly. We return to this issue in Chapter 7, after reviewing the Assyrian administration of the southwest.

Assyrians at Tel Jemmeh? Given a relatively large number of the above-mentioned Assyrianizsed finds that were unearthed at Tell Jemmeh (e.g. the palace, large quantities of APW imitations, and the alphabetic inscription with foreign names), and the relative frequency of emulations in southern Philistia, it is worth devoting a few words to this site. Na’aman (2016: 277–8) mentions two broken prisms that indicate that people from the Zagros were settled ‘on the border of the brook of Eg(ypt)’. He suggests that the place is Tel Jemmeh (p. 278), and that it was the seat of an Assyrian governor that was responsible on the Besor area. Clearly, it is tempting to see the place as an Assyrian outpost, as did many scholars (e.g. Van Beek 1993; Mattingly 1980; Na’aman 2001; 2016). Still, given the lack of cuneiform texts, the absence of unambiguous Assyrian architecture, and the fact that the APW were not only imitations but were also seemingly used in a different manner than in the Assyrian provinces and heartland, the presence of Assyrians is not self-evident. While there is no doubt that there was Assyrian presence in this area at large, the evidence is still meagre (Hunt 2015: 202–4; see even Ben-Shlomo 2014: 84–5). The options are that: (i) the users were Assyrians (a governor or a qēpu) who for some reason did things differently from his peers—while not impossible, this seems unlikely; (ii) the structure could have been built when the region was temporarily under direct Assyrian control, but the finds reflect the slightly later, local, users; (iii) the finds could also suggest that the palace was not used by Assyrians, and served as a palace of a local ruler, emulating Assyrian style. Even if one does not accept Hunt’s negative assessment, what we see is probably a combination of influences that resulted from emulation by the local elites, and not ‘real’ Assyrian objects or practices. Hence, option (i) is unlikely. We cannot rule out option (ii), but while historically it makes sense, there is not enough archaeological data to support it yet, and hence the issue is not completely solved. The actual small finds, however, likely reflect the local elite during the site’s final phase (see also Chapters 7 and 8).

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A Note on Assyrian Presence and the Renaming of Sites and Provinces The marginality of the region and the imperial disinterest are expressed also in absence of evidence for renaming of sites in the region by the empire. Renaming sites by new rulers is a widespread phenomenon, widely attested also in the ancient Near East in general, and in the Neo-Assyrian empire in particular (for a general discussion, see Pongratz-Leisten 1997; Yamada 2005; 2014: 46). In the Ancient Near East, as elsewhere, naming peoples or places is a sign of authority, and shows the subordinate position of those being named. In a sense, this is the strongest form of control (e.g. Chia 2006; White 1967). Thus, ‘One of the most subtle demonstrations of the power of language is the means by which it provides, through the function of naming, a technique for knowing a colonised place or people. To name the world is to “understand” it, to know it and to have control over it’ (Ashcroft et al. 1995: 283, see also 392). And Chia (2006: 176) noted that, ‘The naming of the subject . . . carries with it a notion of domination and lordship over the subject. The naming or renaming in biblical literature is also a sign of inferior, subordinate and dependent status’ (see also Genesis 2:20). Thus, according to the Bible (II Samuel 5:9), David called the citadel of Jerusalem, which he conquered, the City of David (cf. renaming of client kings by their masters, e.g. II Kings 23:34, 24:17). More relevant for our purposes, renaming was practiced by many Assyrian monarchs—the policy had long roots in Assyria and Pongratz-Leisten (1997) details many such incidences, from the time of Tukulti-Ninurta I, all the way to Esarhaddon. The practice was widely known in the Neo-Assyrian empire. In the ninth century , for example, Shalmaneser III made a number of such changes; most famous of all is perhaps the renaming of Til-Barsip as Kar-Shalmaneser (e.g. PongratzLeisten 1997: 332–3; Dornemann 1997: 209). Tiglath-pileser III, who conquered the southwest, renamed cities in the periphery of Babylonia (e.g. Holloway 2002: 153, 161, 381; Pongratz-Leisten 1997: 333). Sargon, who continued the conquest of the southwest, also renamed many cities, like the cities of Ḫarḫar (renamed Kar- Šarruken) and Kišessim (renamed Kar-Nergal) in western Iran (in the Zagros) and others, for example near Babylon (Pongratz-Leisten 1997: 333–5; Elayi 2017: 161–3, 167, 186; see also Holloway 2002: 163, 265). The policy was also continued by later Assyrian kings, such as Sennacherib and Esarhaddon—the latter, for example, renamed Sidon as Kar-Assur-ahu-iddina (Pongratz-Leisten 1997: 335; Frahm 2017: 187).

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178  -     Still, we have no evidence for renaming of sites in the land of Israel by the Assyrians (Bagg 2011: 282–3; 2013: 126).³⁰ The capitals, and the provinces that were named after them, all retained their ancient names.³¹ This is just another indication of the region’s marginality for the empire.³²

Summary Rule of empires is rarely unnoticed. According to Sinopoli (1994: 169): ‘Empires are often characterized by dramatic material remains—large scale architecture, road systems, urban centers, temples, and elaborate prestige goods.’ Thus, whenever an area is incorporated within an empire, it is expected that the material landscape would be altered to fit the imperial prototype (cf. Postgate 1992: 258). Moreover, imperial expansion is usually accompanied by ‘increased flows of elite goods of imperial status between local elites and imperial centers’ (Sinopoli 1994: 172), which are also expected to leave a clear mark. This is the case with empires throughout the world, and the Assyrian empire was no exception. Indeed, we have seen in this chapter that in other regions in the empire, for example Til-Barsip, Dur-Katlimmu, and Kinalua (let alone provincial centres located closer to Assyria), one can find the imperial prints. Given the significance of the Assyrian empire, its strong rule in the southwest for about a century, and especially the wide exposure of so many sites in this region, one would expect massive evidence for Assyrian presence and impact in the southwest. What is surprising, therefore, is that so little evidence for Assyrian presence is found.³³ What is perhaps even more striking is that even emulation, i.e. cultural influences, are rare. Elites (some of them at least), after all, are expected to readily emulate imperial practices, and this would often influence commoners (cf. Chapter 8). Emulations of imperial style are expected to be abundant. The

³⁰ Even if Neballat (Nabala) preserves the name of the population deported to the region, this is not an imperial renaming (its location near Tel Hadid is, of course, not surprising). ³¹ While not all sites were renamed (see also Harrison 2001: 121 for Kinalua), the complete lack of renaming is in line with the region’s marginality. ³² This further suggests that the lack of continuity of ancient names, observed in Chapter 4, is a result of the devastation. ³³ Future discoveries of palaces below the mounds will fill important gaps in our knowledge, but will not alter the overall pattern, and the disparity between these cities and centres like Kinalua will remain conspicuous.

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relatively limited evidence unearthed is another indication that most of the region, and especially the local provinces, were devastated and of limited importance for the Assyrian empire. When ignoring the rarity of the finds, and examining the distribution of the evidence for Assyrian administration (i.e. Assyrian personnel) that is present, some interesting phenomena can be identified. While the provincial capitals did produce limited evidence for Assyrian connections, most of the indications for the Assyrian army comes from the roads leading towards Egypt, and the evidence for administration comes mainly from the southwestern edge of the empire, from the area facing the client kingdoms in the south and Egypt, as well as from the vicinity of Phoenicia. Apparently, these regions supplied the empire more income from tribute and duties than the impoverished provinces themselves, and this is where the limited administration concentrated. The scarcity of the evidence does not dispute the Assyrian rule, of course (and, as noted, I expect more evidence to come to light in the future). As noted by Sinopoli (1994: 169), ‘the absence of this set of imperial indicators does not demonstrate that specific areas were outside of an empire. Variations in the nature of imperial integration can be expected to lead to variations in its material indicators.’ Thus, while not questioning the importance of Assyria, this variation must be accounted for, especially since we have seen that in other regions, ‘this set of imperial indicators’ does appear. Evidence for Assyrian influence (not presence), also quite limited, is more common in the prospering client kingdoms, where (some) local elites imitated Assyrian customs for their own benefit (Chapter 8). It does hint, however, that the elites in the provinces were very limited, and hence did not, or could not (lacking the basic means), emulate the imperial agents. This does not mean that the Assyrians did not influence the region and its culture—the rarity of the finds is a direct result of Assyrian activity, i.e. the widespread destruction and the economic desolation it created in the annexed territories. In later chapters, we will see how the empire acted in the region (Chapter 7), and how the local population reacted to it (Chapter 8)—all showing how significant was the imperial rule. But in the meantime, we must stress that, generally speaking, the empire did not rebuild the conquered territories, officials were few and far between, and the impact of the administration was very limited. Paraphrasing the above quote from Sinopoli (1994: 169), the Assyrian empire was indeed ‘characterized by dramatic material remains’, but in the southwest these were not ‘large scale architecture’, or ‘urban centers, temples and elaborate prestige goods’, but rather the dramatic devastation it inflicted on the region, and the ruins it left in its wake. As aptly

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180  -     summarized by Liverani (2017: 154), “the reality is that in Assyria the efficacy of destruction clearly prevailed over that of reconstruction, and the magnitude of massacre surpasses that of repopulation by a several order of magnitude’. Indeed, in contrast to the enormous (‘negative’) military and economic impact created by the Assyrian devastation, the (‘positive’) cultural impact was limited. The region was clearly very marginal as far as the empire was concerned, and it only made sure that the border was safe, tribute from the clients arrived regularly, and that the region could serve as the springboard for additional conquests, especially towards the ‘big prize’ of Egypt. While the reasons for it are discussed in Chapter 7 (and farther in Chapters 10 and 11), suffice it to say that all these could be taken care of by securing the control, and maintaining an army, in the limited area between Aphek and Gezer, as well as in the Akko plain, and the provinces were mainly geared to provide sufficient grain and fodder for this purpose. While the discussion in this chapter has clear implications also for the role the region had for the empire and its large-scale policies, as discussed in Chapters 10 and 11, along with additional lines of evidence, it enables us to reconstruct the Assyrian activities in the region after it was conquered, which is the aim of Chapter 7.

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7 The Empire in the Southwest Reconstructing Assyrian Activity in the Provinces

In previous chapters we have seen that actual indications for the presence of Assyrians in the southwest are quite limited. Since it is clear that the region was ruled by the empire, the present chapter aims to reconstruct the ways the empire managed the southwestern provinces. We begin by briefly reviewing the establishment of the new provinces in the region during the last third of the eighth century , and proceed to examine the activity that is most closely associated with the Assyrian empire, i.e. deportations. Identifying the significance of deportations on the one hand, and the locations in which the empire settled deportees on the other, will later enable us to understand the way the empire treated the various subregions within the newly acquired territories. The main part of the chapter analyses the loci of Assyrian activity in the southwestern provinces, from provincial capitals to specific subregions such as the Aphek-Gezer and the Kabri-Tel Keisan areas, along the major roads and on the coast, and the implications of this understanding on the question of whether Dor was the centre of a province or not. Finally, we discuss the creation of a new Assyrian landscape of power in a few micro-regions, and briefly review the imperial activity beyond the nominal imperial borders, in the client kingdoms.

Background: The Establishment of the Southwestern Provinces The Assyrian take-over of the southwest was fairly swift, and despite some ups and downs, the process was completed by the time of Sargon II (Chapter 3). The military campaigns were accompanied by extensive devastation, which, despite some regional differences, was widespread (Chapter 4). Following the conquests, the northern part of the country was annexed to Assyria and new provinces were established. The Assyrian sources provide very little information not only about the establishment of the provinces, but also about their The Neo-Assyrian Empire in the Southwest: Imperial Domination and Its Consequences. Avraham Faust, Oxford University Press (2021). © Avraham Faust. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198841630.003.0007

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182  -     mere existence. It appears that at least two provinces had already been created at the time of Tiglath-pileser III: Megiddo (the Galilee and the northern valleys) and Qarnayim (the Gilead, and perhaps adjacent regions). Scholars debate whether a third province was established in the central coastal plain, with its capital at Dor (e.g. Na’aman 2009c), and some reconstruct two more in Transjordan (in addition to Qarnayim, also Gilead and Hawrān). The final
conquest of Samaria about a decade later led to the creation of a new province there, and there were probably some border shifts in the process. It is likely that an additional province was established (temporarily) in Ashdod (Tadmor 1966: 94–5; Aster 2018a: 285). The number of the reconstructed provinces in the region varies between three permanent provinces (Megiddo, Samaria, and Qarnayim) and one temporary(Ashdod), and seven provinces (the former four, plus Dor, Gilead, and Hawrān; for various reconstructions, see e.g.
1Aharoni 1979: 375; Rainey and Notley 2006: 236, 246). Following Eph’al (2010: 38–9), we believe that Qarnayim was the only province in Transjordan and the identification of Gilead and Hawrān is mistaken, but given their
location and the very limited information available, this has little bearing on the present study; and for reasons to be discussed later in the chapter (see below in this section, but mainly in ‘The Central Coastal Plain, Assyrian Policy Towards Maritime Trade, and the Status of Dor’), we do not think Dor was a centre of a province (Figure 7.1).

Megiddo The province (Magiddû) was framed on the northern valleys, i.e. the Jezreel valley, the Beth-Shean valley, and the Jordan valley, as well as at least most of the northern coastal plain, near Akko (it is likely that the border in this area fluctuated). The sparsely settled hills surrounding the valleys, mainly the hilly Galilee and perhaps also the Carmel ridge, if allocated to a province, were probably also within its boundaries. All major branches of the international highway passed through the northern valleys, whose rich and relatively expansive alluvial soils made them also potentially important for agricultural purposes. The provincial capital was the city of Megiddo, situated on the edge of the fertile Jezreel valley, controlling one the most important junctions in the north. Megiddo was the only city that is known to have been actually built by the Assyrians (e.g. Stern 2001: 48; Ussishkin 2017). While no Assyrian documents were unearthed in this city itself, it is mentioned in four texts (Zilberg 2018: 66, and more below), and its governor was the eponym of 679 

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Figure 7.1 Schematic map of the southwestern provinces, indicating areas of actual Assyrian activity Note: Boundaries are very approximate, and reflect a seventh century  reality, when some of Tyre’s hinterland was annexed, and when Ashdod was a client. The roads along which Assyrian activity is marked are those for which we have evidence that they functioned under Assyrian rule. It is more than likely that there was a road from Dan to Tyre (as most of the empire’s efforts to control the latter concentrated to its east), but since the area between the two is relatively unknown, we have no direct evidence for it, and therefore did not construct it on this map (and the same applies to Transjordan). Source: Prepared by Janet Jackson; courtesy of the Tel ‘Eton expedition.

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184  -     (Millard 1998). It is commonly agreed that Gezer was also captured and annexed by Tiglath-pileser III (e.g. Dubovský 2006: 166; see also Cogan 2015; Chapter 10), and in this case, it was probably temporarily part of the province of Megiddo, most likely along with the segment of the international highway leading to it (for Dor, see below).

Qarnayim A second province was probably created in Transjordan. Unfortunately, we know very little about this wide area, and while some scholars even reconstruct three provinces there, Eph’al (2010: 39, n. 26) notes that Qarnayim is the only province in Transjodan which is explicitly mentioned in the texts (SAA 7, 136 ii 4 mentions the governor of the province, although not by name). The exact boundaries are not completely clear (and perhaps even fluctuated), but the province bordered Damascus in the north, the autonomous Tranjordanian kingdom in the south, the Cisjordanian province of Megiddo to the west (and perhaps also the kingdom of Israel, later becoming the province of Samaria), and the desert to the east.

Samaria A third province (Samarina) was established, probably at the time of Sargon II, in Samaria. The province was composed of what was left of the kingdom of Israel, mainly the hilly region of Samaria. The city of Samaria, which used to be the capital of the kingdom of Israel, became a provincial capital. Its governor, Nabû-kēnu-usur, was the eponym of 690  (Millard 1998). One royal : inscription and one cuneiform text were discovered in this city, and six or seven additional ones were discovered in other parts of the province (Chapter 6). In addition, twelve texts mention the city or the province (and a few others mention peoples from it), but very little related to its administration (Zilberg 2018: 66). It is likely that the Gezer area, along with the segment of the international highway passing through the Sharon’s trough valley, although annexed earlier, were transferred to this province. If it actually controlled all the area of the small kingdom it replaced, then it bordered the province of Megiddo in the north, the Sharon in the west, the Transjordanian kingdoms in the east, and Judah and the Philistine kingdoms in the south.

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Dor We should note that Dor is not explicitly mentioned as a province in the Assyrian documents, and the attribution of this status is at best circumstantial, and based on the interpretation of a very unclear biblical verse (Isaiah 9:1; see Aharoni 1979: 374), and possible references to Dor in a few Assyrian sources (Na’aman 2009c: 96–9, and references; see also Eph’al 2010: 39, n. 28), including (i) a list (ADD 919) which most likely included provinces as well as trading centres, (ii) a list of places (K 4384) which includes also locations that were outside Assyria; (iii) a questionable reading of the 693  eponym, which is rejected by many; and (iv) its mentioning in the treaty between Tyre and Esarhaddon, where it is mentioned between the Akko plain (which was annexed to Assyria), and Philistia, indicating its importance. Nothing in the sources, however, indicates its status as a province (Na’aman 2009c: 99; see also Gilboa 1996), hence scholars’ recourse to archaeological evidence and to broad, circumstantial analysis. While some scholars believe that Dor was a provincial capital throughout the period of Assyrian rule, i.e. from the time of Tiglath-pileser III, others believe it came to this capacity only later, at the time of Sargon, or even Ashurbanipal (for various views, see Forrer 1920; Stern 2001: 12; Oded 1974: 46 n. 43; Rainey 1981: 146–7; Na’aman 2009c; Gilboa and Sharon 2016). Some believe it served as province for a only part of the time, after its conquest by Tiglath-pileser III, and was shortly afterwards annexed to Samaria (this is apparently the view of Aharoni 1979; Rainey and Notley 2006).¹ Others, however, doubt whether the evidence shows that Dor served as a capital of a province, and leave the question open (e.g. Machinist 1992: 72; Gilboa 1996: 131–3; Eph’al 2010: 39; RGTC 7/1, 63, s. v. Du’ru; RlA 11, 66, Nr 81). Na’aman (2009c: 95) summarized that ‘The analysis opens the door to the possibility that Dor was the capital of a separate Assyrian province that encompassed the coastal area between Mount Carmel in the north and the Jarkon River in the south, but more evidence is needed to decide whether this was indeed the case, or that Dor was a port in the confines of the province of Megiddo.’ We discuss Dor at some length (in ‘The Central Coastal Plain, Assyrian Policy Towards Maritime Trade, and the Status of Dor’ below), and will see that it is unlikely that it was a province.

¹ From looking at the maps, it appears that Rainey and Notley (2006) accept this view (compare maps on pp. 233, 236, 246), and so does Aharoni (1979 (compare p. 376 with p. 377).

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186  -     Beyond the mere division of the area into provinces (on which there is surprisingly little information), not much is known about the administration of the region. Not only is the number of texts that mention it very small, but most of them do not discuss its administration, but rather what was taken from it (Zilberg 2018: 66). The archaeological evidence discussed in Chapters 4–6 suggests that Assyrian administration was quite thin. The limited material evidence from Megiddo (mainly residencies built according to Assyrian plan) and Samaria (a few fragments of cuneiform texts), while surprisingly meagre, are sufficient to support the mere existence of Assyrian administration there, and in Chapter 6 we have also noted some evidence to this effect in other subregions.

Managing the Provinces: Deportations Deporting some of the conquered population is probably the activity that is most closely associated with the Assyrian empire. This policy reduced the threat of rebellions or of anti-Assyrian activities, and enabled the empire to settle population in subregions which it regarded as beneficial to its purposes (Chapter 1).

Deporting People from the Newly Acquired Territories in the Southwest Do we have direct evidence for deportations from the southwest? Deportations are amply attested also in regard to this region. Thus, the Bible (e.g. II Kings 15:29; 17:6, 23; II Kings 18:11) tells of the exile of (the) inhabitants of the kingdom of Israel, and there is a vivid description of the threat of exile in II Kings 18:31–2. The fragmentary Assyrian sources also testify to deportations from the region, for example annal fragments describing the conquest of the Galilee by Tiglath-pileser III (e.g. Tadmor 1994: 80–3; Cogan 2008b: 76–8), and the various descriptions of the conquest of Samaria and the exile of its population at the time of Sargon II (e.g. Oded 2010; Cogan 2008b: 81–96 and references). Sennacherib also mentioned mass deportations following his 701  campaign to Judah (e.g. Cogan 2008b: 114–15).² This is complemented by the textual evidence from other regions within the Assyrian empire, ² Regardless of the historicity of the figures themselves (cf. De Odorico 1995; Millard 1991).

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where deportees from the kingdom of Israel are mentioned (for detailed discussion and references, see Oded 2010; Cogan 2013). Archaeologically identifying the deportations from the region is, of course, much more difficult. Clearly, the mere demographic deterioration cannot be used as evidence for deportations, as we cannot differentiate the various factors leading to the decline (Appendix 4.1). Still, it is possible that some of the squatting identified at a number of sites, for example at Hazor, Kinrot, and Tel ‘Eton (above Chapter 4), are not failed attempts at resettlement by the survivors, but rather temporary camps of the captives before their deportation. The deportation was an organized business, and it probably took the Assyrian army some time to count the captives, and arrange the caravans, so the evidence for squatting might be their temporary camps. Regardless of the exact figures of the deported population (also Chapters 10–11), it is quite clear that the Assyrian empire carried out this policy after the conquest of the southwest. Such deportations increased the demographic damage inflicted on the region, and tore apart what was left of its social fabric. The latter effect is amplified by the introduction of new population—those who were deported to the region from other parts of the empire.

Deportees to the Southwest There is no dispute that deportees were brought into this region. The Bible describes people deported to the territories of the former kingdom of Israel from Babylon, Cuthah, Avva, Hamath, and Sepharvaim (II Kings 17:24 and Ezra 4:9–10; see also Steiner 2006: 676–9), and deportations are documented in the Assyrian texts. The deportation of Arab tribes to the region is mentioned in Sargon’s annals (Fuchs 1994: 110, lines 122–4; Na’aman and Zadok 2000; Na’aman 2016). In his 720  inscription on Samaria, Sargon II mentions that he settled there people from regions he conquered, and in his seventh palû he refers to Arabs brought to Samaria (Na’aman 2016: 275). These are but a few examples. The presence of foreign population is also supported by the names mentioned in the locally unearthed cuneiform texts. We discussed these texts in Chapter 6 in an attempt to identify Assyrian administration, but their content might indirectly also supply important information regarding the deportations into the region. The texts can partially teach us about where the exiled lived (see ‘Where Were the Deportees Settled?’ below), but they are also an important source of information on the origin of the arriving exiles. All in all,

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188  -     Na’aman (2016: 276) points out that some of the names in the Tel Hadid documents are Akkadian, and perhaps even Babylonian, and at Gezer twenty out of twenty-one names mentioned are non-Israelites, of which twelve are Akkadians, perhaps Babylonians. At Kh. Kusiya the name could be Elamite (Na’aman 2016: 277; see also Eph’al 2010: 43). Not all those mentioned must necessarily be exiled, of course, but given the nature of some of the transactions documented, such as sales of land, it appears that most are. The population that was deported to the region was very limited, as the vast majority of the deportees were sent to Mesopotamia in the first place and only small numbers were sent to remote areas (and not all of these deported reached their destination; see Appendix 4.1). The arriving deportees, moreover, were dependent on the empire, both because they were not familiar with the means of livelihood,³ and because their mere presence was probably resented by the population that remained in the area (Olmstead 1918: 759; cf. II Kings 17:24–40). Such animosity between different components of the population harmed the social texture, and delayed any chance of recovery even further. Still, mere identification of the places where the deportees were settled is of great significance, as it reveals which micro-regions within the otherwise desolated provinces were regarded as worthy of development, or at least maintenance, from the imperial perspective (the role of the deportees is discussed in a number of places below).

Where Were the Deportees Settled? A number of attempts were made to recognize peoples or communities that were deported to the southwest, but most were not systematic, and referred to the finding of one type of object or another, which were suggested to indicate foreign presence (like the wedged bowls in Figure 7.2 below). The issue was summarized and elaborated recently by Na’aman (2016), who referred to practically every place where Assyrian inscription or administrative texts were discovered (e.g. Tel Hadid, Ashdod, Kh. Qusia), as well as loci in which concentrations of Assyrianized pottery (e.g. Dor) or ‘Assyrian’ buildings (e.g. Megiddo) were identified, to suggest that deportees were perhaps settled there. This, however, is not a straightforward procedure (Chapter 6) and, moreover,

³ The foreign origin of the settlers might be the background for SAA 1, 255, where the governor is helping the settlers near Samaria to dig wells, and to grow wheat (we elaborate on it in ‘Samaria and Its Vicinity’ later in this chapter).

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Figure 7.2 The wedged-impressed bowls Source: Courtesy of the EBAF; photograph by Naomi Itach).

even if Assyrian presence can be demonstrated (and this is rarely the case), this in itself does not mean that deportees were brought there. In the following, I review some of the relevant suggestions, and raise a few more, in order to identify the places in which the empire had special interests. Samaria. As noted, deportations to this area are mentioned in both the Bible and the Assyrian sources, but identifying them on the ground proved more complex. Adam Zertal (1989) suggested that the wedged-impressed bowls (Figure 7.2) discovered in many sites near the city of Samaria were used by deportees. This suggestion was based, first and foremost, on the observation that the wedged impression was similar to a simple cuneiform sign, and this was supported by the very limited distribution of this bowl type, around the city of Samaria.⁴ A recent study by Itach (2013; Itach et al. 2017) re-examined the phenomenon, and concluded that the the unique distribution of the bowls, mainly in settlements in a limited area north of the city of Samaria, its dating mainly to the seventh century  and later, and the discovery of similar bowls in the cities of Babylon and Kuta (although typically dated to the sixth–fourth centuries ), support the suggestion that these were indeed vessels used by deportees. This suggestion is not secure, and the identification of a few such vessels in earlier contexts cast some doubt on it. Still, the overall temporal and spatial distribution makes this suggestion appealing, and the explanation set forward by Zertal and Itach is clearly a possibility (it is possible that the ⁴ The idea was somewhat simplistic, and was met with criticism, e.g. by London (1992), who claimed that the unique form might have been used for functional rather than symbolic purposes. This, however, is not a real criticism since function and symbolism are not mutually exclusive (e.g. Hodder and Hutson 2003: 71) and, moreover, a unique vessel, even if initially used for functional purposes, can become symbolic and, at the least, its distribution can indirectly serve to indicate group boundaries (e.g. David et al. 1988).

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190  -     survival of cuneiform signs on a few Persian period coins in Samaria also reflects this settlement; see Horowitz 2018). Aphek-Gezer Area. This is the area in which the largest concentration of cuneiform texts was unearthed, indicating that imperial administration was centred here (Chapter 6). The administrative documents unearthed at Gezer and Tel Hadid include many foreign names (see ‘Managing the Provinces: Deportations’ above, Na’aman 2016; Na’aman and Zadok 2000), and it is likely that the documents reflect the concentration of foreign population. Indeed, the unique settlement phenomenon of the scattered farmsteads that developed in the late Iron Age (Finkelstein 1981; Faust 2006a) appears to reflect the settlement of an exiled group(s) (probably accompanied by some native population). We expand on this phenomenon later in this chapter (in ‘New Settlements in the Seventh Century: An Assyrian Landscape of Power’), and suffice it to say here that this is perhaps the best archaeological case for the settlement of deportees in the southwest.⁵ Horvat Eli. This is a small site, located on a mountaintop in Samaria, that was apparently established in the eighth century , and continued to function under Assyrian rule, although in a modified plan (Hizmi 1998; but see Itach et al. 2018). The unique finds include two (fragments of) wedged bowls, as well a glass pendant with a male’s head, a decorated spatula, and more. The relative concentration of ‘unique’ or foreign artefacts is rare for the region, and might indicate some connections with the empire. Still, given the local nature of the architecture and the lack of an Assyrian ‘assemblage’, it is unlikely that there was an Assyrian official present there. We have seen that there was some concentration of surviving tiny settlements in this region, and it is possible that one of the local strongmen, with an eclectic, ‘international’ taste, resided in this complex. Lower Galilee. Gal (2009; Oshri and Gal 2010) identified two newly established seventh century  tiny settlements in the region. While it might be tempting to attribute the new settlements to deportees, in light of the understanding that the Assyrians limited settlement to the lower regions below the mounds (elaborated later in the chapter), there is no need to look for foreign origin for the population, and it was far more likely a local phenomenon (see also Oshri and Gal 2010: 24).

⁵ It is possible that the reality that is expressed in Sargon’s Great Display inscription, which refers to the instruction of right conduct to the settlers (e.g. Cogan 2008b: 84), is referring to this region, and not to central Samaria (Aster 2019, and more below).

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Tel Keisan. Various lines of evidence suggest that foreigners were present at the site, including the cuneiform administrative text unearthed, as well the unique collection of Assyrian Palace Ware (APW) and additional objects (Chapter 6). While some of the finds probably resulted from the presence of administrators, it is also possible that some of them reflect the presence of deportees, which are expected to have been settled in important locations (see the following sections). Still, the evidence is limited. Dor. Na’aman (2009c: 100–2; 2016: 278–9) suggested that Assyrian-style pottery found at Dor represents deportees (based on the idea, raised by Gilboa 1996, that the Assyrianized pottery was locally produced by an immigrant potter), but there is nothing to support this interpretation (see also Gilboa and Sharon 2016: 246). Moreover, we discuss the status of Dor in more detail below, and the broader picture seems to indicate that it is unlikely that deportees were settled there. Tel Jemmeh. Na’aman (2016: 277–8) refers to an alphabetic ostraca which contained many foreign names, some probably from Iran, as evidence for the settlement of exiled population here. Na’aman connects it to two broken prisms that indicate that people from the Zagros were settled ‘on the border of the brook of Eg(ypt)’, and suggests (Na’aman 2016: 278) that this happened after the conquest of Ashdod and its annexation (mentioned in the display inscription of Sargon II). The annexation have been temporary, but could be the background for the settling of population in the region (see Chapter 6, and the section ‘Assyrian Activities beyond the Provinces’ below). While unequivocal evidence for the deportees is difficult to find, the partial evidence that has accumulated suggests that deportees were perhaps settled near the provincial capital of Samaria (we do not yet have parallel evidence from Megiddo), but mainly in provincial hot-spots, combining fertile soil and strategic locations facing the autonomous regions outside the empire, i.e. the Aphek–Gezer region in the southern edge of the provincial area, and perhaps also the Akko plain, facing Tyre. In the southwest, these appear to be the most important regions within the provinces.

The Place(s) of Assyria: Locating Assyrian Activities in the Southwestern Provinces Assyrian activity involved more than conquering territories, dividing them into provinces, and deporting people to and from them. The imperial administration managed the territories and collected taxes, gathered soldiers in

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192  -     support of imperial campaigns, and provided for the main Assyrian army when it passed through the province. Despite the devastation of the region, all these still had to be taken care of. Where and how were these activities carried out?⁶ We have seen that there were some ‘islands’ of activity, and when combining this settlement data with information regarding provincial capitals and the possible administrative activity, as well as on the population deported into this region, the combined picture is illuminating (see Figure 7.1).

Megiddo and Its Environment Megiddo was the capital of one of the provinces, and the only city we have evidence that the Assyrians rebuilt. As noted, no Assyrian texts were unearthed in the city, but it is mentioned in a few tablets, and its governor was the eponym of 679 . The architecture included private houses in Mesopotamian style, as well as two Assyrian residencies (Reich 1992: 216–19; Stern 2001: 27–9; Ussishkin 2017: 360–2) that Kertai (2018: 150) viewed as the only clear-cut Assyrian buildings in the region. The site was one of the very few fortified sites in the southwestern provinces, testifying to its status (Gilboa 1996: 122). The extreme rarity of foreign objects (Kempinski 1993b: 109; Novacek 2011: 94; Ussishkin 2017: 366) is surprising, especially since the relevant stratum was excavated in its entirety, and so is the complete absence of cuneiform documents. Still, there is no denying that this was a central settlement (more below in this section and in the ‘Summary and Discussion’).⁷ An additional indication for the relative importance of this settlement is the fact that it is one of the only settlements which had a sort of hinterland, identified, for example, in the excavated sites of Tel Qiri and Jokneam (along with other, surveyed sites, whose dating is not secure). While meagre by comparison to other periods, this was a fairly exceptional reality at this time. Still, not only was settlement in the region in great decline compared to that of the eighth century , but the desolation can also be gleaned from the ⁶ In the following, we address only Cisjordan, as the data from the province of Qarnayim is practically non-existent. ⁷ Kempinski (1993b: 109) suggested that perhaps the real Assyrian palace was built below the mound, and it is there that we should expect to find the archive and the Assyrian objects. Given the information at our possession today, this is probably correct (more below), but one may still wonder why such objects were completely missing from the Assyrian residencies that were discovered on the mound itself (see Chapter 6).

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available texts. Thus, SAA 7, 116, uncovered in Nineveh, mentions Megiddo as responsible for wool payment, probably indicating that the area, which was traditionally one of the most fertile regions in the entire country, reverted to herding (Halpern 2000: 564). Grazing is a most extensive economic activity, which supplies relatively little return per unit of area (e.g. Safrai 1994: 171–2, 355–7), and this in itself is a clear indication for the sparse settlement, even around Megiddo (see also SAA 11, 80 and probably also SAA 11, 6; Halpern 2000: 564).⁸ It is clear, however, that grain were also grown in the region, which was most suitable for it, and it supplied both the (limited) population and the army, when it arrived.

Samaria and Its Vicinity The city of Samaria served as another provincial capital. Its location, however, was not strategic, and was rather a result of its former status as a capital. Unlike Megiddo, no Assyrian palace or residency was unearthed, but this can be attributed to the partial exposure. The finds, however, include two cuneiform texts, as well as additional Assyrian artefacts such as a cylinder seal, bulla, and more (see Chapter 6), and the city is mentioned in a few additional documents (note that not all references to Samaria or Samarians refers to the city itself ). While not numerous, these finds are clearly in line with the city’s status, as is the reference to its governor as the eponym of 690 . It is possible that the Iron Age fortifications were in use at this time, making Samaria one of the few fortified settlement in the southwestern provinces (Gilboa 1996: 122). Notably, there is evidence for some hinterland, especially north of the city, and the wedged bowls that were discovered (mainly during survey) in many sites in the region might indicate settlement of deportees. The available textual evidence, though meagre, shows that the situation was difficult. Thus, in SAA 1, 220, an Assyrian official writes to inquire about the ‘corn tax of the land of Samaria, which has not been paid’, and the writer twice asks whether the tax exists or not, stating that he has been requesting this report since last year. He furthermore states ‘nothing [i.e. no income] has been brought in’. This indicates the relative poverty of Samaria after the ⁸ SAA 5, 291 reports a delivery of bricks to Megiddo, but since the site is suitable for mud-bricks production, Halpern (2000: 565) suggests that perhaps it is labour that was in short supply, and this is therefore another indirect indication for the sparsity of settlement. This reading, however, is doubted, and it is very possible that the entire activity described took place in Dur-Šarrukin (I thank Shawn-Zelig Aster for raising this point, and discussing it with me).

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194  -     deportations, and it appears as if the impoverished province could not produce enough surpluses.⁹ The poverty of the region is also expressed in SAA 1, 255, which describes how the river that runs past the city of Samaria has dried out and the Assyrian officials are setting men to dig wells.¹⁰ Furthermore, the letter contains an unusual mention of an Assyrian official in charge of seed grain. Normally, farmers maintain their own supply of seed grain from year to year, and the mention of such an official suggests that it belongs to the period when the residents of Samaria had not yet achieved independent sustainable agriculture, or at least shows a drastic decrease in the population’s production capabilities. Were the residents not new settlers (or a severely harmed and drastically reduced local population), it is hard to imagine why an Assyrian official would be in charge of seed grain. The letter, therefore, seems to describe a period of great hardship (cf. Radner 2015: 110). It is also worth mentioning Sargon’s Great Display inscription, in which the king boasts of teaching the settlers their craft or instructing them in the right conduct. The sentence is commonly understood as referring to the loyalty of the settlers (e.g. Cogan 2008b: 84), but the language clearly refers to the teaching of craft, which is strange, since the Assyrians were not masters of highland agriculture, and hence were not expected to teach the locals how to farm. It is therefore possible that the texts refer to the area of Gezer, in which new settlers grew, perhaps for the first time, grain en masse, and this is something the Assyrians were familiar with, and the locals were not, and hence it required some training (Aster 2019; see also Rosenzweig 2016a). If so, however, then this text (and perhaps others) should be discussed in relation to the Aphek–Gezer region. The scarcity of the evidence, and the content of the texts themselves, suggests that the region was extremely marginal. We could explain this as a result of the devastation of the region on the one hand, and the distance from Mesopotamia, which meant that it was not worthwhile to invest in its recovery on the other (see Chapter 10), and perhaps also because most of it was not suitable to growing grain, which for the Assyrian economy, and even mindset, was the most important of products (cf. Postgate 1974; see also Rosenzweig 2016a). In Chapter 10, we see that strategic considerations perhaps also played a part in the decision to leave the core of the province in desolation, but

⁹ Zilberg (2018: 78–9) suggests that the letter might refer to people from Samaria, in another region. ¹⁰ The reference to the drying of a river (which probably did not exist) might be a convention used by the scribe to explain the digging of the wells.

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regardless of the causes, the situation on the ground is quite clear. Although serving as the residence of a governor and of some importance, the region at large was desolate.

Aphek–Gezer Region: Facing the Southern Clients and Egypt This is a relatively tiny micro-region, covering a narrow strip of land in the southwestern edge of the Assyrian territories. The southern half of the region, in which Gezer was situated, includes mainly the fertile Ayalon valley, while the northern region includes mainly Samaria’s foothills and the nearby trough valley, in which the international highway connecting Egypt and Syria passed. Overall, the area is some 27 km long, and usually some 6–10 km wide (Figure 7.3). The foothills themselves are bereft of any water sources, are quite rocky, and have limited soils available for agriculture. The area was therefore devoid of significant settlement prior to the time discussed here. The late Iron Age settlement wave in this region is indeed unprecedented, as dozens of small farmsteads were erected between Aphek and Tel Hadid, accompanied by some villages and hamlets; as noted in several places above (see also Chapters 5 and 6), this is the only region in the southwestern provinces that did not decline, and actually experienced growth. Nineteen farmsteads from the Neo-Assyrian period were excavated (and more were surveyed) on the hills, along with a number of additional sites, mainly villages. The phenomenon continued almost unchanged until the second century  (e.g. Faust 2006a; Shadman et al. 2015: 87–8). The settlement phenomenon described concentrated on the area north of the Ayalon valley, but the valley itself was also part of the phenomenon, with the rural site at Kh. Avimor exemplifying the rural segment, and the centre of Gezer representing the administrative segment. In contrast to the unique prosperity in the Aphek–Tel Hadid area, in the southern part there was no settlement increase at the time, and it actually experienced some decline, expressed, for example, in the contraction of the size of Gezer itself (suggesting that despite the relative prosperity, when examining the area as a whole, population did not increase). Still, Gezer was extremely significant for the empire, because of its strategic location and the fertile valley surrounding it, and there is evidence for its administrative role (a point to which we shall return soon).

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Figure 7.3 (left) A general map of the country (with the location of the detailed map indicated on it); (right) Detailed map of the Apehk-Gezer area Note: Both maps are based on a geological map, exposing the strategic location of the Aphek-Gezer area, its control of both important roads and a large valley, in proximity to flourishing clients. Source: Base map courtesy of the Israel Geological Survey, A. Sneh, Y. Bartov, T. Weissbrod, and M. Rosensaft (1998) Geological Map of Israel, 1:200,000, Sheet 2. Jerusalem: Israel Geological Survey, with addition by Yair Sapir, Tamar Roth-Fenster, and Asnat Laufer, courtesy of the Tel ‘Eton expedition.

We have seen that the Tel Hadid–Gezer region boasts the largest concentration of cuneiform texts in the entire country. This is accompanied by a small assemblage of Assyrian artefacts that were discovered in Gezer itself, and it is possible that an Assyrian administrative building stood on the mound (Reich and Brandl 1985; Ornan et al. 2013), or (as I suspect) below it (see the section ‘The Assyrian Landscape and the Missing Assyrian Palaces’ below). This small micro-region, therefore, has the most evidence for both settlement prosperity and Assyrian administration, and it is clearly an exceptional phenomenon, especially when compared to the ecological marginality of Samaria’s

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foothills. The region was completely transformed when it was incorporated into the empire. In Chapter 6, we suggested that Assyrian administration concentrated its efforts in this region because of its strategic importance (more below and in Chapters 10 and 11), and that the empire even settled deportees and soldiers there, noting that this is supported by the names mentioned in the tablets. This was needed in order to secure this important border area and provide food to the army when it arrived (for the settlers’ possible status, see Oded 1979: 96–7, and references; see also Radner 2015: 110). As for the Ayalon valley, it was more sparsely settled, and we assume that its importance was as the grain basket for this micro-region, supplying not only the administration stationed in the region, but also grains for potential campaigns, as this was one of the main duties of the governors. The Ayalon valley is especially suited for this, and we assume that the inhabitants of the farmsteads, in addition to working their own fields, were required to work in the grain fields in the valley. In ‘Samaria and Its Vicinity’ above, we suggested that it is possible that the teaching of the settlers their craft might actually refer to this region and the need to teach them mass production of grains (see also Aster 2019).¹¹ Hence, the entire farmsteads phenomenon described above, of which both locals and deportees were part (as can be seen from the names in the tablets at Tel Hadid), served as a hinterland of the more central settlements at Gezer, and perhaps also at Tel Hadid. The farmsteads that spread in this area created a unique landscape that is discussed below in ‘New Settlements in the Seventh Century: An Assyrian Landscape of Power’. Just as the relative settlement in the area was largely due to Assyrian interest in the nearby regions, the economic activity, expressed in the olive oil industry at Tel Hadid, was also most likely connected with these nearby regions. It appears that the prosperity of the south, described in some detail in Chapter 5, filtered not only to the east, but to some extent also to the north, and the olive oil industry at Tel Hadid was simply an extension of that of the Shephelah and inner coastal plain (Chapters 4–5). Clearly, unlike most of the sparsely settled provinces, in this area there were enough people to be impacted by the prosperity of the clients, and economy here subsequently grew.¹²

¹¹ Rosenzweig (2016a) refers to the importance of agriculture in the cultivation of citizenship in the Assyrian empire, suggesting that this was more than a technical issue, which is clearly in line with our reconstruction. ¹² We have already raised the possibility that the continued use of the fort at Tel Qudadi, and perhaps also the (possible) resettlement, as limited as it was, at Tel Qasile (if dated to this time) were also part of this phenomenon, connecting it with the sea (but this is questionable).

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198  -     Based on the accumulated evidence, it therefore appears that this was the most important area in the Assyrian provinces,¹³ for both strategic and economic reasons, which can be summarized as follows: (i) the region served as the starting point for military campaigns toward Egypt or the clients to the south; and (ii) even as a place for gathering troops as a show of might towards Judah and the Philistine cities, which could perhaps prevent the need for additional campaigns. Given the above, this (iii) was the region into which the tribute from the southern clients (probably the most important source of revenue for the empire in the southwest) was probably brought and stored until it was shipped to the north. (iv) Since this region was so important for the passage of troops and for road stations, it is likely that the Assyrians stored provisions for Assyrian troops and messengers there, requiring some hinterland (hence the many farmsteads). (v) Part of the region was most suitable for growing grain, and it was used to feed the manpower needed for the above activities (in line with the imperial mental template, see Chapters 10–11). (vi) Another possible source of income was the extraction of customs duties from traders passing on the important trade route in the region, which served Philistia, its ports, and the access to Egypt (although the importance of this specific region for this trade was limited). Finally (vii), the region prospered economically also because of its proximity to the flourishing areas in the south, serving as part of their hinterland. Additional explanations for the region’s importance are discussed in Chapters 10–11.

The Akko Coastal Plain: Facing Tyre The Akko plain, between Tel Keisan and Rosh Haniqra, seems also to have been relatively settled under Assyrian rule. While most of it was originally probably part of the territory of Tyre, it was likely annexed by Assyria (e.g. Na’aman 2009c: 99; see also Yamada 2008: 299, 301–2, 309, and references to Assyrian sources), and became part of the Megiddo province. We have seen in Chapter 4 that this is one of the regions that was less damaged by the Assyrian conquests, or that recovered better from the campaigns. The importance of the region is expressed by the establishment of the fort at Kabri, and the administrative building at Akhziv (Yasur-Landau et al. 2016), as well as by the imported Greek pottery unearthed in Kabri, Akko, and Tel Keisan—perhaps ¹³ Apparently along the region facing Tyre, to be presently discussed in ‘The Akko Coastal Plain: Facing Tyre’ and throughout the chapter.

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the largest concentration in the southwestern provinces (e.g. Waldbaum 1994). Moreover, additional finds related to Assyria were unearthed, mainly at Tel Keisan, which probably served as the Assyrian administrative centre in the region. At level V at this site, a rare assemblage of APW was unearthed, which Anastasio (2010: 25) suggested was ‘perhaps the result of importation of a ‘“personal” set’ (see also p. 26), along with an Assyrian seal and the abovementioned administrative document (and see Chapter 6). The evidence for settlement continuity, trade, and imperial activities are to some extent exceptional for the southwest, reminiscent of these in the Aphek– Gezer area. Just like the latter, the area did not serve as a provincial capital, but was rather on the edge of a devastated province, facing a prospering client kingdom that was an important source of income, i.e. Tyre. Tyre can be viewed, as far as the empire was concerned, as the goose that laid golden eggs. The main approach towards Tyre was most likely from what is today southern Lebanon, but the Akko plain was still an important, even if secondary, gateway to Phoenicia. The attitude of the Assyrians towards Tyre was relatively lax and ‘forgiving’ (e.g. Eph’al 2010: 48; Baruchi-Unna 2018: 123, and references; see also Grayson 1995: 964; Liverani 2014: 509), and despite some rebellions, it was never turned into an Assyrian province. Its king was replaced when needed (e.g. Sennacherib’s prism, line 32–5; see e.g. Cogan 2008b: 115–17), its immediate territory was gradually annexed (e.g. Na’aman 2009c: 99), it paid heavy tribute, its trade relations were controlled (at least in theory), and the Assyrian appointed a qēpu (see e.g. SAA 7, 128: 5–6, also SAA 2, 5 iii) limiting the king’s autonomy. But the city was always left to manage its own affairs, probably because the Assyrians realized that its independence enabled it to prosper. Not only did Assyria rely on the Phoenicians to master trade (and hence provide tribute), but the empire did not even have a Mediterranean fleet, and relied on the Phoenicians for its maritime activities (Grayson 1995: 960; Van de Mieroop 2007: 230; Radner 2015: 100). Moreover, even if Assyria could have had delusions on its ability to manage the maritime trade, it is quite clear that it could not have any delusions that the tribute Tyre received from its colonies (Elayi 2013: 153; Sommer 2007: 103) would continue once Tyre was destroyed (as indeed happened in the sixth century , when Tyre lost its independent status at the time of Nebuchadnezzar II). Tyre, therefore, maintained its semiindependent status. The prosperity of Tyre explains why the region near Tyre fared better than other regions during the time of the Neo-Assyrian rule. While the Akko plain was most likely part of the province of Megiddo, it faced a very prospering

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200  -     region, and this prosperity (i) most likely filtered and influenced the settlement and economy of the region (just like the prosperity of the southern coastal plain influenced the olive oil production in Tel Hadid); and (ii) led to the concentration of some military and administrative functions there. Thus, while there were obvious differences between this region and that of Tel Hadid, some of the guiding principles were similar, and the region was a focus of activity because it faced a prospering client.

Dan Dan was a large town in the Hulah valley, near one of the main branches of international highway. While no clear-cut evidence for Assyrian administration was unearthed, nor for deportees that settled there,¹⁴ it is likely that the site served as a regional, secondary centre along the highway. The site was apparently unfortified (Biran 2008: 1688, 1689), but its size, along with the public (perhaps Assyrianized) building (Thareni Sussely 2016), and the few Greek sherds unearthed here (scant evidence for limited trade in the late seventh century ; e.g. Waldbaum 1994), are a testament to its relative importance. Although not a provincial capital, this was perhaps the largest settlement in the region (perhaps due to its more northern location).

Settlement along Roads Beyond the micro-regions discussed, some sparse strings of settlements were identified along the main roads connecting the centres mentioned above. Roads were of the utmost importance for the Assyrian empire, and the governors were responsible for maintaining them, for building road stations, and for creating the agricultural basis for them (e.g. Radner 2015: 100; Perčírková 1987: 170–1; Grayson 1995: 965–6). It appears that a few sites perhaps served as ‘official’ road stations, while most were settled by people drawn to the economic possibilities offered by the roads, within a region that was otherwise devastated. The following is a brief summary of the finds.

¹⁴ Thareni (2019) claimed recently that various pieces of evidence indicate that deportees resided in Dan, but with the absence of quantitative information this is difficult to support.

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Gezer–Megiddo Road. This is a segment of the international highway, and a few isolated groups of sites were identified along it, usually a few kilometres to its east. These small groups of settlements might have been either road stations or a sort of hinterland for these waystations, and include, for example, Kh. Yamma, Jatt, Zur Natan, Umm Reihan, and Kh. Zaqzuq. The importance of the road is also indicated by the relative concentration of Assyrian texts there (Ben-Shemen, Tel Hadid, Qaqun, and Kh. Qusiya). Samaria–Megiddo Road. A detailed analysis of the information from excavations and surveys by Itach (2019) revealed that one of the few settlement ‘clusters’ (strings in this case) in the province of Samaria can be identified along the road connecting the provincial capitals of Samaria and Megiddo. Compared to the international highway, this was only a secondary road, and this is perhaps one of the reasons why no texts have been unearthed there yet. Samaria–Aphek Road. The detailed analysis by Itach (2019) revealed a second string of tiny sites along the road leading from Samaria to Aphek. This was only a provincial road, but it was nevertheless of some importance, connecting the provincial capital (Samaria) with what appears to have been the most important region for the empire in the southwest, the Aphek–Gezer micro-region. Megiddo–Akko Plain Road. This short road connected Megiddo, the provincial capital, with the Akko plain, and southern Phoenicia. A number of excavated sites existed along the road, including Tel Qiri, Joknean, and Shaʿar Haʿamakim (and others were surveyed, although their date is less secure). Admittedly, each ‘string’ of sites was composed of only a few tiny sites. Still, as most parts of the provinces were desolate, these ‘strings’ do stand out (see Figure 7.1).¹⁵

The Central Coastal Plain, Assyrian Policy Towards Maritime Trade, and the Status of Dor And how does the central coastal plain, where some reconstruct another province, fit into the data at hand? ¹⁵ Another road must have connected Megiddo and Dan, but no significant settlements yet attest for its route (since its route is clear, and it connects roads that were clearly in existence, we reconstructed it on the map). It is also quite clear that another important road connected Dan and Tyre, but the area is relatively unknown and no actual remains were found (in this case we didn’t mark it), and the same applies to Transjordan.

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202  -     We have seen that the international highway was of great importance for the Assyrians. The road itself ran through the trough valley that separates the eastern Sharon plain from the western slopes of Samaria, and while some settlements were identified on the hills to the east of the road, the region to its west was devoid of significant settlement, and the scant finds, for example at Tel Mikhmoret and Tel Michal, were probably the remains of tiny anchorages for Phoenician trade (for the role of the region in this trade, see also below in ‘Assyria and the Political Status of the Coastal Plain’s Ports’ and ‘A Province of Dor?’). This is not surprising, since the Sharon’s agricultural value was very limited, it is ecologically inferior, and it suffers from swamps and a very high water table, and no roads crossed it (Bailey 1957: 135–6; Faust 2007d). Its only potential significance was as an outlet to the sea, and it flourished when such was needed. The province of Samaria, however, did not participate in international trade, and did not require such outlets.

The Archaeology of Assyrian Dor Settlement sparseness also continued north of the Sharon, but here, without any clear hinterland (Gilboa and Sharon 2016: 249), was the central settlement of Dor, which some have suggested was the capital of the disputed province. Dor was fortified, a unique reality in the southwestern provinces, clearly signifying a special status. The actual finds, however, are not impressive, and it is doubted whether it was a dense or large settlement. While large quantities of Assyrianized sherds were unearthed, most of the ceramic was clearly local, along with a strikingly large number of Phoenician commercial jars and some Cypriot vessels (Gilboa and Sharon 2016). The evidence, therefore, reveals the great importance of maritime trade, and given the lack of nearby settlements, it is clear that Dor was not connected to any inland system, and its raison d’être in the seventh century  was the sea (Gilboa and Sharon 2016: 249). The excavators, therefore, believe that Dor served as a port—a kāru—as part of an Assyrian initiative, and we shall return to this issue at various points in this section below. In order to understand the role of Dor, however, and even to arrive at a better assessment of the question of whether it was a centre of a province, we must broaden our perspective, and re-evaluate the settlement at the Sharon’s southern edge, in or near the Yarkon basin.

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South of the Sharon: The Yarkon Basin and Jaffa While the Sharon was quite empty, a few settlements were unearthed near its southern edge, along the Yarkon River, like the fort at Tel Qudadi, and perhaps also the tiny settlement at Tel Qasile, which (if indeed, dated to this period) were perhaps off-shoots of the Tel Hadid–Gezer settlement.¹⁶ And just to the south of the Yarkon–Ayalon basin, located by the main harbour south of Dor, was the port of Jaffa. Little is known archaeologically about seventh century  Jaffa, but it appears that the settlement was quite large (see Burke 2011: 73). Jaffa is mentioned in Sennacherib’s prism (701 ) as belonging to the king of Ashkelon, along with the more inland towns of Bnei Braq and Beit Dagan. The association of Jaffa, Bnei Braq, and Beit Dagan with Ashkelon had puzzled scholars, since Philistine Ashkelon is a relatively southern city, and the Philistine cities of Ashdod and Ekron were much closer to the Jaffa–Beit Dagan region. Hence, if Jaffa and its region had to be associated with any Philistine city (and not with the province of Samaria, for example), it would have been more likely that they would be associated with one of the latter. Some scholars have consequently attempted to make the Ashkelon–Jaffa association residual, and suggested that it had to do with the nature of the settlers already in this region during the Iron I—the period of the initial Philistine settlement (e.g. Gadot 2006a: 31; see also Fantalkin and Tal 2015: 209). Such a connection, however, is not attested anywhere, and it was suggested mainly because Sennacherib’s prism mentioned these northern cities as belonging to Ashkelon.¹⁷ It seems that there is no need for such farfetched suggestions, and the association can better be understood in the context of the background of the late eighth century . Indeed, not all scholars considered it to be an old association, and Rainey and Notley (2006: 239–40), for example, claimed that Ashkelon took over the region between 734 and 732  (see also Na’aman 2009a: 352–3). We concur with this approach, but in order to reassess the political circumstances that led to the association of Beit Dagan, Jaffa, and Bnei Braq with Ashkelon, we need to re-examine the central coastal plain as a whole, and especially the Assyrian

¹⁶ Though Tel Qudadi was clearly built before the arrival of the Assyrians (Chapter 4), and operated by a local force. ¹⁷ Gadot (2006a: 31) claimed that the fact that some Iron I finds in Aphek (and Tel Qasile) might have originated from the area of Asheklon (or another sandy area along the coast) supports this suggestion, but this is very tenuous at best. Moreover, it is unlikely that Gadot would have raised this suggestion had he not assumed this connection.

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Assyria and the Political Status of the Coastal Plain’s Ports We have seen that the Assyrians did not have a navy of their own, and when they needed one they relied on the Phoenicians (e.g. Grayson 1995: 960; see also Radner 2015: 100; Van de Mieroop 2007: 230). Consequently, the attitude of the Assyrians toward the Phoenicians was relatively lax and ‘forgiving’, and despite some rebellions, the city of Tyre—the main Phoenician city—was never turned into a province, and was always left to manage its own affairs.¹⁸ The empire’s reliance on others for maritime activities is the key to the understanding of the situation in the central coastal plain. As noted, seventh-century  Dor was quite isolated, had no immediate hinterland, and the finds unearthed in it suggest an unparalleled connection with the Mediterranean, with Phoenician trade, and with Tyre. While some Assyrian presence is possible, it appears that Dor was a port city, an isolated anchorage connected with Tyre and serving as its main port along the Carmel coast and the Sharon, securing a safe haven for ships, some 80 km (by sea) south of Tyre itself. This is also how we should understand the association of Jaffa with Ashkelon, the major maritime centre in the southern coastal plain. Just as Dor was ‘allocated’ to Tyre when the region was conquered by Tiglathpileser III, so was Jaffa ‘allocated’ to Ashkelon. After Sennacherib’s campaign, Ashkelon was ‘punished’, and Jaffa (and its hinterland) was apparently given to Tyre, beginning its long association with the Phoenicians (Stern 2001: 379–407 [especially 386–7]; and see also Ashmanezer inscriptions).

A Province of Dor? This analysis shows that there was no viable province in the central coastal plain. Dor did not have a hinterland to rule over, and its orientation was maritime. Moreover, an examination of the entire central coastal plain reveals a consistent Assyrian policy which, from the time of Tiglath-pileser III, left the local anchorages to be handled by the coastal clients, rather than to be managed directly by Assyria. Dor was given to Tyre, whereas Jaffa, more to ¹⁸ Eph’al (2010: 48–9) has suggested a similar attitude towards the Philistines as well.

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the south, was operated by Ashkelon until its revolt in 701 , after which it was also transferred to Tyre. Interestingly, the allocation of Jaffa to Ashkelon before 701  suggests that this was already the fate of Dor at this time, i.e. that it was operated by Tyre immediately after its conquest. Both the actual reality in the supposed province, which reveals that Dor was an isolated port with no hinterland, and the broader understanding of the Assyrian policy in the region, which shows that ports were allocated to clients, clearly indicate that Dor was not a centre of a province. It is not impossible that the Assyrians paid close attention to what happened in Dor (and perhaps even had an official stationed there, although this is not likely), but the place was managed by the Tyrians (see Figure 7.1).

New Settlements in the Seventh Century: An Assyrian Landscape of Power We have seen that, despite the massive damage, a number of new settlements, mostly tiny, were established during the period discussed here in the provinces. These new sites include, first and foremost, the dozens of excavated and surveyed farmsteads in the Aphek–Tel Hadid area, and the tiny sites identified by Gal in the Lower Galilee.¹⁹ Despite the differences between the sites, all share a number of characteristics. To start with, these sites are located in relatively low regions, rather than in highlands. More important for our purposes is that the specific sites are very small, no more than a hamlet, or even isolated buildings, and practically all are located in low, indefensible places.²⁰ This is odd, as until then settlements tended to concentrate on mounds and hills. How are we to understand the new preference? The lowly position of the settlements sends a very clear message of submission, and is even likely to prevent rebellions and make the population more docile. It stresses the imperial control over the subjects’ lives (and, as we shall see, it is also practical for agriculture). We are familiar with such phenomena

¹⁹ The small number of known sites is probably influenced by the little attention paid by archaeologists to the open fields below mounds, and such sites are therefore discovered only in salvage excavations (e.g. Oshri and Gal 2010), and in specialized surveys (Sapir and Faust 2016). Still, given the tiny size of most sites (and all sites discovered so far in the provinces were tiny), the demographic significance of the ‘missing’ sites was very limited. ²⁰ This is true also for the Assyrian palace in Ad Halom. The phenomenon continues into the Persian period, e.g. the ʾAyyelet ha-Šahar : building (Chapter 6) and the building in Rosh Haʿayin (Haddad et al. 2015).

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206  -     from other empires. Sinopoli (1994:171) noted that ‘In many areas of the Andes we see population shifts from upland to lowland locations following Inka conquest. This has been seen as an outcome of deliberate Inka policy that removed populations from potentially defensible locations and into lowland maize-growing areas’, adding that ‘(T)he forced resettlement of populations can lead to the creation of new kinds of sites.’ We have hints for such an intentional Assyrian policy. Thus, Nabû-hamatu’a, deputy governor of Mazamua, informed Sargon that he ordered people to work in the fields, adding ‘I have brought them out from six forts, saying: “Go! Each of you should build (a house) in the field and stay there!” ’ (Radner 2000: 238; SAA 1, 177). A similar situation seems to be reflected also in SAA 1, 176, where the governor reports that the king command that ‘the people living on the mounds should come down’ was carried out, and asks whether ten other fortified cities should ‘come down as well’. This directly reflects on the new, low occupations of the new sites.²¹ Notably, the large number of farmsteads and hamlets in the Aphek–Tel Hadid area created a dispersed settlement landscape, similar to what we see in more central parts of Assyria at the time. In contrast to earlier epochs, during the Neo-Assyrian period the area between the large sites in the central provinces was filled with many small sites, including in areas that were sparsely settled before (e.g. Wilkinson et al. 2005; Ur and Osborne 2016).²² In addition to reducing the risk of revolts, dispersing the population was, of course, very efficient for agricultural purposes, and this was essential since the main role of most provinces was to supply food for the hungry imperial core (see the extensive discussion in Chapter 10; see also Rosenzweig 2016a; 2016b; Parker 2001). ‘Lowering’ the population seems to have been an intended Assyrian policy (above; see also Chapter 10), and while settlement in the southwest was much sparser than in the central provinces of course, it appears that the empire ‘replicated’ the Assyrian landscape there too (see Postgate 1992: 249 for earlier phases; see also Rosenzweig 2016a: 50).²³ Hence, the finds in the Aphek–Tel

²¹ We focus here on the provinces, but should note that the new settlements below the mounds in the Shephelah, like Tel ‘Eton and Beth-Shemesh, were probably a result of a similar policy that was implemented when the region was captured by the Assyrians. Still, after the Assyrians left, these areas were part of the semi-autonomous kingdom of Judah, and hence these sites could recover and prosper. ²² Some of these rural settlements were probably settled by deportees. ²³ While the studies of the Assyrian landscape in the imperial heartland were based on sophisticated surveys, the chronology is not always certain (e.g. Akkerman and Schwartz 2003: 379; see also Ur and Osborne 2016: 171; Parker 2001: 26). If Assyria indeed ‘replicated’ the imperial landscape, then the far more accurate chronology in the southwest can support the dating in the heartland.

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Hadid area, along with the pattern in more central parts of the empire, expose the Assyrian protocol of settling people, scattering them in small settlements in relatively low areas. This is efficient for reducing the chance of revolts, creating a docile atmosphere among the subjects (cf. Bentham 1995), and is suitable for agriculture. While settlements below mounds were discovered in a number of places in the southwest, and more are likely to be discovered in the future, given the scarcity of settlements in the region as a whole, we usually encounter isolated examples, and only in the Aphek–Tel Hadid area do we find the full phenomenon. Here, the empire instituted the Assyrian landscape of power in full. This further demonstrates not only how important this subregion was, but also how marginal were the others.

The Assyrian Landscape and the Missing Assyrian Palaces Understanding how the Assyrians constructed the landscape might provide a partial explanation to the missing Assyrian palaces in the southwest. As suggested above, it is likely that palaces were built below the mounds. Since there is no doubt that there were governors and administration in the southwest, as poor and impoverished as these provinces were, we have seen in Chapter 6 that true palaces must have existed. Thus, although there was no reason to avoid the mounds, it is possible that in the southwest the Assyrians preferred the regions below the mounds, and we hope that future excavations there will expose these structures, along with the associated finds, completing our information on the existing Assyrian administration. Still, such future discoveries, even of impressive palaces with tablets, will not change the general pattern of devastated and impoverished provinces, which is based on a large-scale analysis of the finds from dozens of excavated sites in the provinces themselves. Such discoveries will, however, complete a missing piece from our puzzle, and will put some flesh on the administration that we assume must have existed.

Assyrian Activities beyond the Provinces Most of the chapter discussed Assyrian administration of the southwestern provinces. But what about the administration of the client kingdoms? As we saw in Chapter 1, from the Assyrian perspective there was no administration in the client kingdoms; these were regarded as independent, and each local

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208  -     king, even if only a puppet, interacted with the king of Assyria—‘apex to apex’—as a sovereign of his kingdom (Postgate 1992: 255). Furthermore, the main advantage of indirect control is that it relieves the empire from the need to administer the territories in question (Chapter 1), so the mere idea that the empire would administer the clients is problematic. Indeed, the documents referring to the client kingdoms in the southwest never discuss administrative affairs (also Zilberg 2016; 2018), and as long as the tribute was paid, the clients were left to manage their internal affairs as they saw fit (cf. Berlejung 2012).

Qēpus in the Southwest Still, some scholars have attempted to reconstruct Assyrian administration in Judah and Philistia (e.g. Na’aman 1979; 2001), referring to the role of the qēpu, that was sometimes sent as a representative to the clients. Most qēpus were high-ranking officials, appointed by the king to carry out special missions. Their authorities varied by the mission, but some were on a par with governors and some were even more senior (see Dubovský 2012 for a detailed discussion). Indeed, sometimes a qēpu was appointed to sit in a court of less reliable clients, and was accompanied by a small military unit (Perčírková 1987: 166–7). At Tyre, for example, we hear of a qēpu that guaranteed the empire’s interests.²⁴ The economic interests there were extremely high, and the empire wanted to make sure that it received its share (more below and in ‘Managing the Clients, or Extraction of Wealth?’). But not only were qēpus only mentioned in important places like Tyre, but even there, the qēpu’s role was not to administer the client kingdoms, nor to promote production (or even collection), which were the responsibility of the local king, but rather to ensure that all the client’s obligations were fulfilled. Na’aman (1979: 84) assumes that this was also the case in Philistia, but we currently have no support for this. It is likely that the building at Ad Halom was built by the empire, probably when Ashdod was a province, but whether a qēpu was ever present is questionable, and given the finds in the building, it is more likely that it was later used by the king of Ashdod. At Tell Jemmeh, it is not even clear whether we can identify any Assyrian fingerprints, but even if the residency was built by the empire when the region was part of the

²⁴ This is mentioned, for instance, in the treaty between Esarhaddon and Baal king of Tyre (SAA 2, 25, iii 6’–14), and his existence can be seen in other documents (e.g. ND 2686, and see Yamada 2008: 299).

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province, it was apparently later used by a local ruler, not a qēpu. As for Judah and other clients, we have seen in Chapter 6 that there are no sites (including Ramat Rahel and Buseirah) in which there is even remote evidence for the presence of Assyrians. Clearly, while the presence of a qēpu does not indicate daily administration of the region in question (as per Tyre, above), we currently lack any evidence—textual or material—for the mere presence of qēpus in the other southwestern kingdoms, and it is doubted whether there was a justification for installing one on a permanent basis in the first place.

Managing the Clients, or Extraction of Wealth? The empire’s interest in the client kingdoms was therefore not in administrating them or establishing permanent presence, but in extracting wealth. This is the situation in Tyre, and the treaty between Esarhaddon and Ba’al king of Tyre simply show that the Assyrians were involved in any situation in which they could extract income (e.g. Yamada 2005: 70–3; Cogan 2013: 91–9). Tyre controlled the international maritime trade, and the Assyrians were interested in creaming off as much as they could. Assyria did not manage this kingdom, and the qēpu only ensured that it received what it viewed as its share (Yamada 2008, and above). Similarly, in his royal inscriptions, Sargon II praises himself for the opening of the sealed kāru of Egypt and encouraging the mingling of Assyrians and Egyptians (e.g. Yamada 2005: 69–70; Cogan 2008b: 89–93). Some scholars attempted to understand this statement as evidence that the Assyrians invested in—or were at least involved in improving—the economy of their clients. But not only are we to view such royal declarations (and such boastings) with suspicion due their ideological nature,²⁵ it appears that the situation is actually quite the opposite. First of all, it is likely that Sargon’s ‘opening’ of the sealed kāru does not refer to any actual activity, but simply to the lifting of an embargo that was previously placed by the Assyrians themselves.²⁶ We should also remember that this kāru was located outside Assyria’s nominal boundaries,

²⁵ As for the king’s boasting that he is responsible for this trade, we shouldn’t naïvely accept such claims at face value (cf. Sargon’s boasting in the same inscription that he resettled Samaria more densely than before, which is contrasted with the available data). Still, here it appears that the king just took credit for things that ‘happened’ under his rule (and he doesn’t necessarily even pretend to ‘invest’). ²⁶ Such embargoes are evidenced, for instance, in Nimrud Letter XII (ND 2715) (e.g. Katzenstein 1973: 236–7; Yamada 2008: 203–5, and references there), and it is likely that the above refers to the lifting of this, or similar, embargos (the issue is addressed elsewhere; see Singer-Avitz 2018).

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210  -     in an area that flourished at the time, and we do not need to imagine Assyrian involvement to see it prosper. The kārus in such a region do not represent Assyrian investment, but rather a way in which the Assyrians could extract wealth from the local economy (cf. Yamada 2005: 77). And since prosperity in the southwest was outside Assyrian territories, this is where the Assyrians concentrated their extraction efforts, as can indeed be seen in the empire’s treatment of the Phoenicians and the Philistines (see also Yamada 2005: 68–9). Accordingly, as far as the clients are concerned, the sources only provide information on the collection of tribute (Zilberg 2018). The nature of the Assyrian activity in the regions outside its nominal borders in the southwest resulted therefore from both ‘positive’ causes (the prosperity that enabled the empire to demand significant tribute) and ‘negative’ causes (this is outside the empire, and no administration was supposed to manage it). Indeed, what we see in the texts is an attempt to cream off the wealth of the clients, but from the top (even in Tyre), and without direct involvement in the daily running of the administration, or even tax collection.

Summary and Discussion Parts of the southwest were annexed at the time of Tiglath-pileser III and Sargon II, and a number of provinces were established there. The evidence at our disposal indicates that the new provinces were devastated during the conquests, and were mostly left in desolation. This is indicated by the evidence pertaining to settlement (Chapter 4) and economy (Chapter 5); it seems that the empire concentrated its administration and activities in small micro-regions (‘islands’) that were of geopolitical importance for the empire, and it is only there that we find Assyrian involvement (Figure 7.1; see also Chapter 6). These ‘islands’ include the provincial capitals of Megiddo and Samaria, which although very small and poor by imperial standards (cf. Kinalua, TilBarsip, and Dur-Katlimmu, mentioned in Chapter 6, and see also Chapter 10), had some sort of hinterland. Another large town (Dan) existed at the northern edge of the province of Megiddo, serving as a centre in this area. Additional strings of isolated, tiny settlements can be seen along the roads. The most striking ‘island’, however, is at the southwestern edge of the province of Samaria, at the Aphek–Gezer region, where more evidence for Assyrian administration is found than in any other area. The area faced the prospering clients of Judah and Philistia, and by extension also Egypt. A similar, though smaller, phenomenon can be seen in the Akko plain, facing

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Tyre, the most important economic power at the time (it is likely that more to the north, in the unfamiliar region of southern Lebanon, more substantial evidence will be unearthed). Why the focus on these small, border areas? Consider the Aphek–Gezer micro-region. The area was important from an economic perspective as the area to which the tribute from the client kingdoms was collected, and whose control secured its mere payment. Indeed, the material evidence, as well as a critical reading of the textual evidence, suggest that the majority of the revenues from the southwest came from tribute paid in the form of expensive metals and luxury items and commodities by the prospering clients outside the empire’s nominal borders, and from duties that were extracted from the flourishing trade there; these greatly exceeded the revenues from taxes from the devastated provinces, which were sufficient to feed the army, but not much more (see also Aster and Faust 2015). This was also a convenient gathering point for troops if the need arose to campaign against the clients, and mainly for deterring purposes. Due to its importance as a base, agricultural settlements were established there, probably by settling deportees from other regions, and they grew food (grain and fodder) for the army. This required active Assyrian involvement, which is an exceptional phenomenon in the southwest. The strategic importance of the Gezer micro-region, however, was not limited to its proximity to the clients; it also served as a gateway to Egypt on the one hand, and for preventing a possible Egyptian invasion on the other (see also Chapter 10). The situation in the Akko plain was similar, but it is likely that the centre was further north, facing Tyre, and this is where the tribute was sent (and with the absence of a competing empire, such as Egypt, this region was less important for defensive purposes). These micro-regions were important for the empire from economic and military perspectives, and this is where it concentrated its efforts. Notably, the relative prosperity there resulted not only from imperial policies, but from the prosperity beyond the border that filtered and reached those nearby regions, and influenced their economy (cf. Chapter 5). Why were the provinces at large so marginal and unimportant? This, and the reasons for their conquest in the first place, is discussed in detail in Chapters 10–11; suffice it here to remark, as noted in Chapter 5, that the region was simply too remote from the imperial heartland. In Chapter 10, we see that this meant that the provinces could not fill their expected role. Following the devastation that accompanied the conquests, therefore, many of the surviving population were deported to other regions, where they could be more beneficial to the empire (soldiers to the army, craftsmen mainly to

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212  -     Mesopotamia, and unskilled labourers to agricultural provinces, where they could grow food to feed the large Assyrian cities; see also Liverani 2017: 194). Whatever were the causes for the conquest of the region (Chapter 10), once it was conquered most of it was clearly not important, and large areas were left desolate.

Exacerbating the Problem: A Note on the Governors The gloomy situation of the provinces was exacerbated by the nature of the Assyrian administration, and the way governors were appointed and acted prevented any long-term planning that could have led to recovery. As we have seen (Chapter 1), the governors were not directly paid for their work, and their income was taken from the province, which they saw as their private property and as a source of wealth (e.g. Perčírková 1987: 174; Grayson 1995: 963). The results were devastating. With the lack of real prospects of seeing prospering economy in some provinces in the foreseeable future,²⁷ the governors creamed off the produce (or ‘profits’) of their provinces, taking what they could, and no attempts were made for long-term investment and recovery. Thus, while the way governors operated and the way they were ‘paid’ allowed flourishing provinces to function, it further doomed distant and devastated provinces, like those in our region. Consequently, most of the provincial territories in the southwest remained as backwaters. The governors of the southwestern provinces had to store some grain and fodder for the imperial army (mainly in the border areas), and to make sure the existing (limited) population would continue to produce as much as possible, but other than that the governors, who probably stayed in the provinces only part of the time, attempted to cream off as much as they could, hence limiting the region’s ability to recover. Indeed, there is evidence that governors did not always even pay the taxes they had to (Perčírková 1987: 174; Aster and Faust 2015: 304). Whether the avoidance of sending the taxes to the central authorities is representative or not, it is clear that the situation in which the governor can cream the surpluses for himself does not encourage investment and economic development, and is likely to lead to what we would today call corruption (Grayson 1995: 963; Galil 2001: 25; see also SAA 13, xviii–xix), leading (in this case) to ‘extensive exploitation’ (Grayson 1995: 963) of the ‘economically depressed’ provinces ²⁷ Governors did not usually pass their position to their sons (if they had sons), so planning for future prosperity did not have any appeal to them, and they wanted more immediate benefits.

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(Grayson 1992: 216). This, however, is probably a result of the unimportance of the region (only increasing the backwardness); not necessarily its cause (Chapters 10–11). While the actual situation in the southwestern provinces is quite clear (Chapters 4–7), it differed from that of other regions in the empire (cf. Kinalua, Til-Barsip, and Dur-Katlimmu). Many studies noted that empires at large, and the Assyrian empire specifically, had different ‘geographies’, and they did not use a uniform method of control over their territories (e.g. Parker 2013: 140; see also Sinopoli 1994: 163, 169, and Chapter 1), so the mere difference should not, perhaps, surprise us. Still, the overall contrast with other provinces is remarkable. In Chapters 10–11, we demonstrate (i) that due to their location, the empire could not have used the southwestern provinces in the manner it traditionally used provinces, leading to neglect; (ii) that the great diversity within the limited area of the southwestern provinces holds the key to deciphering the new role given to these provinces; and subsequently (iii) will analyse why the Assyrians conquered the region in the first place. Before that, however, in two ‘broad’ chapters, we would like to examine the local reactions to imperial rule (Chapter 8) and the nature of the imperial peace (Chapter 9).

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8 Local Responses to the Empire From Armed Resistance to Integration

Previous chapters examined the nature of imperial activities in the region and their direct influence on the life of the local inhabitants, mainly within the provinces, for example the drastic impact on the region’s economy and demography (Chapters 4–5), as well as on the region’s material culture (Chapter 6). But residents of the regions that came under Assyrian control were not only passive victims of events on which they had little or no effect. While clearly not setting the scene, those who stayed alive and remained in the region after the conquests, as well as those deported to it, were also active participants in this interaction and exchange. They reacted to the Assyrian actions in various ways, which in many cases influenced subsequent actions on behalf of the empire. Some results of these interactions had long-lasting consequences, lingering even into the twenty-first century (e.g. Frahm 2016: 89). Given the unique data sets at our disposal, including not only a vast archaeological information but also an exceptional historical source, the Bible, which, despite its biases, provides a perspective that is typically lacking in similar contexts (that of the conquered)¹, it is the aim of this chapter to examine the actions and reactions of the local groups in the southwest. This completes the picture presented in previous chapters on the reality on the ground under Assyrian rule, and the detailed picture also provides new insights into the nature of reactions to imperial rule at large.

Background: Local Responses to Empire Although ‘subject peoples must be the central focus of any true assessment of an empire’ (Parsons 2010: 17), the responses of the conquered to imperial rule

¹ In rare cases, as in the extensive textual evidence left from the Roman empire, the sources do reflect ‘what appears to be anti-imperialist protest’ by the conquered, but these testimonies ‘come to us through Roman authors . . . ’ (Howe 2002: 42–3; see also Chapter 9).

The Neo-Assyrian Empire in the Southwest: Imperial Domination and Its Consequences. Avraham Faust, Oxford University Press (2021). © Avraham Faust. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198841630.003.0008

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have only recently become a major line of inquiry. Much of the discussion has focused on colonial contexts (e.g. Gosden 2004; Hodos 2006; Delgado and Ferrer 2007; see also Thomas 1991), but despite the differences, there are many similarities with the interactions under imperial rule, even if (in the latter context) foreign settlers are often absent (see e.g. Hodos 2006; Faust 2015b). Most attention was devoted until recently to ‘resistance’ (e.g. Scott 1985; 1990; 2009; Ferguson 1991; Gonzalez-Ruibal 2014; Levi 1998; Schurr 2010; see also Hollander and Einwhoner 2004). The most obvious form of resistance is, of course, violent, since this is explicitly described in many historical sources, and often leaves clear archaeological marks. Still, even when the disparity in power relations was too great, and military resistance was not only futile but even impossible, weaker groups found other, more subtle ways, to resist their rulers (and these, of course, accompanied armed resistance, when practiced). These forms of resistance have received a great deal of scholarly attention in recent decades, in an attempt to give voice to groups which usually did not leave recorded history—what Wolf (1982) called ‘the people without history’ (also Scott 1985; 1990). In addition to armed resistance, therefore, scholars also refer to ‘cultural resistance’, ‘symbolic resistance’, ‘non-violent resistance’, and more (e.g. Michman 2003, and many references). These non-violent forms of resistance had received a special focus in the study of the Jewish Holocaust during the Second World War and of African slavery in the Americas, since the rarity of physical resistance to the oppressors was very noticeable, and members of the groups involved attempted to stress that they did not accept their fate without any form of opposition,² but many other contexts were also scrutinized (e.g. Scott 1985; 1990; 2009, and more below). Despite the significance of these works, which shed much light on understudied subjects, forms of resistance represent only part of a broad spectrum of responses available for local communities and individuals in imperial settings. We elaborate on these options below, but note that the spectrum is wide, and in some cases segments within the local population even welcomed foreign conquest. Stark and Chance (2012), in one of the most detailed studies of local reactions to imperial rule (see also Skoglund et al. 2006; Chance and Stark 2007; Stark and Chance 2012; see also Malpasl and Alconini 2010;

² In the case of the Holocaust, this unease was prevalent not only among Jews, but also among members of many European nations, where armed resistance to the Nazi rule was sparse at best (Michman 2003).

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216  -     Alconini 2010), noted eight possible ‘provincial’ strategies:³ bolstering, emulation, resistance, exodus and internal population movement, information control, appropriation, complicity, and assimilation (to be elaborated). They did not view the list as comprehensive or universal, and below I modify it on the basis of the detailed data at hand. Thus, some of the strategies may be further subdivided, and resistance, for example, can be divided into categories such as resistance by force, non-violent resistance, and even subtle resistance (such as the creation of ‘counter-identities’). Similarly, one may incorporate some strategies together; for example, information control can be viewed as a very specific form of non-violent resistance. Consequently, in this chapter I refer to the following ‘ideal types’, which in practice are part of a continuum, from armed opposition to extreme acceptance of imperial rule: (1) Armed, violent resistance. This term refers to the violent opposition to the empire, be it by fighting in order to repel its initial conquest, or by revolting after it established its rule. All members of the society can participate in this activity, but it is usually initiated by local rulers or the elite. (2) Non-violent defiance. This refers to non-violent opposition, which is clearly antagonistic to the empire’s wishes, but which might still not provoke it to retaliate. While more often carried out by elites, commoners can also use this strategy. (3) Non-violent, subtle resistance. This refers to various actions which harm the interest of the empire, or at least prevent it from advancing its causes, but which might not be understood by the empire as such (cf. Scott’s 1990 ‘hidden transcript’), or could at least be easily explained in other ways, and hence are not likely to lead to retaliation (we include what Stark and Chance called ‘information control’ in this category, although in some cases it was probably closer to type (2) above). These responses can be employed by all members of the community. (4) Exodus and internal population movement. This refers to a phenomenon in which people leave their settlement and move to another region in reaction to imperial policies and pressures. This path is often taken

³ While Stark and Chance uses the term ‘provincials’, their designation is extremely wide and their study incorporates areas of indirect rule (e.g. Stark and Chance 2012: 226), i.e. what in the NeoAssyrian context we define as client kingdoms.

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(6)

(7)

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by commoners, but is sometimes also pursued by members of the elite. In many empires, the movement of people was illegal, and hence moving can also be seen as a form of non-violent resistance. Appropriation. This refers to instances in which the dominated population, usually local rulers and elites (but sometimes also commoners) use the imperial system to their own ends, either in a straightforward manner (judicial procedures) or by manipulating it to their own benefit. Emulation. This refers to the process in which the local population, usually the elite, emulate imperial symbols and customs, in an attempt to gain legitimacy and power (and sometimes even acceptance by the ruling society, which take us closer to (9) below). These symbols (in a metamorphosed way) often infiltrate other segments of society as (and if) they emulate the elite. Bolstering. This is a process in which local rulers and elites cooperate politically with the imperial authorities or individuals in order to bolster their own status and benefit from it. Complicity. This is a process in which local elites and commoners cooperate economically with the imperial authority or individuals to further their own gains. Integration.⁴ This is a process in which local elites, and sometimes also commoners (either as individuals or as groups), adopt the imperial culture, and in some cases even its identity, in order to integrate into the dominant society.

We must reiterate that this ‘typology’ is schematic, and often compartmentalizes a complex reality, which is part of a continuum, into artificial niches. While helping us define and describe reality, we must acknowledge that specific behaviours will not always fall nicely within the ideal ‘types’. Interestingly, some, if not all, of the above responses can take place at the same time. The local population is composed of various groups, sometimes with different—even conflicting—interests, and there is therefore no single outcome to such interaction in any single setting, as different factions within the conquered society often choose different, and sometimes contrasting,

⁴ This is similar to what Stark and Chance called assimilation, but since only rarely does the strategy end with assimilation, we prefer integration, which denotes a wider spectrum (assimilation being its most extreme form).

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218  -     strategies to deal with the new circumstances. In many cases, some of the population would vehemently object to the imperial rule, while other segments would welcome the foreign intrusion. Sometimes the elite would use this intervention for its own purposes, while in other cases the dividing line would not be only along social classes, but also between ethnic groups, some embracing imperial intervention, others violently objecting to it. Moreover, even within the same factions, groups, or ‘parties’ there can be different approaches, and the approaches of the very same agents can also change over time and according to the circumstances.

Local Responses to Assyrian Imperial Rule in the Southern Levant Moving to the southwestern context, this section reviews the different types of local responses identified in the available evidence, material and textual alike.

(1) Armed, Violent Resistance This term refers to the armed or violent opposition to the empire, be it by fighting in order to repel its initial advance, or by revolting (militarily) after it established its rule. Examples of armed resistance are, of course, numerous, and include at one time or another practically all the polities that fought the encroaching empire and were defeated by it, as well as the groups that revolted against imperial rule. This type of resistance is quite straightforward and selfevident (see recently Frahm 2016; Radner 2016), and is well documented in both historical texts (Assyrian and biblical alike) and the archaeological record (in the form of massive destruction layers). Examples of attempts to stop the imperial army from conquering the region include the wars between the Arameans and Israelites against the Assyrian army, both in the ninth and (mainly) the eighth centuries  (see Chapters 1 and 3). Examples of revolts include the one that led to the final conquest of Israel in 722/720 , and Judah’s (and others’) revolt in 705 , leading to Sennacherib’s campaign (Chapter 3). In the Assyrian context, these efforts proved futile, and are typical mainly of the final third of the eighth century , i.e. the first part of the Assyrian century, before the southwest was pacified. Interestingly, the revolts were carried out by the clients, and we

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have no evidence for revolts in the southwestern provinces,⁵ probably because they were devastated and their social fabric eliminated. It is likely that a call for armed resistance should also be included in this type of response, although it is not an actual revolt and some might prefer to include it in the next type of response (which is, after all, part of a continuum). This can be seen, for example, in Micha 5:4–5, which calls for active opposition to Assyria (Aster 2018b: 110).⁶

(2) Non-Violent Defiance The term refers to non-violent opposition to imperial rule, i.e. behaviour which is clearly non-cooperative, insubordinate, and in defiance of the empire’s wishes, but which might still not provoke it to retaliate. This option was chosen in many cases when the ruled population (or some of it) opposed imperial rule, but due to the power disparity did not opt for active armed resistance. The opposition was well understood and intentional by the actors, and they were walking on the fine line which could still avoid provoking the empire to retaliate. An extreme example of such behaviour was using excuses to avoid paying taxes\tribute, but with willingness to pay them when the worst came to the worst, and not risking real retaliation by the empire. It is possible that the payment of four years of tribute, paid by a number of kings when they capitulated to Sennacherib during the its 701  campaign (lines 36–8 in Sennacherib’s prism; see Cogan 2008b: 114) is such an example. These clients ceased to pay tribute, which could have been seen as a rebellious act, but without physically ‘taking arms’, and seem to have kept the unpaid tribute in case the Assyrians arrived. When this happened, they simply paid it in full. This is not a violent resistance, but since not paying the tribute usually provoked the arrival of the army, it was also not a very subtle form of resistance, but rather following a very thin line between open rebellion and a non-violent defiance. This category also includes organized, but non-violent opposition to imperial institutions and imperial ideology (Sinopoli 1994: 167–8). Since ⁵ Note that other provinces, located farther north, did revolt, for example Arpad, Damascus, and Calneh, in 720 . ⁶ While the sending of tribute by Ashdod and other kingdoms to Egypt in 714 (Aster 2017: 157) might be considered non-violent defiance (see below), it is more likely that it was part of an actual, armed, revolt.

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220  -     practically all empires have an ideology (or religion) that justifies their rule, both for themselves and for the ruled population (e.g. Sinopoli 1994; Goldstone and Haldon 2009; for the Assyrian empire, see Liverani 2017), opposing it is a form of resistance. While such ideologies sometimes influenced the conquered (e.g. in the Roman empire, and see Chapter 9), they often also led to opposition and to the creation of counterclaims. As noted by Sinopoli (1994: 168), ‘Ideological changes may also occur as subordinated peoples try to make sense of their new position in the world.’ While we witness a continuum of ideological responses, and some could be bolder than others, they were mostly non-violent, although they could lead to violent reactions. Such opposition was clearly manifested in the southwest, and included, for example, explicit verbal challenges to Assyrian principles. The supreme role of Assur (the god) was a basic principle in Assyrian ideology and served as justification for imperial expansion and world domination (e.g. Liverani 2017); what Grayson (1995: 966, emphasis added) referred to as ‘Assur’s ascendancy over all other gods and his right, through the monarch, to conquer and rule all the “Four Quarters” of the world’. This was a unique approach, that differed from other ancient Near Eastern empires, and could have led to various reactions, from explicit opposition to the role of Assur (the god), which might have provoked violent retaliation, through a discrete play on Assyrian motifs that would probably not have been understood by the empire as a challenge, to full acceptance of Assur’s supreme position. The distinction between overt and subtle opposition is highly subjective, but it is possible that the development of monotheism and the total rejection of all other gods, or more likely its wider circulation in Judah, was a result of opposition to Assyrian ideology. As Levine (2005: 411) noted, ‘universal monotheism is to be seen as a religious response to empire’. The mere use of covenant in the biblical literature (e.g. Deuteronomy 28, but also in Joshua 24, although this is not accepted by all) is probably influenced by Assyrian conventions (Weinfeld 1965; see also Aster 2017 and references). Still, Aster (2018b: 98) noted that ‘references to Assyrian vassal treaties, in which YHWH takes the place of Assyria’s king, would be a case of subverting Assyrian pretensions to dominate Israel, and thus seems to indicate theological resistance’. Declarations that subvert the status of Assur are bold defiance, which indeed walk on thin ice (more subtle examples are discussed in the next section, ‘Non-Violent Subtle Resistance’). As noted, there is a continuum, and while open calls for revolt probably belong to the first category (bordering category 2), there are also word plays

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that can be open to ‘innocent’ interpretations and these are located on the border between categories 2 and 3, to which we now turn.

(3) Non-Violent, Subtle Resistance This category includes a spectrum of actions and forms of resistance that oppose the imperial interests in various—mainly indirect—ways. These activities are usually vague, and even if conscious (and often they are not), are not always understood by the imperial authorities (cf. Scott’s ‘hidden transcripts’)—and if understood, do not usually justify retaliation.⁷ Such forms of resistance are easily identified in the Bible. Some biblical passages interact closely with Assyria, and while some perhaps simply borrow from it (below), others clearly subvert Assyrian meanings. Thus, it is possible that the Deuteronomist’s election of Jerusalem as the only city in which Israel’s Lord resided was both borrowing from Assyria, where there was only one temple for Assur, and also a challenge to it, since the temple in question was in Jerusalem (cf. Otto 1999: 69–88; Levine 2005). Indeed, the universal approach which might be seen in some biblical passages, for example Isaiah 2, was suggested to be a direct reaction to Assyria, and P. Artzi (2008: 52) noted that, ‘Although the Israelite prophets envisage the Great Tradition of Law and Justice in the spirit of “the end of days” (‫)אחרית הימים‬, it is an answer directed to the Sargonic Neo-Assyrian imperial present, and contends with virtually all the ideological and practical component of the imperial system.’ Additional examples of Assyrian motifs used to counter Assyrian claims and resist its propaganda, include Isaiah 10:5–15, where Assyrian images of power are subverted and used to highlight Assyria’s weakness (Machinist 2016; Aster 2017: 173–206), as well as Isaiah 37:24–5 (Aster 2017: 244–74) and 19:19–25, where Assyrian images of power are used to highlight the power of YHWH (discussed in Balogh 2011; Aster 2015; 2017: 114–33).⁸ Similar subversion can be seen in Isaiah 10:13–14 and

⁷ We also include in this category what Stark and Chance called ‘information control’ (Stark and Chance 2012: 193), i.e. ‘Provincial peoples seek to control or conceal to their own advantage information sought by the imperial government’, but while examples are known from other periods (cf. Ben Yehoshua and Rozen 2009; Grossman 1994: 15), we do not have one from the Assyrian southwest (the description of the Babylonian delegation in Isaiah 39 does not concern information control, and should probably be considered as bordering armed resistance, or part of it). ⁸ Note that scholars long noted different attitudes toward Assyria within Isaiah 1–39, for example, Barth 1977. While the issue is beyond the scope of this chapter, the present framework enables us to elaborate on these different attitudes and place them within different ‘types’ of reaction.

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222  -     37:24–5, as well as in Hosea 5:14–15 (Aster 2018b). Even laws sometimes aimed to subvert Assyrian practices, and it is possible that the law forbidding to cut trees in Deut. 20:19–20 objects to the Assyrian practice of doing so. Wazana (2008: 294) noted that ‘although it does not refer directly to Assyrian warfare or propaganda, the war law in Deuteronomy can be considered a wellcalculated if implied reaction to pressures of Assyrian propaganda’. Similarly, it is possible that while Sennacherib boasted that he held Hezekiah in the city ‘like a bird in a cage’, the Bible uses the same motive with the opposite meaning (‘Like birds flying about their nest’; Isaiah 31:5). But not only textual evidence can expose this type of resistance. An example for a behaviour that was perhaps conscious at one level, but clearly did not provoke imperial retaliation, is the insightful interpretation offered by Ryan Byrne to the Judean Pillared Figurines (JPG), which became very common at the time discussed here. Byrne (2004) linked the JPG, which like many other scholars, he interpreted as connected with fertility, to reproduction strategies following the demographic results of Sennacherib’s campaign, and the attempts to increase fertility (what, in other contexts, was called ‘revenge of the cradle’). While this interpretation is far from certain, it does connect it with a form of non-violent, but high-level resistance in the face of the empire. The development of the Judahite rock-cut tomb (e.g. Barkay 1994; 1999; Suriano 2018) might also belong to this category (Faust and Bunimovitz 2008). These house-like, multigenerational tombs, became very prevalent during the eighth–seventh centuries . But why was this form of burial adopted, after hundreds of years in which simple inhumations were the norm (Faust 2004 and references)? According to Faust and Bunimovitz (2008), the Judahite tomb emerged in troubled times of accelerated urbanization, growing population density, social inequalities, and alienation, which coincided with the external political and military pressures exerted by the Assyrian empire. The arrival of the empire in the 730s  completely changed the concept of war, with mass killings, mass destruction, and mass deportations. Once the empire arrived, nothing was seen as secure anymore. All these led, in the later Iron Age, to disintegration of lineages and extended families in some contexts and to growing insecurity. The Judahite tomb, which stressed the permanent nature of the family and generational continuity, was the sociological and ideological response of the extended family to these threats. This may also explain why the form of the tomb replicated the four-room house (rather than its sub-types), the symbol of the period’s extended families. The rock-cut Judahite tomb was therefore an attempt to immortalize the traditional family in stone. While not only a result of Assyrian

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pressure, we believe that the latter had an important place in the emergence of the Judahite tomb, which can therefore be seen as (partially) a response to empire. While more subtle forms of resistance are often more difficult to identify, we would like to point to the avoidance of all things Assyrian in most parts of Judah, especially where Judahite population was concentrated (see also Chapter 6). Thus, Assyrian Palace Ware (APW) is completely missing from most sites in Judah, and despite the wide-scale archaeological exposure of many sites, not a single Assyrian or Mesopotamian style structure has been unearthed there (cf. Acuto 2010). We elaborate on this pattern below in ‘Reactions to Assyria: Regional Patterns within the Southwest’, but would like to suggest that this, just like some of the above-quoted biblical passages, should be viewed as a form of strengthening local identities, or creating counter-identities, in the face of the empire (cf. Osterhammel 2005: 98–9; Stark and Chance 2012: 206–7). This can be defined as a form of cultural resistance.

(4) Exodus and Internal Population Movement Escaping ‘imperial boundaries or policies’, or just migrating to improve living conditions, is known in many imperial contexts (Stark and Chance 2012: 193; also Grossman 2004: 30–1; cf. Rowton 1981). Sinopoli (1994: 165) noted that high levels of taxation in imperial settings often result in ‘mass migrations of artisans and agriculturalists’. This strategy was more frequently used by commoners, although Stark and Chance (2012: 209) noted that some ‘disaffected local elites or cadet royal lines’ chose it from time to time, explaining that an escape enabled them to ‘avoid tribute demands, rebukes, punishment, and other disagreeable consequences of imperial rule’. In a sense, therefore, this was sometimes just another form of resistance. The phenomenon is known from many empires, including Near Eastern ones, for example the Egyptian New Kingdom rule in the southern Levant (Bunimovitz 2019: 47–9, and see Papyrus Anastazi VI), or the early Modern era (Grossman 2004: 30–1; see also Rowton 1981). While it is known that imperial authorities in the ancient Near East, including the Assyrian and Babylonians, forbade such flights and punished both the escapees and those who helped them (Na’aman 2007; Bloch 2018, and references; see also Ponchia 2012: 216), the mere fact that the authorities forbade it suggests that it was a real problem.

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224  -     Indeed, despite the Assyrian efforts, and regardless of their exact number, refugees from the former kingdom of Israel (i.e. ‘exodus’) arrived in Judah (e.g. Broshi 1974; Fleming 2010), and perhaps also elsewhere (cf. Gitin 1989a: 61*), and refugees from the Shephelah (i.e. ‘internal population movement’) arrived in the Judean highlands, mainly in Jerusalem (Faust 2014b, and references).

(5) Appropriation Conquered peoples can ‘selectively adopt or modify imperial procedures and institutions and use them to further local ends’ (Stark and Chance 2012: 193, also 216–17; Safrai 1995: 357). This refers to using the imperial system against it, and to the benefit of the ruled. Indeed, it appears that in the Assyrian empire important centres could approach the king to protect their rights (Ponchia 2012: 214), and in the provinces, groups of citizens, probably organized, interacted with the officials, and could act to defend their interests (Ponchia 2012: 215). While the imperial system harmed individuals and groups, they could defend themselves by approaching senior officials (Ponchia 2012: 222), and the possibility of using litigations existed, at least in theory, especially in Mesopotamia (Perčírková 1987: 174). Still, we must remember that most members of the lower classes and conquered people did not always have immediate access to the judicial system (Perčírková 1987: 174). In our region, there is no clear evidence for such use of the imperial legal system—neither in the (rare) locally discovered texts nor in these found in imperial centres, but a possible exception might be a letter from the king of Ashdod (if indeed written by him, which is questioned), to Tiglath-pileser III in which he tried to manipulate the Assyrian king to support his territorial claims (Aster 2019).

(6) Emulation The appeal of items or styles that are associated with something desired is a well-known phenomenon and peripheral elites, as well as commoners (often via the agency of the local elites), may employ ‘a prestigious style or practices associated with imperial elites’ (Stark and Chance 2012: 193; see also Gosden 2004; Higginbotham 2000; Faust 2015b). Indeed, as noted in Chapter 6, objects that originate from the ‘centre’ of civilisation or of power or that are

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identified as such, empower those who use them in the periphery (even outside of imperial direct rule), and often give local rulers prestige and even legitimacy (e.g. Thomas 1991; Gosden 2004; Higginbotham 2000; see also Lavan et al. 2016). The local population may therefore use or emulate things that are associated with the imperial authority for its own end. While emulation often accompany cooperation with the empire, and is thus expected when the strategy of bolstering (see ‘(7) Bolstering’ below) is enacted, it can take place also when this is not the case, and might sometimes accompany even antagonistic situations and overt resistance. Emulation is often encouraged by the empire. While various mechanisms can be used to solidify connections between the imperial family and local elites, like marriages or adoption, this also includes participation in ceremonies in the royal court, and ‘the bestowal of elite goods and material symbols of empire, and other material and symbolic benefits that accrue to loyal retainers and followers’ (Sinopoli 1994: 164). The Assyrian imperial taste was, therefore, acquired by contact with imperial agents, and even when peripheral officials visited imperial centres. Ambassadors, for example, ‘came annually to Assyria to deliver their greetings and their “gifts”; hostages often spent years at the capital’ (Postgate 1992: 259). Postgate noted that the acquisition of imperial taste is more clearly associated with architecture, since buildings could not have been moved. Visitors saw Assyrian palaces, admired them, and tried to copy them. He stressed, however, that while most influences flow from the centre, ‘it is helpful to visualize the process from the standpoint of the recipient, as one of active emulation: we should not see the client rulers as cowering in their citadels waiting to be irradiated with Assyrian influence, but absorbing the scene in Nineveh, fingering the tapestries and envying the silverware’ (Postgate 1992: 260). Once the imperial taste was acquired (even if in a metamorphosed way), however, this led to stylistic influences in the periphery. In many areas in the ancient Near East, one can find significant Assyrian influences (see Til-Barsip, Dur-Katlimmu, and Kinalua, Chapter 6), and some even claimed that the empire encouraged Assyrianization (Parpola 2003; 2004). This, however, appears not to be the case in the southwest, where Assyrian objects are rare at best, and even imitations are limited (e.g. Hunt 2015: 24; see also Bagg 2011; 2013; Berlejung 2012). We have already seen that most of the ‘Assyrian’ structures, even when dated to the seventh century , were not used by Assyrians, and most likely served local rulers, and that most of the APW identified were similarly used by local elites. The same applies to other Assyrian, or Assyrianized, isolated items

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226  -     that were apparently also used by village heads or the like, or others emulating them. Clearly, this attests to the strategy of emulation. But there are a number of issues that need to be considered. Not only are such items rare, but it is not always clear whether the objects or styles emulate Assyria directly, or if there was a sort of ‘international’ style, and Assyrian motifs were blended with others indiscriminately (cf. Routledge 1997: 38–9; Bienkowski 2000: 53; Brown 2018; see also Berlejung 2012: 48, 51). The lack of ‘real’ Assyrian objects or ‘good’ emulations show that, from an etic perspective, contact with Assyria was limited (and see Chapter 6). We must note, however, that it is possible that from an emic perspective, the style was in many instances viewed as ‘Assyrian’ by most locals, even elites (who were not familiar with the tapestries of Nineveh), and hence its use or avoidance still reflect attitudes toward Assyria. Since even evidence for such an ‘international’ style are not common, emulation of what was perceived as Assyrian style is rare in the southwest at large, and in some regions is almost completely absent, for example in most parts of Judah and the provinces (see Chapter 6).⁹ The differences, therefore, seem to reflect different attitudes toward Assyria, whereas some elites (e.g. in Philistia) chose the strategy of emulation and others (e.g. in parts of Judah) avoided it,¹⁰ choosing a form of resistance (see, e.g., ‘(3) Non-Violent, Subtle Resistance’ above). The rarity of emulation in the provinces was probably a result of the devastation of the region. We elaborate on these differences below. We should note that similar patterns can also be identified in the biblical literature, and while rare when compared to other uses of Assyrian motifs (like subtle resistance, above), some passages do not ‘resist’ Assyria, but are only ‘influenced’ by it. Thus, Psalms 2:6–9 might be an example of simple, perhaps unintended, ‘influence’ of Assyrian inscriptions, and especially motifs related to the Middle Assyrian Tukulti-Ninurta epic (Aster 2018b: 99). This is literary borrowing, and while perhaps not exactly emulation\imitation, should probably still be included here.

⁹ Winderbaum’s (2012) suggestion that a few items with Assyrian characteristics uncovered in Jerusalem indicate the Assyrianization of the Jerusalem elite seems unfounded, and should be rejected as these objects are extremely rare, and should be treated as such (rather than as representing the Jerusalem elite). Moreover, even if indeed Assyrian (rather than ‘International’) style, this apparently represents only indirect emulation (Ornan et al. 2008). ¹⁰ Note that the story of Ahaz’s imitation of the Damascus altar (II Kings 16) reflects emulation by the king, but should probably be viewed in conjunction with Ahaz’s appeal for Assyrian help (discussed below in ‘(7) Bolstering’, which is to some degree an extension of emulation).

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(7) Bolstering Local rulers and elites often collaborate politically with the imperial power in order to secure ‘their position locally, and within the empire’ (Stark and Chance 2012: 193; see also Berdan 1996). Bolstering usually assumes emulation, which was, as we have seen, an important mechanism for acquiring prestige and legitimacy, but takes it a significant step towards actual political cooperation between the local leaders and the empire. Thus, leaders in areas interacting with the empire can actually take advantage of the imperial advance and cooperate with it to enhance their own status within the local area in which they operate and bolster their position vis-à-vis competing powers within their polities, and outside them. In some cases, such elites became imperial agents (Skoglund et al. 2006; Alconini 2010; see also the examples brought by Stark and Chance 2012). Naturally, such a strategy can easily be seen in the textual evidence. Thus, Ahaz of Judah apparently appealed to Tiglath-pileser III (II Kings 16:7) exactly for this purpose, i.e. to bolster his position against the kingdoms of Israel and Aram, which apparently plotted to oust him (Oded 1984: 153; cf. Stark and Chance 2012: 200). It is likely that Menahem (II Kings 15:19) cooperated with Assyria for exactly the same purpose, only that in this case it was probably mainly against competing powers within the kingdom, rather than outside it (Oded 1984: 152). Notably, it is possible that Isaiah 6 and parts of Isaiah 7–8 are criticizing such collaborations, and are therefore another indication that such strategies were sometimes chosen (Aster 2017b: 8, in passim). That kings or their representatives were sent to the imperial capitals was a way of teaching them the imperial ‘taste’ (above), which they later emulated to get prestige, but it also cemented the contacts between them and the empire and increased both cooperation and the status of the local rulers.

(8) Complicity Economic cooperation with the empire or its agents is common, especially among by elites but sometimes also by commoners, in order to improve their standing (Stark and Chance 2012: 193; see also Safrai 1995: 129; Smith 1986). Complicity is part of a spectrum, since some form of economic collaboration can be forced on the local population, but the extent to which it is done, and especially the purpose of the cooperation, are important—if done to improve the position of the collaborators, it can be defined as a form of complicity.

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228  -     In the southwest, we can view the trade in the south, in the various kārus, as a sort of cooperation between the locals and the empire. Interestingly, while there is plenty of evidence for cooperation in Philistia, at least in trade (not in production), evidence in Judah is lacking. There was probably collaboration in the Beersheba–Arad valleys, but even there we find no direct evidence for Assyrian involvement in trade, and evidence is practically absent elsewhere in Judah. The only clear form of economic collaboration we have from Judah is the tribute paid, but Judah did not have much choice. As for the provinces, there is evidence for sale of lands (e.g. Na’aman 2016: 276), which might fall within this category, but it is also likely that the sellers did not have much choice. Moreover, as far as the provinces are concerned complicity was inevitable, and was restricted only by the limited economic activity in these regions.

(9) Integration Another strategy that was usually open for at least some of the elites, and sometimes also for commoners, was to integrate, partially and sometimes even fully, either as groups or as individuals, within the dominant imperial society (Stark and Chance 2012: 193, 220–3; for another historical example for integration, see e.g. M. Stern 1989). Such integration was an advanced form of acculturation, aiming at integration into the imperial society, and in extreme cases might even have led to assimilation, i.e. the complete loss of separate identity. Notably, this strategy was not always open to conquered groups, although in most case it was available, at least for the elites. In addition, opting for this strategy might not necessarily result in being accepted into the imperial society, but could lead to the creation of a new form of identity (which is the end result of many such imperial contexts, see e.g. Woolf 1997: 347). As for the Assyrian context, it is quite clear that the population in the provinces became officially Assyrian (Liverani 2017: 203–8, and references; see also Radner 2015: 108; Hunt 2015: 23), and the empire had some interest in their socialization, at least to a certain degree, or in some locations (Parpola 2003; 2004; also Rosenzweig 2016b, but see Bagg 2011; 2013; Berlejung 2012). One way or the other, it appears as if the original population in the southwestern provinces lost its identity, and while it did not adopt an Assyrian identity (i.e. similar to that of the imperial core) in any substantial manner (cf. Hunt 2015: 24), it became part of a motley crew that inhabited these

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provinces as a result of the societal collapse that followed the death in the wars and the deportation of many of the survivors, and the mixing of the remainders with the new deportees that were brought into some parts of the sparsely settled provinces. This can probably be seen, indirectly, with the loss of evidence for the Israelite identity in the territories of the former kingdom of Israel, for example the almost total disappearance of the ‘four-room house’. The house continued to prevail in Judah, and since it is agreed that some of the population in the provinces in the north was descendent of the original Israelite inhabitants of the region, the almost total absence of these houses is quite revealing (Faust and Bunimovitz 2003; 2014).¹¹ The remaining population lost its former identity, and assimilated within the new identity that emerged—an identity that was clearly not fixed, but was just as clearly not Israelite. In the long run, this led to the emergence of new identities, some relying on Israelite identity (real or imagined), including the Samaritans (e.g. Coggins 1975; Knoppers 2007; Levin 2013, and references). Still, it is doubted whether this was an intended response, and it is more likely that it was an inevitable process that was forced by a ruthless empire. In the client states, the situation is more complex. In Judah, it is quite clear that integration strategy was not common, but it is more difficult to assess the situation in Philistia. It is possible that what we see at Tel Jemmeh (Chapter 6) is at attempt at integration.

Local Reactions to Assyrian Hegemony in the Southwest: Some General Observations Many factors influence which response is chosen, where, and by whom. Stark and Chance (2012: 196), for example, considered a number of factors that influence these choices, including (i) the geographic distance between the conquered region and the imperial centre; (ii) the duration of imperial control; (iii) differences in the economic and social integration of subject populations within the empire; (iv) the role of certain environmental characteristics; and (v) features organizing provincial social life, like class. To these I would like to add additional factors, like the role of culture and religion (which can be combined with ‘(v), (vi) the nature of imperial control (e.g. direct or indirect);

¹¹ It is possible that one such house in ‘Eli was built slightly after the Assyrian conquest, but this is not certain.

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230  -     and (vii) the cultural gap between the empire and the conquered societies, both in the meaning of cultural difference, and also (and in our case mainly) in terms of social and technological advantage or disadvantage. Later we examine these variables in order to see to what degree they can explain the variation in response of the various groups within the southwest, but first we would like to point to a few general features, relevant to the region as a whole. (i) The region as a whole is very far from the core of the empire, and this reflects on its importance (as noted in Chapters 5 and 7, and especially later in Chapters 10 and 11, see para. (iii) below). From the imperial perspective, there wasn’t much point in investing in the integration of the region (see Chapter 10), and not surprisingly, we have no evidence that the empire even attempted to recruit the local elites (Goldstone and Halden 2009: 24; see also Richardson 2016: 29–31), unlike the situation in the Roman (Cline and Graham 2011: 193) and even Persian empires (Gladstone and Halden 2009: 24). Elites in the southwestern provinces were marginal at best, while of the clients only those in Tyre, and perhaps Philistia, were of any interest to the empire (and perhaps themselves showed an interest). (ii) The timeframe of control was of a short to intermediate nature; not something negligible, but neither was it very long (cf. the Roman empire), and probably insufficient for allowing real integration. (iii) From a social and economical perspective, the area was not really integrated into the imperial society and economy. The large distance, and the inability to use maritime or riverine transportation (Chapter 10), meant that economic integration was not really possible. Tribute in metals or luxury products (from the clients) and manpower to the centre, and grain and fodder for the arriving army (in the provinces, and see also Chapter 10), were what the southwest contributed to the empire, and this did not require socioeconomic integration. (iv) Environmental factors are important. The southern Levant as a whole is not uniform, but much of it was ecologically marginal for the empire, and many of the local surpluses (e.g. oil and wine) were too bulky for shipping to Mesopotamia, and of less importance for the military economy (which concentrated on grain, see Chapter 10). Other regions had more to offer, and the differences are elaborated upon below.

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(v) Elements that influence economic and social interactions, such as class, religion, and politics, do not seem to be factors responsible for the region as a whole, but mainly just for the differences within it, and are therefore discussed below. (vi) The nature of control is also significant. Stark and Chance (2012) did not pay much attention to the difference between client kingdoms and provinces, but in the present case study this distinction seems to be crucial. Naturally, one could expect that the provinces would be more fully integrated within the empire than the client kingdoms, but this was not the situation in the southwest. The differences are elaborated in ‘Reactions to Assyria: Regional Patterns within the Southwest’ below. (vii) Cultural gaps (or lack thereof) between the imperial core and the provinces appears to be an important factor. The local cultures and level of civilization in the southwest were, generally speaking, very advanced, and in many ways not much less so than in the imperial core. As Bagg (2013:132) noted, Assyria’s ‘superiority was military, not cultural’. This influenced the local reactions. Still, the southwest was very heterogeneous culturally, and we therefore discuss the issue in ‘Reactions to Assyria: Regional Patterns within the Southwest’ below. The above are general observations on the factors that influence imperial actions and local reactions in the southwest. Given the heterogeneity of the region, however, it is likely that more insights can be gained from a detailed examination of the various subregions and groups.

Reactions to Assyria: Regional Patterns within the Southwest We have seen that most of the possible responses to empire can be identified in our region, and we have noted some general characteristics of the region as a whole. While available evidence is not spread uniformly across the region (the evidence in Transjordan is especially limited), one can identify within the southwest a number of regional patterns in the nature of local reactions to imperial rule, including (i) a sharp difference between the provinces and the client kingdoms; and (ii) some clear differences within the latter. We first present the different patterns, and then review them within a broader, comparative perspective.

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The Provinces There is little evidence for the responses of the local population in the provinces. Emulation, for example, which is the easiest form of response to identify archaeologically, is surprisingly rare. This, however, seems to reveal more on the devastation of the region, its economic marginality, and the negligible nature of the local elites, rather than on the cultural attitudes of the sparse population. Beyond that, we can point to the mere fact that the population—both those who remained in the provinces after the destruction and those that were deported to it—did not maintain any clear ethnic markers. Especially lacking are the Iron Age ethnic markers, like the four-room house that dominated the cultural landscape of the region earlier in the Iron Age (and continued to dominate the architectural landscape in Judah at the time). This seems to suggest that the rarity of emulation is not a result of an ethnic boundary, and it appears as if the empire’s aim to turn the inhabitants into Assyrians (if this was indeed an aim), at least in the sense of denying their local identities, seems to have succeeded. It is likely that there was some distinction between the indigenous population and the newcomers (it would have been practically impossible otherwise), but both populations were devastated and dependent on the ‘thin’ Assyrian administration, so the potentially different identities were only of secondary importance, and apparently did not comprise a major issue in identity negotiations in the provinces.¹²

The Client Kingdoms Unlike the provinces, which exhibit little data, there is more evidence for local reactions in the client kingdoms. Judah. Resistance in its various of forms is present, while kings sometimes cooperated to bolster their status. Exodus (as recipient) and internal flight are also evident. Other types of reaction are rarer, and this is probably no accident. The rarity of evidence for emulation is simply another aspect of the negative attitude towards Assyria, and most of the population rejected overt symbols of

¹² The wedged bowls might be an exception, but even if they can be associated with deportees, they might have served in the preparation of a certain food, in which case they indicate ethnic boundaries only indirectly (cf. David et al. 1988).

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‘Assyrianess’, which was just another form of non-violent resistance. It did not, however, prevent some more subtle forms of emulation by the elite, but these were quite rare and did not infiltrate to the population at large. When Assyrian motifs were used, they were usually subverted. This pattern is quite clear, and can be seen both in the archaeological record and in the texts. It stands, however, in some potential contrast to what one might expect, given that Ahaz invited Tiglath-pileser III to intervene and (apparently) willingly submitted to him (II Kings 16), and with the assumed collaboration of Manasseh with the Assyrians (e.g. Finkelstein 1994; Thareani Sussely 2007). However, this is not a real contradiction. Political subordination and bolstering (and rarely also emulation) simply reflect realpolitik considerations on behalf of the monarch (evidence for elite emulation are rare). Broadly, however, what we see is resistance, subversion, avoidance, and rejection. Philistia. Initially, resistance was, of course, widespread, but so was collaboration, as can be seen by the fact that rebellious kings were almost always replaced by others. There is also widespread evidence for emulation among the elites, and probably even beyond it. This in itself does not necessarily mean cooperation, but the temptation to use the objects from the ‘centre’ were apparently too great to resist (cf. Gosden 2004; Faust 2015b). Clearly, at least the elite in the region emulated the empire relatively extensively, in order to gain status and legitimacy, both from what it considered its peers and from the local population. Given the region’s location, contacts with Assyria were more frequent than in Judah, and emulation was therefore expected, as well as the attempts, by the elite, to use Assyrian items and style for political status and prestige (cf. Lavan et al. 2016: 5). It is possible that the evidence from Tell Jemmeh indicates a strategy of integration. The Transjordanian Kingdoms. There is relatively widespread evidence for emulation, and it appears that in this sense the situation is probably similar to Philistia, although the objects are more ‘intercultural’ or ‘international’ in style rather than just Assyrian (see the discussion of ‘(6) Emulation’ above; see also Routledge 1997: 38–9; Bienkowski 2000: 53; Berlejung 2012: 48–51; Brown 2018), and it is therefore likely that the elite did not directly emulate Assyria, probably showing how marginal were the Transjordanian kingdoms.¹³ The overall evidence, however, is too partial to reach definite conclusions. The types of response identified in the different regions is summarized in Table 8.1. ¹³ It is likely that they did attempt to emulate Assyria, only that it was done through emulating other agents, as contact with the empire was limited.

Table 8.1 Local reactions to Assyria in the Southern Levant Who could practice it

Provinces

Judah

Armed, violent All (initiated by No. While possible in theory (Frahm 2017), we have no Yes resistance the elite) evidence for revolts in the southwestern provinces (given the devastation of the provinces this was probably practically impossible) Non-violent, All (initiated by No evidence Yes defiance the elite) Non-violent, subtle resistance Exodus and internal population movement Appropriation

All

Expected, but we have no clear evidence

Yes

All

Yes (to other regions)

All

Possible

Yes (internal, and probably accepting refugees from a different region) Probably not

Emulation

All

Surprisingly rare

Bolstering Complicity

Rulers and elites Expected, but we have no clear evidence Probably (sales of land) Elites, and sometimes others All Yes

Integration

Extremely rare (i.e avoidance) Partial (the king) Partial at best

No

Philistine cities

Transjordanian kingdoms

Yes

No clear evidence for actual revolts

Expected, but we have no clear evidence Expected, but we have no clear evidence Probably (accepting refugees)

Expected, but we have no clear evidence Expected, but we have no clear evidence Probably yes, but we have no clear evidence

Perhaps a letter by No data the king of Ashdod Yes Yes (but perhaps mainly indirectly) Yes Probably Yes Probably

Perhaps, but we Perhaps some of the elites (in places have no clear like Tell Jemmeh) evidence

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Type

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Subregional Differences in Comparative Perspective In the previous sections, we have seen that (i) geographic distance; (ii) duration of imperial control; (iii) differences in the economic and social integration; (iv) the role of environmental characteristics; (v) features organizing provincial social life, i.e. culture and religion; (vi) the nature of imperial control; and (vii) the cultural gap between the empire and the conquered societies, are all factors that influenced the nature of the imperial encounters, and we have discussed their impact on the responses identified in the southwest as a whole. Can these factors also explain the internal differences between the various subregions in the southwest? • Distance is apparently a factor, as the local population in the provinces acted differently from the one in the client states, located farther south. Still, the difference in distance is marginal and, moreover, the pattern is counterintuitive, as (for example) the regions that were further away show more evidence of emulation. Hence, it appears that it was less distance as such that was responsible for these differences, and more the political status of the regions, which dictated the way they were treated by the empire, and consequently the surpluses they could produce and managed to maintain. Above all, it was a result of the traumatic experience of fullscale Assyrian conquests, experienced by the provinces but only partially by the client kingdoms, that led to the marginality of the provinces. • Imperial duration was clearly not a major factor, as all the regions discussed were under Assyrian hegemony for about the same amount of time—nearly a century. • There were clearly differences in the economic and social integration of the different regions, only that in this case too, the impact is counterintuitive; the provinces, while politically completely integrated within the empire, were an economic wasteland, and hence of secondary importance only, and do not show clear signs of integration. The differences between provinces and client states are sharp, and seem to have been a result of the devastation of the former, and the crushing of their local societies, economies, and cultures, enabling the empire to rule these regions with relative ease on the one hand, but making them completely insignificant from an economic perspective on the other. Initial resistance in the provinces was indeed crushed, but the cost was that the region contributed very little to the empire (but given its location, its potential contribution was limited to start with, and see Chapter 10).

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236  -     • Environment, or geopolitical conditions, to be more accurate, was clearly a factor in determining the fate of each of the subregions. Hence, the major roads in the provinces and the border areas with the clients were regarded as more important (in the provinces) and the empire concentrated its efforts there. These conditions were also responsible, partially at least, for the differences between the client states of Judah and Philistia. • The difference, however, was not only environmental or geopolitical, but also economic and cultural. Philistia was incorporated into the larger economic system more readily, and as it was important to the empire for geopolitical reasons, Assyrians were therefore also present there (even if as passing soldiers) on a more frequent basis. • Whether we consider culture to be influenced by long-term ecological and environmental structure or not, it is clear that culture was a major deciding factor determining the reaction of the local population in the client states. The main responses in Judah were to a large extent culturally driven, and this is why avoidance, rejection, and subversion of Assyrian claims were more frequent there (this was in line with previous cultural attitudes in Judah; cf. Faust 2006b; 2006c). • The cultural gap between the regions conquered by the empire and its core was less significant than in many imperial encounters, and apparently did not play a major role in determining the various reactions, as it was quite uniform throughout the region. It appears that the major factor influencing the difference in the nature of the reactions in the northern and southern part of the country were the Assyrian conquests and annexations. The annexed regions in the north were desolated, and not much activity, or even resistance, took place there after the conquest. The semi-independent regions flourished, and there one can identify almost all types of reaction.

The Influence on Assyria Naturally, the conquered groups also influenced Assyria itself. This was inevitable, as influence usually worked both ways, even if not necessarily to the same degree (cf. Woolf 1997: 347; see also Burke 2009). The continued flow of objects from the newly acquired provinces, from the client states, and from lands farther away, also influenced the style within Assyria itself through various mechanisms. Thus, foreign objects and styles influenced the imperial

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core, and through it, in a dialectical way, also the style outside the core (through the processes discussed in the sections above). We have evidence for such processes in the Assyrian empire, and Postgate (1992: 261) concluded that: Such borrowings by the political overlord can be seen in two ways. On the one hand, they are a tacit acknowledgement by Assyria of the worth of the cultural traditions of its western neighbours; on the other, the introduction of the exotic into their palaces is one facet of the imperial collector’s urge which also led them to create zoological and botanical gardens . . . Like booty and tribute, they too are closely linked to the political order.

Still, no clear southwestern influences can be directly pinpointed.

Summary This chapter analysed the local responses to the Assyrian hegemony and rule, and revealed the wide spectrum of reactions exercised by the local societies. While the region as a whole shared some general characteristics, like distance from the core and relative cultural sophistication, it appears that important insights can be gained from examining the variation in responses within the southwest. The differences resulted from many factors: geographical, environmental, and economical, but also cultural and religious, and can indicate a great deal about the societies involved. The most important factor in determining the different reactions was the division between the provinces and the clients. The evidence suggests that the provinces were devastated, and the Assyrians did not even attempt to substantially cooperate with the insignificant local elites. After smashing the local resistance, the empire used the devastated region as much as it could, deporting people to more important regions and extracting some taxes and maintaining most of the existing population at a subsistence level, ensuring that some micro-areas would function and provide food to the army and administration, but beyond this the region did not have much importance (also Chapter 10). The local population was devastated and lost its unique characteristics, and when mixed with a small number of arriving deportees, became part of what can be only defined as a motley crew. The situation in the client kingdoms was different. The flourishing economy and the sophisticated society and culture that thrived there enabled them to

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238  -     cope with the Assyrian hegemony in a different manner than many conquered societies did. Beyond the major fault line between the clients as a whole and the provinces, one can identify differences between the various clients. While all types of responses were probably practiced in both regions to some degree, the differences are clear. In Philistia, in addition to the violent resistance that was characteristic of the early phases of contact, the elite gradually adopted Assyrian style and symbols. One can identify mainly emulation, bolstering, complicity, and perhaps even some degree of integration. In Judah, by contrast, one can see mainly resistance of various forms, including flight and avoidance (a form of non-violent resistance), and only a very limited degree of emulation. Bolstering was also very limited, mainly by the king in special circumstances. The causes for the differences were both the geopolitical importance of the various regions, and (mainly?) the different cultural and religious backgrounds. All these fit very nicely within the overall picture we have on the sociocultural situation in the various client kingdoms and provinces, as we have seen in previous chapters. The background for some of the differences is outlined in Chapters 10 and 11, but first we should examine the nature of the ‘Assyrian peace’.

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9 ‘They Make a Desolation and They Call It Peace’ Re-Examining the Nature of the Imperial Peace

The Assyrian empire ruled the southwest for well over a century.¹ While the first third of that century was extremely stormy, the rest of the era was relatively quiet, with only a few, small-scale revolts. Consequently, this period is often labelled pax Assyriaca, or the ‘Assyrian peace’. The term, like many other references to imperial peace, mimics the term pax Romana that became very influential in scholarship, and carries with it an aura of law, order, and progress which are instituted by an advanced empire in its provinces, replacing chaos and barbarism. In light of the information presented in previous chapters about the desolation of the southwestern provinces, the present one reviews the development of this concept within the broader academic perception of the ‘imperial peace’, and subsequently questions the applicability of the term pax Assyriaca to reality in the southwest in the seventh century .

The Birth of the Imperial Peace: The Pax Romana and Its Derivatives While the term is older, the scholarly concept of pax Romana is often attributed to Edward Gibbon, who, in the eighteenth century, described the situation under the Roman empire after the conquests of the early second century , noting that: In the second century of the Christian Era, the empire of Rome comprehended the fairest part of the earth, and the most civilized portion of mankind. The frontiers of that extensive monarchy were guarded by ancient ¹ The first sentence of the title is a quote from Calgacus’s speech (by Cornelius Tacitus).

The Neo-Assyrian Empire in the Southwest: Imperial Domination and Its Consequences. Avraham Faust, Oxford University Press (2021). © Avraham Faust. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198841630.003.0009

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240  -     renown and disciplined valor. The gentle but powerful influence of laws and manners had gradually cemented the union of the provinces. Their peaceful inhabitants enjoyed and abused the advantages of wealth and luxury (Gibbon 1845: 27).

Describing the reality under Hadrian and the two Antonines, Gibbon (1845: 32) stated: They persisted in the design of maintaining the dignity of the empire, without attempting to enlarge its limits. By every honorable expedient they invited the friendship of the barbarians; and endeavored to convince mankind that the Roman power, raised above the temptation of conquest, was actuated only by the love of order and justice . . . [the periods of their reigns] offer the fair prospect of universal peace. The Roman name was revered among the most remote nations of the earth. The fiercest barbarians frequently submitted their differences to the arbitration of the emperor; and we are informed by a contemporary historian that he had seen ambassadors who were refused the honor which they came to solicit of being admitted into the rank of subjects.

The term pax Romana became widespread in modern scholarship,² usually referring to both the end of imperial expansion and the order and peace that ensued, the combination of which resulted in a period of almost 200 years in which ‘most inhabitants of the Roman Empire never or rarely saw a soldier. Rome had become a civil society’ (Hopkins 2009:193). This was, therefore, both peace with the barbarians, and peace in the provinces (Woolf 1993). Beyond the institution of peace, order, law, and justice, the Roman peace led also to material improvements (cf. Gibbon’s ‘advantages of wealth and luxury’), including the famous Roman aqueducts and public baths, as well as roads and a remarkable level of communication and trade throughout the empire (e.g. Gleason 2006: 230). The concept of the Roman peace, however, was not invented by modern scholars. The notion that Roman rule brought peace and prosperity was apparently common, first and foremost—and not surprisingly so—in Rome itself. Kelly (2006: 19) noted that the Romans rarely referred to the destructive consequences of their actions, and they viewed their expansion and the ² (e.g. Goldsworthy 2016, and references, and see below in this section and ‘What Do Scholars Mean When They Refer to an Imperial Peace? On the Evolution of the Concept’)

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activities taken in the captured provinces as an inevitable result of the need to pacify enemies that posed a threat to the empire itself—‘The acquisition of empire had been the unplanned consequence of a moderate and reasonable policy of homeland security’ (Kelly 2006: 19). The idea seems to have matured by the time of Augustus, who explicitly expressed it in his own record of achievements, which was publicly displayed on the monumental Res Gestae inscription. The altar of peace (ara pacis) was erected in this atmosphere (Raaflaub 2007: 7). Kelly (2006: 19) quotes the famous first century  orator, Cicero, who flatly stated: ‘The only reason for waging war is so that we Romans may live in peace.’³ In this sense, Rome was the one who enjoyed the peace. At the same time, however, Rome believed its imperial mission was to civilize its lawless neighbours (Kelly 2006: 21), and Kelly demonstrates this by quoting Virgil, the poet, who, toward the end of the last century , wrote (p. 19): Roman, remember by your strength to rule Earth’s peoples—for your arts are to be these: To pacify, to impose the rule of law, To spare the conquered, battle down the proud.⁴

Why the Romans promoted such views is clear. Empires, or every polity for that matter, needs legitimation, which is achieved through various forms of ideology (e.g. Wachtel 1977: 83; Tainter 1999: 992; Stoddart 1999: 941; see also Giddens 1993: 742; Hodder and Hutson 2003: 85, and see Chapter 1), which justified their actions. As Howe (2002: 83) noted, ‘The rulers of every major empire at least since the Romans . . . offered arguments and justifications for what they did.’ Religion was one such legitimating agent, and even belief in natural superiority could help both solidify support in the base and, if it convinced others, to lessen resistance (Howe 2002: 83). While empires are usually created by force, ‘Coercion is an expensive and ineffective strategy, and must eventually be replaced by legitimacy, the belief that rule is proper and valid’ (Tainter 1999: 992; see also Stoddart 1999: 941). Presenting imperial rule not only as inevitable, however, but as a benevolent action that brings civilization to barbarians is therefore a clear justification for expansion and rule, and it is quite clear why Rome presented this view.

³ Cicero, De Officiis (or On Duties), 1.35, after Kelly 2006. In the original text the Romans are not explicitly mentioned, and the general idea is that in order to live, one needs to wage war. ⁴ Virgil, Aeneis, 6.1151–4, after Kelly 2006.

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242  -     Still, even in Rome itself there were dissenting views. The Roman historian Cornelius Tacitus described the futile British resistance to the inevitable Roman conquest and ascribed the following words to Calgacus, the leader of the local opposition, who succumbed to the overwhelming Roman forces: Pillagers of the world, now they have exhausted the land by their indiscriminate devastation, they probe the sea. If their enemy is wealthy, they are greedy; if poor, they are overweening; neither East nor West has sated them . . . To plunder, slaughter, and rapine they falsely give the name ‘empire’. They make a desolation and they call it ‘peace’.⁵

While such descriptions are naturally rare, this sharp criticism of imperial rule shows that even among the Romans there were voices that saw the darker side of the imperial expansion and the negative consequences it often brought in its wake. Kelly (2006: 21), however, notes that ‘. . . for most, Calgacus’ speech was no more than the dangerously misguided propaganda of a rebel terrorist ignorantly seeking to halt the divinely sanctioned advance of Roman rule’. The general Roman perspective of its imperial, civilizing mission presented it as bringing law, peace, and prosperity to previously barbaric regions, and by doing so legitimizing this expansion. Their imperial perspective was very influential. Cline and Graham (2011: 264), for example, in an extensive overview of ancient empires, noted that if one is willing to ignore the modern distaste of empires, ‘it is clear that many, and probably most, embraced the [Roman] empire and what it stood for’, adding (2011: 265) that ‘Many inhabitants of the empire, at all social levels, came to see that Roman rule was natural and justified, and worthy of great praise.’

The Pax Romana and the Justification of Modern Imperial Endeavours Rome has had an immense impact on the development of European political philosophies since the renaissance, and the idea that Roman rule brought law and order on the one hand, and material and economic prosperity on the other, became entrenched in modern European thinking. Imperial rule was therefore viewed as a positive development. And as European empires ⁵ Tacitus, Agricola, 30, after Kelly 2006: 22.

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advanced and took control over more and more territories, adopting this approach was also beneficial, as it justified their contemporaneous imperial endeavours. The apex of this influence was probably in the British empire. Many British wholeheartedly adopted the imperial peace perspective, i.e. the view that imperial conquest brings law, order, and peace to barbaric and lawless regions, and envisioned themselves as the modern successors of Rome (e.g. Kelly 2006: 114–22; Parchami 2009: 61–4; see also Butler 2012, and references). The positive view of the Roman empire was projected even to the Roman conquest of England itself. Rudyard Kipling, one of the most notable voices of British imperialism, wrote in his joint book with C.R.L. Fletcher—A School History of England (Fletcher and Kipling 1911: 18–19): . . . after reconquest came such peace and good government as Britain had never seen before. The Romans introduced into all their provinces a system of law so fair and so strong, that almost all the best laws of modern Europe have been founded on it. Everywhere the weak were protected against the strong; . . . Great cities, full of all the luxuries of the South, grew up.

Kelly (2006: 118) notes that Kipling and Fletcher viewed the conquest as a good thing, and that they even criticized the Roman empire for not extending its ‘civilising rule’ to the rest of the British isles, namely Scotland and Ireland, adding that ‘In many ways, A School History of England epitomized a theme that had run through much Victorian thinking about Roman Britain.’ Not only histories or school textbooks engendered this view; Sellar and Yeatman (1930: 3), in their humoristic parody of school textbooks, noted, ‘The Roman conquest was, however, a Good Thing, since the Britons were only natives at that time.’ After justifying the conquest of their own island by the civilizing empire of the time, vindicating their island’s imperial conquests of other regions is no more than a logical extension of the same principle. Kelly (2006: 120) goes on to quote the Oxford historian, lawyer, and Liberal politician, James Bryce, who in 1901 (The Ancient Roman Empire and the British Empire in India) noted that the successes of both empires shared significant similarities, for example in the excellent preservation of internal peace and order, in the building of roads, means of transportation, and engineering skills, in succeeding in war and governing the conquered territories, and in ‘dash and energy and readiness to face any odds which bore down all resistance’. Haverfield (1911: xviii) for example, wrote that:

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244  -     Roman history seems to me at the present day the most instructive of all histories . . . it offers stimulating contrasts and comparisons and those glimpses of the might-have-been which suggest so much to the intelligent reader . . . Its imperial system, alike in its differences and similarities, lights up our own Empire, for example in India, at every turn. The methods by which Rome incorporated and denationalised and assimilated more than half its wide dominions, and the success of Rome, unintended perhaps but complete, in spreading its Graeco-Roman culture over more than a third of Europe and a part of Africa, concern in many ways our own age and Empire.

These close parallels apparently justified British control of India (and elsewhere). This approach is fully encapsulated in Kipling’s poem, ‘The White Man’s Burden’, which includes the following: Take up the White Man’s burden— Send forth the best ye breed— Go bind your sons to exile To serve your captives’ need; ... Fill full the mouth of Famine And bid the sickness cease;

Thus, the adoption of the ‘imperial peace’ concept by the British was, even if not always manipulative in the negative sense of the world, highly utilitarian, i.e. it justified British imperial activities in the present. Adopting the idea that imperial rule advances those who are conquered by it—and including within this generalization even their own past subjugation by Rome—justified their own expansion and rule of other peoples. Consequently, the term pax Britannica, or the ‘British peace’ came to describe the long period of British imperial rule, covering much of the nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries (e.g. Morris 2012; Parchami 2009). And just like its ‘British peace’ precedence, so was the concept of ‘American peace’ used to describe large parts of the twentieth century, during which the American hegemony led to relative quiet and to the infrequency of large-scale wars (e.g. Parchami 2009). This, too, was not a scholarly application of the ‘imperial peace’ concept to a remote period, but rather using the old concept to interpret current events and actions, and to explain and even justify the present; i.e. the term was utilitarian, explaining the current political development for immediate benefits.

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Still, the concept of imperial peace became very influential, and was gradually used as a framework for interpreting the past.

‘Academic’ Uses of the ‘Imperial Peace’ Concept Indeed, once such views of imperial rule became widespread, they inevitably influenced other contexts. The mental template of an ‘imperial peace’ was widely applied by academics, and practically every empire received its own period of ‘peace’, including, in addition to the Roman, the British, and the American peace, mentioned above, also pax Satavahana, pax Azteca, pax Achaemenidica, pax Ottomanica, pax Assyriaca, as well as pax Hispanica, pax Germanica, and pax Sovietica (e.g. Sinopoli 2001: 171; Alcock 2001: 370; Wiesehofer 2009; Parchami 2009: 1). Even the Mongols, usually viewed as cruel conquerors, were attributed with their own ‘peace’ (pax Mongolica). Aigle (2015: 8), for example, noted that: After the shock of the conquest, the Mongols implemented the so-called pax mongolica, which facilitated trans-Asiatic cultural transmission and trade. The destructive impact of the first phase of the conquest on the economy of the captured territories cannot be denied. But the various regions that came under the ‘Tatar yoke’ do not seem to have been ruined. On the contrary, studies show that the economy recovered rapidly. The key factor in this revival was long-distance trade (see also Shagdarsurung 2010, and more below in ‘What Do Scholars Mean When They Refer to an Imperial Peace? On the Evolution of the Concept’).

The ‘Assyrian Peace’ It is not surprising, in light of the above, that an ‘imperial peace’ was projected also to the Assyrian empire, referring to the period from the end of the Assyrian rapid expansion of the final third of the eighth century  to empire’s fall at some point in the second half of the seventh century . The term ‘Assyrian peace’ was mentioned about a century ago by Olmstead (1918: 759), who noted that, ‘The Assyrian peace was indeed a very welcome change from the petty wars which were destroying the life of the east, and the Aramaean and Phoenician merchants were not slow to seize

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246  -     the opportunities . . .’. Olmstead (1923: 610-611) goes on to attribute Assyria’s success to the peace it brought about: That Assyria was the success she undoubtedly was must be attributed to two facts: first, her governing classes made the Assyrian peace . . . Second . . . their peace permitted the development of the industrial possibilities . . . Add to this the trading abilities of Babylonians and Aramaeans, of Phoenicians and Greeks, who took advantage of the imposing imperial structure to make its treasures accessible to the races of the then civilized world. The imperial structure was buttressed by industry and in its turn permitted a degree of industrialism which was unique in the world’s history.

It is quite clear that Olmstead was influenced by the very positive assessment of the ‘Roman peace’ and of imperialism at large, that was prevalent at the time of his writing (e.g. Olmstead 1923: 654–5). While not universally accepted (see e.g. in ‘What Do Scholars Mean When They Refer to an Imperial Peace? On the Evolution of the Concept’), such positive views became frequent. Thus, although the Assyrian kings boasted their military prowess and victories, and the harsh treatment of the conquered population, many scholars managed to read between the lines and identify not the devastation the kings boasted about (and likely sometimes exaggerated), but the progress brought by the Assyrian empire. Hallo and Simpson (1971: 141), for example, noted that: although the warlike ideals of their forebears continued to color the records of the later Sargonids [ca. 721–627], the impression of sustained militarism that they convey is an exaggerated one. The real spirit of the time is revealed on the one hand, by such marvels of civic engineering as Sennacherib’s aqueduct at Jerwan and, on the other, by the greatly increased attention to administrative matters reflected in the growing amount of royal correspondence.

Consequently, scholars widely employed the term pax Assyriaca for the era of the Sargonic kings (Hallo and Simpson 1971: 138). Similarly, Bedford (2009: 46) noted that in the late eighth and most of the seventh century , the empire was at its zenith, the provinces supplied the heartland with taxes and labour, agriculture expanded, and monumental buildings were erected, accompanied by various forms of arts. Culture and economy flourished, and

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the empire completed its victory over the potential adversaries, and (with the exception of Babylonia) ‘stabilized the internal organization of the empire’, thus justifying the term pax Assyriaca. And Cline and Graham (2011: 42) summarized, ‘This was a time in which Assyrian order was established far and wide, and a large Assyrian realm was both expanded and maintained.’

The ‘Assyrian Peace’ in the Southwest The pax Assyriaca was, naturally, used to explain also southern Levantine phenomena (see also Chapters 1 and 5). The uniquely vast archaeological information available from this region was quickly used to put flesh on the skeleton of the Assyrian peace, and material manifestations of this concept were presented. The most oft-quoted archaeological example of the Assyrian peace is the large centre for the production of olive oil unearthed in Ekron. We have already seen (Chapters 1, 4, and 5) that in the seventh century  Ekron was a well planned, large city and was probably the largest ancient industrial centre for the production of olive oil (Gitin 1998: 276). As described in detail in Chapter 1, this was attributed to ‘an ideology of empire based on the mercantile interests of the Neo-Assyrian kings’ (Gitin 1995: 61), which led to an ‘unparalleled growth and development, and an international trading network which spanned the Mediterranean, simulating Phoenician trade and colonization in the west’ (see also Finkelstein and Singer-Avitz 2001: 253; Bunimovitz and Lederman 2003: 3). While Ekron is the most prominent manifestation of the Assyrian peace, additional examples are abundant, and we have seen that that prosperity covered large areas of the southwest, including the settlement of large areas never, or hardly ever, settled before. The Negev desert, especially the Beersheba and Arad valleys, is one such area where settlement in the seventh century  prospered (e.g. Na’aman 1987; Finkelstein 1994; Faust 2008, and many references), and evidence for trade was abundant, including large-scale importation of cedars (Liphschitz and Biger 1991: 172). The prosperity was explained as the ‘direct result of the pax Assyriaca’ and the other influences of the ‘economic activity of the Assyrian empire’ (Na’aman 1995: 114; also Na’aman 1987; 1995: 113). The same is true for Ammon (Tyson 2014b: 500, n. 11) and for Edom, where the surge in settlement in the late Iron Age, and even the formation of the Edomite state, were attributed to Assyrian activities and interest (Knauf 1995: 98; Finkelstein 1995: 137; Na’aman 1993: 118; 1995: 114).

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248  -     Finkelstein and Ussishkin (2000: 602) summarized the overall trend: ‘It seems that Southern Palestine was the focus of Assyrian economic activity in the region, which included the foundation of central emporia and overland trade with Arabia, Transjordan and Egypt.’ Such interpretations of the finds in the southwest influenced broader reconstructions of Assyrian economy. Van de Mieroop (2007: 252), for example, noted that the influence of Assyria transformed olive oil production from a ‘cottage industry’ into ’centralized system that guaranteed supply to Assyria’, concluding that it would be wrong to suggest that the Assyrian empire was driven only by attempts to conquer lands, but was rather aiming at ‘maximizing resources for its core’. And elsewhere he suggested that the production of olive oil in Philistia was restructured ‘in order to increase supply’ (Van de Mieroop 2007: 259). In light of what we have seen in previous chapters (especially Chapters 4 and 5), the applicability of the term to the seventh century  southwest seems suspicious, but before re-examining the applicability of the ‘imperial peace’ concept to the region in more detail, it would be worthwhile to critically review the evolution of the academic concept over the years.

What Do Scholars Mean When They Refer to an Imperial Peace? On the Evolution of the Concept In the Roman context, where the concept of the ‘imperial peace’ was apparently first developed, it denoted peace with the barbarians outside, i.e. the lack of external war, and peace in Roman territories (Woolf 1993). In addition to the internal peace after the civil wars, the concept referred to the institution of civilization, law, and order in the newly acquired provinces, often replacing the lack of order, or chaos, that preceded the annexation. This was also the meaning that was projected to the British context. These empires not only drastically ‘upgraded’ the physical situation in the conquered territories, improving roads and building cities, but also explicitly viewed themselves as advancing civilizations, helping the uncivilized ‘natives’ by their conquests and subsequent rule. Whether they believed it or not, these empires at least paid lip service to the idea that legitimized their control. While legitimation is why the concept was developed in the first place, and why it was subsequently adopted by later empires, we have seen that the ‘imperial peace’ was gradually projected by scholars to practically all empires whose strong rule led to cessation, or significant decrease, in the level of

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large-scale hostilities. Since, however, every empire, when in power, forces obedience and consequently quiet (i.e. ‘peace’) on its subjects, the term was applied indiscriminately to all empires, as all forced subjugated people to surrender (and be ‘quiet’). This was applied automatically and regardless of the actual conditions of the conquered, or even whether the conquering empire pretended to promote the livelihood of the subjugated population. Still, explicitly or implicitly, the projection usually included all the components of the ‘imperial peace’ paradigm, and at the least, it was assumed to include economic prosperity and advancement of the conquered. The Mongolian Peace can serve as an example for the lack of clarity, not to say even confusion, that sometimes accompany the use of the term. We have seen above that scholars treated the pax Mongolica as a period of rapid economic recovery, and Aigle (2015: 8) treated the ‘so-called pax mongolica’ as a policy that was ‘implemented’ by the Mongols. Shagdarsurung (2010: 358), for example, took the following quotation, attributed to Ogodei Khan, as an evidence for the ‘Mongolian peace’: ‘We shall not cause suffering to the nation that our father Chinggis Qan established with so much toil. We shall make the happy rejoice, causing to rest their feet upon the ground, their hand upon the earth.’ Rather than supporting any notion of advancing the conquered, however, the quote only shows how problematic the concept of the ‘imperial peace’ became. First of all, this is a royal statement, and not much weight can probably be given to it. Moreover, most monarchs wanted to bring peace at least to their people (the ‘core’ group from which they emerged, and see below)—even if they failed—and even these few who did not want it often pretended that they did. Such statements are therefore meaningless for our purposes. Indeed, Di Cosmo (2010: 91) noted that beyond the ‘technical’ problem associated with the term pax Mongolica (e.g. that the period of peace referred to by that name is actually after the empire was dissolved into the four khanates), in practice it only refers to ‘a more or less stable political situation across lands separately ruled by Mongols, which, for about a century, allowed for the flow of goods and people across continental Eurasia’. It is not my aim, of course, to study the Mongol empire, but it does appear that Di Cosmo is correct. In practice, therefore, all that can stand behind the term is not the impressive baggage that accompanied the pax Romana (and other forms of ‘imperial peace’) in the 19th and 20th centuries, i.e., bringing civilization to barbaric peoples, improving their standards of living, and bringing peace and order to their chaotic world, but simply a period without large-scale wars or revolts, that were usually achieved following devastating campaigns that pacified large regions, and were maintained by the use\threat

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250  -     of force. This is the nature of most—although not all—examples of ‘imperial peace’, but it leaves the term quite meaningless, and perhaps even Orwellian in nature, and we shall return to it later.

The Pax Romana Re-Examined Even the pax Romana, on which the other cases of ‘imperial peace’ were framed, is not as straightforward as most of the above quotes acknowledge. While many authorities accept the Roman notion of the ‘Roman peace’ and attribute Rome (i) with promoting the conquered standards of living; and (ii) with consciously bringing peace and order to the Barbarians (above), this view is not shared by all. Morley (2010: 69), for example, noted that ‘for the vast majority of the population’ the Roman peace ‘was the peace enjoyed by a domesticated animal, kept solely for what it could produce’. Woolf (1993: 189) added: Roman claims that the provincials enjoyed unbroken peace were an exaggeration, and some Romans knew it. Quite apart from the routine violence that characterized life in all ancient societies, the provinces also suffered revolts and civil conflicts . . . The provinces were pacified, but pacified repeatedly, rather than once for all, and they were not peaceful.

While Goldsworthy’s recent assessment is far more positive (e.g. 2016: 410–11), even he has reservations. Goldsworthy (2016: 15) notes that ‘the provinces were not so heavily exploited as to ruin them and impoverish all of their inhabitants’, but added (2016: 13) that, ‘The conquered were given “Roman peace” whether they liked it or not, and the method was through the use or threat of military force, wielded ruthlessly and savagely’. Goldsworthy (2016: 409) agrees that, ‘This was a society comfortable with the idea of “pacifying” peoples in distant lands’, adding (p. 410) that, ‘For all the talk of pacification, the Romans did not pretend that they carved out their empire for any other reason than to benefit Rome . . . Provinces and allies were not acquired for their own good’, summarizing (2016: 410–11) that while he hoped to show that the pax Romana was real, the Romans did not conquer an empire in order to create this peace. Perhaps, however, this should not have come as a surprise. Apparently, the original meaning of the word ‘pax’ was lost in the repeated translations (e.g. Barton 2007: 245–6; Goldsworthy 2016: 12–13; Parchami 2009: 10; Di Cosmo

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2010: 91; Woolf 1993: 176, and see now Cornwell 2017: 11–42). Parchami (2009: 10) examined the ‘etymological roots of pax’, arguing ‘that far from meaning “peace” in the modern sense of the word, pax implied pacification and subjugation—its end result being subservience to the imperium Romanum’. Goldsworthy (2016: 12–13) noted that for Rome pax meant conquest and pacification, and after quoting Virgil, he notes, ‘The Latin verb pacare had the same root as pax and meant “to pacify”, and was often used to describe aggressive warfare against a foreign people’ (see also Cornwell 2017: 32). And Barton (2007: 12) argued that, ‘Modern English suppresses the “darker” meaning of Roman pax’, adding, ‘We are liable to forget or ignore the knife at the throat.’⁶ It is quite clear that the ‘imperial peace’ was not as straightforward as it seems. (i) The idyllic meaning of introducing peace and order and improving the standards of life of the conquered, which is relevant to only a few settings in the first place, is to a large extent simply the uncritical acceptance of imperial ideology, that might not always be devoid of truth, but is at least in need of critical evaluation. (ii) The later scholarly usage of the term, which is applied indiscriminately to any period without large-scale conflicts is, of course, extremely naïve at best, and I return to it below.

Can the Period of Assyrian Rule in the Southwest be Understood as an ‘Imperial Peace’? We have seen above that scholars painted the Assyrian peace in the southwest in the idyllic meaning, and credited it with economic prosperity and settlement expansion (e.g. Gitin, Na’aman, Finkelstein, Van de Mieroop, and many others). In order to examine whether this idyllic usage is justified, we need to examine a number of interrelated questions. First and foremost, did the conquered benefit from the conquest or, at least, did the conquered territories prosper? Did the Assyrians bring economic prosperity, settlement expansion, law and order, to a barbaric southern Levant? And did they use these to justify their expansion. Indeed, there are many issues that cast a dark shadow over the applicability of the term pax Assyriaca in its common academic idyllic meaning to the southwest. ⁶ Cornwell (2017: 32–3) noted that the term had some ambiguity, so different sides could understand it differently.

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Factual Problem: Economic Prosperity for the Conquered? The most serious problem with the ‘Assyrian peace’ paradigm is, of course, factual. As we have seen above (e.g. Chapters 4 and 5), the empire did not bring prosperity to the annexed southwestern regions, but quite the opposite, i.e. devastation and decline.⁷ As noted by Liverani (2014: 506), the various imperial: interventions led to the sudden collapse of the local population and its economy, the disappearance of all local religious and artistic expressions, and the spread of an overall sense of demotivation and discouragement. In other words, the area experienced a fast and drastic process of deculturation.

Regardless of the way one would like to tackle the conceptual problems (below), which depends to a large extent on the perspective of the scholars, their views on imperialism and the value of the ‘imperial peace’, etc., the implications of the factual problem are very clear. The Assyrian provinces of the southwest did not prosper under Assyrian rule. They were quiet, and did not rebel, but this was not because life was good. To the contrary: this was because they were crushed, greatly depopulated, and the inhabitants were not only few, but were divided between the remaining population and the people deported into the region and could surely not initiate an additional rebellion. When we attempt to examine the perspective of the population in the provinces (cf. Parsons 2010: 19), conquest was clearly not a ‘good thing’. While the factual problem is the crucial one, we should note that there are also some conceptual problems with the applicability of the term ‘Assyrian peace’ to the southwest.

Conceptual Problem 1: ‘Imperial Peace’ outside the Empire? A major conceptual problem is that the ‘Roman peace’, and most of its derivatives, was applied first and foremost to the provinces. Thus, while ‘peace with the barbarians’ is also implied, it is ‘peace in the provinces’ that

⁷ To reiterate, none of the evidence Na’aman, Gitin, and others bring for the prosperity came from the devastated provinces.

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completes the concept (Woolf 1993)—not peace for the barbarians or for clients outside the imperial boundaries. Still, practically all scholars who used the ‘Assyrian peace’ concept in the southwest referred to prospering territories outside Assyrian nominal domination.⁸ This renders the concept irrelevant (I return to this issue below in the discussion of ‘“Assyrian Peace” outside Assyria?’).

Conceptual Problem 2: A Barbaric Southwest? A minor conceptual problem is that the Levant was not inferior and in ‘need’ of being civilized. Regardless of the question of economic prosperity, we should remember that the Levant cannot be viewed as barbaric—the region was dominated by kingdoms for millennia, and while the Assyrians were militarily superior, the region had its share of cultural inventions, and it cannot be viewed as a barbaric backwater. As Bagg (2013: 132) noted, Assyria’s ‘superiority was military, not cultural’. Thus, even if the Assyrians would have advanced the economy, due to a period of ‘peace’ and stability, it is doubted whether this carried the ‘package’ which the ‘imperial peace’ supposedly carries with it.

Conceptual Problem 3: Assyrian Civilizing Mission? Another, minor, conceptual problem is whether the Assyrians did have a civilizing mission (e.g. Bagg 2013: 131; Berlejung 2012: 49–51). While the issue is only theoretical (as noted above there was no prosperity in the southwest), it is worth mentioning that although the Assyrians did occasionally claim to bring order and civilization (e.g. Fales 1987; Hurowitz 2008; Aster 2017: 190–4), this was not a main theme, even in their propaganda. Their ideological justification was different—religion (e.g. Liverani 2017, and many references). Assyrian religious ideology led to the expansion (Liverani 2017: 8), but this in itself did not legitimize it in the eyes of the conquered (beyond that, it was the will of Assur). The Assyrians wanted to show how strong Assur was,

⁸ And while some micro-regions within the southwestern provinces can now be added to this prosperity (as demonstrated by Faust 2006a; 2015a; Aster and Faust 2015), these were at the border with clients, only stressing the general devastation of the provinces.

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254  -     that it was not wise to rebel against him, and that he ordered them to rule the world.⁹ Notably, empires that justify their action by claiming to improve the life of the conquered use it widely in their propaganda. But can we imagine something equivalent to Kipling’s poem ( in ‘The Birth of the Imperial Peace: The Pax Romana and Its Derivative’ above) used by the Assyrians to recruit soldiers? To reiterate, even if bringing peace and prosperity to the conquered areas were a main theme of Assyrian propaganda (rather than an occasional theme), ‘buying’ the term ‘Assyrian peace’ would have been simply accepting such imperial ideology uncritically. In the present case, however, it appears that such boasting was not a major theme in Assyrian ideology, and more often than not the Assyrians did not even pretend to bring peace, prosperity, and order to the conquered population as a justification of their expansion. While we have seen that every empire needs justification for its expansion and rule, the Assyrian empire had another type of justification—religion (e.g. Liverani 2017, and many references). In a sense, the modern usage of the term pax Assyriaca is more problematic than uncritically ‘buying’ the imperial ideology, favouring it over reality, and it seems to be a reinterpretation of Assyrian claims in light of the ideology of other empires.

Assyrian Peace or Assyrian War? The problems inherent in the concept are revealed in the following statement by Hallo and Simpson (1971: 141): ‘The new pax Assyriaca stabilized the relations of Assyria and her western vassals to some extent.’ This is ironic, as it was not the Assyrian peace that stabilized the relations between the empire and its southwestern vassals, but rather the Assyrian war! As far as the southwest was concerned, the ‘peace’ was the outcome (i) of the savage war that left the provinces devastated and crippled in practically every respect, and incapable of waging a rebellion; and (ii) the impending threat of inflicting a similar disaster on the clients—a war that would reduce them to the

⁹ It is similar, in this regard, to reliefs depicting the fate of conquered cities, aiming to terrify and overwhelm.

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status (politically as well as economically, culturally, and demographically) of the devastated provinces.

An Assyrian Pacification? What about peace in the limited meaning of simply absence of war? While not what most scholars meant when they used the term (cf. the above references to Na’aman, Finkelstein, Bunimovitz and Lederman, Gitin, Van de Mieroop, and any others, who explicitly referred to prosperity and development), can this more limited use be justified (see recently Fales 2017: 270, n. 379)? Technically, this is, of course, possible. The region was pacified, and therefore ‘quiet’.¹⁰ But the pacification and quiet in the southwestern provinces is only a proof of the efficiency by which the empire crushed rebellions and destroyed regions; notably, while some provinces (in other regions) did revolt, we have no evidence that the southwestern ones ever did—they were simply devastated and incapable of revolting (see Chapter 8). If we use the ‘quiet’ metaphor, then the southwestern provinces were ‘as quiet as a graveyard’. Hence, while it is not impossible to use the ‘Assyrian peace’ in this technical meaning, it is still problematic: (i) it is misleading, since the reader has the entire ‘imperial peace package’ in mind; (ii) it is Orwellian. Thus, while not impossible (cf. Parchami 2009: 10), I think the term should be avoided. If one wishes to use a term, then for the southwest it would perhaps be more accurate to speak of the period of ‘Assyrian pacification’ or ‘Assyrian subjugation’ (or even ‘Assyrian desolation’). Using these terms would not only be more accurate,¹¹ but would prevent a misunderstanding of the term being projected onto the archaeological finds, which would then be unconsciously misinterpreted in order to conform with an invented past.

¹⁰ Fales (2017), in a somewhat defensive stance, presented such a view of ‘hegemonic peace’ (i.e. no revolts, security for the centre by pacifying other groups) as an intermediate position between the views of Gitin or Frankestein and myself (and others). This, however, is not an intermediate position, as it seems to correspond nicely with my description of the situation in the southwest, only that (as we see throughout the chapter, mainly in ‘Can the Period of Assyrian Rule in the Southwest Be Understood as an “Imperial Peace”?’ below) it renders the term ‘peace’ quite meaningless, misleading, and better avoided or replaced (even if technically not incorrect, if properly defined). ¹¹ As far as I know, the Assyrians did not use a term that can be translated as the Assyrian peace in the sense of the Roman peace. It is interesting to note, however, that the Assyrian term for peace (Salimu) refers to the subjugation of a territory, and also means obedience, i.e. that everyone should obey the Assyrian king; it does not carry the modern connotations (see also Aster 2018b: 111).

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‘Assyrian Peace’ outside Assyria? If one wishes to use the term ‘pax Assyriaca’ in a different fashion, for example to refer to the prosperity in clients outside the nominal boundaries of Assyria (Assyria proper) then: (1) this is conceptually very awkward, as these territories were outside the nominal borders of Assyria, whereas the original term refers to the provinces; (2) one must be very explicit that this is what one means by the term. And since the original concept is applied mainly to the territories within the empire, i.e. provinces, it is certainly better to avoid using it only for areas outside direct imperial control. This relates to a completely different situation, and would only create confusion, as indeed happened.

Conclusions The concept of the ‘Assyrian peace’—in the idyllic sense of bringing order, civilization, and prosperity to the barbaric natives and advancing their economy and standards of life—is problematic when applied to the southwest (for other regions, see Chapters 10 and 11), on a number of grounds. We should note, first and foremost, that the ‘imperial peace’ is an imperial construct, used by some empires to justify imperial expansion, first to the conquering people themselves, and second, possibly also to the conquered population. This, of course, can be divorced from both the reality on the ground and the perspective of the conquered. Although some empires did advance the economy of conquered territories, and a few even believed it was their duty to civilize the barbarians and that they were doing something positive, whether one accepts the concept as justified at all is an ethical and moral question. But even if we leave aside the moral problem of adopting an imperial perspective and applying it to the conquered, the concept of the imperial peace is irrelevant for the present case study (i.e. the southwest), for a number of reasons. The original concept of the imperial peace is applied, first and foremost, to the provinces—this is where prosperity, peace, law, and order were supposedly brought by an enlightening empire. Still, all the evidence presented by scholars

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for the ‘peace’ in the southwest are brought from the client kingdoms outside Assyria proper, indicating that the use of the term is completely out of context. Remaining on the conceptual level, a second problem with the ‘imperial peace’ concept is that the southwest was not ‘barbaric’ and its inhabitants were not treated as such. Hence, even if a conquering empire had a civilizing ideology, it would have been only partially relevant for this context. Additionally, we should remember that not all empires had, or needed, such an ideology, and the Assyrians apparently did not use the bringing of peace and prosperity to the people they conquered, and the improvement of their standards of life, as a major ideological justification for their expansion (although they do occasionally claim to do so). Conceptually, this makes the widescale use of the term (in the Roman sense) somewhat suspicious. More important than the conceptual problems is the factual one. The Assyrians simply did not bring prosperity to the territories they conquered in the southwest, but instead brought devastation. Notably, the question whether there was prosperity following the imperial conquest is an empirical one, which might sometimes—if the answer is negative—render the discussion obsolete. Indeed, this is the case in the southwest. The inhabitants of the new territories acquired by Assyria suffered greatly as part of the conquest, a large number died in the process or its aftermath, many of the surviving population were exiled, and the living conditions of the remaining inhabitants were low compared to the previous era on the one hand, and to neighbouring regions outside the official borders of Assyria (māt Aššur) on the other. Indeed, the region as a whole suffered a demographic decline to some 10 per cent of the situation prior to the imperial conquests, most of the remaining population lived at subsistence level, and society was crushed. The empire did ensure that basic infrastructure existed in order for the surviving population (and these exiled to the region) to subside and produce minimal surpluses for taxation, in order to maintain the Assyrian army when it arrived (and to enrich the governor), but no more than that. Since potential profits from taxation in this region were not high (Chapter 10), the empire had its interests elsewhere, and the southwestern provinces remained mostly a forgotten backwater (Chapters 4–6). Consider, in light of the above, Olsmstead’s (1918: 759) statement that, ‘The Assyrian peace was indeed a very welcome change from the petty wars which were destroying the life of the east.’ How would the people living in seventh century  Samaria or the Galilee react to it? As Parsons (2010:19) noted, ‘Imperial apologists can laud the Romans for bringing civilization to the British isles because the names and experiences of the common Britons who became Roman subjects have been lost to history.’ In other words, even if

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258  -     economy did prosper (and it didn’t), how did the conquered population live? This was not addressed by the various scholars, and as we have seen, their quality of life was very poor. But it is only the minority that had a poor life, as the majority did not even survive the conquests. As Nicholas Dirks (2006: 332), who studied the British empire in India warned, ‘When imperial history loses any sense of what empire meant to those who were colonized, it becomes complicit in the history of empire itself.’ Thus, even if one does not wish to paint imperialism in a completely negative light, and while one can believe the good intentions of some imperialists and the fact that in many cases empires did improve the standards of life or the local economy (a point acknowledged by Dirks), it is clear that the sceptical approaches to imperialism cannot be left only to the study of European imperialism of the modern era. Clearly, some critical approaches must also be used when studying ancient empires, including the Neo-Assyrian empire in the southwest, especially since in this region there was not even economic prosperity in the provinces to fall back on. The population in the southwestern provinces suffered greatly from the Assyrian conquests and did not recover, and the region remained underdeveloped throughout the period of Assyrian rule. The common view of the Assyrian peace in the southwest is therefore divorced from the reality in these provinces. The ‘Assyrian peace’ (in the southwest) is a scholarly concept, based not only on an uncritical acceptance of imperial views developed in other contexts, but on uncritically projecting this scholarly construct to a different setting, without any historical or archaeological basis. Thus, while there were regions and even provinces (elsewhere) that did prosper under Assyrian rule (briefly mentioned in Chapters 6 and 10), reality in the southwestern provinces was different. Indeed, one of the repeating motifs of most chapters is that reality in the southwestern provinces differed from that in many other provinces. But while demonstrated in practically every chapter, the reasons for it have not yet been explained. In Chapter 10, we review the Assyrian policies in the southwest, in light of the detailed information from the region, and outline the similarities and differences between it and the policies and actions in other regions. This allows us to understand the variation in Assyrian policies—variation that is responsible for some of the misunderstanding described in this book, including concerning the ‘Assyrian peace’. Understanding the reasons behind this variation enable us to advance beyond the mere identification of differences, and to explain the fate of the southwest under Assyrian rule—why were the annexed territories in the southwest so desolate?

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10 Empire by Design? Imperial Policies and Planning and the Conquest of the Southwest

Previous chapters have described the situation in the southwest, and we have seen that the southwestern provinces were desolate. This desolation stands in stark contrast to the reality in the same region before the Assyrian conquests, to the prosperity of the nearby clients, to the situation in other Assyrian provinces, and (subsequently) to scholars’ expectations. Before attempting to explain this anomaly, we would like to expand the conundrum even further. The expansion of the Assyrian empire and its rule over the vast territories it conquered are often described as resulting from a strategy that dictated the expansion at large, and that during the campaigns the army followed coherent tactics, aimed at achieving the imperial goals. Following the conquests, the argument goes, the recently acquired territories were administered as part of a master plan to advance the imperial aims. The detailed evidence from the southwest, once again, reveals a completely different reality, not only highlighting the southwestern anomaly, but also paving the way to its understanding. The first part of the chapter, therefore, reviews some of the generalizations made regarding Assyrian strategies and tactics. This is followed by outlining the contrasting reality in the southwest, which is subsequently explained as resulting from the remote location of the newly acquired southwestern territories, which prevented them from functioning as other provinces did. This re-analysis leads to a new understanding of provinces’ marginality and neglect on the one hand, but also of the reasons for their conquest on the other, offering new insights into the broader process of Assyria’s expansion, and into the considerations that underlie imperial expansion at large.

Assyria’s Imperial Policies, Strategies, and Tactics Like many other empires, Assyria combined direct territorial control with indirect hegemonic control, the former sometimes expanding at the expense of The Neo-Assyrian Empire in the Southwest: Imperial Domination and Its Consequences. Avraham Faust, Oxford University Press (2021). © Avraham Faust. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198841630.003.0010

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260  -     the latter (Chapters 1 and 3). A number of scholars have reconstructed the process of Assyrian imperial expansion and the nature of imperial control, and the following discussion refers to a number of their works, especially the important studies of Bradley Parker who, while (correctly) advocating the complexity of the Assyrian imperial landscape, also presented a systematic picture of Assyrian imperialism that rationally accounted for this variation (e.g. Parker 2012: 868, and more below).

Expansion Strategy According to Parker (e.g. 2013: 136), the expansion of the Assyrian empire was not ‘random’, but was rather ‘a set of consciously planned and efficiently executed policies that took into account the unique conditions and circumstances of each region’. Parker (2012: 875) suggested that, ‘The Assyrian administration carefully weighed the potential military, political, and economic benefits of expansion into new regions, and chose a specific policy for each region that would maximize imperial gains’ (see also Parker 2013: 136). Likewise, Melville (2011: 22) commented that expansion involved ‘calculated destruction rather than wholesale ruin’, adding that the empire ‘carefully weighed the ration of cost to benefit’. Similarly, Van de Mieroop (2007: 250–1) noted that the empire ‘planned the creation of provinces strategically to maximize control and reduce direct confrontation with surrounding enemies’, and Fales (2019) concluded that the Assyrian empire had a grand strategy. Parker (2012: 875), however, noted that, ‘The further the empire expanded, the greater the economic, ideological, or strategic benefit had to be to make territorial control tenable and thus the areas that were suitable for annexation become more restricted.’

Types of Imperial Control The expansion into new territories was therefore not a result of mere chance, but rather the outcome of careful consideration, and ‘a great deal of planning went into deciding how various parts of the empire would be administered’ (Parker 2013: 136). The decision whether to transform a conquered area into a province, leave it as client kingdom, or as a buffer state, was seen as a result of a few variables, including (i) the wealth of the newly conquered region in terms of material or human resources; (ii) the nature of political centralization

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in the area before it was conquered; (iii) the efforts needed to extract the resources from the conquered region; and (iv) the relative strategic significance of the conquered region in terms of political and commercial networks (Parker 2013: 136). As we have seen (Chapter 1), the empire preferred client kingdoms over provinces, and changed the status of the former into the latter only when it had no choice, and direct rule was enforced ‘selectively’, on the basis of a careful assessment of whether the ‘benefits’ of imperial control far outweighed the price (Parker 2013: 136–7; see also Parker 2012: 871; van de Mieroop 2007: 250–1).

Tactical Operations during Military Campaigning Planning, goes the argument, was not only strategic, but also tactical. According to Parker (2012: 869), ‘Specific targets were chosen for attack’ during campaigns, ‘while the interceding towns and villages in a given area were often left unscathed’ (see also Melville 2011: 21–2; Grayson 1995: 961). This was part of a broad plan that took into consideration the future exploitation of the conquered region, and therefore aimed to minimize the damage inflicted on the conquered territories, while maximizing pressure on the enemy, leading to its surrender. Campaign itineraries apparently indicate that when the military advanced, the units were not spread across the landscape, and the army proceeded in ‘a straight line from one destination to the next’ (Parker 2012: 870). When the hinterland of peripheral areas was captured, the aim was to defuse the possible cores of resistance, whereas most of the surrounding areas and their population were left to be exploited (Parker 2012: 869). Similar planning was also observed when carrying counterinsurgency operations, and Melville (2016: 89) noted that the Assyrian army ‘provided security to civilians . . . [and] took care not to antagonize subjects more than necessary . . .’.

Administration and Management following Annexation When annexation was the goal, continues the argument, the military conquest had to be supplemented by administrative actions to consolidate the newly acquired territories within the empire. Indeed, not only was the annexation premeditated, but administration was planned, and many agree that the annexed territories were managed by a well-functioning bureaucratic machine,

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262  -     in what Melville (2016: 89) referred as ‘the Assyrians’ sophisticated approach to governance’ (see also Melville 2016: 62). The first step was the creation of administrative and military strongholds in strategic or central places, usually in the place of an existing settlement (Fuchs 2011: 390–1; Parker 2012: 869). The construction of the new centres required much planning and heavy investment.¹ According to Radner (2014:103), ‘the Assyrian administration established in a newly annexed region would at first face considerable expenditures in order to secure Assyrian rule and to set up the necessary infrastructure to do so’, and both material and human power were sent from throughout the empire to enable these large construction projects (Parker 2012: 869). Radner (2014: 103; references omitted) summarized this complex process: ‘This included the transformation of a suitable existing city into the Assyrian provincial centre (including palace), the reorganization of the local settlement structure, the linking up with the imperial information network and the enhancement of the agricultural potential of the land.’ Once built, the new imperial centres served as hubs of activity and production, and hosted facilities for the production of military equipment and luxury goods, as well as storage spaces for the army (Fuchs 2011: 391; Parker 2012: 869). Beyond the activity in the settlements themselves, they also served as centres of intensive agricultural activities and had an immense hinterland. Radner (2014: 106) noted that cultivating new lands was a major goal of the empire, and it often also introduced new techniques, adding that, ‘This was only possible by bringing in additional manpower. An extensive, centrally directed resettlement programme.’ Parker (2013: 136) concluded that ‘territorial control is characterized by the construction of fortified administrative centers, investment in infrastructure such as roads and irrigation projects, the exploitation of natural resources, the colonization of hinterlands, and the development of the agricultural potential of newly annexed regions’. This, however, was not simple, and ‘as an empire expands into the periphery, transportation costs increase dramatically . . . Territorial control is only feasible, therefore, in limited pockets that offer enough political, military, or economic advantage to offset the cost of annexation’ (Parker 2013: 138). We return to this reservation below.

¹ It should be noted that this planning was probably carried out only after the conquest of the region, as prior to that there was usually a chance that the local king would surrender.

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The View from the Southwest: Assyrian Imperial Policies, Strategies, and Tactics Re-Examined The above reconstructions describe a well-oiled imperial system that planned the expansion in advance, organized the military campaigns efficiently, and administrated the conquered regions in an optimal and effective way. The detailed evidence from the southwest, however, shows that much of this fails to fit, or fits only partially, with the detailed data at hand.

Strategic Planning of Expansion? The evidence presented in Chapters 4 and 5 suggested that conquest was not really planned, and that the empire ‘crawled’ and was dragged into conquests, even when the economic value of the conquered territories was limited, to say the least. An extreme example can be seen in the final annexation of the kingdom of Israel (i.e. the hilly region of Samaria) in the 720s . Here, it is difficult to see any maximization of imperial gains. From an economic perspective, the region was wiped off the map, and strategically, all the important locations, resources, and roads, were already captured at the time of Tiglathpileser III. The hilly area of Samaria—which was all that was left of the kingdom of Israel in the 720s —did not offer the empire anything important from a strategic point of view. Either conquest was not fully planned, or we have to conclude that the evidence cast a shadow on the rationality of this planning. We return to this conquest and how it developed later, but in the meantime would like to examine the considerations mentioned in ‘Assyrians’ Imperial Policies, Strategies, and Tactics’ above that supposedly dictated whether a newly conquered region became a province, a client state, or was left as a buffer state (Parker 2013: 136): (i) the potential of the natural resources and human power that could be extracted from it; (ii) the level of political centralization in the captured area prior to its incorporation within the empire; (iii) how much effort the extraction of wealth from the conquered region would require; (iv) the strategic significance of the region compared to other nearby regions and trade networks. None of these considerations could explain the annexation of Samaria. This hilly region was left in ruins and did not contribute much to the empire— probably less than the tribute paid when it was a client kingdom—and even

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264  -     from a strategic point of view, the important roads and regions (e.g. Gezer, the Ayalon valley, and the highway leading to them) were conquered by Tiglathpileser III and probably annexed at the time (e.g. Dubovský 2006: 166; Aster and Faust 2015: 298–9; Fantalkin and Tal 2015: 210; Ornan et al. 2013: 7; for the conquests see also Cogan 2015; Rainey and Notley 2006: 230). Moreover, if the hegemonic rule of Israel at the time of Tiglath-pileser III was a rational decision (cf. Parker 2013: 136), why was it later conquered and annexed? In other words, if indirect rule was beneficial (and it probably was), then conquest was not. Still, about a decade after it became an Assyrian client, the region was devastated and annexed.

Tactical Operations during Campaigns and the Fate of the Conquered Regions It was suggested that the Assyrian army did not devastate regions, and that it focused on the main roads, leaving the towns and villages unharmed in order to enable future exploitation. The detailed evidence from the southwest (Chapter 4) clearly contradicts this observation. The Galilee was apparently devastated by Tiglath-pileser III, and practically all settlements were destroyed or abandoned, and this was also the fate of the region of Samaria, about a decade later. Interestingly, even the Shephelah, when conquered by Sennacherib in 701 , shared a similar fate. The finds, at least in the southwest, indicate (i) that the Assyrian army did not march along the main routes, selectively destroying major centres and leaving towns and villages unharmed, but that the advance was rather slow and aggressive, and the conquered regions, including the countryside, were usually systematically devastated (Figure 10.1); and (ii) that if some settlements were destroyed only after the campaigns, this casts an even darker shadow on the potential economic gains from such campaigns (more below). One way or another, this discrepancy tallies with the problematic rationale (from a southwestern perspective) supplied for the ‘supposed’ selective destruction—that the empire wanted production not to be harmed so that the region could be exploited. As logical as it sounds to a twenty-first-century western audience (or, perhaps, when applied to other regions), it appears not to have been the case in the southwest. This can be seen not only by the actual devastation of almost all settlements, including villages, but also by the fact that most of the regions, including the Galilee and Samaria, were not exploited

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Figure 10.1 A schematic map describing the advance of the Assyrian army in the Southern Levant, and the devastation of many regions, especially those annexed by the empire Note: Boundaries are very approximate and reflect a seventh-century  reality, when Tyre lost some of its hinterland, and Ashdod was semi-independent. The Shephelah’s approximate boundaries are marked because much of this area changed its status after Sennacherib’s campaign. Source: prepared by Janet Jackson; courtesy of the Tel ‘Eton expedition.

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266  -     systematically after this conquest, and were left desolate (see Chapter 5, and especially Appnedix 5.2).

Provincial Capitals and Administration The same discrepancy can be seen regarding the great investment in the provincial capitals and their hinterland. No great investment in most cities is evident—only Megiddo was apparently rebuilt, and not in grandiose way— and the hinterland in all cases was devastated, and not renewed, let alone developed. Furthermore, the evidence we possess includes very limited information on the Assyrian imperial administration in the region—very little when compared to other parts of the empire—and most of this limited evidence is concentrated in a very small area at the fringe of the newly established provinces, and hardly at the provincial centres, thus exhibiting their marginality (Chapter 6). The above clearly indicates that the reconstructions presented in the first part of this chapter, according to which conquests were rational, the advance of the Assyrian army followed a fixed protocol and inflicted minimal damage, and that the conquered territories were subsequently rebuilt and developed, contradict the detailed data sets from the southwest. Clearly, either these generalizations are incorrect, or the situation in the southwest differed from that in other parts of the empire. The discrepancies must be explained.

Accounting for the Discrepancies: A Comparative Perspective This reconstruction of Assyrian strategy was based on studies of other parts of the empire, such as northern Syria or southeastern Turkey. Briefly reviewing the evidence from these regions might help us to understand the discrepancy between the above reconstructions and the finds from the southwest.

The Assyrian Empire in the Northwest The evidence from northern Syria and southeastern Turkey reveals a completely different reality from that of the southwest, in practically every respect (see also Chapter 6). While many provincial centres were excavated in the

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northwest, in order to save space, we refer only to the three representative examples discussed in Chapter 6: Dur-Katlimmu, Til-Barsip, and Kinalua (see references there), but we must stress that the situation is similar in many other excavated imperial centres, such as Sam’al (e.g. Marom and Herrmann 2014; Herrmann and Schloen 2016), Tušhan (Ziyaret Tepe; Matney et al. 2017), and others. All these cities, representing different regions and times of annexations, were large and impressive, and exhibited monumental Assyrian buildings and finds. The capital cities were surrounded by smaller sites, and intensive agricultural fields, often with newly constructed water canals, revealing intensified agriculture and improved economy. This was also observed in Parker’s own study in the Cizre region, where Tiglath-pileser III constructed several fortified centres and a number of rural settlements in the plain and around it (Parker 2013: 135). Here, the Assyrians selected existing central settlements that were located near large tracts of land and transformed them into larger cities with fortifications and provincial palaces. Indeed, in these centres we have clear evidence for administration, organization, and even investment towards production. Given the limited number of excavations in the northwest, Parker’s reconstruction on the selective destruction was based to some extent on the interpretation of the textual records, but the archaeological information on the way these regions were managed seems to be in line with his interpretations, as after the annexation, these areas were used for intensive agriculture. Clearly, the proximity of the regions to Assyria, along with their agricultural potential and the ability to create canals, made them agriculturally important for Assyria (more below), and this apparently influenced both the way the regions were conquered and their fate afterwards.

Between the Southwest and the Northwest While an apt description of the situation in the northern provinces, this differed greatly from the situation in the southwest. Thus, while Parker’s reconstruction is generally correct for the area he studied, this was not a general Assyrian policy. It was practiced in some, perhaps most, regions, but even if it was common, in the southwest the situation was strikingly different. The differences between the empire’s northwest and southwest could have resulted either (i) from the late date of the conquest of the southwest, i.e. that the policy had changed over time; or (ii) because the distance from this area to Assyria made transporting agricultural products impractical, a point we

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268  -     referred to, even if briefly, in Chapter 5.² Let’s examine these possible reasons for the differences. Is it possible that the differences are a result of the time of annexation? Some of the provinces in northern Syria were indeed annexed in the ninth century  and, moreover, a few had had close contacts with Assyria since the time of the Middle Assyrian kingdom and were highly Assyrianized even before they were re-annexed. This clearly influenced their importance for the Assyrian empire, as well as their smooth integration. Still, other provinces, like Kinalua, were fairly new, and like the southwestern provinces were annexed only at the time of Tiglath-pileser III. That Kinalua is more akin to other centres in the northwest than to the southwestern centres, as seen also in Chapter 6, suggests that the time of annexation was not the sole explanation for the differences. Thus, while king-specific policies (and even broad changes in attitudes) could have made a difference, this is at best only part of the explanation for our conundrum, as various areas that were annexed by Tiglath-pileser III were treated differently—some were devastated during the campaigns and did not recover, while others were better off, and apparently even flourished after their annexation.³ This points toward distance as the major factor responsible for the differential treatment of the southwestern provinces.

The Assyrian Heartland, Food Production, and the Provincial System: The Conundrum of the Southwestern Provinces It appears as if the main—even if not the only—variable responsible for the different treatment of the southwestern provinces, was their economic potential from the perspective of the empire, i.e. not what they could potentially produce, but what the empire could exploit. We have noted earlier that the southwestern clients provided the empire (through tribute) with various luxury goods; these were very important to the

² The newly acquired territories lacked lucrative surpluses, so such were not responsible for the discrepancies. ³ At Sam’al (another important centre, relatively not far from Kinalua, not discussed in Chapter 6 for space considerations), for example, evidence also revealed improved standards of living after the Assyrian conquest (Marom and Hermann 2014).

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empire, and more than justified the cheap, indirect control.⁴ Luxury objects were important, but what the empire desperately needed was food. The growing urban heartland of Assyria needed an ever-increasing amount of food, and it is likely that this was one of the major causes for Assyrian expansion in the first place, and for the creation of new provinces. Grayson (1992: 216) noted that, ‘As early as the reign of Tiglath-pileser I (1114–1076 ..) Assyrian kings were expanding the area of land under cultivation and forcibly transporting peoples to work on it, in order to supply food . . .’. This was, of course, the reason why deportees were mainly sent to the imperial heartland, and why new areas were developed for agriculture there (see also Parker 2001; Rosenzweig 2016a; Postgate 2016). The provinces in northern Syria and southeastern Turkey could easily fulfil this role. Either they were on the edge of the imperial heartland (however one wishes to define it), or they were much closer to it. Even if we take the city of Nineveh as a reference point, than the actual travelling distance from DurKatlimmu, Til-Barsip, Kinalua, and Samaria to the city of Nineveh is some 350, 500, 700, and 1,100 km (respectively).⁵ These numbers, however, do not convey the real difference between Samaria and the others, as the provinces in northern Syria and southeastern Turkey were almost all located near water routes that led to Mesopotamia. Many studies have shown that transporting products by boats is much cheaper than overland transportation, and various studies show that the costs of riverine transportation is about 10 per cent of that of doing so overland (During and Stek 2018: 8).⁶ Given that two of the three sites we used for comparison are located on waterways connected with the imperial centres, as were most other sites in the north (and Kinalua had a relatively short overland route to such a waterway), transporting products from them was quite cheap, and the empire could easily exploit the agricultural potential, and bring the products to the hungry centre (which by now covered extensive territories, and was therefore nearer to the newly conquered territories).

⁴ Client states managed their economies and exchanged the surpluses they had for precious materials and other products the empire wanted, which were then paid as tribute. This was very convenient for the Assyrians, as they did not need to invest, and the fear of their retribution was usually sufficient to impel the clients to pay the tribute (see more in Chapter 11). ⁵ These are very rounded figures. ⁶ Bradford and Kent 1977: 34 use a similar 1:10 ratio for riverine versus land transportation, whereas Duncan-Jones 1982: 366–9 suggested that the ratios for maritime, riverine, and overland transportation were 1:4.7:22.6. Clark and Haswell 1967: 184–9 bring a large amount of raw data, which varies quite greatly, but when averaging the costs for transportation by donkey and by boat, one reaches a ratio of 1:5.38.

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270  -     Moreover, not only is it much cheaper to transport by water, but beyond a certain distance it is simply impractical to transport agricultural products overland. Thus, in the nineteenth century, before the construction of railways, wheat was transported from the Hauran to Acco, but transportation represented 50 per cent of the shipping cost, and the transporters actually took half the cargo (Agmon 1986: 121: 130; see also Faust and Weiss 2005: 83–4). Similarly, during the 1830s in France, the cost of transporting one ton of cereals was 4–5 kg per kilometre (During and Stek 2018: 7, and references). In theory, this means that after 200 km, all the cargo would be taken by the transporters, but in practice it meant that ‘the effective supply range of Paris in the 1830s was only 50 kilometers’.⁷ Combining the large distance from Samaria from the heartland in general, and the large overland segment along the way suggests that transporting food to Assyria was simply impossible. The lack of rivers in Samaria had another negative (even of only secondary) implication, i.e. the inability to create canals for irrigation, hence making the agriculture here less reliable to start with, and less familiar to the Assyrians to oversee (for the importance of agriculture, see also Rosenzweig 2016a). Clearly, the southwestern provinces could not produce food for the hungry heartland (and they did not offer any other commodity, such as metals). While one may still wonder why they were annexed in the first place (see below), it is clear that there was only limited benefit in maintaining them, and this apparently is the main cause for the neglect.

The Marginality of the Southwest: Further Evidence The marginality of the southwest has been amply established in previous chapters, but it can be further demonstrated by Altaweel and Squitieri’s (2018) recent study of the Age of Empires (AoE), of which the Neo-Assyrian period is the first phase. This broad study revealed some interesting patterns, stressing, for example, that the settlements of this era were typically larger and more international (e.g. pp. 157–8), and that the great movement that characterized this era led to universalism, hybridity (pp. 197–8), and international contacts (p. 176). Again, examining the reality in the southwestern provinces show how marginal they were, as none of the above can be found there—the

⁷ While lower calculations are also available (Faust and Weiss 2005: 83–4, and references), none would make it feasible to transport agricultural products from Samaria to Mesopotamia (contra e.g. Gitin 1995: 61, 69; Barstad 1996: 70–4; Van de Mieroop 2007: 252; Becking 2019: 32).

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settlements were small and exhibit very little indication of internationalism and contacts. The differences between the neglected southwest and most parts of the empire were expressed not only in the physical form of the provincial capitals and provincial countryside and landscape; it appears that the governors of the northern provinces were more senior than those of the southwest (see also Liverani 2014: 504; Hunt 2015: 37).⁸

Distance and Differential Treatment of Provinces Notably, differential imperial treatment by location/distance should not come as a surprise, and appears to be characteristic of most, if not all, empires. Sinopoli (1994: 165), for example, noted that, ‘The nature and intensity of imperial involvement in production and acquisition varies’, among other things, ‘with distance to accumulation points’,⁹ stressing (Sinopoli 1994: 166) the importance of maritime and riverine routes for transportation, and adding that, ‘When geographic expansion ends, the cost of maintaining empires soon exceeds the material benefits’ (Sinopoli 1994: 168). Interestingly, Parker made the correct observations regarding the importance of the area he studied, noting (Parker 2012: 875) that, ‘. . . as the empire expanded into its periphery, transportation costs and logistic constraints increased dramatically’, stressing (Parker 2013: 133–6) the importance of riverine transportation, and adding (Parker 2013: 133) that the empire built fortifications in strategic locations along the rivers to secure the ‘well documented . . . riverine traffic that was essential to the maintenance of the growing population centers in the Assyrian heartland’. Parker (2013: 136, emphasis added), summarized: Agricultural potential was a key component in the decision to impose territorial rule in the Upper Tigris River region of southeastern Turkey. Since the fertile areas . . . were directly connected to the Assyrian heartland by the Tigris River, the low cost of the transportation of high-bulk products ⁸ Some of these regions were also culturally closer to Assyria, and could have therefore be more easily absorbed within the imperial setting, and the local population itself probably had more incentives to integrate, making integration simpler, cheaper, and more attractive to the locals than in the southwest. This, however, was of secondary significance. ⁹ Sinopoli (1994:166) noted that the Inka, for instance, received food mainly from nearby regions, whereas metal and cloths were transported from greater distances (see also Malpass and Alconini 2010: 3; Sinopoli 1994: 163–4), echoing the situation in the Assyrian empire.

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272  -     made these areas attractive as potential breadbaskets of the empire. The agricultural potential of these areas, the access they had to other natural resources, and the strategic importance afforded by their location offset the cost of annexation by a substantial margin and, therefore, justified the considerable expense associated with territorial control.

While Parker extrapolated from his study to the empire at large (and others followed), the differences with the southwest are self-evident, questioning the mere ‘decision to impose territorial rule’ on the latter.¹⁰

Imperial Strategies and the Annexation of the Southwest The location of the provinces, therefore, explains the neglect in the southwest. But why was it conquered and annexed in the first place? We have already seen (Chapter 1) that the Assyrians, like most empires, preferred to keep client kingdoms in this status, rather than to annex them (see also Parker 2012: 871; Liverani 2014: 508–9; Grayson 1995: 964; and more generally, also Sinopoli 1994: 162–3). Parker (2013: 137) noted that ‘Assyria’s imperial authorities chose not to impose any type of imperial control over states or regions in the imperial periphery where the price of imposing and maintaining imperial control was seen as far outweighing the benefits of that control’, and Grayson (1995: 964) observed that the ‘Assyrians preferred to gain control over a foreign territory through diplomatic means’. This made perfect sense in the southwest, as annexation was clearly irrational, at least at the economic level. Distance, and consequently economic potential, suggest that the southwest is simply too far to supply food (or any other bulk products) to the hungry centre. Why, therefore, was the region annexed?

Imperial Strategies and Considerations Berdan and Smith (1996: 8–9), in their study of the Aztec empire, identified four basic imperial strategies, and we use their observations as a starting point in our attempt to understand the imperial considerations in the southwest.

¹⁰ Melville (2011: 22) and Grayson (1995: 96) also raised the relevant considerations that dictated imperial policies, but did not explicitly note that these considerations mean that in some regions the actual policies will be different.

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(1) Political strategy, i.e. rulers’ actions aimed at consolidating their power and increasing their control over the centre, or core, of the empire. (2) Economic strategy, which they view as the ‘most important strategy’, driven by ‘the desire to obtain riches for the capital cities’, was achieved by ‘the creation of imperial tribute system’. The Aztecs encouraged trade and protected trading centres and trading routes. (3) Frontier strategy referred to the creation of provinces in strategic locations, which helped protect the empire by creating buffer areas and in low intensity warfare. The empire also built fortresses, garrisons, and sometimes settled people in unstable frontier areas in order to secure them. (4) Elite strategy created a network or class of elites and connected them throughout the empire. The empire encouraged it for its own ends, but the various elites could also benefit from this elite solidarity (cf. Chapter 8). Berdan and Smith stress that the creation of an elite culture had broad implications, leading to connections between elites in separate ethnic groups, as expressed in art, iconography, and material culture. The creation of elite solidarity between groups led to the weakening of ethnic solidarity within each group, also to the benefit of the empire. We would like to use these four basic strategies as a framework against which to assess the empire’s activities in the southwest, especially the annexation of part of the area and the establishment of provinces there.

Imperial Strategies and the Annexation of Samaria as a Test Case Could these strategies explain the annexation of large parts of the southwest? Although most of the deliberations below are relevant to the southwest at large, in the following we use Samaria, whose annexation is exceptionally difficult to account for, as a test case that accentuates the problem. Political strategy in the sense discussed in the list above explicitly pertains to the attempts of the rulers to consolidate their control in the core of the empire. It cannot, therefore, account for the annexation of the southwest, and is subsequently irrelevant for our purposes (with the indirect exception, perhaps, of glorifying the king, which is discussed below).

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274  -     The extension of the political strategy to the periphery was elite strategy. But, as seen above (Chapter 8), we currently do not have evidence for the employment of this strategy in the new southwestern provinces. As it is likely that this policy was employed, it is possible that the current absence of evidence is partly a result of chance, and that some evidence will surface in the future. The extreme dearth of evidence does indicate, however, that even if employed, it was quite marginal, especially given the small size of the elite groups in the devastated provinces. The accumulating evidence from some client states (Chapters 6 and 8) on the other hand, exhibits evidence for emulation, and it is likely that this was encouraged by the empire, who brought the client kings and high officials to the imperial centre, to impress them on the one hand, and to teach them ‘imperial taste’ on the other. At any event, this strategy explains how local elites could be manipulated to serve the imperial needs, and since it worked nicely in the client kingdoms, there was evidently no need to capture part of the region for this purpose. On the contrary, the devastation of the provinces prevented the empire from capitalizing from such strategy in what seems to have become a largely elite-less area. As far as the economic strategy is concerned, the creation of the provinces in the southwest was clearly counterproductive, at least in terms of what the area provided the empire before and after the annexation.¹¹ In this regard, Assyria apparently acted against its own interest. If economy is indeed the ‘most important strategy’, then the Assyrian policy severely backfired. While it is likely that the annexation followed considerations that belong to what Berdan and Smith labelled as frontier strategy (and we elaborate on this in this section and ‘Why Did Assyria Conquer and Annex Samaria? On the Causes for Imperial Expansion’ below), this was not a straightforward case. Notably, the mere creation of the provinces was immaterial for the success of this strategy, as the Assyrian empire could secure the area against other forces, especially Egypt, without annexing Samaria, for example. After all, the strategic site of Gezer, although located at the southern edge of the empire, had already been conquered by Tiglath-pileser III (Cogan 2015, and see ‘The View from the Southwest: Assyrian Imperial Policies, Strategies, and Tactics Re-Examined’ above), and apparently served imperial purposes before the nearby area of the Samarian highlands was conquered and annexed in

¹¹ Compare the economic contribution of the clients to the empire in the seventh century  to that of the provinces (Chapters 6–7); and we have seen (cf. Chapters 2, 4, and 5) that the economic potential of the north (i.e. what now became provinces) was much greater than that of Judah for example, highlighting the economic damage.

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722/20 . And the same applies to the international highway leading to it and to Egypt.¹² Hence, the creation of the new hilly province was not only economically impractical, but did not help in the creation of forts and the maintenance of the frontier. In this sense, replacing a tribute-paying client kingdom that also served as a buffer state had negative effects, and it is doubted whether establishing a province was a positive step, even in terms of frontier strategy. It appears that the annexation of Samaria carried few benefits, while having many deficiencies, and it does not seem to fit easily with any of the strategies described above. It is irrelevant for political strategy that focuses on the centre, and it is against the empire’s economic interests, and also runs counter to its elite strategy, since the devastation robbed the area of its elites. And while we can see that a frontier strategy is likely to have been operating here, the annexation does not improve the situation over the maintenance of a client kingdom, especially in Samaria, in any simplistic manner (more below). Still, the region was conquered and annexed. How should we account for this?

Why Did Assyria Conquer and Annex Samaria? On the Causes for Imperial Expansion As noted, the conquest of Samaria in 722/720  presents an extreme case. This limited, hilly region did not have any natural resources, did not control ports, important roads, or strategic sites, and did not even possess large tracts of agricultural land (which were too far from Assyria anyway). All these were already captured and apparently annexed by Tiglath-pileser III, and Samaria was just a hilly ‘island’, devoid of major roads or other resources.¹³ Its annexation does not follow any clear logic.¹⁴

¹² The entire road was not directly controlled by Assyria even after Sargon II’s conquests, and parts of it were controlled even before them, so the change was not dramatic. ¹³ And even if someone would claim that these surrounding areas were not actually annexed by Tiglath-pileser III, all the strategic gains could be obtained by annexing them, and there was no need to annex the highlands of Samaria. ¹⁴ Fales (2019: 96–8) recently attempted to justify the annexation, but most of his explanations relate to other parts of the kingdom, already annexed by Tiglath-pileser III, and so irrelevant for the annexation of Samaria in the 720s . The ‘relevant’ explanations do not stand scrutiny, as (for example): (i) Gezer was apparently annexed earlier, and the highlands did not border Egypt anyway; and (ii) the Mediterranean ports were not part of Samaria, and were apparently not annexed but given to other clients (see Chapter 7), whereas other explanations, such as the importance of the region for the food it produced, are clearly refuted by the data presented above.

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276  -     Conquests are rarely only a result of rational processes of decision making, and in the following we suggest that the process involved some rational considerations, even if not those suggested in the past, along with less rational ones. Glory and fame are always involved in military expansion, as many conquerors wanted to make a name for themselves. In the case of Assyria, furthermore, this was embedded in its religion, which, as noted by Liverani (2017: 8), was the cause behind the Assyrian expansion. Indeed, Grayson (1995: 966) argued that the king was commanded by god ‘to conquer farther than his predecessor’ (see also Liverani 2017: 33–54). Assyrian imperialism was therefore ‘genetic’, and many kings felt it was necessary for them to expand, like their predecessor, and perhaps even to outdo them (see also Hunt 2015: 24). In many cases, what the kings wanted was glory, as well as booties and tribute. This does not require grand strategy—only ability, i.e. a strong and willing army. One must also remember that the expansion at the time of Tiglath-pileser III, as well as in the few years that followed, was very quick, and the empire increased its territories significantly. It is therefore doubtful that even if there was a military protocol, the empire could have followed it in each and every case, especially when dealing with revolts, which were often unexpected. Sometimes it was necessary to act quickly, and it is possible that the revolt of Samaria, and consequently its conquest, took place in a time when it was necessary to act swiftly and decisively, leading to results which in retrospect were not in line of what scholars see as productive. That the kingdom of Israel revolted repeatedly (e.g. Tadmor 1958; Becking 1992; Younger 1999; see also Hasegawa et al. 2019) probably made the decision to destroy it far more tempting from the imperial perspective. Still, although the annexation of Samaria seems like a mistake when we examine the commonly suggested rationale for Assyrian expansion, it appears that in other ways the conquests had benefits for the empire. While the annexation substantially decreased the economic contribution of this specific region to the imperial economy, and was against the general preference of hegemonic control over direct control (especially in such remote areas), there were still some benefits from the conquest and annexation. First of all, the empire benefited as the devastation might have deterred others from rebelling (Chapter 1; see also Sinopoli 1994: 167; Parker 2012: 870). If the destruction of the marginal area of Samaria deterred Tyre, for example, from revolting, it is clear that the devastation of the former paid off.

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Moreover, we can view the conquest and subsequent devastation as an extension of what Berdan and Smith (1996) called frontier strategy, as the devastation created a real buffer with Egypt. As long as there was a local king in Samaria, he could revolt, perhaps with the support of Egypt, which kept meddling in the region (e.g. Redford 1992: 342–64, 430–69, and references; see also Malamat 1950). The massive devastation prevented such happenings. Hence, given the marginality of Samaria from both an economic and a political perspective, perhaps the Assyrians preferred to gain both deterrence and a nearly ‘empty’ buffer area, and were willing to ‘pay’ the economic price and destroyed this remote hilly kingdom. The importance of securing the area of Samaria and preventing revolts is better understood against the background of the importance of the Aphek– Gezer area (annexed by Tiglath-pileser III). Should Samaria revolt, this strategic region would be completely surrounded. By destroying Samaria, the region’s rear was secured, and the enemy could only come from the south. This advantage might have been worth more than the economic income from this devastated region. Finally, it appears that in retrospect the region had an additional significance, which has not received sufficient attention in recent years. Once it was captured, given its extremely low economic potential from an imperial perspective, the Assyrians apparently deported a significance percentage of the surviving population. As far as the imperial economy was concerned, the new province could not contribute much, as the products could not have been transported to the imperial centre. But the workers could be transported there! The population in the new province could contribute more to the imperial economy when working lands nearer to the centre than by working in Samaria (cf. Grayson 1995: 967; Liverani 2017: 8).¹⁵ Deportations, or exiles, received a great deal of scholarly attention in the past. In recent decades, however, this interest has been attributed to the biblical bias of scholars, and it has become accepted that the deportations must have been limited because the Mesopotamian empires must have wanted to maintain the level of production in the territories they captured (e.g. Barstad 1996 for the Neo-Babylonian empire). These new approaches suffer from a number of shortcomings (such as ignoring the actual evidence for decline, see Appendix 4.1), but it seems as if their understanding of the logic behind the ¹⁵ Craftsmen were also transported to the centres (and are often mentioned in inscriptions), and many more were recruited to the army. However, given that millions were probably deported by the empire by Tiglath-pileser III, Sargon II, and Sennacherib (Chapter 1; Oded 1979: 20–1; Liverani 2017: 255–6) it is clear that most were simple, mainly agricultural, workers.

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278  -     deportations is also partial. Deportations were significant, and for the southwest this makes more sense economically than keeping the population in the region.¹⁶ The main commodity the annexed territories offered the empire was manpower, and Assyria was quick to seize it. This was probably not the cause of the conquest, and we are not discussing slaving raids, but in retrospect, the region served the empire better—economically—as a source of manpower than as a source of food. As Parsons (2010: 18) noted, ‘the labor of the common people remained the only significant source of profit’ (in both old and new empires). And as explicitly claimed by Liverani (2017: 8, and see also 265), ‘The aim of Assyrian imperialism was not to find land to populate and colonize but rather to find sources of manpower to import, in a world where land was superabundant relative to the number of people’. It must be stressed, however, that although the conquest of Samaria had its benefits, most can only be seen in retrospect, and it is unlikely that these led to the initial conquest. While we focused on Samaria, which is an extreme case of ‘insignificance’, much of the above applies to the southwest at large, albeit with modifications and adjustments to each subregion. One way or the other, the annexation of large parts of the southwest was also a result of a rush to expand, whose end results were not—and in actuality could not have been—completely foreseen or planned. But should this come as a surprise? As noted by Howe (2002:123), ‘Expansion was perhaps often opportunistic, improvised, or a response to crisis, rather than motivated by grand ideologies or powerful cultural forces’, adding that there is ‘rarely a grand plan for empire’. Bagg (2013: 119; see also 2011: 295), in a similar vein, and referring specifically to Assyria, noted that ‘world empires cannot be planned, but originate on the basis of certain objectives and are influenced by many internal and external, unpredictable factors’, adding (Bagg 2013:120) that ‘Empires do not originate according to a thought-out plan; in fact, chance and personal decisions play an essential role.’

Summary and Conclusions Various studies have described the tactical advance of the Assyrian army and the strategy of imperial conquests as resulting from careful planning of what to conquer, and its execution according to a well-designed protocol, aimed at limiting unnecessary damage and increasing future production. These were ¹⁶ Some small subregions formed exceptions, as noted throughout this book.

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accompanied by efficient administration, which incorporated the new provinces within the imperial economic machine, built centres, and developed agriculture as part of imperial grand design. Even if there is some exaggeration in the description of imperial planning and efficiency, and even if one would doubt the existence of a well-planned protocol, the above reconstructions were based on case studies throughout the empire. In the southwest, by contrast, we cannot identify any of these components. The tactical advance greatly differed from the description, and was accompanied by the devastation of large, agricultural territories, and the pacification of the provinces was not accompanied by any significant rebuilding and expansion. On the contrary, the annexed territories were desolate. Furthermore, if one examines the logic behind the annexation and the subsequent actions in these territories, it is doubted whether it was planned and fully rationale. The consistent differences between the southwest and other territories requires an explanation. A thorough examination of the data at hand reveals that the explanation does not lie in policy changes over time, since other areas that were annexed at the same time, such as Kinalua, had a completely different fate—more in line with the assumed Assyrian policies. It appears that the differential treatment of the southwest should be attributed to the location of the new provinces, at a great overland distance from the heart of the empire. Most provinces’ raison d’être was producing food for the growing imperial core, but the farther away (overland) they were, the more difficult it became to transport quantities of food. The provinces in the southwest were simply too remote to fulfil this role. In Chapter 11, we see that this conundrum led to the creation of a different type of province in the southwest, but for the purposes of this chapter, distance seems to explain the differential treatment of the southwestern provinces, which could not have filled their ‘purpose’, and were therefore neglected and left desolate. It was clearly to the empire’s benefit to keep the southwest under its yoke, but was not profitable to turn it into māt Aššur (cf. Bagg 2013: 131). This, however, raises the question of why the provinces were conquered and annexed in the first place. We must acknowledge that conquests were not always planned. The Assyrian kings’ need for glory, and the prevalent religious ethos, no doubt encouraged expansion. Additionally, considering the massive and swift expansion at the time of Tiglath-pileser III, it is likely that even if there had been a protocol, it could not have always been followed. It is also possible that devastation was the instinctive imperial reaction to revolts, and only on rare

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280  -     occasions (such as in the case of Tyre) did the empire show restraint. Given the timing of the revolts, during and right after the great expansion at the time of Tiglath-pileser III, administration was probably not yet organized and the empire could not follow protocol anyway. And the repeating revolts by the kingdom of Israel most likely made the decision to destroy it more tempting. All these were accompanied by errors, failures, and mistakes, and all these played a role in the decision to conquer the region and annex it. In retrospect, and despite the economic downside of the annexation (losing the tribute which seems to outweigh the taxes received), we could still identify some benefits (beyond glorifying the king and Assur). First of all, the devastation created deterrence. If the destruction of Samaria (or the Galilee) prevented Tyre from revolting, this was a real benefit. An additional gain was that the massive devastation of Samaria (for example) deposed the king and prevented the local elites (which now became practically non-existent) from cooperating with Egypt, and thus threatening the Assyrian bases in places like the Aphek–Gezer region. Finally, while the remoteness of the provinces meant that they could not have been used to supply the imperial core with agricultural products, the empire could still take advantage of another resource the area offered, and deported manpower to other regions, where they could produce food for the hungry core. These gains, however, can mostly be identified in retrospect, and it is doubtful whether they led to the conquest and devastation. Paraphrasing Parker (2013: 136), we could say that the considerable expense associated with territorial control were much higher than the gains from the annexation, and did not justify it in any simple manner. In summary, the conquest of the region was not a result of a grand strategy. Sometimes kings could be capricious, and there were also errors in judgement. This is inevitable. The fact that the kingdom of Israel was conquered was apparently not the result of meticulous strategic planning, but rather the end result of circumstances not predicted by the Assyrians. We have seen that keeping the client kingdoms was much more efficient, and the empire usually preferred it, so annexing Samaria was most likely not something they wanted when Tiglath-pileser III started his southwestern expansion into the region. The kingdom of Israel could have economically contributed more as a client than as a province, and it was turned into one as a result of processes that once unleashed, were not controlled. Thus, a simplistic sort of ‘reverse engineering’, in which we take the end results to reflect intended policy is simplistic at best, and sometimes simply wrong. We must realize that imperial expansion, even when there was planning—and it is not always clear that this was the case—was

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also a result of errors, mistakes, failures, egos, and the like, in addition to interests and benefits (cf. Allison 1969; Allison and Zelikow 1999). The end results reflect all these, in addition to intentions and strategy. All in all, however, the empire acted rationally, so even after errors were made, reality dictated policy. Thus, although the southwest was probably not conquered as a result of a well-conceived plan, the conquests had benefits and these were seized by the empire. Still, there was no point in investing in these remote and devastated provinces, so administration was quite minimal, concentrating in the few places where the empire felt it would be worthwhile to focus its efforts, i.e. the capitals, but mostly on the edges of the provinces, in specific points of control facing the prospering clients (Chapters 4–7). Thus, while variation in imperial control and the existence of ‘islands’ of imperial control were noted by many (e.g. Liverani 1988; Parker 2012: 868; Bagg 2013), in the southwest this was not a result of a carefully planned strategy, but rather an ad-hoc result of a situation that developed. In Chapter 11, we see how, as a result of this, the provinces in our region were moulded differently to most other provinces, and this explains why imperial activity was limited to some fringe areas. We must note, however, that even if expansion beyond a certain limit is not rational, the semi-rational reasons that led to the conquest at the end of the eighth century  did not disappear, and hence the conquests continued later, with negative consequences for imperial rule, as indeed happened at the time of the NeoBabylonian empire. Only a large-scale transformation in the nature of imperial control could have stopped this negative process, and at the end of Chapter 11 we see how this happened, but only in the Persian period.

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11 A Province Too Far? The Assyrian Empire, Its Southwestern Margins, and the Dynamics of Imperial Expansion, Conquest, and Rule

Since the first empires emerged in the ancient Near East, these large, expanding polities were a formative force in world history. Therefore, they received a great deal of scholarly attention, which examined various historical and methodological issues, related to their formation, expansion, rule, and collapse. The Assyrian empire—sometimes regarded as the first world empire— also attracted much scholarly attention. Although not all methodological aspects received detailed treatment within this specific historical context, the process of Assyrian imperial expansion received its share in this discussion, and many studies described it and explained the rationale behind it, as well as the nature of Assyrian control over its territories, and its final demise. Relying on the uniquely detailed information from the southwestern margins of the Assyrian empire, covering both provinces and client kingdoms, located in different geographical and ecological settings, this book has re-examined the process through which the area was conquered by the empire, and the actual reality on the ground under imperial domination. The results have challenged some commonly accepted scholarly ‘truisms’. The finds, for example, indicate that the southwest should not be treated as one unit. Thus, the provinces were devastated during the conquests, and only marginally recovered afterwards, whereas the clients prospered economically and demographically. Comparing the economic and demographic reality in the southwestern provinces to the neighbouring clients on the one hand, and to more northern provinces, on the other, has enabled us to reconstruct not only the conquest of the region and the considerations that led to it (not all rational), but also to understand the reasons for the differential treatment of the various regions conquered by the empire, namely their location, i.e. distance from the centre, and consequently the empire’s ability to exploit them. Hence, the detailed and high-resolution data at our disposal makes the region an excellent

The Neo-Assyrian Empire in the Southwest: Imperial Domination and Its Consequences. Avraham Faust, Oxford University Press (2021). © Avraham Faust. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198841630.003.0011

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case study of imperial management and rule not only for the study of the Assyrian empire, but also for that of ancient empires at large. In this final chapter, I briefly summarize some of the main conclusions of the book, beginning with the description of the situation before the Assyrian take-over of the region, the conquest itself, and the situation during the period of Assyrian rule and hegemony, leading to a discussion of the considerations that led to the conquests of the various subregions and of the various methods of control. I then analyse the considerations that dictated the empire’s mode of control of its various parts, and the implications of this analysis not only for the understanding of the Assyrian empire, but also for the study of the nature of imperial expansion at large, and the development of imperial rule in the ancient Near East and in world history.

The Case Study: Assyria’s Southwestern Periphery in the Eighth and Seventh Centuries  Archaeologically speaking, the Southern Levant is probably the best-known part of the world, and for the period of Assyrian control we also have a reasonably large number of historical documents, including Assyrian sources of various genres, and parts of the biblical corpus. The rich information at our disposal allows us to study in detail the period that preceded the Assyrian takeover, as well as the time in which the region was under Assyria hegemony, covering both provinces and client kingdoms, and shedding light both on imperial activities and the local reactions to them.

Before Assyria During the eighth century  the Southern Levant flourished (Chapter 2). The kingdom of Israel was at its height, dominating the region and on a par with the kingdom of Aram Damascus. The kingdom incorporated the regions of Samaria, the Sharon, the northern valleys, the Galilee, and the Gilead, sometimes expanding even further, and it controlled the major highways crossing the region, as well as large and fertile valleys. Israel’s connections with Tyre increased its economic importance, and its position as an axis between Tyre and Judah further amplified its political significance. It was densely settled, and hundreds of settlements were unearthed in excavations and surveys. Archaeological excavations present clear evidence for the

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284  -     production of surpluses in many sites, especially of wine and olive oil. Based on existing data on settlement and following the commonly used density coefficients, the population of the kingdom was estimated as 350,000.¹ To the northwest of Israel was the kingdom of Tyre, the economic engine of the growing Mediterranean economy, with colonies all the way to the Atlantic coasts of Iberia and North Africa. To the south of Israel was the kingdom of Judah, and to the southeast were the Philistine city states. These, more southerly, regions also flourished, although they were in the shadow of their larger northern neighbour. No mega-cities existed in Philistia, and using the same parameters, its population was estimated at 50,000, whereas that of Judah was larger, with 140,000–150,000 people. The Transjordanian kingdoms of Ammon, Moab, and Edom also flourished, but were also in the shadow of Israel. The population of the latter kingdoms combined can be estimated in the scale of some 70,000–120,000 inhabitants (see Chapter 2). During most of the eighth century  Israel and Aram Damascus competed for hegemony, and some territories changed hands. Assyria was not an important factor in the Southern Levant at the time, and there is little evidence for its interest in the region during most of the century, nor of its impact on the local polities. Furthermore, it appears that the empire had no contact with the more southern polities until the rule of Tiglath-pileser III, as most are not even mentioned in earlier Assyrian sources (and, likewise, Assyria is not yet mentioned in the Bible).

The Assyrians Are Coming Assyria’s arrival at the time of Tiglath-pileser III was fast and sweeping, and within a few years much of the region was conquered and annexed to Assyria (Chapter 3). In a number of stages, but in a little over ten years after the initial arrival of the Assyrian armies, the north was divided into provinces, whereas the kings of Judah, Ammon, Moab, Edom, and the Philistine city states became clients. Unrest in the south continued under Sargon II, climaxing after his death in 705 , which resulted in wide-scale rebellions. Sennacherib’s western campaign in 701  crushed the rebellion in the region and pacified it, beginning the period of the so-called ‘Assyrian peace’.

¹ See Chapters 2 and 4 for reservations regarding the figures.

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Under Assyria Much of the seventh century , comprising much of what is often known as the ‘Assyrian century’, is regarded as a period of prosperity and economic growth in the southwest, often exemplified by the large centre of the production of olive oil in Ekron and smaller centres nearby, as well as the expansion of settlement into the inhospitable regions of the Negev and the Judean desert, and a significant settlement increase in Edom (Chapters 4 and 5). These developments were often understood to result from Assyrian activities that encouraged urbanization, trade, and economic prosperity. Some scholars even suggested that Assyria actively invested in the region, and had an ideology that encouraged urbanization, and a strategy of supporting trade, while others stressed the lack of internal conflicts as a major factor leading to economic development. Evidence, however, cast doubt on any Assyrian active role in the economic development, since all the evidence for prosperity in the southwest— settlement and economic—is from the client kingdoms. The situation in the Assyrian provinces in the northern part of the region was radically different. These territories were devastated during the Assyrian conquests, and did not recover afterwards. Settlement there was meagre at best, and death during the campaigns and afterwards (see Appendix 4.1) as well as deportations (Chapter 10, and see below) left the provinces with about 10 per cent of its mid-eighth century  population. The abandonment was so massive, that in some subregions many site names were simply forgotten, and later settlers invented new names (Chapter 4). The degree of the desolation is hard to imagine, and all lines of evidence suggest that the region that for millennia had been the economic hub and the demographic centre of the Southern Levant suddenly became a rural backwater and was marginal economically. No evidence for the production of surpluses was unearthed, and even lateseventh-century  imported pottery is more or less absent (Appendix 5.1). At the time of Assyrian rule, the prospering southern polities (especially within the highlands) became, for the first time in history, economically and demographically more important than the devastated north. Not only were the provinces devastated, but the distribution of the existing settlements within the provinces, along with the meagre evidence for administration, show that with the exception of the provincial capitals, settlement, and imperial activity is concentrated in two small subregions on the edges of the provinces, both facing client kingdoms: (i) In the Akko plain, facing

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286  -     Tyre;² and (ii) in the Aphek–Gezer region, facing Philistia and Judah (Chapter 6). This distribution indicates that these small regions were more important for the empire than the core of the provinces. This unique distribution apparently resulted from the fact that the prospering clients offered more potential revenues than the devastated provinces, and this is where the Assyrians concentrated their efforts to extract wealth. Indeed, as long as the client kingdoms—whose kings were officially ‘independent’ (Postgate 1992)—paid their tribute to Assyria, they maintained economic autonomy. These kingdoms were drawn into the flourishing Mediterranean trade of the late Iron Age (see Chapter 5), and subsequently, prospered. Assyria, of course, benefitted greatly from this prosperity via the tribute it imposed on the local rulers, and hence the importance of border areas, which secured this tribute. Still, the prosperity in the south was not part of an overall economic ‘plan’, and as far as the Assyrians were concerned, it just ‘happened’. And, to reiterate, the provinces did not participate in this trade, probably because they did not have surpluses to offer.

Assyrian Activities in the Southwest The meagre evidence for Assyrian administration and even presence in the region (Chapter 7) provides significant insights at two different levels, strengthening the insights gained from the study of settlement and economy. First, we note the mere rarity of evidence for Assyrian administration in the southwest (Chapter 6). The absence of evidence in the clients is not surprising, since not much is expected in an area which had no permanent imperial presence. The rarity of evidence in the provinces, however, is striking, especially given the unparalleled scale of the archaeological exposure in the region. Still, direct evidence for Assyrian presence is meagre, and even evidence for Assyrian influence (‘Assyrianization’) is rare. As far as we know, the Assyrians did not even bother to rename settlements in this remote region. Clearly, there are indications for Assyrian presence in the provincial capitals, but even this is surprisingly sparse. Indeed (and this is the second insight), the distribution of the existing evidence is quite telling, as most of the meagre information comes

² It is likely that the main imperial centre was more to the north, nearer to Tyre itself (the region was probably accessible not only from the coastal roads, but also from Dan, via the Galilee), but the area is not known archaeologically, and no direct evidence for this has yet been discovered.

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from the border areas. The evidence—just like the above-mentioned evidence for settlement and economic activity—concentrated mainly in the Aphek– Gezer area in the south, facing Judah and Philistia, and to some extent also from the Akko plain in the north, facing Tyre (and along the main road). These prospering regions were a source of income for the empire, in the form of tribute and duties, and it is towards them that the empire focused its activities. Thus, the emerging pattern suggests that the importance of the local provinces was not so much because of what they contained or what they provided for the empire, but mainly because of what they enabled it to control, i.e. the areas outside them. Control in the strategic border areas secured the tribute from the clients and duties from their territories, both (i) by making sure it arrived safely and was sent to the centre annually; and (ii) by presenting the might of Assyria, and consequently preventing the clients from refraining from sending it in the first place. And if deterrence was insufficient, these border areas served as a strategic springboard for campaigns towards the clients, and even towards the ‘big prize’ of Egypt. In this respect, these border areas also served as a buffer against potential Egyptian aggression. In order to allow the provinces to fulfil these roles, the Assyrians built small centres for control in the provincial capitals, but operated mainly on the actual edges of the provinces, in strategic locations facing the clients. It is in these limited micro-regions that we have evidence that the empire concentrated its administration and also settled some deportees, which, in a world dominated by the need to secure manpower (Liverani 2017: 194), was clearly a manifestation of their importance. Given these circumstances, the new provinces were mainly supposed to serve as a gateway into the regions beyond them. Economically speaking, the provinces could produce only sufficient food (grain and fodder) for the army, if and when it arrived, but not much more (we will return to this point below in ‘Why Leave the Region Desolate? Interests, Neglect, and the Importance of Deportations’). Most of the provinces’ territories were therefore neglected.

The Fate of Distant Provinces The concentration of Assyrian administrative activity on the edges of the provinces and the economic importance of these regions for extracting wealth

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288  -     from the clients is, of course, in line with both (i) the devastation of the southwestern territories themselves during the campaigns; and (ii) the neglect and desolation that prevailed after the destructions. The devastation of the southwestern provinces not only sets them apart from most Assyrian provinces but was, as noted by many, counterproductive, as the empire must have wanted to benefit from the conquered regions. That such was the reality in other provinces (i.e. they were rebuilt) even led many scholars to assume that the same logic was operating in the southwest too, and that this must have been the situation there as well. We have seen, however, that this was not the case, and understanding the difference seems to reveal some of the considerations that influenced Assyrian (and by extension other imperial) policies. The initial raison d’être for the establishment of Assyrian provinces was apparently to supply food for Assyria’s growing (and hungry) heartland (Chapter 10). This seems to have been one of the reasons why the provincial system was created, and the need to feed the imperial core played a major role in the development of the provinces and the deportation of people into them.³ The empire, therefore, reorganized annexed territories, built provincial centres for control, dug canals, and developed agriculture, in order to increase agricultural production, and to provide more food to its hungry core. The southwest, however, was simply too far for this, especially when considering that most of the transportation had to be overland. Not only was it very expensive to transport any kind of goods from this region to Assyria, but as far as food was concerned this was impossible, and the animals transporting the food would simply eat more than they could carry (more northern provinces were not only much closer to the heartland, but food was also, partially at least, transported there via canals and rivers, enabling cheap transportation of large quantities). The new provinces could not, therefore, fill the typical provincial role, and they were subsequently moulded in a completely different manner. I elaborate on this issue below, but this clearly shows that one cannot assume that what was true for northern Syria was also true for the southwest. Hence, both (i) the causes for the conquest of the region; and (ii) the factors determining its fate afterwards should be carefully reconsidered.

³ For deportation and food production, see also Parker 2001; Rosenzweig 2016a; Oded 1979: 67–74, and more.

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Why Conquer the Region, or Was There a Grand Strategy for the Assyrian Empire? The question of why the region was conquered in the first place is exacerbated since Assyria, like most empires, apparently preferred indirect rule. A combination of factors, some ‘rational’ and some less so, appears to have led to the conquest. As noted, the initial conquest of the region was fairly swift, as part of a massive imperial expansion, and within a short period of time the empire more than doubled its area. This quick series of conquests made it impossible to follow any master plan, even if there was one (Chapter 10), and in many cases, the circumstances on the ground dictated imperial actions. The conquest and annexation of the kingdom of Israel (Samaria) in the 720s  served as an extreme test case (Chapter 10).⁴ Even if nearby areas were conquered following some pre-planning, it is clear that there was no economic or strategic logic behind the annexation of Samaria, which did not possess any wealth, which (after the conquests of Tiglath-pileser III) did not control any strategic location or roads, and which did not supply much revenue, as it was too distant for supplying ‘regular’ taxes, i.e. food (although it could supply manpower, and see below).⁵ The mere annexation of the region challenges the idea that the Assyrians annexed only when it was profitable for them to do so (Parker 2013: 137). It is likely that the rapid expansion in the 730s  was overwhelming, not only for the conquered, but also for the empire, and it required much time to ‘digest’ the newly acquired territories. When one of the new clients (Israel in this case) revolted, conquering and destroying it might have been the simplest readily available solution. Indeed, Assyrian activities were also influenced by the deeds of the conquered population (also Chapter 8), which sometimes provoked the empire to act differently from what it had planned. Moreover, imperial expansion became part of the DNA of some Assyrian kings, and this is probably why Tiglath-pileser III stretched the empire all this way in the first place. Glory, fame, and loot were strong motives, especially in light of Assyrian religion and royal ideology, and it is almost inevitable that in the aftermath of Tiglath-pileser III, Shalmaneser V and Sargon II also wanted to conquer and glorify themselves. ⁴ But much of the logic applies also to other provinces. ⁵ The annexation of the province of Megiddo could be better justified as it controlled long segments of the international road, but since it could not supply the core with food, it still seems illogical when compared to provinces in the northwest or elsewhere (cf. Parker 2013: 136).

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290  -     Finally, crushing local rebellions did have a rational (even if marginal) aspect—the need for deterrence. The killing of a rebellious king and the devastation of his land deterred others from doing the same, and the fact that Samaria was very marginal at this stage made its destruction much easier for the empire. It was a cheap price to pay for deterring more important clients from rebelling (e.g. Tyre). An additional gain, although perhaps understood only in retrospect, was that the dethroning of the king and the massive devastations which probably eliminated the local elites, prevented them from cooperating with Egypt, and posing a threat on the Assyrian bases in places like Gezer, which became most important, but were vulnerable (see Figures 7.1 and 7.3). The devastation of Samaria deprived the empire from some revenues but, ironically, secured this strategic location, which was apparently more important than the province itself. We may assume that all the reasons presented above (and more) contributed to the final conquest of the kingdom of Israel and its subsequent destruction and annexation. Combined with additional unique features that accompanied the conquest of the southwest, like the devastation of large areas (in contrast to the focus on major settlements in other regions; Chapter 10), this shows that the annexation was not part of a master plan, but rather a results of various circumstances and developments (see more below).

Why Destroy the Region, or Empire by Design? The severe damage that was caused during the conquests of the region, apparently more than in other regions (see Chapter 10), was to a large extent a result of the fact that the annexed territories in the southwest did not have economic potential for the empire, i.e. they could not have supplied food and bulk commodities to the imperial core. (The economic potential that did exist is discussed below.) Given their location, there was simply no point in trying to avoid the damage. The army could allow the soldiers to ‘enjoy’ themselves, i.e. to loot, rape, and destroy (pillage and rape were regarded as part of the soldiers’ payment; Grayson 1995: 962). The principles that were apparently operating elsewhere, dictating only selective destruction (e.g. Parker 2012; Chapter 10), were not operating here. Apparently, the Assyrian army did not always follow clear protocol, showing (when combined with the above) that the advance was not always ‘designed’.

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Why Leave the Region Desolate? Interests, Neglect, and the Importance of Deportations The same reasons that allowed the region’s almost total devastation during the campaigns are also responsible for its fate afterwards. Since it could not produce food for the heartland, there was not much point in recovering the region after the devastation. Beyond serving as a springboard towards the clients, the new provinces had only a limited role to play for the empire. The first part of the role was producing enough food to provide for the (limited) local administration and for the army if and when it arrived, i.e. the grain and fodder tax (see also Liverani 2014: 506–7). This was important as the army secured the tribute from the clients, but was marginal in terms of the efforts required to produce it (compared with other provinces that supplied food for hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions, in the provinces and the imperial core), and much of this came from the border areas, like the Ayalon valley, and not from the core of the struggling provinces. The second part of the role the region played for the empire was the potential use of the manpower of these provinces. Only that it was not utilized in these remote locations, but rather in more beneficial places, as many of the survivors were deported to regions in which they could produce food for the empire. As Liverani (2017: 8) noted, ‘The aim of Assyrian imperialism was not to find land to populate and colonize but rather to find sources of manpower to import, in a world where land was superabundant relative to the number of people’ (see also p. 265). This explains the importance of deportations, which appear to have been substantial when compared to the number of people that remained alive after the conquests. Interestingly, while past scholarship (mainly biblical) had an exaggerated fascination with exiles, the recent tendency to downplay the significance of deportations is just as problematic. Deportations were a major issue at the time, and given the uselessness of the region for imperial agricultural production, manpower comprised much of what it had to offer, and the empire happily took as much as it could. This (in addition to the close affinity with the sister-kingdom), is why the exile of much of Israel’s population left such a strong impact on Judah’s Bible. Once the deportations were completed, however, the empire did not have much expectation from the governors of the southwestern provinces. And adding insult to injury, the governors saw the provinces as their own property and as a source of wealth. Hence, anything beyond what was needed for the limited local population to subsist and to supply the army was taken by them (Chapter 7). While chances of recovery in the devastated and depopulated

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292  -     provinces were meagre to start with, the fact that they were treated as the property of the governor and as a source of wealth prevented any chances of recovery, and made the desolation starker. As long as these provinces supplied the corn and fodder for the army and administration, nobody apparently cared about the desolation. To reiterate: the empire needed these remote provinces, and mainly their edges, as a base for dominating the nearby regions, and to prevent potential enemies from invading Assyria. The larger parts of these provinces were marginal⁶ and their importance was in supplying grain and fodder to the army that fulfilled these tasks. This did not require much manpower, and hence the depopulation and neglect. Next, we see that the result was a new form of province, and that in the long run this led to changes in the way empires were managed and operated.

The Southwest in Context Many past reconstructions of the situation in the southwest were unconsciously based on the (interpretation of the) reality in other parts of the empire (better documented textually), which were then indiscriminately projected to the study of the southwest. The southwestern provinces, however, were a world apart from most other provinces,⁷ and instead of finding superficial similarities, we should acknowledge the differences.

The Southwest, the Assyrian Empire, and Imperial Expansion and Control In addition to a better understanding of the history of the region itself, substantially altering some of the common understanding of Assyrian rule in the southwest, the detailed information from this region has important implications for broader studies, on a number of levels. ⁶ In the case of Samaria and the Galilee, one should also consider the Assyrian mental map, which contrasted the Assyrians with the mountain people (cf. Liverani 2017: 55; for a broader phenomenon, see Braudel 1966; Scott 2009). ⁷ Altaweel and Squitieri’s (2018) analysis of the situation in the Assyrian empire at large demonstrates the difference. While Altaweel and Squitieri are clearly correct in referring to movement, universalism, large settlements, international connections, trade, and hybridity, etc. as characteristics of the period, these are either missing in the southwestern provinces or had different outcomes there (e.g. hybridity, and see Chapters 6 and 8), all resulting from the remoteness of the region (what can be called ‘distant provinces effect’).

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Imperial Expansion and Control The construction of empires, and their maintenance, is a complex process. Empires were not established by committee (Flannery 1999), and their formation processes were complex, and messy. They involved egos, aspirations for fame and glory, personal considerations, and wish to accumulate wealth, as well as ill-advised actions, mistakes, and failures, all in addition to the rational considerations we usually attribute to imperial expansion. And even the rational considerations, which do have an important place most of the time, are far more complex than sometimes assumed. Some can be identified only in retrospect, but were not necessarily envisioned in advance. Empires were often not planned; they evolved (cf. Bagg 2013: 120). Consequently, while there are many generalizations that can help us understand the mechanics of empires, these must be examined contextually, because all the factors mentioned above (and others) are interconnected. There is nothing simple or straightforward about imperial expansion. And, as we have seen, the same applies to the nature of control. Ironically, the first generalization we must consider is that, as noted by so many scholars (even if not always heeded even by them), generalizations are tricky. Imperial control varied, different empires acted differently in the same circumstances, and the same empires acted differently across space and time.

The Imperial Peace An example for the caution required is the concept of the ‘Assyrian peace’, and even the ‘imperial peace’ at large (Chapter 9). The notion of ‘imperial peace’ grew from the view that the ‘Roman peace’ benefited the conquered, and brought law, order, civilization, and economic prosperity to barbarians. This was adopted wholeheartedly by the British empire, and subsequently by other western empires, who saw it as their duty (or at least presented it this way) to improve the livelihood of the ‘natives’, expressed in the phrase ‘the white man’s burden’. This view was then apparently projected indiscriminately by academics to other ancient empires, and today practically every empire has its ‘peace’. Scholars were tempted to adopt the term in the context of the southwest because they noticed the prosperity in the client kingdoms. However, most ignored the fact that the southwestern provinces were devastated, the demography there was at an unparalleled nadir, and in large parts of the provinces

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294  -     the economy was at a subsistence level. There was no prosperity in Samaria, the Galilee, the Gilead, or even the northern valleys, and it is unlikely that the inhabitants of the region, survivors of the devastating Assyrian campaigns (and the few arriving deportees) would have accepted such a positive and optimistic assessment. Clearly, the Assyrian empire did not bring civilization to a barbaric world, and did not advance the livelihood of the conquered. At least in the southwest, the concept of the Assyrian peace does not stand up to scrutiny. Not only did the empire not bring prosperity, order, and civilization, but unlike some other empires, the Assyrian empire did not claim this to justify its conquests (cf. Bagg 2011: 129–32). Moreover, while there are also positive points to say about the European imperial impact on the local economies (Howe 2002: 76–83) and political systems (Howe 2002: 126–7), for example by providing ‘stability, security, and legal order for their subjects’ and limiting the ‘savage ethnic or religious antagonism among their people’, this is irrelevant for the Assyrian empire. As far as the population of the southwestern provinces was concerned, while the area was pacified, this ‘peace’ did not equal bringing law, order, and prosperity to a barbaric, lawless area. And a minimalist usage of the term, denoting a period without revolts, even if technically not impossible, should still acknowledge the grave conditions of the time. As Parsons (2010:18) noted, ‘The common experience of imperial rule throughout history has been oppression’, and Morley (2010: 69) noted that a ‘domesticated animal’ also enjoys ‘peace’. Calling this ‘peace’, however, is not only misleading, as readers envision improved physical conditions, economic prosperity, and law and order replacing barbaric chaos, but would constitute an Orwellian use of the term, and is better avoided. The southwestern provinces were indeed ‘quiet’, but they were ‘as quiet as a graveyard’ (Chapter 9). The results of this study, therefore, strongly suggest that the concept of ‘imperial peace’ is in a need of reconsideration, and its application was not always sufficiently critical.

Differential Imperial Treatment across Time and Space The gloomy situation in the southwestern provinces is not representative of all parts of the empire, of course, as we have seen in Chapters 6 and 10 (for the situation in Syria, see also Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 379–85). That the southwest differed from other parts of the empire is one of the major conclusions of this study, and this explains the failure of so many past studies, that uncritically projected the (well-documented) situation in other parts of the

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empire to the southwest. Understanding the differential treatment of different parts of empires is crucial for a better grasp of both Assyrian policies and the nature of imperial rule in general (cf. Sinopoli 1994). Although we have warned against generalizations, we would like to stress time (chronology) and space as two factors that can, beyond chance and historical accidents, lead to systematic differences. Across time, regions that were conquered earlier and were ruled for longer periods of time are expected to be run differently from new provinces (for Syria, Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 378). Moreover, kings might change policies, and the changes made by Tiglath-pileser III regarding the provinces (Chapter 1), for example, had significant ramifications.⁸ There are also changes across space (see also Alconini and Malpass 2010: 281–2). Provinces that are located nearer the centre might also be culturally similar, and receive a preferential (or at least different) treatment. Distance has important economic implications, and the more remote an area was, the more difficult it was for the empire to profit from it (depending on the nature of the imperial economy, to be discussed next). Indeed, distance is probably the major single factor that shaped the fate of the southwest.

Location, Location, Location, or Distance and the Restructuring of Provinces Depending on the services expected of the provinces, there is sometimes a distance (expressed in time and transportation costs) beyond which provinces might not be able fill their role. When providing agricultural products (food) for the heartland is a major role of a province, we can calculate the distance (factoring in which segments are overland, riverine, or maritime), beyond which shipping would ‘cost’ more than the worth of the products, and the province could not fill its role. In such cases, either (i) the provinces would be abandoned; (ii) given to a client to administer; (iii) maintained, but neglected; or (iv) entrusted with a different role. Usually, it appears that the province’s fate would either be one of the first two, or a combination of the third and fourth options. Whether we view the initial conquest as an error, or even if we think that other considerations (deterrence, etc.) justified it, the most important variable ⁸ In this book, I attempted to focus on broad trends, but it is clear that there was variation between different kings.

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296  -     in determining the fate of the southwestern provinces following the conquest was distance, i.e. its usability for the empire. We have seen that, unlike the provinces in the north and northwest, the southwest did not justify the establishment of ‘regular’ provinces. Indeed, this is why the region was largely neglected, with some micro-regions entrusted with a different role and served as imperial bases, i.e. ensuring hegemonic control over its prospering clients beyond the border, and securing the border against possible invasions. The fate of the provinces in the southwest was therefore a combination of points (iii) and (iv), i.e. most of their territories were neglected and they received different roles that affected only small parts of them. The region, however, also provides example for other strategies, as parts of the coastal plain (e.g. Jaffa and Dor) were apparently transferred to the local clients (point (ii) above, and Chapter 7). Although strategy (i) cannot be positively identified under Assyrian rule in the region, it appears that from some time onwards the Neo-Babylonian empire did carry it out (see below). One way or the other, this lesson goes well beyond the Assyrian empire, and the study of remote provinces should receive special attention. While considered in the study of some empires (e.g. the Inka, and see e.g. Malpass and Alconini 2010), not enough attention had been given to this specific category in the study of the Assyrian empire, or of other Near Eastern empires for that matter. This, however, seems to be an important key to our understanding of the fate of the various Assyrian provinces, and even to the development of empires at large. And this leads us to a final issue—how the new understanding of the Assyrian imperial expansion provides us with insights not only into the mechanics of empires, but also into the history of the developments of empires.

The Distant Provinces Test, or the Achaemenid Imperial Economy Revolution Early empires usually expanded in order to obtain wealth, either by extracting tribute from clients, or taxes from conquered territories (for the distinction, see e.g. Smith 2014; see also Bedford 2009: 35–6; Postgate 1992: 251, 254). While various intermediate situations are known, a common (somewhat simplistic) distinction is that tribute was a fairly straightforward form of wealth extraction, which did not necessitate complex administration. It usually included the payment of metals or luxury items, which were easy to extract,

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count, and transport, from the clients. Taxes, by contrast, usually supplied ancient empires in general, and this was true for the Assyrian empire, with agricultural products,⁹ which were then redistributed. Such direct control required a more complex form of administration, but it enabled the empire to extract bulk quantities of products, which were often needed to feed the population and the army (see Chapter 1). Provinces of many early empires—and Assyria was the first ‘true’ empire in the Near East—were, therefore, usually used to supply the empire with quantities of foods. The local authorities shipped the bulk surpluses to the cities, heartland, or imperial core. As empires grew, so did their core, which required more and more food, leading to farther expansion to supply the growing demand (above). Areas that were too far away for the transportation of food were usually left under indirect control, providing only tribute in metals or luxury objects.¹⁰ When such remote regions were annexed, for whatever reason, they could not fill the purpose of supplying the core with food. Given their inability to fill the traditional role of provinces, we have seen that such provinces were either (i) abandoned; (ii) given to clients to administer; (iii) maintained, but neglected; or (iv) provided with a new role within the empire. Options (iii) and (iv) are often combined, since the new role was often more limited, leading to much neglect. The new role of the southwestern (Assyrian) provinces, for example, was guarding the border and securing the flow of tribute from regions that were farther away. The southwestern provinces of the Assyrian empire—the largest empire the ancient Near East had witnessed until then—were therefore not abandoned, but their new role was limited, and most of their territories were neglected and lay desolate. Additionally, some territories along the coastal (e.g. Dor and Jaffa, Chapter 7) were given to the clients to administer (point (ii) above). The Babylonian empire (Assyria’s successor) had a similar use of provinces, i.e. they were used mostly (even if not systematically) to produce food for the heartland, and the region under discussion was therefore useless for it too. Notably, since the Neo-Babylonian empire continued to expand (cf., the discussion of irrational behaviour in Chapter 10), the remaining clients (e.g. Judah and Philistia) were also devastated. The result was that no client survived the imperial advance, and the entire region was in theory directly ruled by the empire, i.e. turned into provinces. The newly conquered territories (like the ⁹ Sometimes, when the conquered territories produced them, taxes were also in the form of luxury items such as metals. ¹⁰ See, for instance, the Late Bronze Age Egyptian empire in the Levant, which did not actually annex the region, most of which was controlled by clients (e.g. Bunimovitz 2019).

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298  -     older southwestern provinces), however, could not function as provinces were supposed to function, on the one hand (i.e. to supply the heartland with food), and since there were no more southern prospering clients to extract tribute from, they could not be given the role of serving as a gateway to the clients. This explains the complete neglect of the region by the Babylonians, as the empire did not even build local centres, nor did it deport any population to the region. Indeed, it is doubted whether new provinces were even established (e.g. Oded 2003; Vanderhooft 2003: 227–9; see also Beaulieu 2018: 235, 237). Moreover, it appears that from a certain point onwards the Neo-Babylonian empire completely abandoned the region, as even the guarding of the border was apparently deemed too expensive, and it de facto withdraw to a more limited area (Beaulieu 2018; Levavi forthcoming). As Levavi (forthcoming, p. 5) wrote, ‘The southern Levant, beyond Lebanon, was certainly under Babylonian control, and was a crucial stronghold and barrier against possible Egyptian aggression, but it may have been perceived more as a buffer zone than as an organic part of the empire’ (hence, this is an example of option (i), i.e. abandoning the province). For both, the Assyrian and Babylonian empires (and other empires, of course), the distance over which agricultural products could have been transported restricted imperial expansion (but not raiding), and set the limits of empire. In order to exceed these limitations, a different concept of imperial economy had to be developed. The first empire in the Near East, and probably worldwide, to break these limits was the Persian empire. This empire appears to have treated the provinces as entities in their own right, and did not judge them only by the agricultural products they could (or could not) contribute to the core. This was expressed by various evidence that shows that the provinces of the Persian empire paid taxes not only (or even mainly) in agricultural products, but in metals (mainly silver) (e.g. Briant 2002: 406–8; Kleber 2015: 4; see also Wiesehofer 2009: 83; Kuhrt 2007: 669–729). These objects were usually not produced in the provinces, and this shows that the governors had to obtain them by manipulating their own provincial economies.¹¹ This appears to be a real revolution in the way the provinces were managed, and it inevitably encouraged production there. ¹¹ This differs from the situation in the Assyrian empire, where most taxes were in the form of agricultural products (grain and fodder) or work (see Chapter 1). While there is evidence for the payment of metals like silver, this is rare, and these were typically obtained not via taxes but as booty or tribute, and sometimes as a substitute for ilku (Dezso 2016: 128, and literature; see also pp. 130–1, 266–92).

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Indeed, unlike its Near Eastern predecessors, the Persian empire encouraged the settlement and even prosperity of remote territories through various mechanisms, and it created colonies and estates of various types in many provinces, including remote ones, bringing people to desolate regions, and settled them there (e.g. Briant 2002: 505–6; Tuplin 1987: 116, 137; see also Altaweel and Squitieri 2018: 210–14). The most famous instance is the biblical return to Zion (described in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah), but this appears to be only one example of a wider policy (e.g. Briant 2002: 46–8; Faust 2018a: 51–3). Distributing the population, in itself, decreased the population concentration in the centre, and diminished the amount of food that had to be shipped there in the first place (for another solution, see below), while increasing production in other provinces, including remote ones like those of the Southern Levant.¹² While this is not the place for a detailed discussion in the factors that led to this development, it appears that this was to some extent a result of the location of the imperial core itself at a great distance from larger-scale riverbound transportation. Unlike its predecessors, Assyria and Babylonia, which were situated near major rivers, the location of the Persian imperial centres greatly limited the empire’s ability to extract food from large areas. Indeed, for many years the royal Achaemenid courts were on the move, along with a huge entourage (Briant 1988; 2002: 186–95; Tuplin 1998; Wiesehofer 2009: 78; Colburn and Hughes 2010: 49), and it appears that the most logical explanation for the phenomenon is because no single region could supply the court with sufficient food for long.¹³ The practice of moving the courts suggests that the empire was aware of the limitations. Moving the courts was, however, only one mechanism to tackle the problem posed by the limited hinterland that could support the centre, and the (re)settlement of people throughout the empire, and not only in the imperial core was another, as it decreased the number of people that had to be fed. The dispersion of population, however, is an indication that the periphery was developed, not for its own sake, of course, but as part of the new imperial economy, which used the provinces in a completely different manner to Assyria and Babylonia. The above-mentioned evidence for the large-scale extraction of metals from the provinces themselves is an example of these new approaches. The provinces were apparently not ¹² The importance of the provinces for the Achaemenid empire is reflected also in the efforts the empire invested in recruiting provincial elites (Goldstone and Haldon 2009: 24; see also Altaweel and Squitieri 2018: 213–14), unlike its predecessors (Chapter 8). ¹³ A common explanation relates the movement to climatic considerations (e.g. Briant 2002: 186–7, and references), which I find insufficient.

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300  -     seen only as a food basket, and clearly had a larger degree of autonomy to run their economies. This treatment of the provinces enabled them, and perhaps even forced them, to be ‘profitable’, in contrast to the situation in earlier empires, when provinces were used (in addition to military uses and to produce food for the centre) to enrich the governors. These changes meant that even remote provinces could profit the empire, as distance was less of an issue for transporting metals or luxury objects.¹⁴ This can only be seen as a strategic revolution that resulted from complete transformation of the imperial economy.¹⁵ The new policy also explains how the Persian empire managed to control areas that were far larger than its precursors, and perhaps also how it existed as a vast empire for about 200 years, which is much longer than its predecessors.

¹⁴ The change is clearly related also to the development of monetary economy, but this was more likely a result of the Achaemenid revolution, and not its cause. ¹⁵ It is clear that there are many features that exhibit clear continuities with the previous empires (for continuity with Assyrian and Babylonian economy, see e.g. Wiesehofer 2009: 79, 82), but it appears that the drastic changes that accompanied the transition to Persian rule were not always appreciated.

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Index of names Note: Tables and figures are indicated by an italic ‘t ’ and ‘f ’, respectively, following the page number. For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–53) may, on occasion, appear on only one of those pages. Acuto, F. A. 223 Adler, Y. 42, 81 Aharoni, M. 47, 99 Aharoni, Y. 50, 55–6, 61, 92n.22, 108–9, 158, 181–2, 185 Ahituv, S. 30, 108–9, 164n.24, 167–9 Aigle, D. 245, 249 Akkermans, P. M. M. G. 12, 149–50, 206n.23, 294–5 Albright, W. F. 46, 53–4 Alcock, S. E. 140n.1, 245 Alconini, S. 147n.8, 215–16, 227, 271n.9, 295–6 Alexandre, Y. 40–1, 75–6, 134–5 Allison, G. 280–1 Altaweel, M. 1, 3–5, 21–2, 104n.35, 105n.37, 270–1, 292n.7, 299 Amiran, R. 160f Amit, D. 46, 92–3, 96–7 Anastasio, S. 162–6, 198–9 Arav, R. 41, 77 Arbel, Y. 42–3, 86 Arnold, B. 148 Artzi, M. 43–4, 84 Artzi, P. 221–2 Ashcroft, B. 177 Aster, S. Z. 29–30, 35, 65, 68, 70n.11, 139–44, 181–2, 190n.5, 193n.8, 194, 197, 211–13, 219, 219n.6, 220–2, 224, 226–7, 253–4, 253n.7, 255n.10, 263–4 Aubet, M. E. 43–4, 56, 90, 127, 129, 133 Auld, G. 133 Avigad, N. 46, 79–80 Avner-Levy, R. 42–3, 87 Ayalon, E. 42–3

Bagg, A. M. 1, 4–5, 12, 16, 19–21, 61, 65n.8, 128n.10, 140, 151, 153–5, 162–3, 163n.22, 166–70, 178, 225, 228–9, 231, 253–4, 278–9, 281, 293–4 Bahn, P. 51 Bahrani, Z. 19–20, 112 Bailey, D. 55–6 Balensi, J. 43–4, 84 Balogh, C. 221–2 Baltali, S. 148 Bar-Adon, P. 98–9 Barag, D. 169 Barako, T. J. 42, 82 Barda, L. 44 Bar, S. 42–3, 53–4, 81, 82n.6, 85 Barkay, G. 31, 52–3, 56–7, 92–3, 92n.22, 222–3 Barnett, R. D. 112 Barstad, H. M. 25n.7, 110, 125, 270n.7, 277–8 Barton, C. A. 250–1 Bartov, Y. 196f Baruchi-Unna, A. 20, 199 Baruch, Y. 96–7 Barzel, V. 92–3 Bates, R. D. 47–8, 102 Batz, S. 46, 97, 97n.26 Beaulieu, P.-A. 297–8 Becking, B. 25n.7, 67, 125, 270n.7, 276 Bedford, P. R. 11, 12n.4, 128, 246–7, 296–7 Beit-Arieh. I. 42–3, 47, 87, 99–100, 118–19 Ben-David, C. 48, 102–3, 108–9, 109n.41 Bennett, C.-M. 48, 158 Ben-Shlomo, D. 44, 46, 68, 88–90, 96, 151, 157, 162–3, 165, 176 Ben-Tor, A. 41, 77–8, 136–7, 154

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348    Berdan, F. F. 4–5, 227, 272–5, 277 Berlejung, A. 16, 207–8, 225–6, 228–9, 233, 253–4 Berman, A. 44 Bienkowski, P. 48, 102–3, 158, 162–3, 170, 175, 226, 233 Bierling, M. R. 127 Biger, G. 118, 247 Billig, Y. 92–3 Biran, A. 41, 76, 91–2, 99, 200 Blakely, J. A. 65, 68, 94–5 Boardman, J. 130, 133 Bornstein, A. 80 Bourke, S. J. 41n.10, 78n.3 Bradford, M. G. 122, 124, 269n.6 Brand, E. 87, 123, 136 Brandl, B. 87–8, 151, 155, 167, 168n.27, 196–7 Briant, P. 298–300 Briend, J. 133 Broshi, M. 37–40, 49–50, 52n.23, 73–5, 107, 111, 224 Brown, S. H. 158, 170, 175, 226, 233 Bryce, J. 243 Bunimovitz, S. 1, 27, 46, 53–4, 93, 134, 136, 222–3, 228–9, 247, 255, 297n.10 Bunnens, G. 144–5 Burdajewicz, M. 44, 84, 90 Burke, A. 42–3, 86, 203 Burke, P. 148n.10, 236–7 Butler, S. J. 242–3 Byrne, R. 46, 222–3 Cahill, J. M. 41, 77–8 Campbell, E. 42, 80, 134, 136–7 Chadwick, J. R. 44, 89 Chambon, A. 42, 80 Chance, J. K. 3, 5, 215–16, 216n.3, 217n.4, 221n.7, 223–5, 227–31 Chia, P. 177 Clark, C. 269n.6 Cline, E. H. 3, 3n.1, 4–5, 230, 242, 246–7 Cogan, M. 27–8, 29n.12, 35, 60–5, 67, 69, 139–40, 167, 182–4, 186–7, 190n.5, 194, 199, 209–10, 219, 263–4, 274–5 Cohen, R. 100 Cohen-Amin, R. 96–7 Coldstream, J. N. 133 Cole, D. P. 18–19, 46, 95

Conlee, C. A. 110–11 Cook, R. M. 133 Cornwell, H. 250–1 Covello-Paran, K. 40–1, 76 Cross, F. M. 98–9 Crouch, C. L. 29–30, 35 Crowfoot, J. W. 139–40, 167 Culican, W. 90 Dadon, M. 45, 91 Dagan, Y. 27, 46, 46n.15, 50, 93, 95–6, 100n.29, 101n.31 D’Altroy, S. E. 110n.43 Damati, E. 42, 81 Dar, S. 42, 54, 80, 85, 122n.5 Daviau, P. M. M. 47–8, 101, 106–7 David, N. 189n.4, 232n.12 Davidovitz, U. 92–3 Davis, T. W. 1, 27 Dayagi-Mendels, M. 90 DeBlij, H. J. 122 De Groot, A. 45, 54, 93, 106, 118–19 De Vaux, R. 98 Defonzo, R. J. P. 46, 95 Delgado, A. 127, 214–15 Demand, N. H. 112–13 Dever, W. G. 38–40, 43, 46, 80–1, 87–8 Diakonoff, I. M. 121 Di Cosmo, N. 249–51 Dinur, U. 81 Dion, P. E. 101, 106–7 Dirks, N. 258 Di Segni, L. 109 Docter, R. F. 129 Dominguez, A. J. 133 Dornemann, R. H. 150, 177 Dothan, M. 43–4, 83, 113 Dothan, T. 44, 117 Doyle, M. W. 3nn.1,2, 4–5 Drori, I. 119 Dubovský, P. 20, 65, 175, 182–4, 208, 263–4 Duncan-Jones, R. 269n.6 Dupont, P. 133 Edelstein, G. 92–3 Efrat, E. 53 Eichrodt, W. 121 Einwhoner, R. S. 215

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   Eisenberg. E. 46, 96 Eitam, D. 42, 53–4, 80, 89, 117, 119, 123, 126, 135 Eitan, A. 98 Eitan-Katz (Katz), H. 53–4, 94, 133n.17, 135–6 Elat, M. 25–6, 90, 121, 126–7 Elayi, J. 43–4, 56, 90, 127, 177, 199 Elgavish, S. 43–4, 135–7 Elgavish, Y. 84 Elizur, Y. 108 Ellis, J. C. 44, 90 Engstrom, C. M. A. 160, 162–3 Eph’al. I. 11, 14, 17, 20, 22n.6, 112–14, 129n.12, 139, 144–5, 181–2, 184–5, 187–8, 199, 204n.18 Erdkamp, P. 113 Eshel, H. 69 Eshel, I. 94 Fabian, P. 99 Fales, F. M. 18, 113, 129n.11, 131n.13, 143n.4, 253–5, 255n.9, 260, 275n.14 Fantalkin, A. 42–4, 65, 86, 89, 93, 130, 133–4, 151, 157, 203–4, 263–4 Farajat, S. 48 Faust, A. 1, 25–7, 29–30, 37–8, 40n.5, 42–3, 45–6, 49–54, 56–7, 65, 68f, 69, 73–5, 87, 92–4, 97, 106–7, 110–14, 118–19, 122, 124, 126, 130, 133, 136–7, 139–44, 148–9, 148n.9, 158, 162, 175, 190, 195, 202, 205n.19, 211–13, 215, 222–5, 228–9, 233, 236, 247, 253n.7, 263–4, 270, 299 Feig, N. 92–3 Feller, Y. 96–7 Ferguson, L. 215 Ferrer, M. 127, 214–15 Finkelstein, I. 24–5, 27, 37–42, 45–6, 49–51, 52n.23, 53–6, 65, 73–5, 78, 80–1, 82n.7, 87–9, 92–5, 96n.25, 97, 97n.26, 99–100, 107, 118–19, 125, 135, 190, 233, 247–8, 251, 255 Fischer, M. 44, 88 Fischer, P. M. 41, 78 Flannery, K. V. 1, 293 Fleming, D. E. 29–30, 224 Fletcher, C. R. L. 243 Forrer, E. 185 Frahm, E. 29, 177, 214, 218, 234t

349

Frankel, R. 40–1, 41n.7, 43–4, 53–4, 118, 126, 134–5 Frankenstein. S. 26, 128 Friedman, R. E. 29–30, 35 Fritz, V. 41, 77, 154 Frumkin, A. 54 Fuchs, A. 18, 61n.4, 68n.9, 113, 143n.4, 187, 262 Funk, R. B. 96 Gadot, Y. 41, 45, 92–3, 174–5, 203–4 Galil, G. 18–19, 212–13 Gal, Z. 27, 40–3, 53–4, 75–6, 85, 107, 126, 134–5, 190 Ganor, A. 95 Geraty, L. T. 47, 101 Getzov. N. 43–4 Geva, H. 92n.21 Gharib, R. 47, 101 Gibbon, E. 239–40 Gibbon. G. 53 Gibson, S. 45–6, 94 Giddens, A. 241 Gilboa, A. 42–3, 56, 79–80, 84–5, 133, 163n.22, 185, 191–2, 202 Gilead, I. 99 Gitin, S. 24–6, 25n.7, 26, 44, 89, 117, 124n.8, 125–7, 128n.10, 130, 133, 136, 224, 247, 251, 252n.6, 255, 255n.9, 270n.7 Given, M. 46n.15 Givon, S. 46, 94 Gleason, M. W. 240 Glock, A. 41n.9, 79n.4 Goldstein, R. 121 Goldstone, J. A. 219–20, 230, 299n.12 Goldsworthy, A. 240, 250–1 Gonzalez de Canales, F. 129 Gonzalez-Ruibal, A. 215 Gophna, R. 38–40, 42–3, 52n.23, 53–4, 90, 99, 111 Gosden, C. 146, 148, 148n.10, 214–15, 224–5, 233 Govrin, Y. 47 Graham, M. W. 3, 3n.1, 4–5, 230, 242, 246–7 Grayson, A. K. 5, 12, 14–19, 21–2, 25–6, 130, 132, 199–200, 204, 212–13, 219–20, 261, 268–9, 272, 272n.10, 276–7, 290 Greenberg, M. 94, 121

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350    Greener, A. 42, 80–1 Greenfeld, U. 42, 81 Greenhut, Z. 45, 93, 106, 118–19 Green, J. 109 Groot, N. C. F. 101, 106–7 Grossmark, T. 167 Guy, P. L. O. 153–4

Hunt, A. M. W. 8–10, 13–17, 63, 147–50, 160–3, 165, 167, 170, 173, 176, 225, 228–9, 271, 276 Hunt, M. 78 Hurowitz, V. A. 253–4 Huster, T. 44 Hutson, S. 189n.4, 241

Haas, N. 113 Haddad, E. 87, 205n.20 Haggi, A. 43–4, 84 Haldon, J. F. 219–20, 230, 299n.12 Hallo, W. W. 246–7, 254 Hall, P. 122 Halpern, B. 192–3 Hardin, J. W. 44, 65, 68, 94–5 Har-Even, B. 42, 53–4, 80–1, 135 Harrison, T. P. 47–8, 102, 150–1, 166, 178n.31 Hart, S. 48 Hasegawa, S. 41n.7, 65, 67, 76, 276 Häser, J. 42, 82–3 Haswell, M. R. 269n.6 Hausleiter, A. 148–9, 162, 163n.21, 173 Haverfield, F. 243 Hayes, J. H. 37 Hennessy, J. B. 41n.10, 78n.3 Herr, L. 41–2, 47–8, 78, 82–3, 100–3, 106–7 Herrmann, V. 266–7, 268n.3 Herzog, Z. 42–3, 47, 51–2, 56–7, 78, 85–6, 99, 155f Hestrin, R. 90 Higginbotham, C. 148, 224–5 Hizmi, H. 42, 81, 190 Hodder, I. 189n.4, 241 Hodos, T. 127, 214–15 Holladay, J. S. 55–6 Hollander, J. A. 215 Holland, T. A. 46n.15 Holloway, S. W. 177 Homes-Fredriq, D. 48n.19 Hopkins, D. C. 128 Hopkins, K. 240 Horowitz, W. 88–9, 139–40, 167–8, 189–90 Howe, S. 3–5, 14, 110–11, 146, 214n.1, 241, 278, 294 Hubner, U. 48 Humbert, J. B. 43–4, 83–4, 133

Ibrahim, M. M. 41, 78 Ilan, Z. 81 Itach, G. 42n.12, 81, 87n.16, 167–9, 189–90, 201 Itach, N. 189f Jackson, J. 183f, 265f Jamieson-Drake, D. W. 111–14 Jasmin, M. 42, 80 Jefferson, M. 52–3 Ji, C.-H. C. 47–8, 100, 102 Johnson, B. 119 Jones, E. 53 Kahn, D. 10–11 Kalai, Z. 108–9 Karo, T. 39f, 74f Katzenstein, H. J. 209n.26 Katz, H. see Eitan-Katz (Katz), H. Keel, O. 167 Kelly, C. 240–3, 241n.3, 242n.4 Kelso, J. L. 42, 80–1 Kempinski, A. 99, 155n.14, 163, 171, 192, 192n.7 Kent, W. A. 122, 124, 269n.6 Kerekes, M. 17–18 Kern, P. B. 112–14 Kertai, D. 149–51, 153–5, 158–60, 171, 192 Kipling, R. 243–4 Kislev, M. 92–3, 117 Kleber, K. 298 Kletter, R. 79, 151, 153–4, 158, 175 Kloner, A. 92–4 Knauf, E. A. 24–5, 247 Knoppers, G. N. 228–9 Kochavi, M. 27, 41–3, 46, 53–4, 77, 85, 96–7, 99, 133, 135 Kogan-Zehavi, E. 89, 151, 156–7, 156f Kohn-Tavor, A. 41, 79 Kühne, H. 149–50 Kuhrt, A. 22–3, 114–15, 127–8, 298

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   Lapp, N. L. 42, 80, 82, 91 Laufer, A. 152f, 196f Lederman, Z. 46, 53–4, 93, 107, 118–19, 123, 134, 136, 247, 255 Lehmann, G. 43–4, 47, 66f, 83, 90, 133, 156–7 Lemaire, A. 167n.26 Lemche, N. P. 110 Lenski, G. 53, 58 Lenzen, C. J. 82 Lernau, H. 118 Lernau, O. 118 Levavi, Y. 297–8 Levi, J. M. 215 Levine, B. A. 219–21 Levin, Y. 36n.1, 229 Lev-Yadun, S. 42 Levy, Y. 88 Liebmann, M. 148n.9 Liebowitz, H. A. 40–1, 75 Lindner, M. 48 Liphschitz, N. 118 Lipschits, O. 45–6, 80–1, 92n.22, 94, 110, 151, 158, 247 Liverani, M. 3n.2, 4–5, 10–13, 16–17, 20–2, 25–6, 110–11, 114–15, 126, 179–80, 199, 211–12, 219–20, 228–9, 252–4, 271–2, 276–8, 281, 287, 291, 292n.6 Livyatan-Ben Arie, R. 42, 81 Lloyd, A. B. 127–8 López Castro, J. L. 127, 129 Luke, J. 133 Luttwak, E. N. 5–6 Luukko, M. 28–9 MacDonald, B. 48, 102–3 MacGinnis, J. 1, 168 Machinist, P. 18–19, 126, 185, 221–2 Maeir, A. M. 44, 89, 133–4 Magen, Y. 45, 91–2 Magness, J. 133 Magrill, P. 166, 173 Malamat, A. 11, 277 Malpass, M. A. 215–16, 271n.9, 295–6 Mann, M. 4–5 Manuelli, F. 153–4, 154n.12, 157–60, 171 Markoe, G. E. 90, 127–8 Marom, N. 266–7, 268n.3 Marriott, J. 113, 143

351

Master, D. 42, 79–80, 79n.5, 117–19, 127, 133 Matney, T. 266–7 Mattila, R. 14–15 Mattingly, G. L. 165, 176 Mazar, A. 41–2, 44, 77, 80, 86, 88, 92, 96–7, 123, 130, 136n.23, 164n.24, 169 Mazar, B. 77, 97 Mazor, G. 92–3 McCreery, D. W. 41, 78 Melville, S. C. 111–12, 260–2, 272n.10 Michman, D. 215 Mienis, H. K. 118 Milik, J. T. 98–9 Millard, A. 28–9, 61n.2, 62–4, 182–4, 186n.2 Miller, J. M. 37, 49 Mirkam, N. 42, 82 Mittmann, S. 42 Monroe, W. 168 Moorey, P. R. S. 1, 27, 166 Moyal, Y. 45, 93, 118–19, 158, 175 Muller, P. O. 122 Muqari, A. 42–3, 85 Na’aman, N. 24–6, 45, 49, 65, 68, 83n.8, 84–5, 87, 92n.21, 94–5, 99, 114, 129n.12, 139–40, 157–8, 162–6, 171–2, 174–6, 181–2, 185, 187–91, 198–9, 203–4, 208–9, 223, 228, 247, 251, 252n.6, 255 Nagorski, A. 46, 96 Najjar, M. 42, 82–3, 101, 103, 106–7 Naveh, J. 133, 167–8 Ne’eman, Y. 42–3 Niemeier, W. D. 133 Nigro, L. 47, 98, 101 Nijboer, A. J. 127, 129 Nolan, P. 53, 58 Notley, R. S. 37, 47n.18, 49–50, 60n.1, 62–5, 64n.7, 68–70, 108, 181–2, 185, 203–4, 263–4 Novacek, G. V. 163, 171, 192 Oates, J. 160 Oded, B. 10–11, 20–2, 37, 49, 62–5, 64n.7, 67, 70, 114–15, 185–7, 197, 227, 277n.15, 288n.3, 297–8 Ofer, A. 27, 46, 96–7, 97n.26, 98 Ohnersorgen, M. A. 163

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352    Ohtsu, T. 162, 163n.21 Olami, Y. 42–4 Olmstead, A. T. 21–2, 114–15, 188, 245–6 Oren, E. 44, 89–90, 130, 133, 157 Ornan, T. 65, 87–8, 155, 167, 196–7, 226n.9, 263–4 Ortiz, S. 43, 65, 87–8 Osborne, J. 150–1, 206, 206n.23 Oshima, T. 88–9, 139–40, 167–8 Oshri, A. 76, 107, 190, 205n.19 Osterhammel, J. 223 Otto, A. 221 Pakkala, J. 79 Paley, S. M. 42–3, 85 Panitz-Cohen, N. 88, 99, 130 Parchami, A. 242–5, 250–1, 255 Parker, B. J. 10–12, 14, 16–17, 19–22, 206, 206n.23, 213, 259–64, 266–9, 271–2, 276, 280–1, 288n.3, 289–90 Parpola, S. 16, 128, 139, 144–5, 225, 228–9 Parsons, T. H. 3n.1, 110–11, 214–15, 252, 257–8, 277–8, 294 Peet, J. R. 122 Peilstocker, M. 43–4, 88 Peleg, Y. 42, 46n.16, 81, 96–7, 96n.25 Perčírková, J. 10, 15, 17–20, 200, 208, 212–13, 224 Peretz, I. 95 Petrie, C. A. 148 Petrie, W. M. F. 44, 90, 151 Ponchia, S. 14, 16–18, 223–4 Pongratz-Leisten, B. 177 Porath, Y. 42–3, 53–4, 85 Porter, B. 47–8, 102 Portugali, Y. 134 Postgate, J. N. 8, 11–17, 19–20, 38, 130, 145–50, 175, 178, 194–5, 206–8, 225, 236–7, 285–6, 296–7 Potts, T. 41n.10, 78n.3 Prausnitz, M. 43–4 Pritchard, J. B. 41, 45, 54, 78, 91 Raaflaub, K. A. 240–1 Radner, K. 1, 8–11, 13–18, 20–2, 28n.8, 113–15, 143n.4, 167, 194, 197, 199–200, 204, 206, 218, 228–9, 262 Rainey, A. F. 37, 47n.18, 49–50, 60n.1, 62–5, 64n.7, 68–70, 108, 182–5, 203–4, 263–4

Rawson, P. S. 160 Redford, D. 127–8, 277 Reich, R. 44, 87–8, 90, 151, 152f, 153–5, 158, 175, 192, 196–7 Reisner, G. A. 139–40, 167 Renfrew, C. 51 Richardson, S. 230 Riklin, S. 42, 80, 92, 135 Rimmer Herrmann, V. 1 Rodman, M. C. 146 Ronen, A. 43–4 Rosensaft, M. 196f Rosenzweig, M. S. 194–5, 197n.11, 206–7, 228–9, 268–70, 288n.3 Roth-Fenster, T. 9f, 152f, 196f Routledge, B. 47–8, 101n.30, 102, 118–19, 160–3, 170, 226, 233 Rowton, M. B. 223 Safrai, Z. 27, 40, 54, 122, 192–3, 224, 227 Saggs, H. W. F. 112 Salazar, C. F. 112 Sanchez, C. 133 Sapir, Y. 9f, 54n.25, 93n.23, 94, 107, 196f, 205n.19 Sass, B. 118 Schloen, D. 25–6, 126–7, 130, 266–7 Schniedewind, W. M. 29–30 Schreiber, K. J. 3 Schurr, M. R. 215 Schwartz, B. 29–30, 35 Schwartz, G. M. 12, 149–50, 206n.23, 294–5 Scott, J. C. 215–16, 221, 292n.6 Seger, J. D. 95 Seligman, J. 92–3 Shadman, A. 87, 195 Shagdarsurung, T. 245, 249 Shai, I. 44, 46, 94 Shalev, Y. 42–3, 85 Shanks, H. 89, 156–7 Shavit, A. 43–4, 88 Sherratt, A. 90, 128 Sherratt, S. 90, 128 Shmueli, A. 119 Shomroni, A. 123 Shveka, A. 29n.13 Siddal, L. R. 8–10 Sigrist, M. 139–40 Silberman, N. 37, 49–50

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   Simpson, W. K. 246–7, 254 Sinclair, L. A. 80–1 Singer-Avitz, L. 24–5, 41n.9, 42–3, 47, 79n.4, 80–1, 85–6, 88–9, 99, 105–6, 118, 156n.15, 162–3, 209n.26, 247 Sinopoli, C. M. 3–6, 3nn.1,2, 19–21, 107, 114, 128n.10, 145–6, 178–80, 205–6, 213, 219–20, 223, 225, 245, 271–2, 276, 294–5 Skoglund, T. 163, 215–16, 227 Smith, M. E. 4–5, 12n.4, 140n.1, 227, 272–5, 277, 296–7 Smith, R. H. 41n.10, 78n.3 Sneh, A. 196f Solimany, G. 92–3 Sommer, M. 199 Squitieri, A. 1, 3n.2, 104n.35, 105n.37, 270–1, 270n.7, 299 Stager, L. E. 25–6, 44, 73–5, 89, 98–9, 117–19, 121, 124n.8, 127–8, 130, 133 Stark, B. L. 3, 5, 215–16, 217n.4, 221n.7, 223–5, 227–31 Stark, H. 44 Steiner, M. L. 47–8, 101–2, 106–7, 133 Steiner, R. C. 187 Stern, E. 41–3, 78–81, 84–5, 89–90, 97–8, 111–12, 130, 133, 151, 154–5, 157–8, 160–3, 163n.22, 166–70, 182–5, 192, 204, 228 Stern, M. 228 Stoddart, S. 241 Tadmor, H. 67, 69, 70n.11, 126–7, 129n.12, 139–40, 144–5, 181–2, 186–7, 276 Tainter, J. A. 110–11, 113–14, 241 Talis, S. 95 Tal, O. 42–3, 65, 86, 133, 151, 203–4, 263–4 Tappy, R. E. 42, 46, 79–80, 94, 163 Tarler, D. 41, 77–8 Tavgar, A. 54, 82 Taxel, I. 44, 88 Tendler, A. S. 87 Thareani (Thareani Sussely), Y. 47, 73–6, 99, 153, 162–4, 171–2, 174n.29, 200, 233 Thomas, N. 146, 148, 214–15, 224–5 Torge, H. 42–3, 85, 87, 87n.16 Tsafrir, Y. 109 Tsukimoto, A. 41, 77, 134 Tudeau, J. 18, 145–6

353

Tueg, R. 87n.16 Tuplin, C. 299–300 Tushingham, P. 28n.8 Tyson, C. W. 1, 24–5, 28–9, 47, 61n.2, 100–1, 106–7, 118–19, 247 Ur, J. 206, 206n.23 Ussishkin, D. 19–20, 41, 46, 94, 112–13, 125, 155, 163, 171, 182–4, 192, 248 Van Beek, G. 89–90, 151, 157, 165, 176 Van Creveld, M. 113 Van de Mieroop, M. 10–14, 20, 25, 28, 70, 125, 199, 204, 248, 251, 255, 260–1, 270n.7 Vanderhooft, D. 297–8 Van der Kooj, G. 41, 78 van der Plicht, J. 127, 129 Vaughn, A. G. 46, 91, 94, 97–9 Vieweger, D. 42, 82–3 Von Bothmer, D. 133 Von Thünen, J. H. 122 Wachtel, N. 241 Waldbaum, J. C. 130, 133, 198–200 Walton, J. T. 25–6 Watanabe, K. 128 Wazana, N. 221–2 Weinberger-Stern, M. 45, 54, 93, 118–19 Weinberg, S. S. 111–12, 130 Weinfeld, M. 220 Weippert, H. 46 Weissbrod, T. 196f Weiss, E. 25–6, 95, 116n.1, 117–19, 122, 124, 137, 270 Weksler-Bdolah, S. 92–3 Wevers, J. W. 121 Wheeler, J. O. 122 White, L. 177 Wiesehofer, J. 245, 298–300, 300n.15 Wiessner, P. 146 Wilkinson, T. J. 46n.15, 206 Wilson, C. 7f, 66f Winderbaum, A. 167, 226n.9 Wiseman, D. J. 113 Wolf, E. R. 215 Wolff, S. 43–4, 65, 85, 87–8 Woolf, G. 4, 228, 236–7, 240, 248, 250–3

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354    Yadin, E. 41, 77 Yadin, Y. 77, 134, 136–7, 154 Yamada, S. 8–10, 126–7, 177, 198–9, 208n.24, 209–10 Yassine, K. 41, 78 Yasur-Landau, A. 83, 198–9 Yeivin, S. 42, 46, 80–1, 94, 153–4 Yezerski, I. 42, 80, 97 Yisraeli, Y. 99 Yogev, O. 92–3 Younger, K. L. 26, 67, 276 Younker, R. W. 41, 47, 79, 100–1, 106–7

Zadok, R. 87, 139–40, 187, 190 Zelikow, P. 280–1 Zertal, A. 42, 81–2, 189–90 Zilberg, P. 18–20, 28–9, 28n.9, 29, 35, 126–7, 139–40, 140n.2, 144–5, 158, 167n.26, 175, 182–4, 186, 194n.9, 207–10 Zipf, G. K. 52–3 Zissu, B. 92–3 Zorn, J. R. 45, 91, 133 Zukerman, A. 134 Zwickel, W. 79, 151, 153–4, 158, 175

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Index of places Note: Tables and figures are indicated by an italic ‘t ’ and ‘f ’, respectively, following the page number. For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–53) may, on occasion, appear on only one of those pages. Abel Beth Maachah 39f, 41n.8 Acco 39f, 43–4, 66f, 74f, 83, 142f, 167, 174, 183f, 270 Ad Halom 142f, 156–7, 156f, 171–2, 205n.20, 208–9 Africa 43–4, 56, 110–11, 215, 244, 284 Akhzib 39f, 43–4, 74f, 83, 198–9 Akko plain 164, 180, 182–5, 191, 198–201, 210–11, 285–7 Al-Blakhiyya 39f, 44, 74f, 90 Amman 66f, 142f, 168–9, 183f, 265f Amman Citadel 39f, 47, 74f, 100 Ammon 6, 7f, 9f, 23–5, 28–9, 35, 39f, 41, 47, 50, 61n.2, 62n.5, 63–4, 66f, 69–70, 74f, 79, 83, 88, 100–1, 108, 142f, 183f, 247, 265f, 284 Anathoth 92 Aphek 39f, 55–6, 66f, 120f, 142f, 183f, 195, 196f, 203n.17, 265f Aphek–Gezer area/region 86–8, 143n.5, 144, 165–6, 174, 180–1, 190–1, 194–8, 196f, 201, 210–11, 277, 280, 285–7 Aphek–Tel Hadid area 195, 205–7 Arabia 6, 11, 49–50, 56, 118, 125, 248 Arad 39f, 47, 74f, 99, 120f, 142f, 167, 169 Arad valley 7f, 24–5, 39f, 118–19, 142f, 222–3, 247 Aram 36, 62–5, 227 Aram Damascus 6, 23, 36, 49–50, 62, 283–4, see also Damascus Arbilu (Erbil) 8, 9f Aroer 39f, 47, 74f, 99, 142f, 169 Arpad 9f, 219n.5 Arslan Tash (Hadātu) 150–1 Asdob Yam 74f

As Halom 74f Ashdod 7f, 9f, 23, 28n.10, 29, 36–7, 39f, 44, 66f, 68–70, 70n.11, 74f, 88–9, 113, 120f, 129n.12, 139–41, 142f, 151, 156–7, 156f, 157, 159, 164, 167–8, 171–4, 181–2, 183f, 188–9, 189f, 191, 196f, 203–4, 208–9, 219n.6, 224, 234t, 265f, 265f Ashdod Yam 39f, 44, 89, 142f, 157, 171–2 Ashkelon 6, 7f, 39f, 44, 63–4, 66f, 69–70, 74f, 89, 106, 108, 117, 119, 120f, 121–5, 127, 131, 133, 156–7, 196f, 203–5 as-Sadeh 39f, 48, 74f, 102–3 Assur/Ashur/māt Aššur 8, 9f, 11, 13–14, 16–17, 20, 22, 28n.11, 61, 65, 70–1, 126, 138, 141, 149–50, 156–8, 162, 171–2, 257, 279–80 Atlantic 43–4, 56, 127, 284 Atlith 39f, 43–4, 74f, 84 Avva 187 Ayalon basin 203 Ayalon valley 43, 55, 195, 196f, 197, 263–4, 291 ʾAyyelet ha-Šahar : 74f, 79, 142f, 151, 152f, 153–4, 158–9, 196f, 205n.20 Azekah 66f, 183f, see also Tel ‘Azeka Babylon 9f, 177, 187, 189–90 Babylonia 9f, 111–12, 130, 153–4, 177, 246–7, 299–300 Baja III 39f, 48, 74f, 102–3 Baluʿ 74f, 102 Bareqet 196f Bashan 7f Beersheba 39f, 47, 51, 74f, 99, 120f, 142f, 167, see also Tel Beersheba

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356    Beersheba valley 7f, 24–5, 39f, 118–19, 142f, 164, 228, 247 Beit Aryeh 39f, 42, 53–4, 67, 80, 135–6 Beit Dagan 203–4 Beit Ha-Kerem 74f, 92–3 Benē Dekalim 74f, 95 Benjamin 39f, 45, 74f, 77, 91–2, 92n.21, 109n.41 Ben-Shemen 87n.17, 139–41, 140n.1, 142f, 196f, 201 Besor area/basin 157, 159n.18, 176 Bethel 39f, 42, 66f, 74f, 80–2, 183f, 265f Bethlehem 96–7 Bethsaida 39f, 41, 65, 74f, 76–7 Beth-Shean 7f, 39f, 41, 66f, 74f, 77, 142f, 167, 169, 182–4, 183f, 265f Beth-Shemesh 39f, 46, 53–4, 70, 74f, 93, 95–6, 107, 118–19, 123, 134, 136–8, 190, see also Tel Beth-Shemesh Beth-Zur 39f, 46, 70, 74f, 96 Bnei Braq 203–4 Boqe’ah 98–9, 120f Boqe’ah valley 74f, 98 Britain/British Isles 243, 257–8 Bur Marina 9f Busayra 39f, 48, 102–3, 151, 158, 175, 208–9 Byblos 61, 63–4 Calah 9f, 22, 62, 67 Calneh 150–1, 219n.5 Carchemish 9f, 63–4 Carmel 42–3, 61, 182–5, 204, see also Mount Carmel Carthage 129 Cisjordan 70, 106–7, 111, 170, 184, 192n.6 Cizre 266–7 Cuthah 187 Cyprus 9f Damascus 7f, 9f, 60–5, 71, 184, 219n.5, 226n.10, see also Aram Damascus Dan 7f, 39f, 41, 51–2, 66f, 74f, 76, 79, 103–4, 120f, 133, 134n.18, 142f, 151, 153, 174n.29, 189f, 200, 210, 265f, 286n.2 Dead Sea 7f, 46–7, 98–9 Deir Daqla 39f, 42, 67, 80, 135 Deir el Mir 39f, 53–4, 135

Deir es-Sid 74f, 92 Dhiban 39f, 47–8, 66f, 74f, 102 Dor 7f, 9f, 39f, 42–3, 66f, 70, 74f, 84–5, 103–4, 120f, 133, 142f, 145n.6, 163n.22, 167–9, 173–4, 181–6, 183f, 188–9, 191, 196f, 201–5, 265f, 295–7 Dothan 142f Dur-Katlimmu (Tell Šēḫ Hamad) 9f, 149,
161–2, 168, 173, 178, 210, 213, 225, 266–7, 269 Dur-Sharrukin 9f, 22 Edom 6, 7f, 9f, 23–5, 35, 48, 50, 62–4, 69–70, 88, 102–3, 108, 142f, 175, 247, 284–5 Egypt 6, 9f, 10–11, 25–6, 49–50, 55–6, 67, 69, 90, 117, 125, 127–8, 143, 156n.15, 176, 179–80, 191, 195–8, 209–11, 219n.6, 223, 248, 274–5, 275n.14, 277, 280, 287, 290, 297–8, 297n.10 Ein el-Ghuweir 74f, 98 Ein et-Turaba 74f, 98 Ein Gedi 39f, 74f, 97, 120f Ekron 24–6, 39f, 44, 66f, 69, 74f, 89–90, 106, 108, 117, 120f, 123–4, 126, 133, 136–8, 142f, 156–7, 169, 183f, 196f, 203–4, 247, 265f, 285 Elam 9f El-Burj 39f, 74f El-’Id 74f el-Makhruq 39f, 42, 74f, 81 En Gev 39f, 41, 65, 66f, 74f, 77, 183f En Haggit 74f, 85 Ephraim 7f Euphrates river 8–10, 9f, 150 Europe 148, 215n.2, 243–4 Fajer-South 74f, 96–7 Feinan 102–3 French Hill 39f, 45, 74f, 92–3 Galilee 6, 7f, 39f, 40–1, 41n.7, 53–4, 65, 74f, 75–6, 105, 107–9, 126, 133n.17, 138, 142f, 181–4, 186–7, 190, 205, 257–8, 264–6, 280, 283–4, 286n.2, 292n.6, 293–4 Gath 36–7, 39f, 44, 53–4, 74f, 89, 134, 142f, 169 Gaza 6, 63–4, 66f, 68, 123, 127, 131, 196f Gazit 90 Geshur 41, 77

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  

357

Gezer 39f, 43, 51, 65, 66f, 74f, 86–8, 120f, 139–44, 142f, 151, 155, 159, 165–7, 169, 173–4, 180–4, 183f, 187–8, 190–1, 194–9, 196f, 201, 203, 210–11, 263–4, 265f, 274–5, 275n.14, 277, 280, 285–7, 290 Ghrareh 39f, 48, 74f, 102–3 Gibeon 39f, 45, 54, 74f, 91, 118–19 Gilead 7f, 39f, 42, 49–50, 50n.21, 55–6, 74f, 82–3, 105n.39, 142f, 181–2, 283–4, 293–4 Givat Homa 74f, 92–3 Gozan 67 Greece 118 Gush Etzion 96–7 Guzana 9f, 161–2

Horvat Yiftachel 74f, 76 Hulah valley 7f, 199–200

Habur 13, 149 Habur river 9f, 67 Ḫaddatu 150 Halah 67 Hama 9f Hamath 23, 60–1, 63–4, 187 Hannaton 183f, 265f Har Gillo (West) 74f, 96–7 Ḫarḫar (Kar-Šarruken) 177 Harrah 9f Haser (3) 74f Haser (4) 74f Haser (5) 74f Haser (F) 74f Haser (G) 74f Haser (H) 74f Haserim 90 Hawrān 181–2
Hazon 265f Hazor 39f, 41, 51, 53–4, 65, 66f, 74f, 77, 79, 134, 136–7, 142f, 151, 152f, 153–4, 168–9, 183f, 187, 196f Hebron 39f, 46, 66f, 70, 74f, 96–7, 118–19 Hesban 39f, 47, 74f, 101 Horbat Avimor 74f, 87, 196f Horbat Avraq 95 Horbat Hazzan 95 Horvat Eli 39f, 42, 74f, 81–2, 190 Horvat Khasif 74f, 90 Horvat Malta 39f, 40–1, 74f, 76, 167 Horvat Radum 74f, 99 Horvat Rosh Zayit 39f, 40–1, 74f, 75–6 Horvat Uza 74f, 99

Jabal al-Qseir 39f, 48, 74f, 102–3 Jabneh 36–7 Jaffa 7f, 39f, 42–3, 66f, 74f, 86, 89, 117, 196f, 203–5, 265f, 295–7 Jalul 39f, 47, 74f, 100 Jamaan 39f, 47, 74f, 101 Jarkon river 185 Jatt 39f, 42–3, 74f, 85, 85n.12, 201 Jawa 39f, 47, 74f, 101 Jericho (Tell es-Sultan) 46, 74f, 92, 98 Jerusalem 7f, 36–7, 39f, 45–6, 51–2, 58n.28, 64–5, 66f, 69, 74f, 91–3, 96, 98–9, 118–19, 120f, 124, 133, 142f, 160f, 167, 177, 183f, 196f, 196f, 221, 224, 226n.9, 265f Jezreel 142f, 168–9 Jezreel valley 7f, 78, 85, 182–4 Jibeit (Giv’it) 74f, 81–2 Jokneam 39f, 41, 65, 66f, 74f, 78–9, 183f, 192, 265f Jordan 6, 49–50 Jordan river 7f, 37–8, 49–50 Jordan valley 6, 41–2, 182–4 Judah 6, 7f, 9f, 23, 25–6, 28–30, 35–7, 40, 44–7, 49–56, 52f, 57f, 58, 62–5, 66f, 68–70, 73–5, 82, 88, 91–100, 95n.24, 96n.25, 100n.29, 105–6, 108–9, 111–12, 116–19, 121–7, 129, 131, 135–8, 137f, 143, 164, 168, 174–5, 183f, 184, 186–7, 201, 206n.21, 208–11, 219–20, 223–4, 226–9, 232–3, 234t, 236–8, 274n.11, 283–7, 297–8 Judean desert 39f, 46–7, 74f, 97–9, 118–19, 121, 124, 285

Iberia 43–4, 56, 129, 284 India 244, 258 Iran 11, 157, 177, 191 Iraq 1 Irbid 39f, 42, 65, 74f, 82 Ireland 243 Israel 6, 9f, 12, 23, 25–6, 35–7, 40–4, 49–56, 52f, 57f, 58, 60–5, 71, 76, 84–5, 88, 104f, 104, 108, 120f, 121–2, 126, 131, 134, 136–8, 137f, 162–3, 178, 184, 186–7, 218–21, 224, 227–9, 263–4, 276, 279–81, 283–4, 289–91

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358    Judean foothills 74f Judean highlands 6, 39f, 47–8, 50, 96–7, 142f, 224 Kabri 39f, 43–4, 66f, 74f, 83, 133, 158, 181, 183f, 198–9, 265f Kalhu 8 Kanah 66f, 183f, 265f Karm er-Ras 39f, 40–1, 74f, 75 Kar-Shalmaneser 150, 177 Kedesh 39f, 41, 74f, 78 Ketef Hinnom 39f, 45, 74f, 92–3 Kh ’Anim 39f Kh. abu et-Twein 74f, 96–7 Kh. Abu Shawan 96–7 Kh. Abu Tabaq 98–9 Kh. ad-Dabba 74f, 102–3 Kh. ‘Ajah el-Foqa 39f, 74f Kh. al-Ataruz 39f, 47–8, 74f, 102 Kh. al-Kur 39f, 48 Kh. al-Mu’allaq 39f, 47–8, 74f, 102–3 Kh. al-Mudayna 39f, 47–8, 74f Kh. ‘Alona 74f, 92–3 Khallat es-Sihrij 167 : Khallat Umm Sira 39f, 46n.16, 96n.25, 97 Kh. Anim 46, 74f, 97 Kh. ‘Aujah el-Foqa 42, 81 Kh. Avimor 195 Kh. Banat Barr 39f, 53–4, 135–6 Kh. Burnat 196f Kh. Dawwar 39f, 42, 80, 135 Kh. Deir Daqla 53–4 Kh. el-Bireh 196f Kh. el-Burj 45, 54, 93, 118–19 Kh. Eli 142f Kh. el-Maqari 98–9 Kh. el-Qatt 74f, 96–7 Kh. el Qom 39f, 46, 70, 74f, 95 Kh. er-Ras 39f, 45, 74f, 92–3 Kh. esh-Shajara 39f, 42, 74f, 80 Kh. es-Samrah 98–9 Kh. et-Tell 39f, 54 Kh. Hilal 74f, 96–7 Kh. Huga 74f, 90 Khirbet Abu Shawan 74f Khirbet Abu Tabaq 74f Khirbet el-Maqari 74f Khirbet er-Samrah 74f Khirbet Mazin 74f Kh. Jarish 74f, 96–7

Kh. Jemein 39f, 42, 54, 67, 74f, 80 Kh. Kla 39f, 42, 53–4, 67, 80, 135–6 Kh. Kusiya 139–41, 187–8 Kh. Marjameh 39f, 42, 67, 74f, 80 Kh. Mazin 98 Kh. Mudayna 101 Khorsabad 67, 150 Kh. Qeiyafa 74f, 95 Kh. Qusiya 142f, 188–9, 196f, 201 Kh. Rabud 39f, 46, 70, 74f, 96, 97n.26 Kh. Rosh Zayit 53–4, 134–7 Kh. Ruweiba 90 Kh. Sansanna 74f, 97 Kh. Shilhah 74f, 92 Kh. Shimʿa 97 Kh. Suleyib 74f, 90 Kh. Summeily 39f, 44, 74f, 94 Kh. Tibna 39f, 53–4, 135 Kh. Tov 74f, 100 Kh. Urma 39f, 54 Kh. Yama 39f, 42–3, 74f, 85, 85n.12, 201 Kh. Zaqzuq 74f, 85, 85n.12, 201 Kibbutz Maʿapilim 140n.1 Kilizu 8 Kinalua 9f, 150–1, 166, 168, 173–4, 178, 178nn.31,33, 210, 213, 225, 266–9, 279, see also Tell Tayinat Kinneret 66f, 169, 183f, 265f Kinrot 39f, 41, 65, 74f, 77, 79, 142f, 151, 154, 187, 196f Kišessim (Kar-Nergal) 177 Kition 129 Kumme 9f Kurnet Bir e-Tel 39f, 53–4, 135–6 Kuta 189–90 Lachich 39f, 46, 51, 66f, 70, 74f, 94, 112–13, 142f, 166, 169 Laqe 149 Lebanese coast 61, 69 Lebanon 6, 24–5, 43–4, 63–4, 144, 199, 210–11, 297–8 Lahen 39f, 48n.19, 101n.30 Leja 7f Levant 13, 26, 60–3, 67–9, 128, 130, 175, 253, 297n.10, see also Southern Levant Mamilla 74f, 92–3 Manahat 39f, 45, 74f, 93

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   Maresha 39f, 46, 74f, 94 Maskiot 39f, 42, 74f, 81 Mazamua 206 Mediterranean 6, 9f, 10–11, 24, 61, 63, 117–18, 127–31, 133, 204, 247 Mefalsim 74f, 90 Megiddo 7f, 28–9, 39f, 41, 51, 66f, 70, 74f, 78–9, 103–4, 120f, 125, 129–30, 141, 142f, 151, 152f, 155, 158–9, 163, 166–9, 171, 173–4, 181–6, 183f, 188–9, 191–3, 196f, 198–201, 201n.15, 210, 265f, 266, 289n.5 Mesad Hashavyahu 133 Mesopotamia 1–2, 6, 8, 21–2, 49–50, 56, 87, 92, 114–15, 125–7, 128n.10, 158–9, 165, 175, 188, 194–5, 211–12, 224, 230, 269, 270n.7 Mevasseret Yerushalayim 39f, 45, 74f, 92–3 Mezad Michmas 74f, 92 Miletus 112–13 Miras ed-Din 74f, 81–2 Mittani 8 Mizpah (Tell en-Nasbeh) 51, 91 Moab 6, 7f, 9f, 23, 35, 39f, 47–8, 47n.18, 62–4, 66f, 69–70, 74f, 83, 88, 101–2, 105n.39, 108, 142f, 284 Mount Carmel 185, see also Carmel Mount Nebo 142f, 168–9 Moza 39f, 45, 74f, 93, 118–19 Nahal Shiloh 196f Nahal Zimri 74f, 92–3 Nahshonim 142f, 167 Nasca (Peru) 110–11 Neballat (Nabala) 178n.30 Nebi Samwil 39f, 45, 74f, 91 Negev 6, 7f, 24–5, 47, 74f, 90, 99–100, 119, 121, 124, 164, 169, 174, 247, 285 Nile river 118 Nimrin 39f, 41, 74f, 76, 78 Nimrud 150, 161–2, 209n.26 Nineveh 8, 9f, 10–11, 22, 28n.9, 112, 121, 150, 161–2, 192–3, 225–6, 269 Orontes river 150–1 Palestine 6, 125, 248 Pella 39f, 41n.10, 78n.3, 103n.34

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Persian Gulf 7f, 10–11, 63 Philistia 25–6, 28–9, 40, 44, 49–51, 55–6, 61, 63–4, 66f, 68–70, 88–91, 93, 105–6, 108, 111, 116–18, 125, 129, 131, 133, 136, 137f, 138, 143, 164, 168–9, 175–6, 183f, 185, 198, 208–11, 226, 228–30, 233, 236–8, 248, 284–7, 297–8 Phoenicia 23, 40, 43–4, 49–50, 56, 66f, 70, 83–4, 103–4, 106, 127–8, 179, 183f, 199, 201, 265f Pisgat Zeev A 39f, 45, 74f, 92–3 Pisgat Zeev D 74f, 92–3 Qaqun 74f, 85n.13, 139–41, 140n.1, 142f, 196f, 201 Qarnaim 66f, 183f, 265f Qarnayim 70, 181–2, 184, 192n.6 Qarney Hittin 39f, 40–1, 74f, 75 Qarqar 60–1, 64–5 Qasr el-Yahud 74f, 98 Qasr es-Sitt 196f Qidron wadi 98 Qiryat Yeʿarim 39f, 45, 74f, 93 Qitmit 74f, 100, 142f, 169 Qubur al Walaydah 74f, 90 Qudadi 39f Qula 196f Qumran 39f, 74f, 98 Qurayyat al-Mansur 39f, 48, 74f, 102–3 Ramat Beit Ha-Kerem 74f Ramat Beit Ha-Kerem farmstead 92–3 Ramat Rahel 39f, 45, 74f, 93, 142f, 151, 158, 169, 174–5, 208–9 Rambam Cave 74f, 92–3 Ramot 74f Ramot farmsteads 92–3 Raphah 68 Rasapa 149 Ras el Kharrûbeh 74f, 91 Red Sea 118 Rishon Leziyon 74f, 88, 158 Rogem Abu Mughaiyir 39f, 42, 74f, 81 Rome 33, 110–11, 239–44, 250–1 Rosh Haʿayin 39f, 42–3, 87, 196f, 205n.20 Rosh Hanikra 61, 198–9 R.P. 1618/1239 74f, 96–7 Rueqeish 90 Rujm el-Bahr 74f, 98

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360    Rujm esh-Shajra 74f, 98 Ruqeish 39f, 44, 74f Safur 39f, 47, 74f, 100 Sahab 39f, 47, 74f, 100 Sam’al 63–4, 267, 268n.3 Samaria 6, 7f, 9f, 12, 18–19, 23, 28–9, 39f, 42–3, 51–6, 62–5, 66f, 67–8, 70–1, 74f, 79–82, 82n.7, 85–8, 85n.12, 103–5, 109n.41, 123n.6, 126, 129–30, 135, 138–41, 142f, 144, 145n.6, 159–60, 167, 169, 173–4, 181–2, 183f, 184–7, 189–91, 189n.4, 190n.5, 193–5, 196f, 197, 201–4, 209n.25, 210–11, 257–8, 263–6, 265f, 269–70, 273–8, 280–1, 283–4, 289–90, 292n.6, 293–4 Samarina 184 Scotland 243 Sea of Galilee 7f Shaʿar-Ha-ʿAmakim 74f, 84, 201 Sharon 7f, 42–3, 48–9, 55–6, 84–5, 117, 133, 167, 184–5, 191, 202–4, 283–4 Shechem 42, 53–4, 66f, 74f, 80, 134, 136–7, 142f, 167–9, 183f, 265f Sheikh Diab 74f, 82 Sheikh Hamad 149–50 Sheikh ‘Issa 39f, 53–4, 135 Shephelah 7f, 36, 39f, 46, 50, 54n.25, 66f, 70, 74f, 88–9, 91n.19, 93–6, 100, 101n.31, 102n.32, 106–8, 117, 119, 121, 123, 167, 197, 206n.21, 224, 264, 265f Shikmona 39f, 43–4, 74f, 84, 136–7 Shiloh 39f, 42, 74f, 81–2, 118 Shiqmona 135 Shoham 196f Sidon (Kar-Assur-ahu-iddina) 9f, 61, 69, 177 Soreq valley 119 Southern Levant 1–2, 6, 7f, 23, 31–2, 35–8, 49, 58–65, 66f, 71–5, 101–3, 104n.35, 110–11, 116, 128n.10, 130–1, 151–60, 152f, 218–30, 234t, 247, 251, 265f, 283–5, 297–9, see also Levant Spain 127–9 Susa 9f Syria 6, 49–50, 55–6, 60–5, 90, 144–5, 195, 223, 266–9, 288, 294–5 Taanach 41n.9, 79n.4 Tabal 69

Tall al-ʿUmayri 39f, 47, 74f, 100 Talpiyot East 74f, 92–3 Taurus mountains 10–11 Tawilan 39f, 48, 74f, 102–3 Tel ‘Azeka 39f, 46, 74f, 94, see also Azekah Tel Batash 39f, 44, 74f, 88, 123, 133, 136n.23, see also Timnah Tel Beersheba 39f, 47, 74f, 99 Tel Beth-Shemesh 53–4, 70, 93, 107, 123, 136–8, see also Beth-Shemesh Tel Burna 39f, 46, 74f, 94 Tel Dan 153 Tel Dothan 74f, 79n.5, 168–9 Tel ‘En Zippori 74f, 76 Tel ‘Erani 39f, 46, 74f, 94 Tel Esur 39f, 42–3, 74f, 85 Tel ‘Eton 39f, 46, 66f, 68f, 74f, 94–6, 107, 187, 206n.21 Tel Gath Hefer 39f, 40–1, 74f, 75 Tel Goded 39f, 46, 70, 74f, 94 Tel Hadar 39f, 41, 65, 74f, 77 Tel Hadid 39f, 42–3, 66f, 87, 120f, 123, 136, 138–44, 142f, 165–6, 173, 178n.30, 183f, 187–90, 195–7, 196f, 199–201, 203, 205–7, 265f Tel Halif 39f, 46, 70, 74f, 95, 142f, 148, 168–9 Tel Hamid 39f, 44, 74f, 88 Tel Hanaton 66f Tel Harasim 39f, 46, 74f, 94 Tel Haror 74f, 90 Tel Hefer 39f, 42–3, 74f, 85 Tel Hesi 39f, 44 Tel ‘Ira 39f, 47, 74f, 99 Tel Keisan 39f, 43–4, 74f, 83–4, 139–41, 142f, 144, 162–7, 173–4, 181, 183f, 191, 196f, 198–9, 265f Tell Abu al-Kharaz 39f, 41, 74f, 78 Tell Abu Hawwam 39f, 43–4, 74f, 84, 142f, 168–9 Tell Abu Salima (Sheikh Zuweid) 39f, 44, 74f, 90, 142f, 157–8, 171–2 Tell Ahmar 150–1 : Tell al-Mazar 39f, 41, 74f, 76, 78, 168–9 Tell Beit Mirsim 39f, 46, 51, 53–4, 66f, 74f, 94–5, 135–7 Tell Deir Alla 39f, 41, 74f, 78 Tell el-Farʿah (N) 39f, 42, 51, 67, 74f, 80, 82 Tell el-Farʿah (S) 39f, 44, 74f, 90, 133, 142f, 168–9

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   Tell el-Fûl 39f, 45, 74f, 91 Tell el-Hammah 39f, 41, 74f, 77–8 Tell en-Nasbeh (Mizpah) 39f, 45, 74f, 91, 91n.19, 133, 142f, 167n.26, 168–9 Tell es-Saʿidiyeh 39f, 41, 66f, 74f, 78, 183f, 265f Tell Jemmeh 39f, 44, 66f, 74f, 89–90, 142f, 151, 157, 161–2, 165–6, 171–2, 176–7, 191, 196f, 208–9 Tell Keisan 66f, 133, 164–5, 169 Tell Madaba 39f, 47–8, 74f, 102 Tell Qitaf 142f, 168–9 Tell Qudadi 74f, 86 Tell Rumeith 39f, 42, 65, 66f, 74f, 82, 183f, 265f Tell Sophar 39f, 42, 74f, 80 Tell Tayinat 150–1, see also Kinalua Tell Ziraʿa 39f, 42, 65, 74f, 82 Tel Malhata 39f, 47, 74f, 99, 133 : Tel Masos 74f, 99 Tel Mevorakh 39f, 42–3, 74f, 85 Tel Michal 39f, 42–3, 74f, 85–6, 202 Tel Mikhmoret 39f, 42–3, 74f, 85, 202 Tel Miqne 133 Tel Nagila 39f, 44, 74f, 94 Tel Qasile 74f, 86, 192n.7, 197n.12, 203 Tel Qiri 39f, 41, 65, 74f, 78–9, 134, 192, 201 Tel Qudadi 31, 42–3, 120f, 133, 158, 197n.12, 203 Tel Rehov 39f, 41, 65, 74f, 77, 142f, 164n.24, 168–9 Tel Rekhesh 39f, 41n.7, 74f, 76, 134, 153n.11 Tel Rosh 133n.17, 134n.18 Tel Sera 39f, 44, 74f, 89, 142f, 157, 169, 171–2 Tel Yinʿam 39f, 40–1, 74f, 75 Tel Zayit 39f, 46, 74f, 94

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Tel Zeror 39f, 42–3, 74f, 85 Tigris river 9f, 271–2 Til Barsip (Tell Ahmar) 9f, 146–7, 150–1, 173, 174n.29, 177–8, 210, 213, 225, 266–7, 269 Timnah 118, 133, see also Tel Batash Tirat Yehuda 196f Tirzah 42, 51 Transjordan 6, 24–5, 41, 55–6, 83, 99–100, 105n.39, 106–7, 111, 116, 118–19, 124–5, 131, 162–3, 168–70, 181–2, 184, 189f, 201n.15, 231, 248 Turkey 266–7, 269, 271–2 Tušhan (Ziyaret Tepe) 9f, 168, 266–7 Tyre 6–8, 9f, 16, 23, 32, 37, 39f, 43–4, 56, 61, 63–4, 64n.6, 66f, 70–1, 74f, 83–4, 105, 121, 134n.18, 144, 164–6, 175, 183f, 185, 189f, 191, 198–200, 201n.15, 204–5, 208–11, 230, 265f, 276, 279–80, 283–7, 290 Umm al-Biyara 39f, 48, 74f, 102–3, 169 Umm Reihan 74f, 85, 85n.12, 201 Umm Uthainah 169 Ur 110–11 Urartu 8–10, 9f Vered Yericho 74f, 98 Wadi ath-Thamad 39f, 47–8, 74f, 101 Wadi Fukin 74f, 96–7 Wadi Qelt 74f, 98 Yarkon basin 202–4 Yarkon river 42–3, 203 Yavneh 39f, 44, 74f, 88 Zagros 11, 176–7, 191 Zagros mountains 10–11 Zur Natan 39f, 42–3, 74f, 85, 85n.12, 201

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Index Note: Tables and figures are indicated by an italic ‘t’ and ‘f ’, respectively, following the page number. For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–53) may, on occasion, appear on only one of those pages. abandonment 65, 67, 75–7, 85–6, 89, 95, 99, 102–5, 109–11, 130, 136, 264, 285, 295, 297–8 acculturation 21, 228 Achaemenid courts 299–300 empire 299n.12 revolution 2, 33–4, 296–300, 300n.14 Adad-nīrārī III 8–10, 36, 62 administration 5–6, 14–16, 20–2, 30, 58, 90, 105, 113–14, 125, 132, 139, 141–5, 160–2, 161n.19, 162n.20, 165–8, 171–6, 179–80, 184, 186–8, 191–2, 197, 200, 207–12, 232–3, 237, 260–3, 266–7, 278–81, 285–7, 291–2, 296–7 administrative actions 140, 168, 192, 261–2, 287–8 affairs 207–8, 246 appointments 15 archives 28–9 buildings 42–3, 76, 85, 87–8, 155, 159, 196–9 capital 149 centres 153–4, 198–9, 262 changes 10 cities 51 correspondence 144–5 documents 1–2, 28–9, 32, 167–8, 190, 198–9 functions 14–15, 199–200 offices 18 paraphernalia 168 relations 19 role 195 strongholds 262 systems 14, 18–19

texts 29n.13, 139–41, 164–5, 188–9, 191 units 16, 104n.36 administrators 14–15, 146, 164–5, 170, 191 agents 145, 179, 217–18, 225, 227, 233n.13 Age of Empires 1, 270–1 agrarian societies 58 agricultural activities 90, 100n.29, 117, 262 areas 113–14 development 150 hinterland 18, 56 land 55, 262, 275 potential 7–8, 49–50, 262, 267, 269, 271–2 production 8, 21–2, 118–22, 288, 291 products 20, 113–14, 117, 126–7, 267–8, 270, 280, 295–8 provinces 211–12 purposes 182–4, 206 settlements 211 structures 95 surpluses 126–7 taxes 17 territories 279 tower 95 usage 96–7 value 202 workers 277n.15 zone 150 agriculture 123, 127–8, 194–5, 197n.11, 200, 205–7, 246–7, 266–70, 278–9 agro-economic specializations 114–15 Ahab 60–1 Ahaz 64–5, 226n.10, 227, 233 Akkadian documents 139, 187–8 Akkadian names 167n.26, 187–8 altar of peace 240–1

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 American peace 244–5 Ammonite control 76 Ammonites 28–9, 36–7, 76 anchorages, see ports/anchorages animals 18, 250, 288, 294 annals 23, 27–8, 60–1, 63–5, 67, 186–7 annexation 2, 12–14, 20, 23, 33, 62, 64, 67, 70n.11, 71, 75–88, 132, 144, 150–1, 157, 159n.18, 161–2, 164, 166–8, 179–85, 189f, 191, 198–9, 210, 236, 248, 252, 258, 260–4, 265f, 265f, 266–8, 270–81, 284, 288–90, 297 anti-Assyrian activities 21, 186, see also resistance anti-Assyrian coalition 64–5 Antonines 240 appropriation 215–17, 224, 229–30, 234t Arabian trade 24–5, 49–50, 56, 100, 117n.2, 118–19, 124, 124n.7, 131n.14 Arabs 36–7, 63–4, 187 Aramaic 144–5, 149–50 Aramean 144–5 control 76 influences 150 kingdoms 60–1 merchants 245–6 origin 109 traditions 146–7 Arameans 36, 218–19, 246 archaeological data 1–2, 27, 32–3, 37–40, 104n.35, 123, 176 evidence 24, 123, 185–6 exposure 223, 286–7 finds 110, 118, 158–9, 170, 255 indicators 111 information 26–7, 37–8, 65, 214, 247, 267 markers/marks 31, 215 periods 30 record 49–50, 115, 218, 233 sites 101n.30, 167 traces 118–19 archaeologists 52n.23, 205n.19 archaeology 1, 11–13, 27, 29–30, 35, 43–4, 65, 123, 159–60, 168, 170, 190, 203, 232, 247, 258 architectural complex 168 data 58 elements 150–1

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evidence 155 features 153, 155, 157 finds 84–5, 87–8, 117 landscape 232 plans 155, 157 remains 75 similarities 159 styles 148, 153 architecture 84, 89–90, 101, 145–51, 158–9, 171, 173–4, 176, 178–80, 190, 192, 225 army/armies 10–11, 14–18, 23, 31, 36–7, 60–2, 64–5, 67, 69, 113–14, 143n.4, 164, 179–80, 187, 191–3, 197, 211–12, 218–19, 230, 237, 257, 259, 261–2, 264, 265f, 266, 276, 277n.15, 278–9, 284, 287, 290–2, 296–7, see also military, soldiers, troops artefacts 75, 79, 117, 139, 146, 148–9, 162, 170, 173–4, 190, 193, 196–7 Ashmanezer 204 Ashurbanipal 10–11, 18–19, 112–13, 185 Ashurnīrārī V 8–10 assimilation 215–16, 217n.4, 228–9, 244 assumptions 23, 29n.13, 38, 48–9, 97n.26, 114, 174–5 Assur (god) 13–14, 18–19, 219–21, 253–4 Assyrian activities 4–5, 21, 24–5, 29–30, 32, 179–81, 183f, 186, 189f, 191–201, 207–10, 247, 285–7, 289 campaigns 2, 13–14, 20, 62, 65, 65n.8, 68f, 68, 102, 110, 135, 137 century 24, 94, 218–19, 285 control 2, 23, 31–3, 53–4, 67–9, 71–2, 83, 143, 145–6, 165–6, 171, 176, 214, 282–3 objects 79–80, 146–8, 153, 155, 158, 165, 167–8, 170–1, 176, 192n.7, 225–6 rule 1–2, 25–6, 29–35, 56, 73, 76, 80–1, 83–4, 86–7, 86n.15, 95–6, 97n.27, 103–8, 105n.38, 116, 124n.8, 132–4, 141, 153–4, 174–5, 179, 181, 185, 189f, 190, 198–200, 214, 239, 251–6, 255n.9, 258, 262, 283, 285, 292, 295–6 style 78, 89, 149–51, 153, 156–7, 165–6, 173–6, 191, 226, 237–8 takeover 2, 31–2, 60, 70, 81, 91, 283 triangle 8, 9f, 13 Assyrianess 146–7, 232–3 Assyrianization 16, 170, 225, 226n.9, 268, 286–7

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364  Assyrianized building 200 evidence 171 finds 174, 176 items 168–70, 225–6 objects 155, 169–71 pottery 84–5, 163n.22, 166, 173–4, 188–9, 191 seals 167 sherds 202 Assyrian Palace Ware (APW) 80, 83–4, 89–90, 139, 147, 150–1, 156–7, 160f, 160–4, 166, 171–4, 176, 191, 199, 223, 225–6 Assyrian peace (pax Assyriaca) 11, 23–6, 33, 71–3, 86, 125–6, 131–2, 174–5, 238–9, 245–8, 251–8, 284, 293–4 Assyria proper 13, 71, 132, 138, 256–7 Augustus 240–1 authorities 21, 32, 114, 145, 208, 212–13, 217, 221, 223, 250, 272, 297 authority 6, 79, 150, 177, 217, 224–5 autonomy 31, 70, 106, 132, 144, 184, 191, 199, 206n.21, 285–6, 299–300 Azariah 64n.7 Aztec empire 5, 272 Aztecs 245, 273 Baal 208n.24 Babylonian armies 31 campaigns 130 conquests 78n.3, 114 control 297–8 delegation 221n.7 destruction 88, 96–7 economy 300n.15 empire 110, 114, 297–8 names 187–8 period 79–80 Babylonians 10–11, 187–8, 223, 246, 297–8 barbarians 240–1, 248, 250, 252–3, 256, 293 battles 36, 60–1, 61, 68, 69, 112, see also sieges, wars Bible 1, 6, 29–30, 32–3, 49, 62–3, 65, 67, 71, 111–12, 189–90, 214, 221, 284, 291 Chronicles 36–7 Deuteronomy 220–2

Ezekiel 121 Ezra 187, 299 Genesis 177 Hosea 221–2 II Chronicles 36–7 II Kings 22, 29–30, 36–7, 41n.8, 62, 64–5, 67, 69, 177, 186–8, 226n.10, 227, 233 II Samuel 177 Isaiah 29–30, 64–5, 68–9, 185, 221–2, 227 Jeremiah 114 Joshua 108, 220 Micah 29–30, 219 Nehemiah 299 Psalms 226 biblical archaeology 26–7 books 29–30, 35 corpus 283 descriptions 37, 64 literature 177, 220, 226 passages 221–3 place names 108–9 scholarship 277–8, 291 sources 29–30, 108 texts 1–2, 218 verse 185 Black Obelisk 61, 61n.3 bolstering 215–17, 224–5, 226n.10, 227, 233, 234t, 237–8 booty 28, 117, 127n.9, 144, 237, 298n.11 bowls 81, 98, 147, 156–7, 160–1, 164n.24, 165, 169, 188–90, 189f, 193–4, 232n.12 British context 248 imperialism 243–4 India 244, 258 peace (pax Britannica) 244–5 resistance 242 British Empire 242–3, 258, 293 Bronze Age 77, 100 Early 38–40, 111 Intermediate 38–40, 111 Late 38–40, 113, 154, 297n.10 Middle 38–40, 111 buffer areas/zones 12, 14, 273, 277, 287, 297–8

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 buffer states 12, 260–1, 263, 274–5 buildings 21–2, 28, 32, 42–3, 56–7, 68f, 76–8, 85, 87–90, 92–3, 102–3, 117–18, 146–50, 152f, 153–60, 171, 173–5, 188–9, 192, 196–200, 205, 208–9, 221–2, 243, 246–7, 266–7 bullae/dockets 144–5, 149–50, 167, 193 burials/graves/tombs 69, 77, 113, 164n.24, 168–9, 222–3 Calgacus 239n.1, 242 caves 92–3, 113 cedars 24–5, 118, 124, 247 centralization 5, 25, 248, 260–1, 263 ceramic 161, 202 assemblages 31, 31n.14 baths 156–7 evidence 80 vessels 160–1 Chalcolithic period 53–4, 134 Chinggis Qan 249 Christian era 239–40 chronology 30–1, 45, 64n.7, 91, 116, 133, 168, 206n.23, 294–5 Cicero 240–1 city states 6, 8, 70, 284 client kingdoms 1–2, 5, 10–11, 13–14, 17n.5, 23, 28–9, 31–2, 131, 143, 156–7, 161–2, 164, 171–2, 174–6, 179, 181, 199, 207–9, 211, 216n.3, 231–5, 237–8, 256–7, 260–1, 263–4, 272, 274–5, 280–3, 285–6, 293–4 client kings 19–20, 177, 274 clients 1–2, 8–10, 12–14, 19–20, 23, 28–9, 31–2, 65, 69, 110, 116, 132, 139, 143–5, 153, 164, 175, 180, 183f, 195–8, 196f, 204–5, 207–11, 218–19, 230, 236–8, 252–6, 253n.7, 259, 268–9, 275n.14, 281–91, 295–8 client states 12–14, 19–20, 22n.6, 67, 73, 125, 229, 235–7, 263, 269n.4, 274 climate 8, 22, 51, 59, 299n.13 coastal plain 6, 43, 55, 84–5, 87, 94, 117, 121, 198–200, 202, 204, 295–6 central 39f, 42–3, 74f, 84–6, 103–5, 142f, 181–2, 185, 201–5

365

inner 117, 119, 123, 126, 197 northern 39f, 43–4, 74f, 83–4, 103–5, 134n.18, 142f, 182–4 southern 44–5, 55–6, 74f, 88–91, 106, 117–18, 123, 164, 174, 199–200, 204 coins 189–90 collaboration 32–3, 227–8, 233 collapse 31, 105–6, 110–11, 113–15, 228–9, 252, 282 colonial contexts 133, 214–15 colonial powers 110–11, 146, 148–9 colonists 21, 80 colonization 24, 129, 177, 247, 258, 262 commodities 20, 126–7, 133–4, 161, 211, 270, 277–8, 290 communications 12, 27–8, 42–3, 240 communities 3, 56–7, 188–9, 215–16 complicity 215–17, 227–8, 234t, 237–8, 258 conquered areas 4, 9f, 10–11, 22–3, 254, 260–1, 289 people/populations 29–30, 32–3, 186–7, 214–15, 224, 246, 254, 257–8, 289 regions 20, 180, 187–8, 204, 211–13, 229–30, 236, 260–1, 263–7, 275, 284, 288–9, 295 societies 217–18, 229–30, 235, 237–8 territories 5–6, 8–10, 21, 27–8, 36–7, 110–11, 114–15, 179–80, 243, 248, 251, 256–7, 259, 261, 263, 266, 296–8 construction 15–16, 18, 20–2, 56–7, 84, 90, 95, 101, 117–18, 140n.1, 145–7, 156–60, 172, 262, 270 cooperation 32–3, 37, 217, 224–5, 227–8, 232–3, 237, 280, 290 Cornelius Tacitus 239n.1, 242, 242n.4 correspondence 1–2, 23, 28–9, 144–5, 246 corruption 18–19, 212–13 crops/cereals/grain/wheat 6, 17, 113–14, 117–19, 117n.3, 120f, 121–4, 126–7, 180, 188n.3, 192–5, 197–8, 211–12, 230, 270, 287, 291–2, 298n.11, see also fodder, food cuneiform documents 87–8, 140, 192 inscriptions 1–2, 83–4, 150–1 objects 29, 166–7 signs 189–90 sources 28–9

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366  cuneiform (cont.) tablets 168 texts 29, 79–80, 87, 139–45, 140n.2, 142f, 149–51, 170, 176, 184, 186–8, 190–1, 193, 196–7 customs 179, 217 Cypriot vessels 202 dating 11, 29–30, 38, 40, 45n.14, 84n.9, 90, 135, 154, 189–90, 192 David 177 decrees 139, 144–5, 216, 219–21, 219n.6, 234t demographic collapse 111, 115 comparisons 35, 37, 49–58 damage 114–15, 187 decline 92n.21, 110–14, 257 deterioration 187 development 150 nadir 26, 82 patterns 91, 144 peak 38–40, 42–3, 91–2 reality 95–6, 107, 282–3 significance 31–2, 107–8, 110, 114–15, 205n.19 studies 38–40, 52n.23 demography 2, 22, 35, 37–50, 40n.5, 56, 59, 62, 72–5, 77, 79, 82, 88, 95, 103–4, 107–8, 110–11, 139, 143, 171–2, 214, 222–3, 254–5, 285, 293–4 depopulation 110–11, 252, 291–2 deportation/deportees 10–11, 20–3, 28–9, 31–2, 67, 76, 87, 103n.33, 107–8, 109n.42, 110–11, 113–15, 157, 167–8, 178n.30, 181, 186–94, 197, 200, 206n.22, 211–12, 214, 222–3, 228–9, 232, 232n.12, 237, 252, 268–9, 277–8, 280, 285, 287–8, 291–4, 297–8 depression C5, 125 desolation 33, 132, 179–80, 188, 192–5, 201, 210–12, 236, 239, 242, 255, 258–9, 264–6, 279, 285, 287–8, 291–2, 297, 299 destruction 5–6, 12, 19–20, 31, 42n.12, 61–2, 65, 67, 68f, 70, 76–81, 83–4, 88, 95–7, 102–4, 106, 112–13, 125, 130, 132, 134–5, 137, 138n.26, 179–80, 222–3, 232, 260, 264–7, 276, 280, 287–8, 290

destruction layers 30–1, 68, 91n.19, 96, 218 devastated provinces 31–3, 103–4, 139, 165–6, 178–9, 199, 207, 210–12, 237, 252n.6, 254–5, 274, 281–3, 285–6, 291–4 devastated regions 82, 109, 114, 200, 237, 263–4, 268, 285 devastation 21, 25–6, 61, 69–71, 79–80, 87–8, 95, 95n.24, 105, 109, 113–15, 131–2, 164, 174, 178n.32, 179–82, 191–2, 194–5, 211–12, 218–19, 226, 232, 234t, 235, 242, 246, 252, 253n.7, 255, 257, 264–6, 265f, 275–7, 279–80, 287–8, 290–1, 297–8 documents 1–2, 28–9, 32, 87–8, 121, 139–40, 144–5, 167–8, 182–5, 187–8, 190, 192–3, 198–9, 207–8, 208n.24, 283 domination 2, 8, 31, 36, 52n.22, 71, 77–8, 103, 128, 132, 145, 148, 169, 177, 217, 219–20, 232, 253, 282–4, 292 ecological inferiority 87, 202 marginality 196–7, 230 niches 1–2, 6, 24–5, 122 settings 282–3 structure 236 zoning 1–2, 121–2 ecology 55–6, 121, 123, 147n.7 economy 2, 18–19, 21–2, 32–3, 35, 51, 53–6, 72, 116–25, 124n.8, 127–32, 136–7, 139, 141–4, 171–2, 194–5, 197, 199–200, 209–12, 214, 230, 237–8, 245–8, 252–3, 256–8, 266–7, 274, 276–7, 284, 286, 293–300 Edomites 28–9, 36, 100, 108 elite areas/zones of occupation 24, 89, 117 emulation 165–6, 217 families 15–17, 58 goods 178, 225 residences 149–50, 158–9 solidarity 273 strategy 5, 274–5 troops 149 elites 21, 113–15, 145–6, 148–9, 159–61, 164–6, 170–1, 173–6, 178–9, 216–18, 223–8, 230, 232–3, 234t, 237–8, 280, 290, 299n.12

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 emulation 145–9, 148n.9, 158, 162–7, 170–6, 178–9, 215–17, 224–7, 226n.10, 227, 232–3, 234t, 235, 237–8, 274 environment 92–3, 92n.21, 192–3 characteristics 229–30, 235 conditions 236 differences 236–7 factors 230 structure 236 variables 122 epidemics 110–14 Esarhaddon 10–11, 150, 177, 185, 208n.24, 209 ethnic antagonism 294 boundaries 232, 232n.12 diversity 3 frameworks 21 groups 3, 217–18, 273 markers 232 political unit 3–4 solidarity 273 Etruscan pottery 133 eunuchs 10, 15–17 European empires/imperialism 242–3, 258, 294 executions 10–11, 19–20, 111–13 exile 19–20, 22, 22n.6, 69, 111–14, 114n.44, 186–8, 190–1, 244, 257, 277–8, 291 exodus 215–17, 223–4, 232–3, 234t expansion 2, 4–5, 8–11, 9f, 15–16, 23–6, 30, 33–4, 36–7, 60–1, 63–4, 66f, 73–5, 128–9, 178, 219–20, 240–2, 244–5, 251, 253–4, 256–7, 259–61, 263–4, 268–9, 271, 274–83, 285, 289, 292–8 expansionist policy 63–4, 71 expansionist states 3 famine 22, 110–15, 244 farms/farmsteads 40–1, 45–6, 48, 51, 52n.22, 74f, 76, 81, 85–7, 92–3, 95–9, 101, 118–19, 190, 194–5, 197–8, 205–6 fertile areas/regions 8, 191–3, 271–2 fertile valleys 1–2, 6–8, 37, 49–50, 59, 182–4, 195, 283–4 fish/fishing 117–18, 124

367

fodder 17, 180, 211–12, 230, 287, 291–2, 298n.11, see also food, crops/cereals/ grain/wheat food 16, 113–14, 123, 143, 197, 206, 211–12, 232n.12, 237, 268–70, 271n.9, 272, 275n.14, 277–8, 279, 280, 287–91, 295–300, see also fodder, crops/cereals/ grain/wheat forts/fortifications 17–18, 24, 40–2, 46–8, 48n.19, 56–7, 76–86, 88–91, 94, 96–103, 117, 134–5, 145–6, 151–60, 192–4, 197n.12, 198–9, 202–3, 206, 262, 266–7, 271, 274–5 garrisons 16–17, 80, 133, 149, 273 glass vessels 169 glazed pottery 139, 148–51, 166, 173 glyptic finds 169 gods 13–14, 19, 28, 69, 150, 219–20, 276 governors 8–10, 12–19, 32, 63, 70n.11, 89–90, 146–7, 149–51, 157, 161, 164, 176, 182–4, 188n.3, 192–5, 197, 200, 206–8, 212–13, 257, 271, 291–2, 298–300 Graeco-Roman culture 244 grand strategy 259–60, 276, 280–1, 289–90 grazing 118–19, 120f, 124, 192–3 Greek imports 32 pottery 130, 132–4, 198–9 sherds 86, 89, 156–7, 200 Greeks 246 Hadad-ezer 60–1 Hadrian 240 Hasmonean revolt 87 Hazael 36, 62 hegemonic control 5, 259–60, 276, 295–6 empires 8–10, 12, 90 peace 255n.9 rule 263–4 hegemony 25–6, 36, 71, 103–4, 129, 139, 145–6, 229–31, 233, 235, 237–8, 244, 283–4 Hellenistic period 79–80, 87 Hellenistic–Roman period 109 Herodotus 112–13 Hezekiah 69–70, 221–2 hidden transcripts 216, 221

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368  hierarchy/hierarchies 4, 14, 51–3, 52f, 100–1, 104f, 104–5 Hoshea 67 icons/iconography 19, 160–1, 273 ideology 4–5, 13, 24, 27, 158–9, 209–10, 219–23, 241, 247, 251, 253–4, 257, 260, 278, 285, 289 imitations 80, 148n.10, 153, 159–66, 167n.25, 169–70, 174, 176, 225 imperialism 1–2, 4, 21–2, 110–11, 243, 246, 252, 258–60, 276–8, 291 imperial peace 33, 213, 239–40, 243–6, 248–57, 293–4 Incas 110n.43 income 14, 55–6, 128–9, 179, 193–4, 198–9, 209, 212, 277, 286–7 independent kingdoms 14, 62, see also semi-independent kingdoms inscriptions 1–2, 23, 27–8, 36–7, 60–5, 67, 69, 83–4, 85n.13, 87n.17, 88–9, 118, 139–41, 144, 149–51, 160–1, 166–8, 176, 184, 187–9, 190n.5, 191, 194, 204, 209–10, 226, 240–1, 277n.15 integration 5, 32–3, 123, 133–4, 179, 214, 217, 228–31, 233, 234t, 235, 237–8, 268, 271n.8 international connections 164, 292n.7 contacts 270–1 context 4 highway 6, 49–50, 55–6, 85–7, 103–5, 141, 182–4, 195, 200–2, 275, 289n.5 imports 170 maritime trade 117, 131, 209 routes 37 style 170–1, 175, 226, 233 taste 164, 190 trade 24, 32, 118, 123, 125, 129, 132, 138, 164, 202, 247 travel 165 Irhuleni 60–1 Iron Age 6, 24–5, 75–81, 84–5, 87–8, 90–4, 96–100, 103, 109, 121, 127, 133–8, 148, 190, 193–5, 222–3, 232, 247, 285–6, 293 I 44, 53–4, 203–4 II 38, 41–5, 47–8, 75, 78, 80–2, 82n.7, 85–7, 86n.15, 91–3, 96, 100–3, 154 IIA 42–4, 46n.15, 53–4, 83–4, 91, 100n.29

IIB 26–7, 30–1, 40–3, 45, 46n.15, 47, 53–4, 77–8, 80–1, 83–4, 86, 100n.29, 101–2, 106 IIC 26–7, 31, 44, 73–5, 78n.3, 81, 100–2, 101n.30, 105–6 Ishtar 150 Israel Exploration Society 152f, 196f Israelite age 77 identity 228–9 kingdom 80 period 80 prophets 221–2 settlement 78 Israelites 47n.18, 67, 187–8, 218–19 Jehu 61 Jeroboam II 36 Jewish Holocaust 215 Jews 215n.2 Joash 36, 62 Judahite activity 82 city 99 palace 158 person 28n.9 perspective 29–30 population 192–3 settlements 58, 88–9 texts 30 tomb 222–3 wheat 121 Judean Pillared Figurines 222–3 kāru 156n.15, 202, 209–10, 228, see also ports/anchorages Kedarites 63–4 King’s Highway 6, 49–50, 55–6 Kurkh monolith 60–1 Lamashtu inscriptions 166–7 law/laws 221–2, 239–43, 248, 256–7, 293–4 Luli 69 luxury 239–40 luxury goods/items/objects 14, 20, 160, 211, 230, 262, 268–9, 296–300 manpower 20–2, 143, 198, 230, 262, 277–8, 280, 287, 289, 291–2 marginality 144–5, 166, 170, 172, 177–8, 196–7, 232, 235, 259, 266, 270–1, 277

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 maritime trade 6, 25–6, 56, 84–5, 90, 117–18, 127, 129, 131, 199, 201–5, 209 material culture 146–7, 163, 168, 214, 273 Maya 110–11 Medes 67 Media 9f Mediterranean economy 43–4, 128–32, 284 fleet 199 ports 6, 275n.14 trade 56, 84–5, 127, 130, 133–4, 285–6 world 127–8, 148 mega-cities 89, 108, 117, 123, 284 mega-sites 44, 106 Menahem 63–4, 227 Mesha 48n.19 Mesopotamian burial tradition 168–9 construction tradition 229 empires 111–12, 128, 130, 277–8 features 153–4 influences 159, 171–2 objects 89–90, 170 settlers 170–1 styles 81, 153, 192, 223 metal items/objects 160–1, 169, 173, 211 metals 14, 20, 270, 271n.9, 297n.9, 298–300 military 4–6, 10, 89, 253, 262, 299–300 appointments 15 benefits 260 campaigning/campaigns 20, 28, 63, 181–2, 198, 261, 263 capability 14 commanders 16–17, 112 conquest 261–2 economy 230 equipment 262 expansion 36–7, 276 force 250 functions 199–200 governor 90, 157 history 27 impact 180 perspectives 211 pressures 222–3 protocol 276 rank 15 resistance 215

369

service 15–16 strongholds 262 superiority 231, 253 units 15, 208 victories 150, 246 see also army/armies, soldiers, troops Mongol empire 249–50 Mongolian peace (pax Mongolica) 245, 249 mounds 27, 37–8, 42–3, 47, 77, 81–2, 85–9, 93–6, 118–19, 136, 141n.3, 143n.5, 150–1, 153–7, 155n.14, 159, 163n.23, 171, 178n.33, 190, 192n.7, 196–7, 205–7, 205n.19 mud-brick 89–90, 150–1, 156–7, 193n.8 Muslim period 77 Nabû-hama-tu’a 206 Nabû-kēnu-us: ur 184 Near Eastern empires 2, 219–20, 223, 296 Nebuchadnezzar II 199 Neo-Babylonian armies 31 empire 33–4, 111, 277–8, 281, 295–8 period 111–12, 167n.26, 170 style 153–4 tradition 153–4 non-violent defiance 216, 219–21, 219n.6, 234t opposition 216, 219 resistance 215–17, 219–23, 226, 232–3, 234t, 237–9 northern coastal plain 39f, 43–4, 74f, 83–4, 103–5, 134n.18, 142f, 182–4 northern valleys 6, 39f, 41–2, 55–6, 74f, 76–9, 142f, 181–4, 283–4, 293–4 officials 10–11, 14–15, 17–20, 28–9, 61, 63, 71, 89–90, 114–15, 145–9, 153, 157–65, 164n.24, 167, 170–1, 173–5, 179–80, 190, 193–4, 205, 208, 224–5, 274 Ogodei Khan 249 olive oil 6, 24–5, 32, 53–4, 58, 75–6, 80, 116–19, 121, 123–4, 126–7, 129–30, 132, 134–8, 137f, 138n.26, 197, 199–200, 247–8, 283–5 olive presses 87, 89, 135–8 olives 119, 120f, 121–2, 126–8 orthostats 150–1, 157 ossuaries 168–72 ostraca 1–2, 30, 157, 172, 191

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370  Padi 69 palaces 1, 8–11, 14–17, 27–8, 70, 80, 87–9, 93, 112, 139, 141n.3, 145–7, 149–51, 153–9, 155n.14, 156f, 163n.23, 165, 168, 171, 174n.28, 176, 178n.33, 192n.7, 193, 205n.20, 207, 225, 237, 262, 266–7 palace ware, see Assyrian Palace Ware (APW) Papyrus Anastazi VI 223 pax Achaemenidica 245 pax Assyriaca, see Assyrian peace pax Azteca 245 pax Britannica, see British peace pax Germanica 245 pax Hispanica 245 pax Mongolica, see Mongolian peace pax Ottomanica 245 pax Romana, see Roman peace pax Satavahana 245 pax Sovietica 245 Pekah 64–5 Persian empire 33–4, 230, 298–300 Persian–Hellenistic period 80 Persian period 75–7, 79–80, 87, 153–4, 158–9, 192, 205n.20, 281 Philistine areas 25 cities 23, 35, 55–6, 56n.26, 143, 201, 203–4, 234t city states 6, 70, 284 clients 29 kingdoms 184 polities 88 Philistines 36–7, 204n.18, 209–10 Phoenician cities 60–1, 128, 204 colonization 24, 129, 133 commerce 130–1 commercial jars 202 expansion 129 fort 134–5 merchants 245–6 objects 90 pottery 84–5 trade 24–6, 60–1, 127, 129, 202, 204, 247 Phoenicians 16, 69, 90, 127–9, 131, 199, 204, 209–10, 246

policies 4–5, 10–11, 20–6, 33–4, 63–4, 71–3, 107, 110–12, 116, 125, 129–31, 138, 177, 180–2, 185–7, 201–7, 211, 216–17, 223, 240–1, 249, 258–68, 272n.10, 274–5, 279–81, 288, 294–5, 299–300 ports/anchorages 6, 42–3, 84–5, 123, 127, 131, 185, 202–5, see also kāru pottery 41n.7, 42–3, 46n.17, 77, 80–1, 84–7, 89, 91–4, 96n.25, 98, 100n.29, 130, 132–3, 139, 141, 148–51, 153–4, 157, 162–3, 162n.20, 163n.22, 166, 173–4, 188–9, 191, 198–9, 285, see also Assyrian Palace Ware (APW) prisms 27–8, 69, 176, 191, 199, 203–4 production zones 120f, 122, 131, 134 propaganda 112, 221–2, 242, 253–4 prosperity 23–6, 32, 35–7, 40, 49, 55–6, 58–9, 73–5, 101–2, 116–19, 123–6, 128–32, 138, 144, 164–6, 171–2, 195–7, 199–200, 209–11, 212n.27, 240–3, 247–9, 251–9, 253n.7, 285–6, 293–4, 299 provincial capitals 15–17, 29, 78–80, 141, 149, 159, 163, 166–7, 173–4, 179, 181–5, 191–3, 199–201, 210, 266, 271, 285–7 provincial governors 14–15, 17–18, 63, 161 puppet rulers 13–14, 19–20, 207–8 qēpu 19–20, 175–6, 199, 208–9 rebellion 12, 19–21, 64–5, 68–71, 112, 143, 186, 199, 204–6, 219, 233, 252, 254–5, 284, 290, see also revolts religion 3–5, 19, 219–20, 229–31, 235, 237–8, 241, 252–4, 276, 279–80, 289, 294 renaming of sites and provinces 177–8, 286–7 resettlement 10–11, 22, 77–8, 95–6, 109, 187, 197n.12, 205–6, 209n.25, 262 residencies 76, 139, 149–60, 152f, 168, 171, 174–5, 192–5, 208–9 resistance 19–20, 29, 113–14, 163, 219–26, 233, 235–7, 241, 243, 261 armed 32–3, 214, 215n.2, 216, 218–19, 221n.7, 234t British 242

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 cultural 215, 223 military 215 non-violent 215–17, 220–3, 226, 232–3, 234t, 237–9 physical 215 subtle 214, 216, 214, 221–3, 226. 234t symbolic 215 violent 218–19, 234t, 237–8 revolts 5–6, 12, 21, 67, 87, 204–7, 216, 218–21, 234t, 239, 249–50, 255, 276–7, 279–80, 289, 294, see also rebellion Rezin 63–5 rivers 8, 37–8, 42–3, 49–50, 67, 118, 126, 149–51, 185, 194, 203, 230, 269–72, 288, 295, 299–300 road stations 18, 99, 198, 200–1 roads 6–10, 49–50, 55–6, 59, 73–5, 85–6, 85n.12, 98–9, 167, 171–2, 178–9, 181, 189f, 196f, 200–2, 201n.15, 210, 236, 240, 243, 248, 262–4, 275, 275n.12, 286–7, 286n.2, 289, see also international highway, King’s Highway Roman empire 214n.1, 219–20, 230, 239–40, 242–3, 245 Roman peace (pax Romana) 33, 239–46, 249–54, 255n.10, 293 Romans 3–5, 240–3, 250, 257–8 SAA 18–19, 28–9, 128, 139, 144–5, 184, 188n.3, 192–4, 199, 206, 208n.24, 212–13 Saite dynasty 127–8 salvage excavations 1–2, 26–7, 48–9, 76, 85, 93, 135–6, 150, 205n.19 Samaritans 228–9 Sargon II 9f, 10–11, 20, 23–5, 28–9, 65, 66f, 67–72, 70n.11, 79–80, 113–14, 139, 144–5, 177, 181, 184–7, 190n.5, 191, 194, 206, 209–10, 265f, 275n.12, 277n.15, 284, 289 Great Display inscription 190n.5, 194 seals 30, 139, 145n.6, 150–1, 160–1, 166–8, 170–3, 193, 198–9, 213 semi-independent clients 116, 139 kingdoms 62, 70, 79, 88–103, 106–7, 110, see also independent kingdoms regions 71, 131, 144, 157n.16, 236, 265f

371

Sennacherib 10–11, 20, 23, 25–6, 60, 65, 66f, 67–72, 93–6, 97n.26, 106, 112–14, 136, 177, 186–7, 199, 203–4, 218–19, 221–3, 246, 264, 265f, 277n.15, 284 Sepharvaim 187 settlers 133, 146, 148, 170–1, 188n.3, 190n.5, 194, 197, 203–4, 214–15, 285 Shalmaneser III 60–1, 150, 177 Shalmaneser V 10–11, 23, 66f, 67–9, 265f, V 289 Sharon Survey 135 sherds 42n.13, 46n.15, 47–8, 81, 86, 89, 133n.17, 156–7, 169, 200, 202 sieges 64–5, 67, 71, 112–13, see also battles, wars social classes 58, 217–18 collapse 114–15 complexity 51 fabric 187, 218–19 formations 27 framework 21 function 161–2 goals 160–1 importance 161 inequalities 222–3 integration 229–30, 235 interactions 231 levels 242 life 235 organization 4 perspective 230 power 4–5 practice 161–2 stratification 58 structure 51, 56–8 texture 188 societal collapse 114–15, 228–9 societies 3–4, 53, 58, 110–11, 229–30, 235, 237–8, 250 society 4, 27, 58, 77, 80, 136, 174, 216–18, 228, 230, 237–8, 240, 250, 257 socioeconomic gap 58 integration 230 stratification 56–8, 57f sociopolitical entities 3–4

OUP CORRECTED AUTOPAGE PROOFS – FINAL, 16/12/2020, SPi

372  soldiers 15–16, 18, 61, 133, 167, 170, 191–2, 197, 211–12, 236, 240, 254, 290, see also army/armies, military, troops southwestern centres 268 clients 268–9 context 218 edge 141–3, 145, 179, 195, 210–11 expansion 280–1 influences 237 kingdoms 208–9 margins 1, 33–4, 282–3 periphery 6, 31–2, 73, 139, 283–92 provinces 32, 140, 145, 171–2, 181–6, 183f, 191–202, 207–8, 212–13, 218–19, 228–30, 234t, 239, 253n.7, 255, 257–9, 268–71, 274, 279, 282–3, 288, 291–8 regions/territories 252, 259, 287–8 vassals 254 stelae 27–8, 139–40, 140n.1, 150 stone 161, 222–3 bath 156–7 bowls 160–1 cylinder seal 150–1 objects 173 plates 153 tablet 62 vessels 169 stratigraphy 82, 91, 158 Syro-Anatolian 150–1 Syro-Mesopotamia 55–6 tablets 27–9, 62, 87–8, 140, 141n.3, 144–5, 150–1, 168, 172, 174, 192, 197, 207 taxation/taxes 12, 12n.4, 14–19, 25–6, 55–6, 132, 136–8, 144, 174–5, 191–4, 210–13, 219, 223, 237, 246–7, 257, 280, 289, 291, 296–8 Tel ‘Eton expedition 9f, 39f, 66f, 68f, 74f, 152f, 183f, 196f, 265f temples 13–14, 18–19, 27–8, 145–6, 158, 178–80, 221 Tiglath-pileser I 13–14, 60n.1, 268–9 Tiglath-pileser III 8–10, 9f, 20, 23, 37, 60–8, 64n.7, 66f, 70–2, 75–6, 82–3, 114, 134–5, 149–51, 166, 177, 181–7, 204–5, 210, 224, 227, 233, 263–4, 265f, 266–8, 274–7, 277n.15, 279–81, 284, 289, 295

tokens 166–8, 173 towers/watchtowers 36–7, 42, 74f, 81, 84, 95 Transjordanian clients 28–9 Transjordanian kingdoms 35, 40, 47, 50–1, 55–6, 56n.26, 70, 88, 100–1, 108, 184, 233, 234t, 284 transport/transportation 17, 25n.7, 122, 124, 126–8, 161–2, 166–7, 230, 243, 262, 267–9, 269n.6, 270–2, 277, 279, 288, 295–300 treaties 19, 185, 208n.24, 209, 220 tributes 12–14, 12n.4, 19–20, 28–9, 36–7, 60–4, 67, 69, 71, 126–32, 143–4, 179–80, 198–9, 207–11, 219, 219n.6, 223, 228, 230, 237, 263–4, 268–9, 273–6, 280, 285–7, 291, 296–8, 298n.11 troops 143, 149, 198, 211, see also army/ armies, military, soldiers Tuba’il 63–4 Tukulti-Ninurta I 177, 226 urban centres 21–2, 111, 178–80 character 82 development 53 economic system 136–7 elites 15, 53–4 heartland 268–9 hierarchy 53 sector 58, 76 settlements 58 sites 96 societies 53 urbanization 24, 35, 51–3, 58, 101, 131, 222–3, 285 Utica 129 Uzaiah 36–7, 64n.7 vassal kingdoms 5, 175 vassals/vassalage 5–6, 12, 25–6, 37, 175, 220, 254 vernacular texts 30 vessels 68f, 133–4, 160–3, 165, 168, 173, 189–90, 202, see also glass vessels, stone vessels vines/vineyards 54, 119, 121, 122n.5, 124, 127–8, see also wine Virgil 240–1, 241n.3, 250–1

OUP CORRECTED AUTOPAGE PROOFS – FINAL, 16/12/2020, SPi

 wars 12, 21–2, 33, 69, 70, 111–14, 215, 218–19, 221–3, 228–9, 240–1, 243–6, 248–50, 254–5, 257–8, see also battles, sieges wealth 1–2, 23, 37, 51, 58, 62, 118, 130, 144, 209–10, 212, 239–40, 242, 260–1, 263, 285–9, 291–3, 296–7 weights and measures 169–70

373

wine 6, 53–4, 58, 92n.22, 96–7, 113–14, 117–19, 120f, 121–7, 135, 161, 165, 230, 283–4, see also vines/ vineyards Wingate Institute 142f, 167 YHWH 220–2 Yoke of Assur 13–14