Ugarit at Seventy-Five 9781575065885

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UGARIT AT SEVENTY-FIVE

Ugarit at Seventy-Five

Edited by K. Lawson Younger Jr.

Winona Lake, Indiana Eisenbrauns 2007

ç Copyright 2007 by Eisenbrauns. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. www.eisenbrauns.com Proceedings of the Symposium “Ugarit at Seventy-Five,” held at Trinity International University, Deerfield, Illinois, February 18–20, 2005, under the auspices of the Middle West Branch of the American Oriental Society and the Mid-West Region of the Society of Biblical Literature.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Symposium “Ugarit at Seventy-Five” (2005 : Trinity International University) Ugarit at Seventy-Five : proceedings of the Symposium “Ugarit at Seventy-Five” held at Trinity International University, Deerfield, Illinois, February 18–20, 2005 under the auspices of the Middle Western Branch of the American Oriental Society and the Mid-West Region of the Society of Biblical Literature / edited by K. Lawson Younger, Jr. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and indexes. ISBN 978-1-57506-143-6 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Ugaritic literature—History and criticism—Congresses. 2. Ugarit (Extinct city)—Congresses. I. Younger, K. Lawson. II. Title. PJ4150.S96 2005 892u.6709—dc22 2007037246 The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984. †‘

Contents Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

ix

Recent Study of Israelite Religion in Light of the Ugaritic Texts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mark S. Smith

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Preliminary Presentation of a New Ugaritic Song to ºAttartu (RIH 98/02) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . D. Pardee

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The Religious Role of the King in Ugarit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nicolas Wyatt

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Just How Many Monsters Did Anat Fight (KTU 1.3 III 38–47)? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Wayne T. Pitard

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Ugarit and the Bible: New Data from the House of Urtenu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 Pierre Bordreuil Ugarit: The Kingdom and the City—Urban Features . . . . . . . . . . 101 Yves Calvet Arrowheads from Iron Age I: Personal Names and Authenticity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 Richard S. Hess The Late Bronze Age / Iron Age Transition and the Origins of the Arameans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131 K. Lawson Younger Jr. Indexes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175 Index of Authors 175 Index of Scripture 179 Index of Other Ancient Sources 181 v

Preface In the spring of 1928, a Syrian farmer was ploughing some land on the Mediterranean coast near a bay called Minet el-Bheida. His plow ran into a stone just beneath the surface. When he examined the obstruction, he found a large man-made flagstone that led into a tomb. He found some valuable objects that he sold to a dealer. Little did he know what he had discovered. In April of 1929, C. F. A. Schaeffer began excavations of the tombs, but a month later he moved to the nearby tell of Ras Shamra. On the afternoon of May 14, the first clay tablet with writing came to light— thus the beginnings of the study of Ugarit and the Ugaritic language. Seventy-five years have passed, and the impact of this extraordinary discovery is still being felt. Its impact on biblical studies has perhaps no equal. In February 2005, some of the preeminent Ugaritologists of the present generation gathered at the Midwest Regional of the American Oriental Society held at Trinity International University Divinity School (Deerfield, Illinois) to commemorate these 75 years with the essays published in this volume. A few participants, for various reasons, were unable to offer their papers for publication. The first five essays deal with the Ugaritic texts, while the last three deal with archaeological or historical issues. Mark S. Smith (New York University), “Recent Study of Israelite Religion in Light of the Ugaritic Texts,” assesses recent scholarly discussions on ancient Israelite religion especially in light of the ongoing study of the Ugaritic texts. Dennis Pardee (University of Chicago), “Preliminary Presentation of a New Ugaritic Song to ºAttartu (RIH 98/02),” publishes a very interesting new Ugaritic song to the goddess ºAttartu. Nicholas Wyatt (University of Edinburgh), “The Religious Role of the King at Ugarit,” analyzes the various kinds of evidence for the religious function of the king of Ugarit. Wayne T. Pitard (University of Illinois), “Just How Many Monsters Did Anat Fight (KTU 1.3 III 38– 47)?” investigates a text that describes the character of the goddess Anat. Pierre Bordreuil (Directeur de recherche émérite CNRS, Laboratoire des études sémitiques anciennes, Collège de France), “Ugarit and the Bible: New Data from the House of Urtenu,” assesses the new material from the house of Urtenu for its value in biblical studies. Yves Calvet (Directeur de recherche, Archéorient, CNRS; Co-directeur de la mission syro-française de Ras Shamra–Ougarit), “Ugarit: The Kingdom and the City, Urban Features,” surveys the urban aspects of the site vii

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of Ugarit. Richard S. Hess (Denver Seminary), “Arrowheads from Iron Age I: Personal Names and Authenticity,” investigates inscribed arrowheads, evaluating the issues of personal names and authenticity. Finally, K. Lawson Younger Jr. (Trinity International University, Divinity School), “The Late Bronze Age / Iron Age Transition and the Origins of the Arameans,” reassesses the issues with regard to the origins of the Arameans, advocating a regional approach. As the excavations continue at the site of Ras Shamra (Ugarit), more archaeological and textual evidences will foster continued discussions of their importance for understanding the Late Bronze Age, the Ugaritic language and its literature and, with appropriate care, the biblical texts. K. Lawson Younger, Jr. Trinity International University – Divinity School

Abbreviations General A A. BH BM c. EA f. Heb. LB m. njpsv pl. PN RIH RS s.

tablets in the collections of the Oriental Institute, the University of Chicago Louvre Museum siglum Biblical Hebrew tablets in the collections of the British Museum common registration number of tablets from El Amarna feminine Hebrew Late Bronze Age masculine New Jewish Publication Society Version plural personal name field number of tablets excavated at Ras Ibn Hani Ras Shamra text number singular

Reference Works AB ABC

Anchor Bible A. K. Grayson. Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles. Texts from Cuneiform Sources 5. Locust Valley, NY: Augustin, 1975. Reprinted, Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2000 ABD D. N. Freedman, ed. Anchor Bible Dictionary. 6 vols. New York: Doubleday, 1992 Acta Sum Acta Sumerologica AEPHE Annuaire: École pratique des hautes études AfO Archiv für Orientforschung AJA American Journal of Archaeology AnBib Analecta Biblica ANESSup Ancient Near Eastern Studies, Supplements ANET J. B. Pritchard, ed. Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament. 3rd ed. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1969 AnOr Analecta Orientalia AnSt Anatolian Studies AOAT Alter Orient und Altes Testament ARM Archives royales de Mari AS Assyriological Studies ASORDS American Schools of Oriental Research Dissertation Series

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x AT

Abbreviations

D. J. Wiseman. The Alalakh Tablets. London: British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, 1953. Reprinted, New York: AMS, 1983 AuOr Aula Orientalis AuOrSup Aula Orientalis Supplementa BAH Bibliothèque archéologique et historique BaM Baghdader Mitteilungen BASOR Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research BASORSup Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research Supplements BBB Bonner biblische Beiträge BBVO Berliner Beiträge zum Vorderen Orient BCSMS Bulletin of the Canadian Society for Mesopotamian Studies BDB F. Brown, S. R. Driver, and C. A. Briggs. Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament. Oxford: Clarendon, 1907 Bib Biblica BJS Brown Judaic Studies BO Bibliotheca Orientalis BRA Beiträge zur Religionsgeschichte des Altertums BSOAS Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies BTAVO B Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients. Reihe B, Geisteswissenschaften CAD A. L. Oppenheim et al., eds. The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Chicago: Oriental Institute, 1956– CAH Cambridge Ancient History. 3rd ed. London: Cambridge University Press, 1970– CANE J. M. Sasson, ed. Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. 4 vols. New York: Scribner, 1995 CAT M. Dietrich, O. Loretz, and J. Sanmartín. The Cuneiform Alphabetic Texts from Ugarit, Ras Ibn Hani, and Other Places. 2nd ed. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1995 CBQ Catholic Biblical Quarterly COS W. W. Hallo and K. L. Younger Jr., eds. The Context of Scripture. 3 vols. Leiden: Brill, 1997–2002 CRAIBL Comptes rendus de l’Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres CTA A. Herdner. Corpus des tablettes en cunéiformes alphabétiques découvertes à Ras Shamra–Ugarit de 1929 à 1939. MRS 10. BAH 79. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1963 DDD K. van der Toorn, B. Becking, and P. W. van der Horst, eds. The Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible. Leiden: Brill, 1995 DNWSI J. Hoftijzer and K. Jongeling. Dictionary of the North-West Semitic Inscriptions. 2 vols. Leiden: Brill, 1995 EA J. A. Knudtzon et al., eds. Die el-Amarna-Tafeln. 2 vols. Vorderasiatische Bibliothek 2. Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1908–15 EBib Études bibliques ErIsr Eretz-Israel FAT Forschungen zum Alten Testament HANES History of the Ancient Near East/Studies HO Handbuch der Orientalistik HSM Harvard Semitic Monographs HSS Harvard Semitic Studies

Abbreviations HUCA IEJ JANES JAOS JBL JCS JFSR JHC JNES JNSL JQR JS JSOT JSOTSup JSS JSSSup KAI KTU

LAPO MANE MARI MDOG MOS MRS MSL NABU NEA NEchtB OBO OBT OIP OLA OLP Or PBS PEQ PRU RA RB RGTC RHA RIMA 1

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Hebrew Union College Annual Israel Exploration Journal Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society Journal of the American Oriental Society Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of Cuneiform Studies Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion Journal of Higher Criticism Journal of Near Eastern Studies Journal of Northwest Semitic Languages Jewish Quarterly Review Journal des Savants Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Journal for the Study of the Old Testament, Supplement Series Journal of Semitic Studies Journal of Semitic Studies, Supplement Series H. Donner and W. Röllig. Kanaanäische und aramäische Inschriften. 3 vols. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1962–64 M. Dietrich, O. Loretz, and J. Sanmartín. Keilalphabetischen Texte aus Ugarit. Vol. 1: Transkription. AOAT 24/1. Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker / Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1976 Littératures anciennes du Proche-Orient Monographs of the Ancient Near East Mari: Annales de recherches interdisciplinaires Mitteilungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft Midden Oosten Studies Mission de Ras Shamra Materialien zum sumerischen Lexicon Nouvelles assyriologiques brèves et utilitaires Near Eastern Archaeology Neue Echter Bibel Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis Overtures to Biblical Theology Oriental Institute Publications Orientalia lovaniensia analecta Orientalia lovaniensia periodica Orientalia Publications of the Babylonian Section, University Museum, University of Pennsylvania Palestine Exploration Quarterly J. Nougayrol and C. Virolleaud. Le Palais royal d’Ugarit. Vols. 2–6. MRS. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1955–70 Revue d’assyriologie et d’archéologie orientale Revue biblique Répertoire géographique des textes cunéiformes Revue hittite et asianique The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia: Assyrian Periods. Vol. 1: A. K. Grayson. Assyrian Rulers of the Third and Second Millennia bc (to 1115 bc). Toronto: University of Toronto, 1987

xii RIMA 2

Abbreviations

The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia: Assyrian Periods. Vol. 2: A. K. Grayson. Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium bc (1114–859 bc). Toronto: University of Toronto, 1991 RIMA 3 The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia: Assyrian Periods. Vol. 3: A. K. Grayson. Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium bc II (858–745 bc). Toronto: University of Toronto, 1996 RlA E. Ebeling et al., eds. Reallexikon der Assyriologie. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1928– RSOu Ras Shamra—Ougarit. Publications de la Mission Française Archéologique de Ras Shamra—Ougarit. Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations, 1983– SAA State Archives of Assyria SAAB State Archives of Assyria Bulletin SAAS State Archives of Assyria Studies SAOC Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilizations SBLDS Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series SBLRBS Society of Biblical Literature Resources for Biblical Study SBLWAW Society of Bibilical Literature Writings from the Ancient World SCCNH Studies on the Civilization and Culture of Nuzi and the Hurrians ScrHier Scripta Hierosolymitana SEL Studi Epigrafici e Linguistici sul Vicino Oriente antico SHAJ Studies in the History and Archaeology of Jordan SHCANE Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East SJOT Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament SMEA Studi micenei ed egeo-anatolici SOTS Monographs Society for Old Testament Study Monograph Series SSEA Publications Society for the Study of Egyptian Antiquities Publications TDOT G. Johannes Botterweck and H. Ringgren, eds. Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament, trans. J. T. Willis. Rev. ed. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1974– TMO Travaux de la Maison de l’Orient TUAT O. Kaiser, ed. Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1984– TWAT G. J. Botterweck and H. Ringgren, eds. Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Alten Testament. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1970– UBL Ugaritisch-biblische Literatur UF Ugarit-Forschungen VAS Vorderasiatische Schriftdenkmäler VT Vetus Testamentum VTSup Vetus Testamentum Supplements YNER Yale Near Eastern Researches YOS Yale Oriental Series ZA Zeitschrift für Assyriologie ZAW Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft ZDMG Zeitschrift der deutschen morgenländischen Gesellschaft ZDPV Zeitschrift des deutschen Palästina-Vereins

Recent Study of Israelite Religion in Light of the Ugaritic Texts Mark S. Smith New York University

To begin, I would like to mention my memories of Ugarit in Retrospect a quarter of a century ago. After the symposium 25 years ago, Marvin Pope had me read his contribution on “The Cult of the Dead at Ugarit” (Pope 1981). In this reading, I began to see what he saw as the conjunction between Ugaritic and biblical studies. The ancestral god indeed remains a powerful force, as the reader will see. In the years since Ugarit in Retrospect, the Ugaritic texts have continued to offer insights into the religious conditions in ancient Israel, even though we should also expect significant differences between the two religions. To illustrate these points, I will begin with conceptual categories used in the study of Ugaritic and Israelite literature and religion since the time of Ugarit in Retrospect. Then I will offer speculative generalizations about the production of the longer Ugaritic and biblical narratives. Only in understanding what the Bible really represents can we hope to recover something of the religion represented in it, or lying behind it. Sometimes we can guess at the situation with the aid of the Ugaritic texts, but of course it helps to have at least minimal evidence from Israelite texts and/or from the archaeological record. The end of my remarks will touch on three areas of Israelite religion in which we see important similarities and differences between the Ugaritic texts and the Bible; in one instance in particular, the situation is illuminated further by archaeological evidence. Author’s note: I wish to thank the Midwest AOS for the kind invitation to contribute to this volume. I dedicate this essay to Marvin Pope. I wish to thank Dr. Elizabeth M. Bloch-Smith for providing some of the archaeological references cited and for offering several helpful comments. I am also grateful to Professor Brian Hesse for his e-mail comments pertaining to the archaeozoological evidence mentioned in this essay. Professor Dennis Pardee kindly granted me permission to cite evidence from his paper published in this volume concerning Athtart and the hunt.

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Conceptual Dichotomies and Their Difficulties The religion of ancient Israel in light of the Ugaritic texts is an old subject, arguably the oldest subject in the history of Ugaritic and biblical studies. Many aspects of Israelite religious ideas and practices have been illuminated in some way by the Ugaritic texts. In this sense, one might call the Ugaritic texts “the Old Testament of the Old Testament,” to misuse the title of a book by R. W. L. Moberly (1992). Moberly coined this expression for the textual relationship between Genesis (through Exodus 2), as the prerevelation, and the Sinai revelation, beginning with the divine name in Exodus 3. What Moberly suggests for the divine name, that in the Pentateuch Elohim predates and is identified with Yahweh at the mountain, represents a theological reflection on Exod 6:2–3. This idea is arguably also a narrativized presentation of what happened in the Late Bronze–Iron Age Levantine context. At the center of the religious world view, known at Ugarit and perceptible in a number of relatively early Israelite traditions, was El and his divine family. This world view was historically superseded by the god that emerged as Israel’s national divine patron, Yahweh. If one bristles at this theological-sounding formulation of “the Old Testament of the Old Testament” (much less the politically less-correct term “Old Testament”), one can be equally critical of another disciplinary label, “Israel and the ancient Near East.” This intellectual formulation is common, for example, in J. J. M. Roberts 1999. The Ugaritic texts show that the better disciplinary label would be “Israel in the ancient Near East.” Whatever one thinks of labels of this sort and the intellectual issues that they entail, it is undeniable that the privileging of the Bible is more a matter of history subsequent to the production of what became the Bible. I use Moberly’s expression to apply to (but not limit it to) what the Ugaritic texts may teach us about the literary and religious heritage out of which Israel emerged (Cassuto 1943 = 1975). It was on the basis of these sorts of shared literary features as well as shared religious elements that Jonas Greenfield (1987) argued 15 years ago that the Ugaritic and Israelite literary traditions, despite local variations, share many of the same traditions with so-called “Canaanite” sources, such as Philo of Byblos’s Phoenician History. Similarly, Frank Moore Cross (1973: vii) in the opening to Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic, could note “the tendency of scholars to overlook or suppress continuities between the early religion of Israel and the Canaanite (or Northwest Semitic) culture from which it emerged.” So when John Day (1994) in his contribution to the Manchester symposium on Ugarit and the Bible formulated his title “Ugarit and the Bible: Do They Presuppose the Same Canaanite Mythology and Religion?” he noted some differences but mostly answered this question in the affirmative. Lo-

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cal variations and differences are to be expected of Ugaritic, “Canaanite,” and Israelite reflexes of the wider West Semitic religious world, and so some cautions about this sort of comparison are well founded (see Pitard 2002). At the same time, many scholars in addition to the scholars already mentioned (in particular John Day 2000), have profitably pursued the study of Israelite religion along these lines. In my own case, I have aimed at synthesizing known information about divinity in a series of works that use the Ugaritic texts as an essential baseline for understanding the development of divinity in ancient Israel and the Bible (M. S. Smith 1990 [2nd ed., 2002a], 2001a, 2004a); these have been followed up with a synthesis of ideas about temples in West Semitic literature and the Bible (2005). Down through the post-war era and well into the 1970s, the repertoire of religious features shared by the Ugaritic texts and the Bible played an important role in clarifying aspects of Israelite religion. At the same time, this repertoire contributed to a number of problematic dichotomies. To rehearse old news, I have in mind the classic constructs that used Ugaritic as the exemplar for “Canaanite” religion and over and against ancient Israel. In the area of religion, this could be posed in terms of Yahweh and the gods of Canaan, as formulated in the title of Albright’s 1968 book by this name, echoed in the title of Day’s 2000 volume, Yahweh and the Gods and Goddesses of Canaan. The book by Day as well as my own three books that deal with this subject (M. S. Smith 1990 [2002a], 2001a, 2004a), not to mention a host of other studies too numerous to list here, indicate the problem of the contrast that Albright drew between the so-called high, moral religion of Israel and the base, depraved religion of the Canaanites. Indeed, Hillers (1985) made this negative “Canaanite religion” stereotype the subject of special criticism. The basis for comparisons between Israel and Canaan, whether in discussions of geography or culture, differs enough that it has become evident that these do not seem to be proper terms of comparison (see M. S. Smith 2001a: 14–18, 202–3). In the hands of several authors, “Canaan” geographically can include the Levant south of Ugarit, but “Canaanite” refers culturally to the coast and valleys. The problem, which aims ultimately toward the uniqueness of Israel, has been succinctly captured by J. Z. Smith (1982: 6): “If Israel is unique with respect to Canaan, it is required that Canaan be held to be unique with respect to Israel. Uniqueness is an ordinary presupposition of definition and classification—it is not some odd point of pride.” Related to the Israel-versus-Canaan construct has been the idea of fertility or nature religion and its accompanying construct of fertility goddesses as well as mythic religion or thinking of the Canaanites, both pitted against Israel’s so-called “historical religion.” Stereotypes about Canaanite fertility goddesses have been critiqued by J. A. Hackett (1989), and the

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myth-versus-history dichotomy has been nicely dispatched by J. J. M. Roberts (1986). A related difficulty afflicted the characterization of the Baal Cycle as “the Canaanite mythic cycle which provided the libretto to primary rites of the cult” (Cross 1973: ix). Charles Conroy (1980) and Simon B. Parker (1979: 31–33, esp. n. 58) as well as Cross’s own student Robert Oden (1979: 48–49) offered withering critiques of this idea. Oden focused on the lack of evidence for cult drama in the Ugaritic corpora. Parker was particularly critical of the assumption in Cross’s categorization that nothing of the historical inheres in epic. Although one might argue that Parker overstated the point, it is true that “myth” and “epic” “not only fail as [literary] types, being insufficiently distinguished from one another, but also as descriptions of what is characteristic of Israelite or Canaanite narrative literature.” The difficulty can be seen further in the classification of the Ugaritic Baal Cycle as a “mythic epic” by the ethnologist Heda Jason (1977: 32; see M. S. Smith 1994: 26, 75). For Jason, Baal acts like a human epic figure but, as a god, his narrative also belongs to the mythic. Jason’s interpretation indicates a difficulty in the contrast that Cross made a centerpiece in his 1973 work. There has been a related effort to correlate polytheism with myth and biblical prose narrative with monotheism. The view, found in the work of Robert Alter and Shemaryahu Talmon, can be traced to Yehezkel Kaufmann (see M. S. Smith 2001a: 12 and 200 n. 68, and 174). This putative correlation between polytheism and myth versus monotheism and biblical narrative has been roundly criticized by Simon B. Parker (1997: 137–42), who has noted narrative texts in polytheistic cultures of the first millennium, for example, the Moabite Stele; prose narrative is no guarantee or indicator of monotheism in this period. These sorts of dichotomies have been called “arbitrary typologies” by anthropologist of religion Daniel Dubuisson (2003: 76–78). The historian of religion Jonathan Z. Smith (2004: 174) likewise characterizes these kinds of dichotomies as a “host of related dualisms, all which finally reduce to ‘ours’ and ‘theirs.’ ” As these comments suggest, false dichotomies have been an affliction not simply of our field but also of the study of religion more generally. Perhaps today it is difficult to fathom how many books and articles, armed with the Ugaritic texts, could reiterate these themes. This overall critique of these categories is indeed “old news,” but some commentators have “missed their newspaper delivery.” After 75 years, several of these dichotomies are still with us in various permutations. The-myth-versus history contrast has largely faded, but it appears unproblematically in studies by Albertz (1994: 56) and Lang (2002: 61–62). After years of criticism, theories of the Ugaritic literary

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texts as cult librettos have died a slow and painful death. In a more recent discussion of oral performances in ritual and national festivals, Cross (1998: 39) could still view the Baal Cycle “as an accompaniment to the New Year’s Festival.” Cross offered no acknowledgement of the critiques by Conroy, Oden, and Parker (noted above), much less any counterarguments, and ended up reiterating nearly the same view as a result. In the case of the Baal Cycle and other Ugaritic classics, one may think that these literary texts were themselves not accompaniments to ritual but instead show literary incorporation of ritual themes and language. This point has been made in a powerful way by David Wright (2001) in his book on Aqhat, and I have offered a case of this sort for the Baal Cycle (M. S. Smith 1994). Out of experience comes literature, and out of religious experience comes religious literature. It is often for this reason that we have ritual material within religious literature. I will not review the present status of all the dichotomies that I have mentioned, but suffice it to say, no beneficial deity, whether at Ugarit or in Israel, had a monopoly on fertility or cult or myth or epic or historiography or polytheism. Sacred marriage (hieros gamos) is another problematic topic. For all the efforts to revive it (see Day 1994: 51), sacred marriage just isn’t what it used to be (see Cooper 1993; Frayne 1985; Lapinkivi 2004; Nissinen 2001). According to Cooper, the Mesopotamian texts show no particular emphasis on agricultural fertility. It is quite possible that the West Semitic material offers a rather different picture of “sacred marriage.” In his discussion of the ritual of the installation of the entu-priestess, Fleming (1992: 191) notes the lack of sexual aspects in the Emar ritual of “sacred marriage” (Emar 369), and it is evident that there is no human couple replicating a divine couple in an act of procreative fertility. Moreover, he suggests that the features of marriage appear in the ritual simply “because of the nature of the office.” In this context, marriage evidently serves as means to express the relationship established between the god and his priestess. There may be very little sexual activity involved as thought by older commentators. In sum, the sacred marriage, long thought to be a matter of sexual drama and agricultural fertility, may not be so sexual or agricultural after all (see further Smith 2006: 127–43).

From the Old Levantine Literary Tradition to the Bible In retrospect, the positive term in all these old dichotomies formerly associated with Israel could be posited about Ugaritic, and the old negatives attributed to Ugaritic may apply as well to Israel. Cross’s basic point about the massive lines of continuity between Ugaritic and Israelite literatures and religion has been lost in different ways by a number of recent

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treatments of Israelite religion that otherwise make significant contributions. Here I have in mind important books produced by Othmar Keel and Christoph Uehlinger, Bernard Lang, Ziony Zevit, and Stephen L. Cook. Most of these works have already received considerable attention (see Smith 2007: 16–18), and in some cases, substantial criticisms. Cook’s book, being so recent, is an exception in this regard. Cook (2004: 2) remarks on the Bible’s religious claims for the high antiquity of a Sinai covenantal Yahwism, that it “had a long history, separate from polytheistic, Canaanite forms of Yahwism.” Among several difficulties, this approach attempts to privilege a Sinaitic form of Yahwism separate from Canaanite forms. Cook recognizes the Canaanite forms lying behind battle theophany and temple-building themes in the Pentateuch. As illustrated in the work of Cross (1973) and Rummel (1981), the divine battle plus temple-building thematic complex in the Bible has long been seen to be anchored in older Canaanite forms. According to Cook, the Sinai tradition is assumed to be free of this Canaanite influence. On the contrary, the basic form-critical element of the Sinai theophany does enjoy Canaanite antecedents (assuming Ugaritic should be viewed as reflecting a larger shared matrix of materials more properly delimited as Canaanite). At its heart, the Sinai tradition presents the divine word that issues from the deity on the mountain out into the wider world. This divine word is nicely represented by Baal’s message from his holy mountain to the goddess Anat that she should come to his holy mountain and learn his word (1.3 III). In its essential form, this “Canaanite” example differs little in form from the Sinai tradition in Ps 50:1–6. Baal wants Anat to come to his mountain, just as those who belong to the covenant are to make a pilgrimage to Yahweh’s mountain in Ps 50:1–6. The Baal Cycle narrates the covenant relation through kinship; or, as Cross (1998) remarks, covenant is expressed through kinship language. While the same cannot be said for the Sinai complex, still the form of this tradition in Ps 50:1–6 stands closer to the Ugaritic representation of Baal than Cook seems to understand; and even the theophany of Exodus 19–20 is not so far removed. The relatively newer works compared the way the divine word figures as a body of priestly teaching in Deut 33:8–11 to what is seen in the Ugaritic texts. (It is unclear when or how the person of Moses comes to be associated with this teaching. Deut 33:4 gives the impression that this might be relatively early, but it may not be any earlier than the ninth or eighth century, and many scholars would suggest a later date.) Yet biblical material, especially the more elaborate presentations in the Sinai complex (especially Exodus 33–34) indicate great development, beyond what is found by way of content in the Ugaritic texts (see Smith 2007: 18–21). In short,

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the major pentateuchal themes enjoy important antecedents in the Ugaritic texts, but over time the Israelite forms would become the forum for extensive thematic development and agglomeration, especially as witnessed in the Pentateuch itself (though hardly confined to this example). One reason for the lack of consideration of the Ugaritic texts in some of these discussions is that accounts of Ugaritic and biblical literatures fail to discuss adequately the distance that much of the Bible has traveled from its West Semitic antecedents. In part, the problem has involved some of the false intellectual categories that I have mentioned above, but in part the fault lies with scholars of Ugaritic and biblical studies who have studied these materials. Since about 1980, those of us in this field (perhaps with the exception of Simon Parker) have failed to show the wider field of biblical studies how much the area of Ugaritic-biblical studies matters for the biblical discipline as a whole. In short, there remains a considerable need for a fuller account that focuses on the literary and religious matters that matter to scholars who do not work in the more technical aspects of Ugaritic-biblical studies. Time does not permit a proper discussion of the issues, but one factor (though hardly the only one) that has not been considered sufficiently was the displacement of the highly poetic old Levantine tradition by a later Israelite tradition of narrative, influenced by Mesopotamian models, a point that has been raised by David Damrosch (1987: 40–41, 43, 46, 159 n. 13). Damrosch (1987: 40–41) specifically argues: The great question is how the Hebrew writers came to write such rich and ambitious historical prose, apparently beginning almost as soon as a scribal elite was established in the early monarchy and very rapidly outstripping, in length, complexity, and literary power, any known examples of historical prose in earlier Near Eastern chronicle. The thesis of this book is that the origins of Hebrew historical prose can be traced in Mesopotamian literature of the second millennium, but not through a direct comparison of historical writings alone.

To my mind, Damrosch is on the right track regarding the Mesopotamian milieu for the development of at least some biblical narrative. Unfortunately, his analysis lacks precision in broadly dating Mesopotamian influence on Israelite genres in the second millennium. An older period of influence may well be at work, especially when exemplars of Gilgamesh and other Mesopotamian classics are known in the Levant in this early period. This approach works better for the well-known comparisons of Genesis 1–11 with Atrahasis, Gilgamesh, and other Mesopotamian classics. However, the more immediate impact of first-millennium Mesopotamia on other biblical genres is obscured by Damrosch’s general approach.

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Here is the overall agenda that I am suggesting: the issue of biblical genres and their amalgamation has not been brought into a diachronic framework that situates them in relation to (1) the Ugaritic texts and Israel’s larger Levantine literary heritage, (2) the impact of broader Mesopotamian influence, and (3) Mesopotamian hegemony in the first millennium. Relatively speaking, some biblical prose genres, unlike Genesis 1–11, reflect the world of Iron Age Mesopotamia rather than the literary heritage of the Late Bronze Age Levant. Often cited in this regard is the massive, theological reuse of treaty/covenant in the book of Deuteronomy in the Neo-Assyrian context, although it is evident that treaty/covenant more broadly has a complex history, in both the east and the west, that lies beyond the scope of this discussion. Arguably more germane to the discussion of Israelite narrative is the genre of chronicles. This form is unknown in either Ugaritic or any other Levantine corpus right through the beginning of the Iron Age. From the lack of evidence, it appears that the chronicle was not a traditional genre in Syria–Palestine. In contrast, royal chronicles enjoyed a venerable tradition in Mesopotamia, as Jean-Jacques Glassner’s recent volume nicely illustrates (Glassner 2004). Chronicles are attested first in the west in what we see in the books of Kings. Farther west, in Egypt, the chronicle form does not appear until considerably later. D. B. Redford argued that the chronicle form was an import into Egypt from Mesopotamia. Redford (1986: 215 n. 51) comments: “Chronicles per se do not constitute a native genre, being derived from Babylonia. For the Late Period there is the so-called Demotic Chronicle . . . , of selected events of the past, which, in form and inspiration, shows strong Asiastic influence.” Redford’s observations point to a West Asiastic middle point between the long tradition of Mesopotamian chronicles and the rather late appearance of the form in Egyptian literature. The biblical book of Kings, which shows many of the features known from Mesopotamian chronicles, evidences influence somewhere in between. The lack of Neo-Assyrian influence on West Semitic building inscriptions noted by Green (2003: 422 n. 66) suggests that the the chronicle in the west did not develop out of royal inscriptions but more directly as a literary borrowing of the form. Various forms of royal chronicles might be reconstructed prior to the first edition of the books of Kings as claimed by scholars (whether during the reign of Hezekiah or Josiah or in the Exile, or some combination of these). As a working model, it may be supposed that either these preHezekian chronicles or the first edition as claimed would constitute a terminus ad quem for the influence of the Mesopotamian chronicle form; of course, it may be older, perhaps a development already in the northern court prior to 722 (see White 1997). Finally, it is arguable that the tradi-

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tion of revising chronicles known from Mesopotamian sources may underlie the evolving structure of 1–2 Kings as represented by the different levels of these books proposed by scholars. All this is quite speculative and much more needs to be worked out, but as a model, it seems plausible to hypothesize that the role of the chronicle form in the book of Kings may be traced to some form of Mesopotamian influence. Like legal material and chronicles, covenants/treaties constitute prose material substantially influenced by Mesopotamian models. There may be more to this pattern of influence. Legal codes, chronicles, and treaty/covenant forms share the curious coincidence of being combined in the biblical corpus in the construction of Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History. So what is the bottom line in this line of speculation? The narrative in 1–2 Kings shows not simply the historical experience of Mesopotamian cultural hegemony in the first millennium. 1–2 Kings ingested and transformed a fundamental Mesopotamian genre, and through the use of this genre the composition of 1–2 Kings also transformed the older Levantine literary tradition. This larger literary situation regnant in royal scribal circles in Jerusalem perhaps had a massive impact on the older Levantine literary tradition. It may even be that the chronicle form developed for the books of Kings ultimately helped to inspire the generation of other long narratives in the Deuteronomistic History and perhaps had a comparable effect on the generation of the longer forms of the Pentateuch. Scholars have regularly noted details of Mesopotamian comparison or even influence within the Pentateuch. Akkadian loanwords in Biblical Hebrew only add to this impression, for both the Pentateuch and the Deuteronomistic History (see Mankowski 2000). It seems that these narratives, even with their old Levantine type-scenes and themes, have been filtered through the Mesopotamian-influenced narrative amalgamations in the monarchic period. This observation hardly precludes the fact that, within these longer narratives, we also see inner Israelite interpretations of Israel’s own earlier traditions as well as the impact of specific Israelite settings. Indeed, in a myriad of ways, Israel reformulated its own cultural traditions in the ongoing context of Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian hegemony. So what might these speculations suggest about the production of biblical literature, in particular Genesis through Kings? Whereas the biblical poetic epic retained the older Levantine traditions and poetic style, it was refracted through the poetic genres that survived transmission—namely, the shorter poetic narratives embedded in prayers (for example, Ps 74:12– 17) and hymns (Psalm 29) or in bits of wisdom descriptions and allusions (see Proverbs 8–9). In contrast, the biblical prose narrative cycles, while

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including the topoi and motifs of the older Levantine literary tradition, have developed substantially over this older tradition. The Pentateuch preserves the older tradition, first in the poems that were inserted as punctuation points at major junctures in the narrative (for example, Gen 48:15– 16; 49; Exodus 15; Numbers 23–24; Deuteronomy 32 and 33), and second, in prose recastings of traditional narrative forms. These compositions too have traveled a considerable distance from their Levantine antecedents, but the mark of that older poetic tradition is evident in these cases. This observation leads to a disjunction to be noted between the literary corpora of Ugarit and Israel. This difference involves not simply textual production but how the major texts ended up juxtaposed. In the case of both sets of texts, scholars have identified royal and priestly perspectives in the production. Moreover, the larger, literary compositions of both Ugarit and the Bible bring different voices together. How they do so differs in some rather significant ways. The Ugaritic texts harmonize the symbolic world views of the monarchy and priesthood, in part because these were likely harmonized as a claim about the central, cosmic order mediated by the monarchy. In ancient Israel, Iron IIa forms of royal presentation could have included harmonizations of this sort, perhaps in the older forms of royal chronicles that underlie the present form of the books of Kings. However, the harmonization of representations is not the key to the books of Kings and the Pentateuch in their present forms. The major narratives of the Bible are not simply representations or juxtapositions of representation, but juxtapositions of competing or hostile representations and compromises on the part of Priestly and Deuteronomistic tradents of the Pentateuch and Deuteronomistic History. These longer prose amalgamations constitute the actual sites of cultural conflict and later compromise between the different representators. The juxtaposition represents a claim for Priestly and Deuteronomistic subordination of prior or contemporaneous representations. The temple narrative in 1 Kings 6–8 submerges the expression of monarchic power in the royal version beneath the massive weight of the Deuteronomistic reformulation of the temple. In 1 Kings 8, the temple is less a place of sacrifice and more a relay station for prayer. Late Priestly notes appear as supplements as well (for example, 1 Kgs 6:13a). In the Pentateuch, the Priestly tradition has had two powerful effects: first, it has overpowered the version represented by traditional scholarly criticism as the “Yahwist” and “Elohist” “sources” (or “documents”), much less the older poetic versions known inside and outside the Pentateuch; and second, it has allowed juxtaposition with the book of Deuteronomy. It is for this reason that “the last shall be the first,” that Genesis 1 preserves yet subordinates the prior creation nar-

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rative of Gen 2:4b in the immediate context. Furthermore, the opening chapter of the Bible helps to reshape the entire trajectory of the Pentateuch so that the Priestly cult becomes the central moment of world revelation on Mount Sinai. Divine conflict expressing royal power as in Ps 89:26 (see Mosca 1986) is out: God is the power beyond such analogies with human power, and the world is not simply made or created, but it is done in terms of Priestly distinction, lehabdil, the Priestly term for making ritual distinctions. As a result, cosmic creation becomes a cultural map privileging Priestly practice of Shabbat and temple, as well as an early form of Priestly kashrut. The older versions centering on anthropomorphic power are submerged yet remain as sub-versions of the master tradition, if only to reflect its ultimate power. As the site of religious battle, the text shows some of the blood of Israel’s own cultural conflicts. In other words, the divine battle conflict of the older Levantine poetic tradition was reshaped by Israel’s foundational story in its poetic traditions (as in Exodus 15), and it was submerged under the weight of Israel’s prose reformulations, which were driven by Israel’s internal religious conflicts. In Israel, the juxtaposition of the differing views of the same events, such as creation or the temple, signaled a further claim not about harmonization but about the master version, which was victorious like the Deity itself over the enemies. Chaoskampf functioned no longer as a cipher of royal power, as it had at Mari, Ugarit, and monarchic Israel (M. S. Smith 2001a: 158–61). In Israel, Chaoskampf transmuted further into expressions of Kulturkampfen. The Deity shifted in the dominant textual amalgamation away from the anthropomorphic warrior-king of the monarchy into the Priestly Holy One, holier than the high priest and the Holy of Holies, who would avoid sex and death, and into the Deuteronomistic unseen Speaker of the heavenly word, now totally disembodied (see Smith 2001a: 96–97). Hence the norms generated in textual production would also set norms for religion, if only in increasing the communicative force of its champions. In short, the Bible constitutes more than the representations of collective memory about cultural conflicts; it became the very site, the battlefield for playing out these cultural conflicts, followed by later compromises between what is seen as Priestly and Deuteronomistic works. It is only in understanding the Bible that we can hope to recover something of the Israelite religion represented in it. The Bible has traveled a considerable distance not only from the literary and religious antecedents found in the Ugaritic texts; it has traveled a great distance from its own Israelite past. The Ugaritic texts help us see some of the various displacements that the older religion of ancient Israel may have experienced under the influence of later developments in Israel.

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Three Israelite Religious Spheres Displaced in the Bible In this final section of remarks, I would like to touch briefly on three spheres of Israelite religion, which for the sake of convenience, I will call “the religion of holy men,” “the religion of the hunt,” and “the religion of the dead.” All three likely played a more important role in Iron Age religion than what the Bible presently allows us to see. All outside the central text-producing bases in ancient Israel, these three areas of religious life may be probed more with the help of the Ugaritic texts as well as archaeological evidence. The Religion of Holy Men In the Elijah and Elisha material, there are “legends,” considered short, independent narratives centered on prophets who provided a needed remedy (Zevit 2001: 489). Some of these stories attest to a belief in the extraordinary abilities of “holy men.” These include healing of a rather “magical” looking sort, specifically healing by the superimposition of the healer’s body on the healed (Zevit 2001: 495 n. 51). One element in this presentation is the root *ghr, which appears twice in 2 Kgs 4:34–35 (compare with 1 Kgs 18:42): and he [Elisha] mounted [the bed], and he lay down on the child, and he put his mouth on his mouth, his eyes on his eyes, and his hands on his hands, and he *ghr ºl-ed him, and the flesh of the child became warm, and he [Elisha] turned, and he went up and down the house, and he mounted [the bed], and he *ghr-ed him, and the boy sneezed seven times, and the boy opened his eyes.

The word ghr is often rendered here ‘he bent over’ (so njpsv), but the context militates against this view, if the series of waw-consecutive verbal forms, represented rather literally (if not woodenly) in my translation above, constitutes a series of actions in order. In short, *ghr represents an action that takes place after the holy man lies on top of the child, arranged with their corresponding body parts. At this point in the narration, the holy man cannot now be bending over the child he is already lying on top of him. Another possibility is suggested by the incantation of RS 92.2014. In this text, lines 8b–15, in particular line 11, characterize the sound made by sorcerers (kspm) in the following manner (Pardee 2002: 159): So may the tormentors, the sorcerers not give ear To the word of the evil man, To the word of any man (lit., ‘son of the people’): When it sounds forth in their mouth, on their lips ( ghrt phm wspthm),

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May the sorcerers, the tormentors, then pour it to the earth, For ªUrtenu, for his body, for his members.

This rendering by Dennis Pardee is based primarily on an etymology of ghrt with Arabic jahura ‘be loud (of voice)’. In their treatment of the ritual texts, Bordreuil and Pardee appear skeptical of comparison also with BH *ghr. After noting proposals to take BH *ghr with *ghn ‘se pencher’, P. Bordreuil and D. Pardee (2000: 832 n. 20) comment on this etymology: “De toute façon, ce sens ne semble pas convenir à notre passage.” Following Bordreuil and Pardee, I do agree that the context of 2 Kgs 4:34–35 does not favor a picture of Elisha bending over the body. As the context emphasizes, the holy man is lying on top of the child. Instead, it seems that in 2 Kgs 4:34, 35 Elisha twice makes some sort of rumbling sound with “his mouth on his mouth,” as he superimposes his body on the body of the deceased and thereby revives him. The recovery of the boy is correspondingly characterized by means of his mouth (wayzôrer ‘he sneezed’, BDB 284 and njpsv), perhaps suggesting that *ghr by or in the mouth was the crucial locus of the prophet’s magical revivification. The immediate mechanism or process is left undescribed (does the prophet instill him with the rûa˙ of prophetic power?). The context of the root in 1 Kgs 18:42 is quite different, and at first glance, the sense of the word might seem to work less well for this context. However, it might be argued that in this verse, the prophet makes some sort of sound with his mouth that acts in conjunction with the coming rainstorm, perhaps in imitation of or parallel with it. Morever, Elijah’s act involving *ghr is directed ‘to the earth’ (ªarßâ), just as the act of the sorcerers is to be turned ‘to the earth’ (ªarß). So Elisha’s act shows the oral dimension of *ghr as in RS 92.2014.11, while Elijah’s act of *ghr, like RS 92.2014, is directed ‘earthward’. It remains rather unclear what these three texts involve exactly, but what Elisha and Elijah perform may have been no less “magical” than what we see in RS 92.2014.11. I argue further that perceptions of this sort of magical power were further related to perceptions of Elijah and Elisha’s political power, but this claim belongs to another discussion.

The Religion of the Hunt One of the minor features in both the Ugaritic corpus and a number of biblical texts concerns the hunt. In CAT 1.23, one of the ritual rubrics demarcated by scribal lines contains a mention of the goddess Rhmy going off hunting (line 16). In view of the text’s larger context, the hunt could be laden with various sorts of religious associations, because this notice belongs to a larger chain of ritual rubrics, in particular the mention of the

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fields of Athirat wRhm (line 13; later reiterated in line 28), followed by a reference to dairy ingredients (line 14). CAT 1.23 arguably combines motifs of the domesticated and undomesticated alimentary products; the domesticated is explicit in the “milk”//“butter” in line 14, while the undomesticated is implicit in the reference to the goddess’s hunting in line 16 (M. S. Smith 2006: 57–60, 153–58). What is only implicit in 1.23 is arguably regarded as a norm in 1.14 II 26 and IV 8, as indicated by the parallelism of bdb˙k » b[m]ßdk and of bdb˙h » b[m]ßdh. In these texts, mßd here is regarded as the regular fare of sacrifice. Similarly, the offerings of Anat included hunted game animals of ªaylm, yºlm, and [y]˙mrm (1.6 I 24–29; Milgrom 2000: 1480–81). Note that no distinguishable undomesticated species appears in the ritual texts from Ugarit (see Pardee 2002: 224–26). The hunt is associated with deities who belong to what I have called the second tier of the pantheon (Smith 2001a: 45–46). CAT 1.114 reflects the service of hunted game at the outset of a divine feast (mßd, in lines 1 and 7, in this case added as a clarifying gloss), and at the end of the “mythological” narrative, the goddesses Anat and Athtart go off to hunt (tßdn, in line 24). In the difficult 1.92, Athtart seems to hunt (ºttrt wßwd[t] in line 2), and to do so, she goes into the outback (tlk bmdbr, in line 3). An unpublished text from the 1998 season, RIH 98:2, is a hymn to Astarte (lines 1–2), which mentions the ‘quiver and the bow’ (ªutpt wqst) in line 30; it appears that these belong to the goddess (Pardee 2007). Anat is likewise associated proverbially with the hunt in CAT 1.22 I 10–11, ‘as when Anat sets out to hunt’ (km tdd ºnt ßd). The association of Anat with the hunt probably underlies the narrative link between the hunt at the end of 1.17 V, in line 39, and the encounter that ensues between the goddess and Aqhat in 1.17 VI. (It may also explain the label “marzea˙ of Anat” in CAT 4.642.2, 4–8.) The hunt is not entirely the domain of goddesses. Although the text does not use the term for the hunt or game, it seems that 1.10 II describes Baal out hunting. He is equipped with his bow and arrows, and the goal of his travel is said to abound in bulls (lines 6–9). For comparison, we may note ‘the hunt of Adad’ (ßa-du sa dIskur) in Emar 466:90 (Arnaud 1986: 422, 424). Like 1.114, this text includes the hunt in the context of the marzea˙ (McLaughlin 2001: 33), which leads to the question whether the hunt in its religious usage was a feature associated with the activity of the marzea˙ in the second millennium at Emar and Ugarit. Drinking is more prominent in the marzea˙ texts surveyed by McLaughlin (2001), but the eating evidently included the game of the hunt, at least in some instances. From this setting of the marzea˙, it might be supposed that in Ugaritic society the hunt functioned as an “upper-class” activity. For the sake of completeness, one final Ugaritic text possibly pertinent to the question of the religion of the open

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field is CAT 4.149.14–16, with its cultic devotion in the “sown” (unless this was the name of a town): ‘five ( jars of) wine for the sacrifice of the queen in the sown’ (hms yn bdb˙ mlkt bmdrº ). In 1.23, it seems that the sown as a location mediates between the center represented by the urban zone of the temple and palace on the one hand, and on the other hand, the zone of outback, the site of the hunt (M. S. Smith 2006: 5, 39, 58–60, 151–52). So perhaps the mention of the sown in 4.149.14–16 is pertinent. Looking more broadly in West Semitic tradition, hunted game seems to have been part of the sacrificial regimen. Borowski (2002: 416) has pointed to the sacrifice of ªyl in the Carthage tariff inscription (KAI 74:5; Rosenthal, ANET 657: “young stag”; DNWSI 45). To this evidence may be added the sacrifice of ªyl in the Marseilles tariff inscription (KAI 69:5, 9; Rosenthal, ANET 656–57; see also DNWSI 45 and Krahmalkov 2000: 47). From these passages, we see that apparently this sort of sacrifice was at home in Punic tradition. We may hear an echo of Phoenician sacrificial practice in Philo of Byblos (PE 1.10.10). As part of worship for Fire and Wind, the figure Ousoos erected two steles and poured out libations of blood from the animals that he had hunted. Then there follows a description of the birth of the culture figures, Hunter and Fisher (PE 1.10.11; see also 1.11.13). Further afield, helpful material appears in Mesopotamian sources. As in the Punic sources, these attest to the sacrifice of hunted game, in particular deer and gazelle (Scurlock 2002: 392). Compared with these texts, Israelite texts are less forthcoming. The hunt is not an obvious religious theme in the Bible. It may ultimately underlie the list of animals permitted for consumption in Deut 14:4–6; it includes several undomesticated animals (ªayyal, ßébî, ya˙mûr; according to the njpsv also ªaqqô, dîson, téªô, zamer; but see Firmage 1992: 1153). While no religious provisions are given for their slaughter and consumption, their inclusion in Deuteronomy 14 arguably presupposes older religious concerns involving them. Lev 17:13 addresses the putatively legitimate animal slaughter in the open. Slaughter in the open perhaps suggests family and clan practice in sites other than shrines or temples, symbolized by the tent of meeting and regulated by the sort of priests belonging to the Priestly tradition behind Leviticus 17. We have no real textual evidence of this family practice, because the theme of the hunt in narrative material is largely restricted to the JacobEsau conflict (Gen 25:27, 28; 27:3, 5, 19, 25, 30, 31, 33). Genesis 25, which attributes hunting to one ancient hero and cultivation to the other, sounds like the representation of the twin culture heroes in Philo of Byblos, as noted above. Of course, the biblical chapter markedly differs in contrasting the two figures in terms of the audience’s identification with

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them: Esau (Edom) is not Jacob (Israel). The Jacob-Esau narrative presupposes a perception that the hunt was, emblematically speaking, characteristically Edomite and not Israelite. At the same time, this perception could well represent a relatively agricultural perspective generally or an urban perspective among Israel’s elite. It is in this context that Jacob’s blessing seems expressive of the hunt (Gen 27:27–28). Perhaps this blessing gives some inkling of what such a sacralization of the hunt might have involved. In sum, it may be argued that the hunt was celebrated in the orbit of family religion in rural areas, and/or it was no longer a substantial practice by the time of the written formulations of biblical laws pertaining to animal sacrifice. The archaeological evidence is helpful for exploring this aspect of early Israelite religion and life. Deer bones from the Iron I sanctuary on Mount Ebal point to their sacrifice. A 10th-century cultic structure at the site of Taannek yielded bones of some gazelles and/or roe deer and some fallow deer (see Frick 2000: 65–66). Deer and gazelle bones have been noted at the Dan sacred precinct by Borowski (2002: 412), Milgrom (2000: 1480), and Zevit (2001: 181), but it is unclear whether these constituted part of the sacrifices as such (Hesse personal communication; see Wapnish and Hesse 1991). Similar evidence for the Iron II shrine at Lachish has also been reported (Borowski 2002: 412). Despite problems in interpretation, it is apparent that sacrificial cult at some Israelite sites included undomesticated species. Complete processing and interpretation of these materials as well as a proper synthesis of sacrifices of this sort mapped out for ancient Israel remain a desideratum of scholarly research. A further archaeological issue is the continuity of this sacrificial practice from the Late Bronze Age. For example, the recent, massive final report for Lachish (Croft 2004: 5.2332–23) tracks the animal bones for the LB Level VI temple at Lachish as well as the associated P-1 Level pit. These include a rather minimal amount of evidence for gazelle (2 bones in the P-1 structure and none in the temple) and for fallow deer (1 in the LB temple and 1 in the P-1 structure). Despite the meager remains, this record may represent a broader pattern of evidence for hunted animals used in sacrificial cult from the Late Bronze Age through the monarchy. This deduction would correspond to the evidence of the general diet. According to Hesse and Wapnish (2002: 483–91), deer and gazelle remain well-documented for the diet from the Late Bronze Age through the Roman period. In this regimen, the PNs Jael and Jaalah (‘mountain-goat’), attested in the Bible, would be at home. What Croft (2004: 2344; see also pp. 2259, 2261, 2291–94 for figures and discussion) says about the situation at Lachish may well represent the larger picture in ancient Israel:

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Hunting was never of great importance in the economy, although the occurrence throughout the sequence of wild animals and birds indicates that it was a perennial pursuit. The numerous species of wild bird and a few species of wild mammal which are represented moderately frequently in the faunal assemblage were probably hunted reasonably locally. Such mammals include fallow deer, gazelles, hartebeest and fox.

Sacralization of hunted game might well be expected, as with the food regimen generally. Following Borowski (2002: 412), I find it quite plausible to entertain the possibility that the meat of the hunt was sacrificed, thanks especially to the (albeit limited) evidence from some Israelite shrines. Moreover, I suspect that hunted game may have been sacralized in the form of prayers or blessings within the family context. As noted above, Deuteronomy 14 permits slaughter of undomesticated animals outside the temple sacrificial system, yet this provision does not speak to the possible religious treatment of such slaughter within family circles. In sum, it is arguable from various lines of evidence that animals of the hunt could be used for sacrificial purposes, despite the overall lack of biblical evidence supporting this reconstruction (see Hesse and Wapnish 1997: 238–39 n. 1). As the Ugaritic evidence indicates, a lack of evidence for sacrifice of undomesticated animals in ritual texts is not necessarily an indicator that there was no sacrifice of this sort. In nonritual Ugaritic texts, we do get indicators of it. Thanks to the Ugaritic mythic material, we get a sense of the religious sensibilities surrounding the sacrifice of undomesticated animals that would otherwise be unknown from the ritual texts. In this regard, further cognizance should be taken of the family setting presupposed in Anat’s sacrifice of undomesticated animals in 1.6 I 24–29. A fundamental contrast may be operative in both the Ugaritic and the biblical sources: little or no sacrifice of undomesticated species in the ritual texts emanating from the temple system but indications of their sacrifice in family or clan religion. In relation to the religion of the hunt, we may also note the general location of the open field as a site for sacrifice. Some other items in the Bible may be relevant in this connection. One might point to the offering on the rock in Judg 6:21 and 13:19 (Levine 1989: 113), a practice to which Ezek 24:7 alludes (Milgrom 2000: 1482). A priestly reaction against cult associated with the offering in the open—perhaps including the hunt—may underly Leviticus 17, which contrasts it with offering made at the tent of meeting. Verse 7 names the ¶eºîrim as the recipients of offerings. It is unclear who these are; goat-beings, perhaps thought to be chthonic, are quite popular in the secondary literature (e.g., njpsv; Levine 1989: 114, 251; Milgrom 2000: 1462, 1490–93). This interpretation sounds polemical; if real

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cult lies behind the term, proposed alternatives, though lacking in support, might be entertained. All in all, there is relatively little trace of the hunt as a religious practice in the records for rituals, whether Ugaritic or biblical, perhaps because these are texts that favor agricultural or “urban” religion. At the same time, the texts suggest a side of religion that receives relatively little attention in the modern study of Israelite religion. Before concluding this discussion, we may note an important difference within the shared Ugaritic and biblical material: where the royal text of CAT 1.23 projects monarchic power out to the field and the hunt (M. S. Smith 2006c: 163–64), the Priestly text condemns the association with the local divinities in the open and seeks a comfortable zone between the field and the temple. A comparable situation arguably underlies biblical antagonism toward practices associated with the dead.

The Religion of the Dead It has not been uncommon to regard rituals associated with the dead as essentially beyond the interest of Yahwism (Zevit 2001: 664). Although Yahweh is largely a chief deity with features comparable to El and Baal, these “high deities” may in fact have enjoyed some sort of relationship to the dead or the underworld. What may look like a reasonable a priori assumption ends up privileging the view found in biblical texts dissociating Yahweh with the underworld (e.g., Psalm 88). It seems that criticism of some practices associated with the dead or underworld could take place under the aegis or rubric of Yahwistic praxis. The wedge between Yahweh and the dead or the underworld may reflect less a general tendency of Israelite religion and more a distinction that was emerging within Israelite religion. If aversion to death and the underworld elsewhere in the religious culture is any indicator, it was the priesthood at major shrines (in contrast to family or clan religion) that sought to raise this dissociation to normative status; worth mentioning at this point is Psalm 16, considered a Priestly prayer addressed against devotion to the dead (so van der Toorn 1996: 210–11; cf. Zevit 2001: 548 n. 122). There may have been a split in the Jerusalem priesthood over royal burial and its accompanying ritual in the city. Ezekiel 43 may signal one priestly position aimed against the practice, while Isaiah 28, with its condemnation of prophets and priests (v. 7) as well as the “covenant with death” (vv. 15 and 18), may suggest an acceptance of or accommodation to royal funerary practice by some priests and prophets, who were after all royal employees. In short, lurking between the pages of the Bible may be a royal funerary practice, one that, despite the well-placed criticisms of Pitard (2002), may be profitably compared

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and contrasted with what the Ugaritic texts may say on the matter. There is a complex history of relations between the worship of Yahweh and various deities and the dead and the underworld still to be worked out. Pitard’s cautions should perhaps alert us as well to the many possible contrasts in this area of religion. For about half a century, the biblical attitude toward death has been contrasted with what was seen in the Ugaritic material as the Canaanite “embrace of death.” Prominent in this discussion have been the Rephaim. Recent studies understand the Rephaim in both Ugaritic and the Bible as the heroic deceased ancestors of old. However, there is more to this comparison. Both cultures’ views of the Rephaim reflect the cultural attitudes of these societies. For Ugarit, CAT 1.161 makes it clear that the Rephaim represent the ancient cultural tradition with which the monarchy identified itself; in short, the Rephaim mark cultural identification for the monarchy (and perhaps for other sectors of Ugaritic society). Given the Israelite devotion to the dead, a similar view may have obtained throughout much of ancient Israel. When we see a contrast in the Bible, it is an Israelite reaction to an Israelite practice. Scholars have viewed the biblical material as a reflection of an innerIsraelite situation that involved a popular devotion to the dead and some Priestly and Deuteronomistic restrictions on activity of this sort. For Deuteronomistic texts, the Rephaim represent the ancient cultural tradition of Israel’s putative predecessors in the land, the Canaanites; in short, Rephaim signal cultural distance or “disidentification.” The Rephaim then are cultural markers of identity, insiders for the Ugaritic monarchy and society as well as general Israelite society, and outsiders for Deuteronomistic authors. Both the Ugaritic monarchy and the authors of Deuteronomy used (in opposite ways) the putatively ancient tradition of the Rephaim to lay claim to identity and authority. Finally, the difference in this area may be noted further by noting how biblical tradition fractures what stands in Ugaritic tradition as a unified tradition. Where the Ugaritic texts present the Rephaim as the deceased heroic ancestors of old (CAT 1.161), biblical tradition shows the Rephaim as either the deceased in general (e.g., Ps 88:11[10]; Prov 2:18, 9:18) or as heroic figures of old (e.g., Gen 14:5, Deut 2:10–11); only rarely in the biblical corpus do we seem to get a glimpse of the combination of features (e.g., Isa 26:14, 19; M. S. Smith 1992). Clearly the biblical material stands at a considerable cultural distance from the living royal tradition of the Rephaim as known from the Ugaritic texts. In short, the similarities, but equally the differences within the similarities, provide insight into the world surrounding the texts, including the religious struggles that their authors were attempting to negotiate.

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In concluding with the “religion of the honored dead,” I end where I began, in paying tribute to the memory of my own deceased mentor and his work on the cult of the dead at Ugarit and in the Bible. As Pope showed in his contribution to Ugarit in Retrospect a quarter century ago, the Ugaritic texts continue to offer significant gains for understanding the Israelite religion that later tradition forgot or that biblical authors sometimes downplayed.

References Albertz, R. 1994 A History of Israelite Religion in the Old Testament Period. Volume 1. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Albright, W. F. 1968 Yahweh and the Gods of Canaan. London: Athlone. Reprinted, Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1990. Arnaud, D. 1986 Recherches au pays d Astata, Emar VI.3: Textes sumériens et accadiens. Synthèse 18. Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations. Bordreuil, P., and Pardee, D. 2001 Une incantation. Pp. 387–92 Études ougaritiques: I. Travaux 1985–1995, ed. M. Yon and D. Arnaud. RSOu 14. Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations, 2004. Borowski, O. 2002 Animals in the Religion of Syria–Palestine. Pp. 405–24 in A History of the Animal World in the Ancient Near East, ed. B. J. Collins. HO 1/64. Leiden: Brill. Carr, D. M. 2005 Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cassuto, U. 1943 The Israelite Epic. Knesset 8: 121–43 [Hebrew]. ET, pp. 69–109 in Biblical and Oriental Studies. Volume 2: Bible and Ancient Oriental Texts, trans. I. Abrahams. Jerusalem: Magnes, 1975. Cohen, D. 1976 Dictionnaire des racines sémitiques ou attestées dans les langues sémitiques. Fascicule 2: ‘TN-GLGL. Paris: Mouton. Conroy, C. 1980 Hebrew Epic: Historical Notes and Critical Reflections. Bib 61: 1–30. Cook, S. L. 2004 The Social Roots of Biblical Yahwism. Studies in Biblical Literature 8. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Cooper, J. S. 1993 Sacred Marriage and Popular Cult in Early Mesopotamia. Pp. 81–96 in Official Cult and Popular Religion in the Ancient Near East: Papers of the

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First Colloquium on the Ancient Near East—The City and Its Life Held at the Middle Eastern Culture Center in Japan (Mitaka, Tokyo). March 20–22, 1992, ed. E. Matsushima. Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Carl Winter. Croft, P. 2004

Archaeozoological Studies. Pp. 2345–48 in The Renewed Archaeological Excavations at Lachish (1973–1994), ed. D. Ussishkin. 5 vols. Tel Aviv University Sonia and Marco Nadler Institute of Archaeology Monograph Series 22. Tel Aviv: Emery and Claire Yass Publications in Archaeology of the Institute of Archaeology, Tel Aviv University. Cross, F. M. 1973 Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic: Essays in the History of the Religion of Israel. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. 1998 From Epic to Canon: History and Literature in Ancient Israel. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Damrosch, D. 1987 The Narrative Covenant: Transformations of Genre in the Growth of Biblical Literature. San Francisco: Harper & Row. Day, J. 1994 Ugarit and the Bible: Do They Presuppose the Same Canaanite Mythology and Religion? Pp. 35–52 in Ugarit and the Bible: Proceedings of the International Symposium on Ugarit and the Bible. Manchester, September 1992, ed. G. J. Brooke, A. H. W. Curtis, and J. F. Healey. UBL 11. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1994. 2000 Yahweh and the Gods and Goddesses of Canaan. JSOTSup 265. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Drower, E. S., and Macuch, R. 1963 A Mandaic Dictionary. Oxford: Clarendon. Dubuisson, D. 2003 The Western Construction of Religion: Myths, Knowledge and Ideology, trans. W. Sayers. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Firmage, E. 1992 Zoology. Pp. 1109–67 in vol. 6 of ABD. Fisher, L. R., ed. 1972 Ras Shamra Parallels: The Texts from Ugarit and the Hebrew Bible. Vol. 1. Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute. 1975 Ras Shamra Parallels: The Texts from Ugarit and the Hebrew Bible. Vol. 2. Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute. Fleming, D. 1992 The Installation of Baal’s High Priestess at Emar: Window on Ancient Syrian Religion. HSS 42. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Frayne, D. 1985 Notes on the Sacred Marriage Rite. BO 42: 5–22. Frick, F. S. 2000 Tell Taannek 1963–1968 IV: Miscellaneous/2: The Iron Age Cultic Structure. Birzeit: Palestinian Institute of Archaeology.

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Ginsberg, H. L. 1973 Ugaritico-Phoenicia. JANES 5: 131–47. Glassner, J. J. 2004 Mesopotamian Chronicles, ed. B. R. Foster. SBLWAW 19. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Green, D. 2003 “I Undertook Great Works”: The Ideology of Domestic Achievements in West Semitic Royal Inscriptions. Ph.D. dissertation, Yale University. Greenfield, J. C. 1987 The Hebrew Bible and Canaanite Literature. Pp. 545–60 in The Literary Guide to the Bible, eds. R. Alter and F. Kermode. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, Belknap Press. 1990 The “Cluster” in Biblical Poetry. Maarav 5–6 (Sopher Mahir: Northwest Semitic Studies Presented to Stanislav Segert [ed. E. M. Cook. Santa Monica, CA: Western Academic Press, / Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns]): 159-68. Hackett, J. 1989 Can a Sexist Model Liberate Us? Ancient Near Eastern “Fertility” Goddesses. JFSR 5: 65–76. Hesse, B., and Wapnish, P. 1997 Can Pig Be Used for Ethnic Diagnosis in the Ancient Near East? Pp. 238– 70 in The Archaeology of Israel: Constructing the Past, Interpreting the Present, ed. N. A. Silberman and D. Small. JSOTSup 237. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. 2002 An Archaeozoological Perspective on the Cultural Use of Mammals in the Levant. Pp. 457–91 in A History of the Animal World in the Ancient Near East, ed. B. J. Collins. HO 1/64. Leiden: Brill. Hillers, D. 1985 Analyzing the Abominable: Our Understanding of Canaanite Religion. JQR 75: 253–69. Jason, H. 1977 Ethnopoetry: Form, Content, Function. Forum Theologicae Linguisticae 11. Bonn: Linguistica Biblica. Keel, O., and Uehlinger, C. 1998 Gods, Goddesses and Images of God, trans. T. Trapp. Minneapolis: Fortress. Krahmalkov, C. R. 2000 Phoenician-Punic Dictionary. OLA 90. Studia Phoenicia 15. Leuven: Peeters. Lang, B. 2002 The Hebrew God: Portrait of an Ancient Deity. New Haven: Yale University Press. Lapinkivi, P. 2004 The Sumerian Sacred Marriage in the Light of Comparative Evidence. SAAS 15. Helsinki: University of Helsinki Press. Leslau, W. 1987 Comparative Dictionary of Ge’ez (Classical Ethiopic). Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz.

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Levine, B. A. 1989 Leviticus. JPS Torah Commentary. Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society. 2000 Numbers 21–36. AB 4A. New York: Doubleday. Mankowski, P. 2000 Akkadian Loanwords in Biblical Hebrew. HSS 47. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. McLaughlin, J. L. 2001 The Marzeah in the Prophetic Literature: References and Allusions in Light of the Extra-Biblical Evidence. VTSup 86. Leiden: Brill. Milgrom, J. 2000 Leviticus 17–22. AB 3A. New York: Doubleday. Moberly, R. W. L. 1992 The Old Testament of the Old Testament: Patriarchal Narratives and Mosaic Yahwism. OBT. Minneapolis: Fortress. Mosca, P. 1986 Ugarit and Daniel 7. Bib 67: 496–517. Nissinen, M. 2001 Akkadian Rituals and Poetry of Divine Love. Pp. 93–136 in Mythology and Mythologies: Methodological Approaches and Intercultural Influences, ed. R. M. Whiting. Melammu Symposia 2. Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Oden, R. A. 1979 Theoretical Assumptions in the Study of Ugaritic Myths. Maarav 2/1: 43–63. Olmo Lete, G. del, and Sanmartín, J. 2003 A Dictionary of the Ugaritic Language in the Alphabetic Tradition. HO 67. Leiden: Brill. Pardee, D. 2002 Ritual and Cult at Ugarit. SBLWAW 10. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. 2007 Preliminary Presentation of a New Ugarit Song to ºAttartu (RIH 98/02). Pp. 27–39 in this volume. Parker, S. B. 1979 Some Methodological Principles in Ugaritic Philology. Maarav 2/1: 7– 41. 1989 The Pre-Biblical Narrative Tradition. SBLRBS 24. Atlanta: Scholars Press. 1997 Stories in Scripture and Inscriptions: Comparative Studies on Narratives in Northwest Semitic Inscriptions and the Hebrew Bible. New York: Oxford University Press. Peacock, C. K. M. 2004 The Akkadian Loanwords in Biblical Hebrew: A Sociological and Semantic Distribution Analysis. Seminar Paper, New York University.

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Pitard, W. T. 2002 Voices from the Dust: The Tablets from Ugarit and the Bible. Pp. 251– 75 in Mesopotamia and the Bible: Comparative Explorations, ed. M. W. Chavalas and K. L. Younger Jr. JSOTSup 341. London: T. & T. Clark. Pope, M. H. 1981 The Cult of the Dead at Ugarit. Pp. 159–79 in Ugarit in Retrospect: Fifty Years of Ugarit and Ugaritic, ed. G. D. Young. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Redford, D. B. 1986 Pharaonic King-Lists, Annals and Day-Books: A Contribution to the Egyptian Sense of History. SSEA Publication 4. Mississsauga, Ont: Benben. Roberts, J. J. M. 1986 Myth versus History: Relaying the Comparative Foundations. CBQ 38:1–13. Repr. pp. 59–71 in Roberts 1999. 1999 The Bible and the Ancient Near East: Collected Essays. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Rummel, S., ed. 1981 Ras Shamra Parallels: The Texts from Ugarit and the Hebrew Bible. Vol. 3. Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute. Scurlock, J. A. 2002 Animal Sacrifice in Ancient Mesopotamian Religion. Pp. 389–403 in A History of the Animal World in the Ancient Near East, ed. B. J. Collins. HO 1/64. Leiden: Brill. Seow, C. L. 1989 Myth, Drama, and the Politics of David’s Dance. HSM 46. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Smith, J. Z. 1982 Imagining Religion: From Babylon to Jonestown. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 2004 Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Smith, M. S. 1990 The Early History of God: Yahweh and the Other Deities in Ancient Israel. San Francisco: Harper & Row. 1992 Rephaim. Pp. 674–76 in vol. 5 of ABD. 1994 The Ugaritic Baal Cycle. Volume 1: Introduction with Text, Translation and Commentary to the First Two Tablets (KTU 1.1–1.2). VTSup 55. Leiden: Brill. 1997 The Baal Cycle. Pp. 81–176 in Ugaritic Narrative Poetry, ed. S. B. Parker. SBLWAW 9. Atlanta: Scholars Press. 2001a The Origins of Biblical Monotheism: Israel’s Polytheistic Background and the Ugaritic Texts. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 2001b Untold Stories: The Bible and Ugaritic Studies in the Twentieth Century. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson. 2002a The Early History of God: Yahweh and the Other Deities in Ancient Israel. 2nd ed. Biblical Resource Series. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans.

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2002b Ugaritic Studies and Israelite Religion: A Retrospective View. Near Eastern Archaeology 65/1 (The House That Albright Built): 17–29. 2004a The Memoirs of God: History, Memory, and the Experience of the Divine in Ancient Israel. Minneapolis: Fortress. 2004b Review of Z. Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel. Maarav 11/2: 145–218. 2005 Like Deities, Like Temples (Like People). Pp. 3–27 in Temple and Worship in Ancient Israel: Proceedings of the Oxford Old Testament Seminar, ed. J. Day. JSOTSup. London: T. & T. Clark. 2006 The Rituals and Myths of the Feast of the Goodly Gods of KTU/CAT 1.23: Royal Constructions of Opposition, Intersection, Integration and Domination. SBLRBS 51. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. 2007 Biblical Narrative between Ugaritic and Akkadian Literature, Part I. Ugarit and the Hebrew Bible: Consideration of Comparative Research. Revue biblique 114: 5–29. Sperling, S. D. 1998 The Original Torah: The Political Intent of the Bible’s Writers. New York: New York University Press. Toorn, K. van der 1996 Family Religion in Babylonia, Syria and Israel: Continuity and Change in the Forms of Religious Life. SHCANE 7. Leiden: Brill. Wapnish, P., and Hesse, B. 1991 Faunal Remains from Tel Dan: Perspectives on Animal Production at a Village, Urban and Ritual Center. Archaeozoologica 4/2: 9–86. Watson, W. G. E. 1984 Classical Hebrew Poetry: A Guide to Its Techniques. JSOTSup 26. Sheffield: JSOT Press. 1994 Traditional Techniques in Classical Hebrew Verse. JSOTSup 170. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. White, M. 1997 The Elijah Legends and Jehu’s Coup. BJS 311. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Wright, D. P. 2001 Ritual in Narrative: The Dynamics of Feasting, Mourning, and Retaliation Rites in the Ugaritic Tale of Aqhat. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Zevit, Z. 2001 The Religions of Ancient Israel: A Synthesis of Parallactic Approaches. London: Continuum.

Preliminary Presentation of a New Ugaritic Song to ºAttartu (RIH 98/02) D. Pardee The Oriental Institute, The University of Chicago

The discovery of a new Ugaritic text with mythological motifs is always a happy event, for these have been relatively rare since the halcyon days of the early 1930s, when all of the first 24 texts in Herdner’s Corpus des textes alphabétiques were discovered (Herdner 1963). The only other collection of these texts, relatively small because it comprised only 9, was discovered in the so-called House of the Priest with Lung and Liver Models and published by Virolleaud in Ugaritica V (Virolleaud 1968). The new text thus belongs to the series of occasional discoveries of individual religious texts that have occurred over the years. It comes from Ras Ibn Hani, where religious texts have been few, 6 ritual texts from the sacrificial cult, 1 incantation, and 1 divinatory text, about 5% of the 150 Ugaritic texts discovered to date at this site. 1 The new text was discovered in the fall of 1998, and Pierre Bordreuil was kind enough to send me a transcription immediately. This communication is in my own name simply because the tablet had not yet been cleaned when Bordreuil first studied it and, when I got around to copying it in the summer of 2004, many new readings emerged; the overall reading proposed here and the interpretations suggested in this preliminary presentation are thus mine, and Bordreuil is to bear no blame for them.

The Tablet, the Layout of the Text, and the Script It is the physical aspects that in large part determine what can and cannot be achieved in the interpretation—fortunately, for once, the beginning of the text is reasonably well preserved, and it allows a literary classification, whatever the subsequent difficulties may be; but, unfortunately, the 1. These statistics are from the catalog of epigraphic finds from Ras Ibn Hani that I have prepared in view of the comprehensive publication of the Ugaritic texts.

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rest of the text is in such bad shape that it only permits the isolation of occasional phrases or words. The tablet itself shows one of the most extreme cushion shapes that I have encountered: it is almost half as thick as it is wide (4 cm thick, 9 cm wide). The upper part of the original tablet has been preserved, with the break apparently not too far from the lower edge, judging from the curve visible at the lower left. The tablet as we have it today is reconstituted from several fragments, each of which has suffered varying degrees of damage along its edges. The first of the principal difficulties encountered in attempting to interpret the text inscribed on this tablet is owing to this damage along the edges of the fragments: only 5 lines of a total of 41 preserved lines are complete (1, 3–6, and 41u). All in all, however, the second factor is nearly as important, certainly as frustrating: that is, the scribe made very sparing use of the word divider, and the partially perserved lines often consist of a continuous series of signs on islands of preserved surface—without a more extensive context, any division of these signs into words is subjective to varying degrees. There is another peculiarity of the inscription of this text on the tablet, a factor that does not impede decipherment when one works on the tablet itself but that causes enormous difficulties when one works from photographs: while inscribing the obverse, the scribe ran his lines onto the right edge, as scribes often do, but to an extent rarely equaled elsewhere; more peculiar in terms of standard scribal practice is the fact that he began his lines on the reverse in the middle of the left edge of the tablet, which means that the first two or three signs are completely invisible when one is looking straight on at the tablet. Thus the tablet must be rotated to the right when reading the obverse and to the left to see the beginning of each line when reading the reverse. Finally, the lines on the principal surfaces are not perfectly horizontal, and the breaks occasionally make it difficult to determine with which beginning of a line a segment on the right is to be joined. Two features of the layout have led me to the working hypothesis that the scribe normally intended each line on the tablet to contain a syntactic and poetic unit: this seems to be fairly clearly the case in lines 1–6 (see discussion below), less clear but still plausible in the last three lines of the text, and this hypothesis accounts for the variability of length of line elsewhere in the text; unless the scribe was thinking in these terms, one wonders why he varied so significantly the extension of the lines onto the right margin. The other feature only occurs once: unless line 28u, which consists of three letters and a word divider, was for some reason left incomplete, it most likely contains the end of a line that could not be fitted onto the right margin, and the scribe preferred to start a new line on the tablet

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Figure 1. Facsimile of RIH 98/02:1–5. after inscribing only these signs. I stress that this is only a working hypothesis because, after line 6, the state of the tablet is such as to preclude certainty on delimiting sentences and poetic units. The rare word dividers may also have functioned to set off syntactic and/or poetic units, but these are rare and occur primarily in heavily damaged areas, which makes any decision difficult. The first word divider, however, in line 7, the only one preserved in a fairly complete context, seems to occur at a syntactic break within a poetic line. Lines 32u–33u may well constitute a counterexample, for the most straightforward interpretation of {rtªi} at the end of line 32u followed by {trtªi} at the beginning of line 33u is as an infinitive and a finite form from the same root functioning as a figura etymologica; this interpretation is supported by the presence of a word divider after {trtªi} in line 33u. The verb RTª is, however, new and its meaning uncertain, so this analysis of the word divisions remains hypothetical. The ductus has two principal peculiarities. (1) While the {t} is regularly formed as a single horizontal wedge usually with a left edge that leans to the right, the {º} shows a rare form in that its left edge leans to the left; the height of the left edge of the {t} varies considerably and, if we admit the hypothesis that the scribe wrote the signs with consistent angles, requires that what can look like an {º} in many another text here must be read as a {t} (see particularly the {t} of {tßpq} in line 3 or of {trqß} in line 5). (2) The left edge of the wedges that form {h} and {¡} often show a more extreme lean to the right than in the case of other horizontal wedges, and the left edge of the sign as a whole is thus considerably more “saw-toothed” than usual. Finally, there is a mystery that I have been unable to solve in lines 4 and 5: I refer to the two examples of the {t} sign with a roughly inscribed circle around it. There is one Hurrian text in which an encircled {º} appears to designate a Hurrian phoneme, but some other examples of encircled {t} seem to consist of {t}s that were originally written by mistake for other

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signs. 2 The word in which the encircled {t} appears in the new text is identical in both lines, and the only explanation that I have found that even begins to make sense assumes that the sign was in fact a {t} (see below).

The Genre of the Text As remarked above, we are fortunate in that the first few lines of the new text are reasonably well preserved, and the vocabulary of the first two provides an indication of the genre: Line 1 {sªmººttrtqlysr} sm ºttrt ql ysr /suma ºattarti qala yasir/ ‘May the name of ºAttartu be sung’ The literal translation may vary, for the verb SR here may be either 3rd m.s. jussive, injunctive, or indicative active (/yasir/ ‘may someone sing’, /yasira/ ‘let someone sing’, or /yasiru/ ‘someone will sing’), 3rd m.pl. jussive active (/yasiru/ ‘may they sing’), or 3rd m.s. jussive, injunctive or indicative passive (/yusar/ ‘may it [i.e., the name] be sung’, /yusara/ ‘let it be sung’, or /yusaru/ ‘it will be sung’—the vocalizations indicated are for the G-passive; in Biblical Hebrew, the only passive form attested is the Hophal, but this form cannot be causative passive in Ugaritic, for that form would be written with two {s}s. Line 2 {¡qmrsm lb¡ . smª-ºksdlª-º[. . .]} ¡qmr sm lb¡ sm tksd l [. . . ] /ªiqmara suma labªi suma takassidu lê [. . .]/ ‘Let me sing the name of the lionness: by (her) name she is victorious over [. . .]’ Here the form of the verb ‘to sing’ as 1st c.s. is clear, but the three modal parsings are all possible: jussive /ªiqmar/, ‘may I sing’, cohortative /ªiqmara/ ‘let me sing’, or indicative /ªiqmaru/ ‘I shall sing’—as we shall see below, the best Hebrew parallel for this particular is not in the cohortative. Two famous poems in the Hebrew Bible begin similarly: Exodus 15:1 ªasîrâ laYhwh kî gaªoh gaªâ sûs wérok´bô ramâ bayyam ‘I will sing to the Lord for he is covered with glory, horse and driver he has cast into the sea’. 2. See my review of J. Tropper, Ugaritische Grammatik (Pardee 2003–4: 18–19).

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The second text is Judg 5:3; in this case, the verbs meaning ‘to sing’ are not at the very beginning of the poem but, as in the text from Ras Ibn Hani, there are two verbs and they are the same as the verbs used in the Ugaritic poem: Judges 5:3 simºû m´lakîm haªåzînû roz´nîm ªanokî laYhwh ªanokî ªasîrâ ªåzammer laYhwh ªélohê yi¶raªel ‘Listen, kings, lend an ear, princes; I, even I, will sing to the Lord, I shall chant to the Lord, God of Israel’. Here the cohortative ªasîrâ is in parallel with the simple indicative (or, historically, a jussive?) ªåzammer, the verb that is cognate to Ugaritic /qamara/. As a brief grammatical aside, I remark that the spelling of the 1st c.s. form with {¡} in the Ugaritic text shows that the form is not D-stem, which would be written with {™}, but G-stem; furthermore, because the following noun appears to be functioning as an accusatival complement of this verb, it apparently means basically ‘to make vocal music’, rather than to make instrumental music. One Ugaritic poem begins with a 1st c.s. form of SR ‘to sing’, the “Marriage of Nikkal” text (CTA 24): {™sr nkl w ¡b} /ªasira nikkal wa ªibba/ ‘Let me sing of Nikkal wa ªIbbu’; and another begins with a marked cohortative of the verb QRª, the “Poem of Dawn and Dusk” (CTA 23): {¡qr™ ¡lm nº[mm]} /ªiqraªa ªilêma naºimêma/ ‘I will call on the two goodly gods’. The new Ugaritic text differs from all these parallels in that the poet’s personal involvement in singing to the goddess is preceded by a 3rdperson address, and the singing is explicitly said to be vocal. It is uncertain whether the word ‘voice’ is the subject of the verb (‘let a voice sing’) or is functioning adverbially (as I have vocalized, literally, ‘the name of ºAttartu with voice may one sing’). In either case, the point of the expression appears to be universality: anyone and everyone is to sing the goddess’s name and the poet’s joining in is thus framed as a response to the first invitation. This structure that consists of passing from 3rd person to 1st is unattested in any of the parallels cited from Ugaritic and Hebrew. The word for ‘voice’ or ‘sound’ (the word is /qalu/, not /gû/, which refers exclusively to the human voice) appears again near the end of the poem, probably in line 36u, where it bears a 3rd m.s. or f.s. pronominal suffix, ‘his/her voice’, and almost certainly in lines 35u and 37u in the phrase /lê qali nibli/, corresponding to Hebrew /léqol nebel/ ‘with the sound of the harp’:

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D. Pardee Line 35u {yklyn . lqlnblªhº[ ]ª-ºßq . tª-ºqr} yklyn l ql nblh . . . /yakalliyannu lê qali niblih-/ ‘he finishes (it) . . . by the sound of his/her harp’. Line 36u {smm . ysmºtr¡l[ ]ª-ºnqlh} smm ysmº tr ¡l[. . .]ª-ºn qlh /samîma yismaºu tôru ªilu [. . .] qalah-/ ‘In the heavens, Bull El hears [. . .] the sound of his/her voice’. Line 37u {[-]ª-ºl˙kª - - - - º[ ]ª-ºhw . lqlnblh} l ql nblh /lê qali niblih-/ ‘by the sound of his/her harp’.

At the beginning of line 36u, ‘Bull El’ is said ‘to hear in the heavens’, and it does not appear unlikely that these repetitions of the word /qalu/ constitute a sort of inclusio joining the 3rd-person introduction in line 1, where the song is stated explicitly to be in honor of ºAttartu, with this last section of the body of the poem. It is unfortunate that the state of the text precludes identifying the antecedent of the pronominal suffix on the word /qalu/ in line 36u, for, if animate, it would tell us who is depicted here as doing the singing. Another new feature, as compared with these introductory formulas in Ugaritic and Hebrew, is the emphasis on the name of the goddess: it is the very first word in the first line, and it is repeated, this time after the verb, in line 2, then repeated again in this line and identified here as the embodiment of the goddess’s victorious strength. In the two Hebrew texts cited, the divine name appears as the Tetragrammaton, while in the two cited Ugaritic texts the divine object of the song is either named or designated by a title. Evidence for a theology of the name is present in Ugaritic but not nearly as extensively as in Hebrew. The proclamation of names is particularly important in the Baal cycle (Yam, Mot, Baal’s weapons); but the most intriguing datum is the fact that, both in the Baal cycle (CTA 1 i 8— partially restored) and in the Kirta cycle (CTA 16 vi 56), the goddess ºAttartu bears the title ‘Name of Baal’ (/sumu baºli/)—a title also attested in the Phoenician world (KAI 49:3)—one that has exercised the imagination of the commentators but for which no universally accepted explanation has been discovered. At least in its present state, Baal does not appear in the new text, and this text appears not, therefore, to make a direct contribution to the solution of the enigma of the identification of ºAttartu and the name of Baal in the mythological texts. That is, the formulation in the new text appears to indicate that the goddess is victorious by her own

spread is 12 points short

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name, not Baal’s. The title ‘Name of Baal’ appears in the other Ugaritic texts in a curse formula that calls on ºAttartu to break the skull of the person cursed, and the bellicose side of ºAttartu’s nature comes out in the next three lines of the new text (see below) and may be alluded to subsequently, though the state of the tablet precludes any certainty on this point. In Hebrew poetry, the concept of singing or praising the Lord’s name is attested, for example, in Ps 7:18, ªôdeh Yhwh k´ßidqô » ªåzamm´râ semYhwh ºelyôn ‘I will praise the Lord according to his righteousness, I will chant the name of the Lord-Elyon’, or in Ps 69:31, ªåhall´lâ sem-ªélohîm b´sîr » waªågadd´lennû b´tôdâ ‘I will laud the name of God, I will declare his greatness with praise’. What is interesting is to find this feature, well known as an embedded element in various Hebrew poems but absent from the introductions to the poems that otherwise show similarities with Ugaritic poetry, now moving front and center in the new Ugaritic poem. The presence of two verbs of singing and of the noun meaning ‘voice’ or ‘sound’ leaves no doubt that the new poem is to be classified as lyric in nature; judging from these lines, the primary function of the song is to praise the goddess ºAttartu. The next three lines continue the feline imagery of line 2; but, in line 6, the images are from another sphere, and from there on, the identity of the speaker and of the progagonists as well as the precise acts and states described are all usually impossible to determine; this makes it in turn impossible to discern whether the praise of the goddess follows a narrative line (as, basically, in CTA 24 as well as in Exodus 15 and Judges 5) or whether the song proceeds along a series of characteristics, epithets, and more-or-less discrete events. Though the reappearance of the divine name in line 32u cannot be judged certain, the repetition of the name in lines 4 and 8 and the plausible presence of the divine name Saggar in line 13 make it plausible that the goddess ºAttartu is the subject of the song from beginning to end. Closely tied in with the question of literary form is the remarkable feline imagery in lines 1–5, remarkable because we had little inkling from previously available sources that ºAttartu could take on leonine form (as opposed to being represented in the company of a lion or to bearing leonine epithets). I am aware of four sorts of indications, only one of which constitutes a formal identification of the goddess with the lion:

1. Mesopotamian Ishtar is associated with the lion. 3 3. See, e.g., Leclant 1960: 55 n. 3. On the other hand, none of the Mesopotamian hymns to Ishtar depicts the goddess in feline terms as in this new Ugaritic text. In a rapid perusal of B. Foster’s translations of these hymns (Foster 1996), I

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2. The Western Phoenician-Punic goddess Tanit, explicitly identified with ºAstart on an inscription from Sarepta, is sometimes represented as lion-headed. 4 3. A single female divine figure but bearing the three names ºAttartu, Anat, and QDST, is depicted in the famous Winchester stele, of Egyptian origin, as standing on a lion. 5 4. At Memphis, ºAttartu was identified specifically with the lionheaded goddess Sekhmet (Leclant 1960: 4 n. 9; 48 n. 7; 55 n. 3), and on a relief of the Ptolemaic period at Edfu a lion-headed goddess who in Egyption iconographic terms is very similar to Sekhmet is identified by an accompanying inscription as ºAttartu; 6 while on another relief, this one from Kom Ombos, a lionheaded goddess is again identified explicitly as ºAttartu. 7 found only two leonine allusions: she is said once to be the bride of Pirigbanda (‘fierce lion’ in Sumerian) and once to be the ‘splendid lioness of the Igigi’ ({supu-ú-tum la-ab-bat dÍ-gì-gì}) (see Foster 1996: 500 and 504/506 with references to the publications of these texts). Judging from the entry labbatu in CAD L 23, this is a rather standard title of Ishtar, but the appelative was never, as far as I can determine, fleshed out in mythic or hymnic form in any way comparable to what we find in the new Ugaritic hymn. 4. Gubel 1985: 199 n. 41. 5. Edwards 1955: 49–51 with pl. 3. A discrepancy between this Ugaritic text and the Egyptian iconographic data that is currently without an obvious explanation is the consistent placement of the goddess QDS(T) on a lion in the Egyptian representations (see the summary of iconographic features of divine representations identified by inscription in Cornelius 2004: 89–90) while ºAttartu is commonly linked with the horse; as noted here below, there is no equine imagery preserved in RIH 98/02. An obvious problem, of course, is the identification of the divinity identified as QDS(T) in the Egyptian representations. Cornelius rightly rejects a simple identification with Asherah; on the other hand, she shows too many similarities with ºAttartu—and the leonine imagery of the new text provides a striking new example—for his identification as an “independent” deity (p. 101) to serve as anything but a stopgap measure but a measure upon which I cannot improve. The only reasonably well identified divine name based on the root QDS attested in the Ugaritic texts is provided by the first element of the binomial Qudsu-wa-ªAmrur, known from the Baal Cycle as Asherah’s personal attendants; the first element appears, like the second, to be masculine in gender, and any link with the clearly female divinity whose Egyptian iconography Cornelieus has so well delineated is thus rendered dubious. 6. Leclant 1960: 54–58 with pl. 4; Cornelius 2004: 43, 93. 7. De Morgan et al. 1895: 163, no. 208; cf. de Witt 1952: 368. My thanks to my colleagues Steven Harvey and Emily Teeter for their help in running down this and other references to the Egyptian data cited here.

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It may be added that the new textual data confirm Gubel’s hypothesis that the lioness heads depicted on first-millennium equestrian bridleharness ornaments, which are paralleled formally with representations of a nude goddess, are representations of the goddess ºAttartu (Gubel 1985: 199). It is clear that most of the inscriptional data are Egyptian, while the combination of representational and textual data is exclusively Egyptian. What is striking about the treatment of ºAttartu in the Egyptian sources as compared with the new Ugaritic poem is that the Egyptians viewed her as a warlike goddess associated with horses and chariots (as on the Edfu relief ), an important element in Gubel’s hypothesis regarding the lioness representations, whereas I can find no hint of equine imagery in the new Ugaritic text as it is preserved. The same is true of the also poorly preserved mythological text RS 19.039+, 8 in which ºAttartu is one of the principal figures. Her primary role in this and the “Drunkenness of El” text (RS 24.258) 9 is as a huntress—a motif also present later in the new text judging from the words ‘quiver and bow’ in line 30u ({ª-ºdmºlsk ª-º [ ] ª.º lsktÿtptwqsªtº}—the last three words are clearly /ªutpatu wa qastu/). It is fair to say, therefore, that, in spite of its poor condition, the new Ugaritic song in honor of ºAttartu transforms what we previously knew about her feline character. It is likely that this use of feline imagery is owing precisely to the lyric nature of the poem, for, in the myths, the principal gods are rarely presented as acting in zoomorphic guise—in spite of the fact that they may bear titles based on identifications with animals, such as Bull El. Lines 3–5 Line 3 {tßpql˙tdgr¡l} tßpq l˙t d gr ¡l /taßpiq la˙ata da guri ªili/ ‘She has banged shut the maw of the whelp of El’. Line 4 {nmr˙trtºttrt} nmr ˙trt ºttrt /namiru ˙atiratu ºattartu/ ‘A mighty panther is ºAttartu’, Line 5 {nmr˙trttrqß} nmr ˙trt trqß /namiru ˙atiratu tarqußu/ ‘(As) a mighty panther does she pounce’. 8. Originally published by Virolleaud 1965: 3–5 (text 1); cf. Caquot 1989: 31–36. 9. Originally published by Virolleaud 1968: 545–51 (text 1); cf. Pardee 2002: 167–70 (text 51).

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The key terms in line 3 are new—that is, the verb ÍPQ and the noun GR. The first may be explained by Arabic ßafaqa/yaßfiq-, of which the specialized meaning is ‘to strike something so as to make a sound’ but which is used of all kinds of ‘striking’; here the parallel with the shutting of the jaw in the Aqhat legend cited below indicates a special nuance of ‘slamming shut’, attested in Arabic for this root when the object is a door. The new noun appears to be cognate with the common Semitic term for ‘whelp’, usually said of a lion, jackal, or dog; the precise vocalization of this noun is only a guess because the noun shows the form of a hollow root in Hebrew (gur), III-weak in Aramaic and Arabic (guryaª in Aramaic, ƒurwun in Arabic), and geminate in Akkadian (girru). The literary motif seems to be the motif contained in Anat’s recital of the enemies of Baal whom she has vanquished, for the list ends with the following quartet, of which the two central elements are animals (RS 2.[014]+ iii = CTA 3): (43u) mhst . mddª.º¡lm.ª-ºr[. . . ] (44u) ßmt . ºgl . ¡l . ºtk (45u) mhst . klbt . ¡lm . ¡st (46u) klt . bt . ¡l . qbb .

‘I have smitten El’s beloved ªArisu (Demander), have wreaked destruction on El’s calf ºAtiku (Binder); I have smitten El’s bitch ªIsatu (Fire), have finished off El’s daughter Qabibu (Flame)’.

Unfortunately, the mythological references are unclear (Wyatt 1998: 79– 80), and all that I am prepared to say is that the new formula appears to fit the pattern of Anat’s claims, though without a specific name attached to each generic term as in the list just cited. The determinative genitive phrase in line 3 adds a datum to the Ugaritic lexicon: the relative pronoun after {l˙t} shows that this noun should be in the absolute state and that it cannot for that reason be dual, which would be written {l˙m} or {l˙tm}; it must, therefore, be either feminine singular or a plural in /-at-/ that would be masculine or feminine in grammatical gender. Since the plural is unlikely both here and in the similar passage from the Aqhat legend (RS 2.[004] i 27u–28u = CTA 17), where the ideal son ‘shuts the jaw of his (father’s) detractor’ (†bq l˙t n¡ßh/†abiqu la˙ata naªißihu/), one must conclude that Ugaritic had a feminine-singular noun that designated ‘the (lower) jaw’ and a masculine noun as well, attested to date only in the dual as a designation of ‘the two cheeks’ (yhdy l˙m w dqn /yahdiyu la˙êma wa diqna/ ‘he lacerates cheeks and chin’ [RS 2.[022]+ vi 19 = CTA 5]). Though Hebrew has only the masculine noun, the singular is used there for ‘the (lower) jaw (bone)’, as in Samson’s use of the jawbone of an ass ( Judg 15:15–17) as a weapon or in the hypothetical taking of Le-

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viathan by a hook in the jaw, as expressed in Job 40:26; in Hebrew, the dual is used when the emphasis is on the two sides of the face. A root ÓTR is previously unattested in Ugaritic, and one must resort to etymology in order even to begin to have an idea of the meaning of ˙trt in lines 4 and 5. The verb ˙atira in Arabic means ‘to be thick and hard; be or became large or great’. Without further evidence from Ugaritic, it is impossible to determine precisely why this root was selected by the poet to describe the similarity between the goddess and the panther. It is a shame that the word /guru/ is semantically ambiguous as to species, for this means that we cannot be certain whether the lioness ºAttartu was defeating young lions, young jackals, or young dogs. The passage cited above from the Baal cycle would favor the last interpretation, for there Anat smote the bitch of El. On the other hand, the various forms cited above from the Semitic languages have as common denominator the lion, and one might think that the special role of ºAttartu, the lioness, is to defeat obstreperous young lions. One might also think that the stress placed on striking the maw of the creature in question reflects the fearsome lion rather than the yapping dog or the jackel, but this is a rather subjective consideration. The case must remain open regarding the exact identification of this specific enemy. If the division of the words proposed for lines 4–5 is correct, they are as interesting as anything seen to this point, for they explicitly depict ºAttartu in a previously unattested feline form: a panther or leopard. 10 A particularly striking example of a panther head in Egyptian plastic representation of pharaonic ideology may, however, fill the gap to a certain extent: 11 associated with a ceremonial panther skin discovered in the tomb of Tutankhamon was a plastic representation of a panther head, with the pharaoh’s cartouche in the center of the forehead where the lion and lioness heads mentioned above have another decorative motif, a circle that Gubel takes as a solar orb. The pharaoh would have worn the panther skin while performing his priestly functions (Gubel 1985: 183, 187). Another, very different, representation of a panther found in the tomb of Tutankhamon (Gilbert et al 1976: pl. 21) shows either the pharaoh or his wife (the criteria that would be obvious for distinguishing the sexes are not so relevant in the Amarna Age) standing on the back of a striding panther. Though not 10. Compare Teeter 2002 (see esp. the handy chart on p. 337 and the discussion on pp. 342–43 of priestly attire consisting of “pelt-like” robes, some of which were “decorated with stars that substituted for the animal’s [i.e., the leopard’s] distinctive spots”). 11. Gubel provides a black-and-white photograph (1985: 185); there is an excellent color photograph in Gilbert et al. 1976: pl. 3.

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identified by Gubel as a direct ancestor to the leonine representations of the goddess in the first-millennium objects mentioned above, the pharaohs’ claim that their strength was like that of ºAttartu coupled with the place of the panther in pharaonic ideology may provide at least a distant parallel to the new literary representation of the goddess as a panther.

References Caquot, A. 1989 Textes religieux. Pp. 17–123 in Textes ougaritiques, Tome II: Textes religieux, rituels, correspondance. LAPO 14. Paris: Cerf. Cornelius, I. 2004 The Many Faces of the Goddess: The Iconography of the Syro-Palestinian Goddesses Anat, Astarte, Qedeshet, and Asherah c. 1500–1000 bce. OBO 204. Fribourg: Academic Press / Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Edwards, I. E. S. 1955 A Relief of Qudshu-Astarte-Anath in the Winchester College Collection. JNES 24: 49–51, pl. 3. Foster, B. 1996 Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature. Bethesda, MD: CDL. Gilbert, K. S., et al., eds., 1976 Treasures of Tutankhamon. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Gubel, E. 1985 Phoenician Lioness Heads from Nimrud: Origin and Function. Pp. 181– 202 in Phoenicia and Its Neighbours: Proceedings of the Colloquium Held on the 9th and 10th of December 1983 at the “Vrije Universiteit Brussel” in cooperation with the “Centrum voor Myceense en Archaïsch-Griekse Cultuur.” Studia Phoenicia 3. Leuven: Peeters. Herdner, A. 1963 Corpus des tablettes en cunéiformes alphabétiques découvertes à Ras Shamra– Ugarit de 1929 à 1939. MRS 10. Bibliothèque Archéologique et Historique 79. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, Geuthner. Leclant, J. 1960 Astarté à cheval d’après les représentations égyptiennes. Syria 37: 1–67. Morgan, J. de, et al. 1895 Catalogue des Monuments II, Kom Ombos I. Vienna: Holzhausen. Pardee, D. 2002 Ritual and Cult at Ugarit. SBLWAW 10. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2002. 2005 Review of J. Tropper, Ugaritishe Grammatik. AfO 50 (2003–4) on-line version: http://www.univie.ac.at /orientalistik/Afo.html#pardee. Teeter, E. 2002 Animals in Egyptian Religion. Pp. 335–60 in A History of the Animal World in the Ancient Near East, ed. B. J. Collins. HO 64. Leiden: Brill.

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Virolleaud, C. 1965 Le Palais Royal d’Ugarit V: Textes en cunéiformes alphabétiques des archives sud, sud-ouest et du petit palais. MRS 11. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale Klincksieck. 1968 Les nouveaux textes mythologiques et liturgiques de Ras Shamra (XXIVe Campagne, 1961). Pp. 545–95 in Ugaritica V. MRS 16. Bibliothèque Archéologique et Historique 80. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, Geuthner. Witt, C. de 1952 Le rôle et le sens du lion dans l’Égypte ancienne. 2nd ed. Luxor: Hussein. Wyatt, N. 1998 Religious Texts from Ugarit: The Words of Ilimilku and His Colleagues. The Biblical Seminar 53. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press.

The Religious Role of the King in Ugarit Nicolas Wyatt The University of Edinburgh

Introduction: The Nature of Royal Power Power, both in its appeal to legitimacy and in its exercise, has always made great claims for itself. Modern nations have spoken of their “manifest destiny” as the directors of the lives of others, and governmental control of populations has not diminished one wit with the growth of democracy. Within our living memory, even secular nations going to war have claimed that “God is on our side.” The inaugurations of presidents and the coronations of kings and queens share the use, however attenuated, of ancient rituals and oath forms, which can be traced back in virtually unbroken descent from patterns established in the remote past. Thus religious conceptions underlie the self-consciousness even of modern rulers. Ancient peoples were no different. The monuments from Egypt, exalting the deified king, Horus on earth, the very incarnation of Ra, blazoned his divine glory abroad and sanctioned a vice-like grip on his subjects (see Quirke 2001). Likewise, the kings of Assyria claimed a mystic identity with Author’s note: This essay incorporates an English version, with a few minor alterations, of a paper given at the Lyon conference, November 2004, entitled “Le role religieux du roi,” which covered literary and mythic aspects (and which will be published separately in French) while the paper delivered to the Chicago conference (Deerfield, Illinois) covered ritual aspects. The study was intended to cover the issue comprehensively, from both perspectives, and I have understood my function be to state the status quaestionis rather than to attempt to break new ground. The Chicago (Deerfield) part was delivered as “The Religious Role of the King in Ugarit: The Ritual Tradition.” In view of the confines that even two conference papers impose in terms of space, I have for the sake of brevity here been perhaps overgenerous in references to my own work, in which I have dealt more extensively with many of the issues raised here. A slightly shorter version appears in UF 37.

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Ninurta, the god of war, in their restless search for new conquests (see Annus 2002 passim). The smaller kingdoms of the Levant were different only in scale. Little by little, scholars have been able to piece together the evidence elucidating the elements of the ideology of the state, which bound ruler and ruled into a tight unity under the control of the gods. Or, to put it in socialscientific terms, the symbolism of religion was used to undergird the structures of power for the maintenance of the state. The gods were, in a very Durkheimian sense, the apotheosis of the nation. So how are we to characterize the religious role of the king—as the apex of the pyramid of society? We may do so in general terms and with regard to specific aspects of his position and activity. And in doing so, we speak of broad symbolic patterns of belief and behavior, which may be interpreted politically or religiously. The perception that the ancients did not really distinguish the two dimensions of experience is probably a just one. To an extent, however, the situation in the Levant has historically been a problematic field of inquiry, on account of the existence of two contradictory tendencies in scholarship. On the one hand, there were theologians examining Israelite religion and often implicitly seeing messianism and the advent of Christianity as the necessary fulfilment of a historical process (and rather surprisingly often downplaying to the point of denial the reality of divine kingship in Israel). On the other hand, a theological agenda often overlay research into so-called “Canaanite religion,” of which Ugaritian religion was considered a prime exemplar, with the result that it was judged according to biblical canons—that is, the prejudices of biblical writers, commonly shared by the modern inquirer—and consequently found wanting. It is all very well for a forum of Ugaritologists, in Lyon, Chicago, or anywhere else, to lament this pressure from an adjacent discipline and to insist that it is wrong to attempt an analysis of Ugaritian patterns on the basis of Israelite patterns. I am sure that many of us share this frustration. But the fact remains that the two cultures are contiguous in many respects, and if it is legitimate to use Ugaritian evidence, with due caution, in the elucidation of Israelite and biblical problems, then the reverse is the case, just as without embarrassment we use Mesopotamian, Hittite, or Egyptian structures where appropriate. An examination of the king’s specifically religious role falls naturally into two chief parts, according to the type of textual evidence on which we draw. We have first the literary (mythic and epic) texts 1 and then the ritual texts. We shall deal with them briefly in this order. 1. For the problem of definition, see Wyatt 2001b; 2005c.

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The Evidence of the Mythic and Epic Texts Ilimilku’s Role as Royal Mythographer and the Interpretation of the Baal Cycle This is not the place to enlarge on the problems concerning the dating and role of Ilimilku. In this essay, I shall take him to be a contemporary of Niqmaddu III. In view of the problem of the number of kings bearing this name, I have designated him “Niqmaddu III/IV.” This enables us to offer a new contextualization for the text of Ilimilku’s compositions, which has a bearing on their ideological reference. 2 It is also as well here to deal fairly firmly with one important strand in the history of scholarship concerning Ilimilku’s work. This concerns, particularly with reference to the Baal cycle, the so-called “seasonal pattern” that many have discerned. 3 I find this interpretation entirely farfetched. Quite apart from the extraordinary contortions into which some exponents of the view have twisted themselves, it is an indefensible and simplistic reductionism to shoehorn a whole religious system into an allegory of the seasons. Indeed the formal basis that appeared for so long to give sanction to this approach, the equally reductionistic characterization of 2. The revised dating of Ilimilku to the late 12th century b.c.e., resulting from the discovery of an Ilimilku autograph (RS 92.2016, published by Caquot and Dalix 2001) in the Urtenu archive (see further references in n. 12), has not commanded universal assent and should perhaps be regarded as provisional until various issues have been resolved. See now Dietrich 2003: esp. 134–36. 3. C. Virolleaud 1931a, 1931b, 1934, 1937–38; R. Dussaud 1931, 1935; T. H. Gaster 1950; J. Gray 1965; P. van Zijl 1972; J. C. de Moor 1971; M. Yon 1991. Note also Petersen 1998. This last account seems not to have attracted much comment but merely reiterates old and largely discredited views, as in the following passage: “The Baal-cycle is the story about Baal and his conflicts with ym and mt. The outcome of these fights are [sic] of decisive importance for man (causing rain and drought), but man cannot intervene in the fray. Thus the epic tells us that certain (climatic) conditions—which are vital to the human race—lie beyond the influence of man. And for this reason cultic exertions are superfluous. This is the anticultic potential of the Baal-cycle . . . the anticultic element permeates the entire narrative. One might feel tempted to say that the Baal-cycle contains an anticultic ideology or theology” (Petersen 1998: 94–95). One might feel tempted to say that this contributes nothing to our understanding of Ugaritic literature. It remains unclear why Petersen considered Ilimilku to have had an anticultic bias, and his pseudo-psychoanalytical treatment of his unconscious motives (1998: 95–96) leaves us none the wiser. The seasonal view is also still espoused, rather gratuitously in a study of language, in Bordreuil and Pardee 2004: 1.29.

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Ugaritian religion as “fertility cult,” is also without justification. 4 And it would indeed be amazing to see apparently overwhelming evidence for such an interpretation in the mythic traditions from Ugarit, when it is so conspicuously absent from the ritual tradition. The exceptions, the theogonic texts KTU 1.12, 1.23, and 1.24, point in another direction altogether, that of royal ideology. 5 KTU 1.10, 1.11, and 1.13 (a hymn) are not exceptions either, because in my view the two former texts are now to be seen as the overall conclusion to the “Baal cycle.” There has been an increasing recognition that a more adequate interpretation of the Baal cycle lies in royal ideology. M. S. Smith published a mature survey of the history of interpretation (Smith 1986), and in his critical edition of the first two tablets, he wrote that “the six tablets of the Baal cycle present a vivid story of conflict and kingship, love and death. . . . It is well-known that political language dominates the Baal cycle” (Smith 1994: xxii, xxiv). Of course, this is not so much a statement that royal ideology is the theme as that it is the idiom in which this particular story is couched. But we are now in a position to recognize that it is indeed the primary theme. For it is concerned not merely with the theology of Baal, a warrior-god and royal god; it is directed primarily at the selfperception of the royal court of Ugarit and the ideology of the king. Apart from a general trend in recent scholarship to see Ugaritian Baal against a broader ancient Near Eastern background, in which the royal aspects of the storm-god are frequently prominent, 6 perhaps the most important single contribution to the debate was by J.-M. Durand, with his publication in 1993 of Mari text A1968 (Durand 1993). This small text is 4. For extended critique, see Wyatt 1996: 140–53. 5. See discussion in Wyatt 1994; 1995; 1996: 219–356. 6. See Annus 2002: passim and p. 177: “In the cases of Ebla and Mari, the protagonist of the reported myth is the god Addu (of Aleppo), who is religiohistorically similar, perhaps even identical with both Ugaritic Baal and Sumerian Ninurta. In Ninurta mythology, his image as the slayer of monsters is intimately connected with his role as patron of agriculture.” Annus also noted (2002: 178) that at Emar the local storm-god was not only represented logographically by the name dnin.urta but was also the son of Dagan, who was identified with Enlil, Ninurta’s father in Sumerian theology. See also Green 2003: 285–88 (section on “The Storm-God as the Foundation of Political Power”); compare Feliu 2003: 212– 13 (though he himself remains skeptical on the atmospheric identity of Dagan). While Dagan is not explicitly connected with the Chaoskampf tradition, we have to ask why he should otherwise be the guardian of the sacred weapons at Terqa (Durand 1993: 53; Wyatt 1998a: 843, citing ARM A1858; cf. Feliu 2003: 111–12, 130, 135–39). Something is obviously going on in the background to this ritual tradition. See further pp. 51–54 below.

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in the form of a declaration by a priest handing sacred weapons to ZimriLim, newly restored to his throne. These are the weapons, declares the cult-officiant in the name of Adad the storm-god, “with which I fought Tiamat [text Temtum].” The implications of this text are profound, as Durand recognized, and as I attempted to show in a comparative setting in my essay in the Loretz Festschrift (Wyatt 1998a; note also Watson and Wyatt 1997). With a considerable amount of comparative material available, it now became clear that the whole narrative tradition of the Chaoskampf had an intimate relationship with rituals of kingship, new kings receiving from the gods a charter guaranteeing divine sanction in their military campaigns, so that all warfare was seen as the ongoing conflict between cosmos and chaos, a motif echoed in the rhetoric of our own times. The Estonian scholar A. Annus has also contributed significantly to the debate, in showing the importance in Assyria of the god Ninurta within the developing cycle, 7 in addition to its wide distribution. We can readily see the force of this sort of grandiloquence in the policies of great kings—of Hatti, Assyria, or Egypt. But both Ugaritic and Israelite evidence show that the great were aped by the humble, every petty local king presenting himself to his people in the same guise. It really had become a cliché for legitimacy. It perhaps lends a serious note to the joke that a language is a dialect with an army. A language apparently needs a military tradition to justify itself. A king needs enemies to prove his indispensability. 8 Thus far our discussion does not require that Ilimilku be anything more than an amanuensis. All he was doing, it may be argued, was reiterating 7. Annus 2001; 2002. These discussions supersede my earlier discounting of the ancient southern Mesopotamian contribution to the developing theme (Wyatt 1998a: 838 n. 16). 8. The general public may well view the various fields of the discipline of ancient Near Eastern studies as peculiarly arcane and remote from everyday concerns. In the present instance, however, ancient rhetoric becomes very relevant to the evaluation of the propaganda of modern states (see introduction), as they attempt to dress up their adventures, often undertaken for unacknowledged economic or strategic purposes, in the language of cosmos versus chaos, civilization versus barbarism, and so on. (See my earlier comments in Wyatt 1998a: 844–45, taken up by Annus 2002: 95.) Self-interest has a limitless capacity to misrepresent itself as public interest. At the same time, the theme of opposition is central to the theological rhetoric of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam and further afield, so the major religions also appear to sanction the political agenda. Without a hint of irony, we may note the need of modern states to find new enemies when old ones have been disposed of and even the use of biblical rhetoric to legitimize conflict. The ancient pattern lives on.

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the ancient tradition. One of the less satisfactory aspects of the modern literary assessment of scribal activity in the ancient world is the common reluctance to accord originality or creativity to any one person. Scholars always speak of “scribal schools,” as though everything is determined by discussion in committee. We all know about committees: a camel has been defined as a horse designed by a committee. Although the following observation can scarcely claim a scientific basis, I think that the analogy may be a useful one: the poet in the ancient world, who might encompass a number of formal functions, such as scribe, wise man, priest, and prophet, really did, as the Greek term poihthvÍ indicates, ‘make’ or ‘construct’ a world in imagination. The poets were the systematic theologians of the ancient world. This is evident in the authority that poets such as Homer and Hesiod had in shaping the structures of Greek theology or in the theological authority of the Mesopotamian classics whose anonymous authors must surely have ultimately worked as individuals, not as committee members. Psychologically, the impulse in the poet’s (prophet’s, priest’s, etc.) mind was obviously a function of his or her own psychological propensities and the Geist of the cultural context. The king himself might well have prompted a given interpretation of an ideological cliché. Though much of the material these writers used was traditional, they put their own mark on it, and by virtue of their prosodic skills, stamped the tradition anew with their own authority. This is what I believe we witness in examination of the work of Ilimilku. And it seems to me that there is a homogeneity of style and theme about the three major compositions associated with him. All three deal with various aspects of kingship, and this suggests a common programme, of presenting kingship according to prevailing canons of ideology. I have offered a number of discussions on these matters. I shall interweave elements of these in the present account to highlight the implicit arguments employed by Ilimilku. Let us begin with the surface structure of the Baal cycle. Though something like 50% of the composition is now missing, enough remains for us to have a rough idea of the main sequence of narrative events, albeit with serious gaps in detail here and there. There is evidently tension between Baal and Yam in tablets KTU 1.1 and 1.2, as they compete for kingship over the gods (under the overall authority of El). Baal appears to have had a kingship that has been overturned. Yam is given royal titles while seated on El’s throne (1.1 iii, iv), with Baal subsequently demanded as a prisoner (1.2 i 34–35) and bound as a prisoner underneath the throne (1.2 i 6–7). When Kothar appears with weapons for Baal and tells him that now is his chance, the tables are turned, and Baal kills Yam in the ensuing fight (1.2 iv 7–40). In tablets 1.3 and 1.4, it is as

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though loose ends are tied up, so that Baal, now a victorious king, may enter his patrimony and be enthroned. In tablets 1.5 and 1.6, his triumph appears to be short-lived in the face of the serious threat posed by Mot. Neverthless, despite a first defeat and subsequent entry into the underworld, Baal is restored and eventually, with assistance from Shapsh, a royal goddess, 9 is declared (in Mot’s words!) the victor (1.6 vi 33–34).

Baal and Athtar as Royal Gods Threaded into this long and detailed narrative are brief appearances of the god Athtar, at first declared unfit for royal office (1.2 iii 12–25) but subsequently enthroned in Baal’s stead during the latter’s absence in the underworld (1.6 i 45–67, a passage discussed below). Finally, in my view, KTU 1.10 (and perhaps 1.11 as a detached fragment of it) celebrates the marriage of Baal following his victory. Prima facie, this is to do with kingship. The fortunes of no less than four candidates for an intermediate divine kingship are interwoven, and above them all towers the ultimate authority figure, the king of kings, El himself. Now it may be argued that this is nothing more than the human institution of kingship used as the medium for exploring the theological (that is, metaphysical) problem of how authority operates in the divine realm (that is, in theory). But this is implausible. The two realms cannot simply be separated in this way. The theological dimension is always a function of the real world, whether it offers a validation or a critique of it. It has no other conceivable purpose. So it should be seen in any event as reflecting on the issue of royal legitimacy and power in the real world of Ugarit. Furthermore, the wider discussion of Durand (1993), Lewis (1996), Wiggerman (1989), Annus (2002), and myself amply demonstrates the ubiquity of the Chaoskampf motif and its specific application to royal contexts. The chief storyline of the Baal cycle is most adequately explained within the wider tradition, which lasts even within the written record for some 5,000 years 10 and undoubtedly followed a longer oral prehistory. 9. For her royal function, see her as recipient of offerings and purification rites following the birth of Shahar and Shalem to Athirat and Rahmay, who are hypostases of her, KTU 1.23.54. This ideology is echoed in Psalm 19, a text dealing with the myth of the king’s divine birth narrated at his anointing and enthronement (Wyatt 1995). 10. It continues into Greek and biblical tradition, and thereby into all subsequent European ideology. See Wyatt 1996: 117–218; 1998a: passim; 2001a: 99– 113. Annus (2002: 174–86) sees a widespread form with prehistoric antecedents going back into the Neolithic. I have attempted a reconstruction of its origins in the Black Sea inundation of ca. 5600 b.c.e. (Wyatt 2003), but other scenarios are also possible.

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But it differs in one fundamental respect from all its antecedents. It consists of a double-plot, framing the episode (1.3–1.4) of the establishment and construction of Baal’s palace. Furthermore, these two separate narratives, Baal’s conflict with Yam in 1.1–1.2 and with Mot in 1.5–1.6, are, as Petersen and Woodward demonstrated, 11 virtually identical in their formal structure and cosmological presuppositions. This makes a strong case for a single authorship of the two conflict stories and, given the quantity of the Baal-Yam conflict that is peculiar to this one tradition, and is arguably at least the redactional if not the authorial work of Ilimilku himself, the case becomes very strong for his authorship of the unparalleled narrative of the Baal-Mot conflict. In an essay in the Dietrich Festschrift (Wyatt 2002b), I examined this problem and proposed that we can pinpoint the occasion of the composition of Baal in its present form. This was made possible by documentation from the time of Urtenu, with whom Ilimilku is now shown to have been a contemporary by the discovery of an Ilimilku autograph (RS 92.2016) in his house (though note the important caveat in n. 5). This theoretically located Ilimilku in the reign of Niqmaddu III/IV, 12 who reigned ca. 1225/ 1220–1215. 13 Were there any circumstances in this reign, I inquired, that might have instigated a novel telling of the old story? There seemed to be one particularly significant occasion, because it invited all the conventional ideological responses and even threw in circumstances that might explain incidental features of the narrative.

Language about Baal and the King Before we turn to this, we should briefly note the reasons for recognizing both Baal (the chief actor in the Baal drama) and Athtar (whose presence in the narrative seems otherwise without purpose) as royal gods. By this I mean that, apart from any other functions they performed, they represented in the celestial world of the gods apotheosized aspects of kingship and were believed to be present in some measure in the person of the reigning king, who resided in both the divine and human realms. Let us deal with the two gods in turn. Baal represented the martial aspect of kingship, because “the divine victory is a paradigm for royal victories” (Wyatt 2002b: 849). His “inheri11. Petersen and Woodward 1977. Given the fragmentary nature of some of the material, we should be cautious about overestimating the finality of this analysis. 12. The reign of Niqmaddu III/IV (see Bordreuil and Malbran-Labat 1997), rather than the reign of Niqmaddu II, as I had argued in Wyatt 1983 and 1997: 778 n. 17. See Wyatt 2002a: 146 n. 132; Kitchen 1977; and Dijkstra 1989. But see n. 2. 13. Singer 1999: 61 and chart between pp. 732 and 733.

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tance” was through victory, celebrated in the possession of the holy mountain, a motif echoed in biblical usage. This much we have seen from the comparative material discussed above. I have also drawn attention to the identity of language used to describe Keret’s near-death experience and the language of Baal in KTU 1.5, 1.6, and 1.16 (Wyatt 1997: 784). This is evident in the table below. This common usage indicates that a parallel was seen between the destiny of the king and the destiny of the god. KTU 1.5 vi 3–5

1.5 vi 26–28

1.6 ii 15–17

tßd kl fr lkbd arß kl gbº lkbd sdm

asd kl fr lkbd arß kl gbº lkbd sdm

sbn[y lq] ßt[a]r[ß]

[l]ksm mhyt

1.16 iii 2–4 tr arß wsmm sb lqßm arß

lksm mhyt Explore heaven and earth; travel to the ends of the earth,

We traveled [to the ends of the earth] [Anat] searched every mountain in the midst of the earth, every hill in the midst of the steppe. to the edge of the abyss.

I (Mot) searched every mountain in the midst of the earth, every hill in the midst of the steppe. to the edge of the abyss.

This common material also indicates, I argued, that Parker’s view (Parker 1977; cf. 1989: 212–13) that the Keret story actually demolished the old royal ideology is untenable. As I observed in the discussion of these passages, “The dying god and the dying king . . . evoke the same literary response, and one suspects, the same theological response” (Wyatt 1997: 784). Whatever Keret’s faults then, we have an affirmation of the ex officio status of the king. He shared in the ontology of Baal.

Language about Athtar and the King On the other hand, a different aspect of kingship was represented theologically in the person of Athtar, a god whose ideological significance is still widely underestimated. As the deified Venus, he was geminated in the

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morning and evening stars, Shahar and Shalem, who feature importantly in the twinship myths that underlay royal identity. These are the Ugaritic texts KTU 1.12 and 1.23 (1.24 is a by-form), whose common tradition had a significant influence on the construction of a number of important biblical passages, whose common theme is royal ideology and the birth of kings. I have explored these texts at length (Wyatt 1994; 1995; 1996: 219– 356). So pervasive is their influence that it is implausible to relegate the Ugaritic texts to the sidelines as dealing with secondary or minor matters. The presence of the king and queen at the ritual enactment that is a part of the composition signals its ideological significance. It was part of the royal cult. The Sitz im Leben of the text was undoubtedly a royal birth and thanksgiving. If the Baal cycle is as ideologically charged as seems likely, then only a weighty reason would justify the otherwise incidental role of Athtar as a successor to Baal, who was enthroned on the same royal seat, anointed, and then descended to earth to rule. Additionally, Athtar had considered himself a potential candidate earlier in the narrative. 14 Athtar’s royal claim was as the offspring of the sacred marriage, in which his twinship played an important part, as a sign of his mysterious nature. 15 Thus, in contrast to Baal’s martial claim, Athtar’s was a birthright claim. We frequently see the tension between the two motifs in biblical narrative, and here the two are combined in a mythic context. There is a particular historical reason for this, I have suggested, and yet we can go further than the historical circumstances and see in the melding of the two an important function of myth finding authoritative expression in Ugaritian society. First, the circumstances: According to RS 34.136, a king of Ugarit married a Hittite princess. She was probably, according to Singer (1999: 701– 4), Ehli-Nikkal, daughter of Tudhaliya IV, who he argued became the queen of Niqmaddu III/IV. I suggested that Ilimilku took the traditional form of triumphal statement, the Chaoskampf narrative, and with considerable poetic flair composed the present Baal cycle, showing by his skillful framing of the palace-construction episode, within what is now a double Chaoskampf, how the good works of kings bring stability; and at the same time, with the relative subordination of Athtar to Baal, he allowed the Hittite king to bask in the glory of his natural superiority as the great power of the day. Tudhaliya would have appreciated this the more inasmuch as the Chaoskampf had also been adopted in Hittite royal ideology. The present narrative is thus an extended wedding song. Now the mystery of Athtar’s marriage is solved. Unhonoured because he was not married earlier in the story (KTU 1.2 iii 22–3), Athtar was later

14. References above. 15. On twinship as a royal motif, see Wyatt 2005b: chap. 15, pp. 231–51.

spread is 9 points long

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honored (KTU 1.6 i 43–67), implying that at some point in the missing text he was married. This would be the royal marriage in question. Baal’s own marriage, probably part of the ancient paradigm that had originally followed the victory at KTU 1.2 iv, was consequently shifted to the end of the enlarged composition, so that it now forms the climax of KTU 1.10 and perhaps 1.11, following 1.6. This would account for the unwritten side b of the tablet: it was the end of the work. The wedding song was tantamount to a mythic counterpart to the vassal treaty, of which we have two extant Ugaritic examples. 16 The marriage was perhaps part of a treaty drawn up between Tudhaliya IV and Niqmaddu III/IV, and independently of the putative treaty rituals, celebrated the alliance with an epithalamium for the pleasure of the contracting parties. To return to the mythological rationale mentioned above: as is well known from Lévi-Strauss’s work and related discussions, myths frequently serve to reconcile incompatible claims, to make sense of contradictions. 17 The two conceptions of royal legitimacy, by birthright or by force majeure, were always a problem, no doubt from the earliest times. 18 Indeed, dynastic lineages in which kings were powerful enough to guarantee the succession for their sons were undoubtedly a secondary development—the charismatic war-leader being the prototype king. And no doubt in many cases, such as the Ugaritian king list (KTU 1.113) as well as the Mesopotamian and Egyptian lists, the supposedly genealogical lists of successive kings were in reality nothing of the sort but, rather, were legal fictions dealing with the reality of dynastic discontinuities, usurpations, palace intrigues, and so forth. The Baal cycle would thus serve a larger purpose in the capable hands of Ilimilku in lending legitimacy to the dynastic fiction, which traced kingship back 50 generations. It also defused the natural tension between birthright and charismatic claims, seeing the king as the embodiment of both.

Anat and Ninurta as Ciphers of Royal Power A further mythical possibility that has so far not been recognized may be elucidated by Lambert’s (1986) discussion, followed and elaborated by Annus (2002: 109–21), of the enemies of Ninurta. Ninurta fought a series of monsters in various narratives 19 and, while their identities were not 16. For representative Hittite-Ugaritian treaties, see Beckman 1999: 34–36 (Suppiluliuma I and Niqmaddu II) and 64–69 (Mursili II and Niqmepa). 17. I have explored the issue in Wyatt 2005b: chap. 15, pp. 231–51. 18. The Contendings of Horus and Seth from New Kingdom Egypt is a good example. 19. Gudea Cylinder A xxv–xxvi, Lugale 128–34, Angim 51–63: listed in Annus 2002: 10.

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fixed, their number appears to have been, because there were always 11. 20 These monsters appear to have been personifications of the enemies of the state, symbols of disorder, and they feature in royal inscriptions and iconography, rather like the “Nine Bows” in Egyptian military propaganda. The divine victory over them was replicated in the king’s victories over political enemies. Does this tradition perhaps shed new light on the curious episode of KTU 1.3 ii 1–41 and iii 36–iv 4? Following her fight against enemies on the battlefield, followed by its ritual consummation in the temple (see Lloyd 1996), in column ii the war-goddess Anat was startled at the arrival of Baal’s messengers and feared that harm had come to him, despite the fact that she had slain his enemies. Their identities are not entirely clear, and in some instances they appear to be different aspects of the same character. The list gives us the following: 21 mdd il ym nhr il rbm tnn btn ºqltn sly† d sbºt rasm mdd ilm ars ºgl il ºtk klbt ilm ist bt il qbb

El’s Beloved, Yam, Nahar, the mighty god, the Dragon, the Writhing Serpent, Encircler-with-Seven-Heads, El’s Beloved, Arsh, El’s Calf, Atik, El’s Bitch, Fire, El’s Daughter, Flame . . .

That is, there are 9 in number, not the 11 of Assyrian tradition. 22 Even the addition of Mot (on the basis of KTU 1.6 ii 30–35) would give us only 10. 20. A cycle of 12 (corresponding to the Heraklean cycle) is completed by the addition of Ninurta himself: Lambert 1986: 58; Annus 2002: 119–20. 21. These are my translations in Wyatt 2002a: 79–80. 22. Compare Wayne Pitard’s interesting discussion of this passage in the present volume (pp. 75–88). I would not quarrel with his view that the number of individual figures here is probably rather less than 9, perhaps as few as 3 or as many as 6. But this is not inconsistent with the possibility that the longer list is distributive, multiplying their number for rhetorical purposes. There is the possibility of an additional candidate, in the gnomic text KTU 1.83 (Wyatt 2002a: 368–69), who would be the 11th if Mot—noted above—were also added, but because neither goddess nor opponent is named there, even if Anat is an attractive candidate for the former, no conclusion may be drawn. It is possible that, given the influence of Egyptian culture in the Ugaritian context, particularly with regard to royal ideology, as evidenced in the case of the titulary

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This is not an insuperable obstacle to a link, however, since similar variations appear across boundaries, such as the seven-headed dragons of Near Eastern iconography and literature that lie behind the nine-headed Greek Hydra. It is also possible that the rhetorical question “who has risen up?” anticipates further unnamed candidates on this list of foes. The probability that we have a link here between the two traditions is reinforced by the direct relationship supposedly attested between Ninurta and Anat. According to Naªaman, the logographic writing dnin.urta in the Amarna letters would represent the goddess, 23 while Artzi further argued 24 that the allusion to the “Temple of Ninurta” in EA 74.36 (Moran 1992: 143) at which Abdi-Asirta ordered troops to muster, understood Anat the war-goddess to be the martial aspect of Ninurta. (That is, it was a Temple of Anat, represented in the manner of writing by the martial representation Ninurta.) Once we acknowledge the broad political thrust of the Baal Cycle, it seems highly probable that we should recognize a specifically political sense in this passage. Anat is, after all, a kind of Anima to Baal himself (see n. 6 for his intimate association with Ninurta) and a royal goddess, indicated by her wearing of the Atef crown in iconographic representations and apparently, if my reading of KTU 1.10–11 is correct, by her role as his paredros in the sacred marriage that seals the victory of the cycle. Furthermore, these enemies collectively are: those who drove Baal from the heights of Íaphon, knocking him like a bird from his perch, (who) drove him from the throne of his kingship 25

and are thus evidently the divine counterparts to human enemies. The victory Anat claimed prepared the way for the construction of Baal’s palacecum-temple, which was itself a heavenly counterpart, not just to the Baal Temple at Ugarit, but also to the royal palace as the locus of Baal’s saving activity in the practice of the royal cultus. Her victories anticipated the victories of Baal himself, especially the victories of KTU 1.4 vii 35–44 (see Wyatt 2002a: 111 n. 167).

discussed below (pp. 58–62) and with regard to iconographic matters, such as the use of the Atef crown and the smiting motif, we should look to the Egyptian “Nine Bows” mentioned above as determining the nine-fold list of Anat’s enemies. But wishing this to be the case falls rather short of demonstrating it. 23. Naªaman 1990: 252–54; cited by Annus 2002: 147. 24. Artzi 1999: 366–67; cited by Annus 2002: 148. 25. KTU 1.3 iii 47–iv 3; Wyatt 2002a: 80.

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All that we have considered so far constitutes the ideological foundation of the king as symbol of the whole of society and the pivotal figure through whom the two spheres, divine and human, interrelated to their mutual benefit. This they did in the cult, to which we now turn.

The Evidence of the Ritual Texts The key to the significance of the king in the national cult at Ugarit, already suggested in the mythic material discussed so far, lies in the passages that show that, within the context of the cult, the king was in some manner divinized (see in brief, Wyatt 1999b: 560–62). I have identified these passages, which contain formulaic language indicating a double transformation of the king, at the beginning and the end of a cultic sequence, and suggested that this is their intention. There are too many aspects of the king’s involvement in the cult to deal with them at length in the present context. I here address four specific issues within the larger framework: the living king’s role in the cult, the royal titulary, which if attested would contain theological affirmations about the king, the cult of dead kings, and the sacred marriage.

The Living King’s Role in the Cult: Joining Heaven and Earth The first clue comes in the instructions, given to Keret in KTU 1.14 iii 52–iv 8. There were a number of stages in the ritual procedure he was to follow (see Wyatt 1999a: 859):

i. ii. iii. iv. v.

ritual washing; rouging; entry into the sanctuary; various sacrificial and libational acts; ascent to the highest part of the temple (in this narrative the tower); vi. raising of the hands to heaven, in a gesture affirming the link achieved; vii. formal offering as a sacrifice, and feeding of the gods; viii. descent from the high place, thus bringing the ritual process to an end. The form of this list, with stages (i) to (vii) leading to the climax of the cult and (viii) to its formal resolution and ending is noteworthy. Evidently the number seven was of symbolic significance here, no doubt with broad cosmological and ontological echoes (see Wyatt 2001a: 92–94, §§2 [42, 43]). The spatial movement, up and then down again, is also significant, given

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the universal metaphor of height to signify transcendence. The king became a transcendent being in his ascent (he “entered heaven”), and then “returned to earth” with the benefits gained by direct contact with the divine realm. This ritual pattern is not to be separated from the accounts we have from Ugarit of a royal enthronement. The first of these, concerning Yam, we shall treat below, because it is tangential to the present context. The other, the enthronement of Athtar, is worth consideration at this point, because it undoubtedly belongs to the same ideological context. Indeed it raises the problem of priority—whether it was royal inaugurations that established the pattern of all inaugural ritual forms or whether they were themselves derived from a more general form. This question is probably unanswerable. Close in its spatial symbolism to the account of Keret’s ascent of the temple tower, however, is the enthronement of Athtar in KTU 1.6 i 50–67, likewise with ascent followed by descent: “Let the finest of pigments be ground, let the people of Baal prepare unguents, the people of the Son of Dagan crushed herbs.” The Great Lady-who-tramples-Yam replied: “Indeed, let us make Athtar the Brilliant king: Athtar the Brilliant shall rule!” Then Athtar the Brilliant went up into the uttermost parts of Íaphon; he sat on the throne of Valiant Baal. But his feet did not reach the footstool; his head did not come up to its top. Then Athtar the Brilliant said: “I shall not rule in the uttermost parts of Íaphon!” Athtar the Brilliant came down, he came down from the throne of Valiant Baal, and ruled in the earth, god of it all. [ they d]rew water from amphorae, [ they drew] water from vases. 26

Athtar went up onto Baal’s throne, was presumably formally enthroned— that is, installed as king—and then descended to earth to rule. There is no justification for seeing this as satirical in intent, as some scholars have proposed (e.g., de Moor 1987: 85 n. 415). This was surely the paradigm for the human institution, its mythic prototype. By mounting the throne, the king, like Athtar, entered heaven and was transformed by virtue of the 26. For discussion of translation, see Wyatt 2002a: 132.

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rite. Having said this, while it seems to be the most reasonable construction to put on the narrative (that is, it was inspired by a real life ritual practice), we have no means of firmly corroborating the interpretation beyond the analogies of similar materials from Egypt, Israel, and Mesopotamia. 27 In sacrificial texts, the two formulas, yrt˙ß mlk brr (‘the king is to wash himself thoroughly’) and w˙l mlk (‘the king is desacralized’), sometimes with an indication of the time of day, occur a number of times (the following table is given in Wyatt 1999a: 861–62): Text (KTU 1.) 41.3 = 87.3–4, 55 41.6–7, 46 = 87.7–8, 50–51 41.44 = 87.48–9 41.48, 53 = 87.52, 57 46.9–10 46.10 105.19–20 106.23–24, 33 106.26–27 109.2 112.10–11 112.14–15 112.16–17 119.5 119.23–24 132.26–27 164.20

Purification (i) yrt˙ß mlk brr

Purification (ii)

Desacralization

mlk ytb brr w mlk brr ºrb sps w˙l mlk ºrb sps w˙l mlk yrt˙ß mlk brr yrt˙ß mlk brr w˙l mlk yrt˙ß mlk brr yrt˙ß mlk brr yrt˙ß mlk brr ßba sps w˙l mlk yrt˙ß mlk brr yrt˙ß mlk brr ºrb sps w˙l mlk ºrb sps w˙l mlk w˙lt

If my interpretation here were countered by the assessment that it was no more than a general ritual preparation, my response would be that such an aspect would be taken for granted in any ritual context and not be cause for comment. The fact that the statements are repeatedly made indicates that they had some specific theological significance. It is not going 27. Compare the following materials: Egypt: the annunciation to Tuthmosis III, ANET 446–47; Israel: Isaiah 6 and 1 Kgs 22:17–23, the visions of Isaiah and Micaiah ben Imlah, respectively, undoubtedly modeled on royal protocol; Mesopotamia: the ascent to heaven (= entry into the temple, shown above the Apsû) of Nabuapla-iddina (stele of his restoration of the image of Shamash at Sippar).

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too far to suggest that each entry of the king into a state of ritual purity of this kind reaffirmed his ontological transformation at his installation. Pardee evidently understood the closing formula, w˙l mlk, in a slightly different way, translating it ‘le roi sera libre (d’obligations cultuelles)’ and ‘the king will be free (of further cultic obligation)’ (Pardee 2000: 151, etc.; 2002: 65, etc.). I wonder, however, whether this interpretation adequately reflects the implication of pollution that can inhere in the term ˙ll, which may be intended to indicate that the king is not, as it were, removed entirely from the sacral zone but removed from an extreme zone (in which he is identifiable as a god) into an intermediate, in which he still remains taboo as far as ordinary people are concerned. He is then like sacred texts, which “defile the hands” precisely because the ancients saw pollution and sanctification as equivalent in that they were removed from the ordinary world. 28 This ritual process was in one, psychological, respect the whole purpose of the liturgy, because the identification of men with the gods, even if only through their representative, the king, was an escape from the alienation that marks the human condition. 29 Theologically, it involved forms of words and behavior that realized this need. Sociologically, it was just a beginning: it marked the king out as Pontifex, the representative figure who bridged the gap between the human and the divine and enabled society, through him, to benefit from the blessings divine power bestows. This in turn sealed the exercise of power, which maintained the power (that is, political control) of the dynasty. We cannot expect to gain a full understanding of this deification process, especially given what I believe to have been its dynamic nature. It was no doubt always felt to be a paradox. The anxious way in which the early Christian church agonized over the two natures in Christ almost certainly had an ancient pedigree in Egypt (where it must have acquired its major inspiration, in the Alexandrian church). The ritual practices described here and others such as the sacred marriage undoubtedly sought, in a prephilosophical age, to articulate these intuitions. To put it in another 28. Compare the observation of van Nieuwenhuijze 1965: 36, as paraphrased by McNutt 1999: 50: “Van Nieuwenhuijze notes that this kind of people (marginal groups such as tinkers and musicians) is basically ‘sacred’ in the true, ambivalent sense of the word [her italics]. Their ‘sacredness,’ he suggests, is not in conflict with, but is in fact expressed in, a socially despised position.” I think that this is a useful analogue of the king’s position, which is “marginal” in another direction from socially-excluded groups such as these. 29. Compare with the role of mythology as overcoming ambiguities, noted above.

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way, the chief officiant in the cult in some way impersonated the divine presence. We know that priests in the Egyptian temple cult wore masks, acting out the roles of the gods, just as kings and queens wore the regalia associated with Horus and Isis. Perhaps the king in Ugarit wore distinctive “divine” garments—that is, garments that represented his ritual transfiguration. Certainly the long, hemmed robe in which he appears in iconography (as the donor or votary on the “Baal au Foudre” stele, RS 4.427, and on a statue of a man who may be the king, RS 4.546) 30 closely parallels the garb of both El (on the “stele of the seated god,” RS 8.295), 31 on the calcite statuette (RS 88.070) 32 and the gilded bronze (RS 23.394); 33 and the figurines of a goddess who may have been Athirat (RS 9.277, 23.395). So a garment shared by king and deities no doubt represented a mystical identity by which he brought divine blessings down to earth. The analogy of Egyptian kingship is again useful, in which the king’s accoutrements of power were closely related to the powers of the royal gods.

The Titulary of the King Emulation of the Egyptian fivefold titulary has often been claimed for the kings of Judah in Isa 9:5. There is also a case to answer with regard to three passages in Ugaritic. The first of these is the enthronement of Yam in KTU 1.1 iv 13–20. On my understanding, this reads as follows: wyºn ltpn il dp[id] [ym] sm bny yw *il[m nhr] wpºr sm ym [wpºr sm nhr] tºnyn lzntn[ ] at adn tpºr [wyºn il] ank ltpn il[dpid]

Then the Wise One, the perceptive god, spoke: “[Yam] is the name of my son, Lord of the god[s is Nahar!]” And he proclaimed the name “Yam,” [and pronounced the name “Nahar”?]. They responded to him: “You shall indeed invest him [ ], You shall proclaim him ‘Lord.’” [And El replied:] “I am the Wise One, the [perceptive] god,

I II III (I) (II)

IV

30. See also the stele RS 7.116 and the cultic “stand” RS 78.041 + 81.3659; see Wyatt 1999a: 860. 31. See Wyatt 1983. 32. Niehr (1998: 28, 65) has identified this as a deified king. See also Cornelius 1999. 33. This is the number cited in Yon et al. 1991: 337. In the Lyon exhibition catalog (Galliano and Calvet 2004: 260), it is identified as RS 23.393.

beware hidden footnote calls 59

The Religious Role of the King in Ugarit ºl ydm pºrt[ ] mdd il 34

V?

Over my hands I pronounce [ ] ‘Beloved of E[l’”35

34 35

The reconstruction of the missing parts of this formulation is inevitably provisional, but I suggest that we may have here a fivefold titulary modeled on the Egyptian pattern, though the fifth element is now missing, 36 and the second is restored on the basis of parallelism. This is a mythic account, in the strictest sense, that it states the ideological paradigm that we have reason to suppose was echoed in royal investitures. There is no doubt that in a passage now missing, a similar formula was pronounced by El over Baal, and it is implicit too in the investiture of Athtar in KTU 1.6 i. I am not suggesting that this was the actually titulary of the kings of Ugarit, as del Olmo Lete (1999: 180–81) appears to have thought. It is, however, another passage where the procedure must depend on some conventional Sitz im Leben, and the most plausible context would be the human institution of the enthronement of kings and their reception of their symbols of office. The Egyptian analogy seems attractive. The human counterpart of this may be evidenced in KTU 7.63. This was partially restored by Virolleaud, followed by others, and most recently del Olmo Lete (Virolleaud 1965: 20; del Olmo Lete 1999: 176), to read: number DOL NW [smt n]qmpº [bn nq]md [mlk] ugrt bºl ßdq skn bt mlk tfr mlk bny w/k lb mlk [ y]ßmh

[Titles? of ] Niqmepa [son of ] Niqmaddu [King of ] Ugarit: Legitimate Lord/Great justice Procurator of the house royal Guardian of the kingdom architect in accordance with the royal decision [Forever] flourish!

I I II III IV (V)

II III IV V

This differs from my provisional interpretation of the mythical passage by having only four elements, unless we accept del Olmo Lete’s suggestion 34. For this element, derived from Egyptian mri.DN ‘Beloved/begotten of DN’ and comparable to Hebrew yédîd-yâ; see Wyatt 1985. 35. Wyatt 2002a: 48–49. 36. Note that the putative fifth element is introduced by the formula mdd il ‘Beloved (or, Begotten) of El’, corresponding to mr(i).DN in Egyptian usage, which generally accompanied the king’s fifth (s· Rº ) name. See Wyatt 1985.

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that we read the final line as a fifth; 37 but this appears to be a blessing rather than a proper title. It also lacks any obviously theological statement about the king. But in alluding to his role in forensic matters, as magistrate (second interpretation of §I), and his architectural functions, presumably authorizing and inaugurating royal and sacral constructions, it evoked activity of a strictly religious kind, in that ritual practices would be involved, and these were quasi-religious functions. Our modern differentiation of these spheres would not have obtained in the ancient world. I have proposed an alternative numbering of the titles, shown in the right-hand column, for the sake of argument, though I remain neutral with regard to this example. Strangely, because it seems to undermine his argument, del Olmo Lete insisted that this text dealt with the “protocol” of the crown prince and not of the reigning monarch (del Olmo Lete 1999: 176). It seems to me that the opening lines admit some ambiguity: in the sequence [smt n]qmpº [bn nq]md [mlk] ugrt, there are two possible ways of construal: either ‘Titles of Niqmepa, son of Niqmaddu (the latter being) king of Ugarit’ or ‘Titles of Niqmepa, son of Niqmaddu (the former being) king of Ugarit’. Why the crown prince should have a titulary or even this particular set of official functions remains unclear. The likelihood that the king should have it is very clear. So I would reject his particular slant on the text and see these formulas as being perhaps attached to the king himself. Virolleaud’s observation, to the effect that “the list must have continued on the other side, which is destroyed” (Virolleaud 1965: 20), should warn us, however, not to impose a pattern of interpretation (by closing off the list) that may be inappropriate to this fragment. A further titulary was recognized by del Olmo Lete (1999: 170) in the colophon in KTU 1.6 vi 57–58, where he divided the sequence to yield: 38 nqmd mlk ugrt adn yrgb bºl trmn

Niqmaddu King of Ugarit Lord Yirragibu-Baºlu 38 (royal name) Tharumanu

I II III IV V

The title Yirragibu-Baºlu (yrgb bºl) also appears in the list of names appearing on the verso (lines 15–28) of KTU 1.102. The recto contains a

37. Del Olmo Lete 1999: 176 n. 33, reading perhaps [amd y]mb. It is difficult to see how this restoration (‘[May he] flourish [forever]’) changes the picture. 38. Pardee’s vocalization (2000: 521).

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pantheon list. As Pardee has indicated (2000: 522), the two lists, recto and verso, appear to be independent. But of the names in the second list (ygbhd, yrgbbºl, ydbil, yarsil !, yrfmil, ºmtr, ydbil, yrgblim, ºmtr, yarsil, ydbbºl, yrfmbºl, ºzbºl, ydbhd), three (ydbil, yarsil, ºmtr, each occurring twice here) also appear in KTU 1.106.3, 4, 5) as recipients of sacrifice and are themselves therefore clearly designations of divine beings, 39 although appearing to many scholars as anthroponymic. The names are not, however, of conventional theophoric construction, and therefore Pardee argued that this line must be abandoned (Pardee 2000: 523–24). But his explanation, that “each name must denote a manifestation of the deity in question,” is technically compatible with del Olmo Lete’s theory (1999: 524–25) that they are “divine names” of the kings, which he acknowledged to be of distinctive construction, used in the cult of which they were beneficiaries, though Pardee rejected this solution in its present form (Pardee 2000: 524–25). One of the striking features of this list is its chiastic structure, noted by del Olmo Lete (1999: 175). He theorized that this may be incidental, but it seems too consistent, being in a pattern in the arrangement a:b:c:c:c:d:c::e:d1:c1:c1:c1:b1:a1 with regard to the divine names involved, and a:b:c:d:e:f:c::a1:f1:d1:c1:e1:g:c1 with regard to the verbal and epithetal elements. The first at least is certainly not a fortuitous arrangement but suggests perhaps an original liturgical Sitz im Leben. Indeed, I think there is a case for a correction to the first, so that the intended form was, putatively: a:b:c:c:c:d:*e::e1:d1:c1:c1:c1:b1:a1 There is an anomaly in the list as we have it: the central position of “c,” that is, the DN Limu (lim). If hypothetically it were taken as an error for *El (ilm), giving us two “e” forms at the center, e::e1, the chiasmus would be perfectly symmetrical, as shown in this reconstructed version. Nor is there any necessity for regarding the final -m as part of the problem. It may either be taken to be an erroneous “follow-on,” once the initial error had been made, a kind of unconscious rationalization of the mistake; or be retained and construed as an enclitic, marking the new series of seven names following the caesura. This proposal commends itself all the more

39. Pardee 2000: 522. In n. 9 (pp. 522–23), he lists the whole range of interpretation.

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in that it is the central feature of a chiasmus (here e::e1) which invites the expectation of symmetry. The divine elements in these names, Hadd x 2, Baal x 4, Lim x 1, El [ilu] x 5, and ºAmm x 2, or, in my revised proposal, Hadd x 2, Baal x 4, El [ilu] x 6, and ºAmm x 2 would make very good dynastic sense in del Olmo Lete’s approach, because a list of this sort must logically denote the cult of dead kings (in any list of successive royal names, all but one must be dead!); thus, we would have a restricted list of names in which the two gods appear who were primarily concerned with the protection of the king, El (ºAmm being a hypostasis, on the comparative evidence) as the king’s father, and Baal (Lim, if retained, and Hadd being other titles of this deity). 40 Pardee in any event conceded that their appearance in the royal ritual KTU 1.106 required that they be understood as “divinities specifically linked to the royal dynasty, as the name Hadd, the principal theophoric element in the royal names of Ugarit, already makes plain” (Pardee 2000: 525). Let us agree that for the present the hypothesis that they are names of divinized kings, as distinct from royal deities, remains unproved, rather than being finally disproved. This position would in turn give us pause over the element yrgbbºl appearing in KTU 1.6 vi 59. So far, as an overall assessment of the case for an Ugaritian titulary, it seems to me that the case is stronger for the first form, KTU 1.1 iv 13–20, than for the other two. It does at least have a verifiable context, and the formulaic mdd ilm looks like an echo of the Egyptian formula, most typically occurring within the Egyptian titulary. The idea that a fairly undiscriminating use of a fivefold pattern, simply because it was fivefold, should be found in Ugarit, as required if all three were to be supposed to be titularies, is not so convincing.

The Cult of Dead Kings The issue that would be of interest to resolve is whether cult was ever offered to the living king. That is, was he clearly “divine” within his lifetime? I find no clear evidence for this, in the sense that he was regarded as having been permanently transformed by virtue either of birth or of inauguration. But this does not invalidate the observations above concern40. See Wyatt 1992: §§12, 17, pp. 412 and 417–18. On the rationalization of the five to two, see also Pardee 2002: 20 (not yet apparently seen in this light in 2000: 525).

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ing his periodic divinization to bridge the ontological gap when he represented the nation before the gods in the cult. And it is this feature that has undoubtedly helped shape the representation of the king in Keret, for example, in specifically theological terms. As far as a cult of dead kings is concerned, so that they are to be understood as having become members of the pantheon, in however qualified a way, there is evidence in the following texts. We need not elaborate on them here but give the briefest survey. (a) KTU 1.106.3–5, the text just noted, has offerings of cattle to ydbil, arsil, and ºmtr. If these names do identify various kings, then they evidently received cult. (b) KTU 1.113 has been interpreted as a kispum rite, listing the kings in the socalled dynastic list who are successively invoked in the litany. The discovery and publication of the Akkadian king-list RS 94.2518 (Arnaud 1998; Pardee 2002: 203– 4) now proves that in 1.113 the formulaic appendage of the element il (dingir in the Akkadian text) to all royal names is an indication of their divine status, against the interpretation of Schmidt (1994: 69). Its differences from the Ugaritic text are immaterial for our present discussion. For present purposes, the two lists prove that deceased kings were understood to be divine. (The deceased kings appear to belong to three distinct categories, though it is unclear precisely how they are to be construed. 41 The first two are mlkm and ins ilm, mentioned in the following texts.) (c) The so-called pantheon lists 42 (in Ugaritic KTU 1.47; 1.118; in Akkadian RS 20.24 and now RS 94.2518) probably identify dead kings collectively as mlkm (KTU 1.47.33 = 1.118.32 = RS 20.24.33); the relationship between these “lists” and KTU 1.148 suggests that their primary function was ritual rather than more broadly theological. 43 (d) Various ritual texts are to be construed as having (dead) kings as recipients of offerings, as ins ilm: in KTU 1.39.21–22; 1.41.27, 29, 40; 1.46.8–9; 1.87.29–30, 31–32 (mainly = 1.41); 1.90.7–8; 1.105.26; 1.106.1–2, 7–8; 1.112.5–6; 1.123.31; 1.132.14–16, 16–17, 21, 24; 1.134.10; 1.171.5; and 1.173.7–8 (see, conveniently, Pardee 2000: 969). (e) KTU 1.161 is the funeral liturgy for Niqmaddu III/IV, the penultimate king of the city, in which the dead kings appear to be subdivided into classes, the Rephaim (rapiªuma), the third of the categories noted above, who seem to be

41. See del Olmo Lete 1999: 239 n. 70. He includes gtrm as an additional category. 42. This categorization is questioned by Pardee 2002: 11, though it is only a technicality (the lists are essentially linked to sacrificial procedures), because he uses the term “deity lists.” 43. This is not to deny that they also have a theological and cosmological coherence. See my attempt to elucidate this in Wyatt 1998b.

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legendary figures from the past, 44 not appearing in the dynastic lists so far discovered. They appear here along with additional dead kings, perhaps implicitly to be classified as mlkm, as well as the subject of the funeral obsequies, Niqmaddu III/IV himself. It may be noted that on the usual sense given for ˛lm in line 1, as ‘shades’, 45 the term implicitly covers all the kings mentioned, the rpum, the mlkm, and also the recently deceased king, who now joins their ranks as an intercessor invoked for the well-being of the community. KTU 1.124 also invokes Ditanu, one of the rpum, as a healing god. The divine status of the Rpum may be inferred from the hymn to their eponym, Rapiu, in KTU 1.108, our next text. (f) In KTU 1.108, the god Rapiu is addressed in line 1 as mlk ºlm, to be construed as ‘King of the hereafter’ according to Niehr’s observations (Niehr 1997), or perhaps, rather, as the eponym of the dynasty, representing the collectivity in terms of an individual, perhaps therefore, ‘everlasting king’, to adopt del Olmo Lete’s approach, or ‘King of eternity’, as I have translated it.46 His insistence that yst in line I and tst in lines 6, 20 (see del Olmo Lete 1999: 189 n. 66, 207) be translated ‘has been established’ and ‘has established’, respectively (line 6, the latter with Anat as subject) in lieu of ‘drink’ 47 has something to be said for it. Del Olmo Lete thus saw the text precisely as celebrating the “deification of the king,” lines 16–23 being addressed to the recently deceased king, welcoming him into the underworld (cf. KTU 1.161 above). 48

If we are to distinguish various classes of divine king (rpum, mlkm, and ins ilm 49), there is no question of a newly deceased king going directly to the first rank. Rather, is he drawn into the general community, who may be invoked for the sustenance of the state. The text culminates in a prayer (lines 18–27) for Rapiu to intercede on the community’s behalf, entirely consistently with the view that ancestral kings were charged with the continuing protection of the state (translation Wyatt 2002a: 398):

44. This is not an attempt to impugn altogether the matter of their historicity. But they may be eponymous figures rather than individuals. On Didanu (variant Ditanu), see, for example, Wyatt 2002a: 433 n. 12 and references there; in particular now Annus 1999. 45. See Wyatt 2002a: 431–32 n. 7 for a survey of opinions. In that context, I adopted the view of Schmidt 1994: 110–11. 46. Wyatt 2002a: 395–98. Compare with del Olmo Lete 1999: 185–86. His observation (n. 56) that mlk º1min KTU 2.42.9 is the (living) Egyptian king could be construed as an embarrassment for Niehr’s theory. 47. Thus Wyatt 2002a: 395–96; Pardee 2002: 193–94. 48. Del Olmo Lete 1999: 185, 191. This precludes the identification of Baal and Rapiu (pp. 191–92). 49. To the obvious question why different classes were required, perhaps the answer is that a number of distinct traditions (e.g., Hurrian and Amorite) about the theological function of the ancestors were in process of coalescence.

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[ ] intercede with Baal [ ] your achievement, Rapiu King [of Eternity] your [ ], your efficacy, your] intercession. [With the ] of Rapiu, King of Eternity, with the strength of [Rapiu] King of Eternity, with his help, with [his] p[ower], by his rule, by his splendour among the Sa[viou]rs of the underworld. May your strength, your help, your power, your rule, your splendour, be in the midst of Ugarit, throughout the days and months, and the gracious years of El.

Though the second-person possessive suffixes are all singular, it is fair to say that through the representative figure of Rapiu, all the deceased and deified kings were invoked to support the kingdom. We also witness a hierarchical chain of intercession: Rapiu (and all kings through him) intercedes with Baal (line 18), while all their accumulated benefits (strength, help, power, splendor 50) eventually move El himself (line 27), who blesses the nation. (g) KTU 1.20–22 are the so-called Rapiªuma texts—originally, but no longer, directly linked with Aqhat. These are extremely fragmentary but allow us a glimpse into a complex ritual involving threshing floors,51 and the arrival of the rpum in chariots after a three-day journey, perhaps to be understood as an allusion to their being dead (three days in the underworld representing the finality of death) or to an expected symbolic resurrection, in the perpetuation of the royal line.52 This time-scale perhaps links the ritual tradition here with the following texts, each of which operates on a three-day programme. (h) Del Olmo Lete has taken KTU 1.111 and 1.132 together, relating the first to the death of a king and the second to the accession of the new king.53 The only evidence that might point clearly to the funerary character of the first is the verb ºrb, used with the king as subject in line 2. This could be construed as referring to the death of the king, because the Egyptian motif of his “setting” with the sun is

50. It is tempting to see a parallel with the formulaic language of the Lord’s Prayer, “the kingdom, the power, and the glory.” 51. The proposal of Allan (2003: 124–33) that the Greek DN Kronos is to be derived from West Semitic grn ‘threshing-floor’ makes very good sense in view of his identification with El by Philo of Byblos. 52. Compare with Hos 6:2. Does this also perhaps have a reference to a ritual tradition? Compare my observations on this text in Wyatt 2004: 292. 53. Del Olmo Lete 1999: 203, 206 (“the Hurrian equivalent of KTU 1.108”).

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found in Ugaritic ideology. 54 But it could just as well refer to his entering a sanctuary, and the case remains unproved.

As for KTU 1.132, in which del Olmo Lete detected a sacred marriage between the king and Pidray, he took the overall rite as celebrating the enthronement of the new king. Del Olmo Lete (1999: 208, also 210 and n. 141) translated bst mlk ‘for the purpose of the installation of the king’. Pardee (2002: 98) rendered it differently, as ‘with the king’s bed-covers’, which may suggest the theme but does not interpret the occasion.

The Sacred Marriage and Its Symbolism KTU 1.111 and 1.132 both certainly hint at the motif of the sacred marriage, though they fall short of demonstrating that it was a ritual practice in Ugarit. The first text refers in line 11 to a trht (bride-price) due to Ib, which recalls KTU 1.24.18 55 but does not necessarily imply identity or any sexual rituals. 56 The second gives instructions for the preparation of the bed of the goddess Pidray “with the king’s bed-covers” (lines 1–2) and its removal two days later (lines 25–26). Pidray was offered the groom in KTU 1.24.26, as del Olmo Lete (1999: 207) noted, but of course in that composition he did not marry her. If a context is required for the latter text, in view of the growing sense of the parallelism operating between Hurrian and Ugaritic texts in relation to the rituals, I suggest that, as with KTU 1.23, it more likely deals with a royal birth than with an enthronement. Caution precludes reading too suggestive an interpretation into KTU 1.132. If we were to accept the hierogamic significance, I suppose that we might draw attention to the parallel with the Baal cycle (particularly on my interpretation that the occasion of the present composition was the diplomatic marriage of Niqmaddu III/IV) and see some form of marriage as being an appropriate accompaniment to an enthronement. The Egyptian situation, in which the new king’s chief wife was taken as an incarnation of Isis (the apotheosized throne) so that the king “married his kingdom,” as it were, would be a tempting parallel. But we have no clear reason to detect this process here. 57 (i) There is one context in which the sacred marriage does appear to be present: KTU 1.23. The link between the two contexts, literary and ritual, that we have mentioned may be seen to come together in KTU 1.23 (which is to be compared 54. See KTU 1.15 v 18–20, 1.16 ii 24–25; and my remarks in Wyatt 2001c: 701– 2, concerning Pardee 2000: 199–202. 55. See also Gen 34:12; and Wyatt 1990. 56. For commentary, see Pardee 2000: 738–44; 2002: 90–93. 57. A clearer parallel would be the king’s marriage to a dowager queen, as the genia of the city, which is perhaps an issue in the Oedipus tradition.

spread is 6 points long

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with KTU 1.12 i and 1.24), a sacred marriage myth that appears to belong in the context of a rite at which the king and queen are present, at least implicitly. But there is no indication that they actually performed any sexual rite. For here we have, if my reading is correct, a statement of the mythic birth of the king. That is, there was no ritually performed sexual activity here: rather, there was a literary, and perhaps a mimetic, allusion to it, as the idiom in which a royal birth was understood and celebrated. The likelihood that this is the sense is confirmed by the constant allusion to this tradition in a number of biblical contexts.58

This interpretation is supported by the tricolon in KTU 1.15 ii 26–8, which states of Yasibu, Keret’s firstborn and heir, that ynq ˙lb a[t]rt he will drink the milk of Athirat m˙ß td btlt [r˙my] 59 he will drain the breast of Virgin [Rahmay] the suckling of [goddesses]. msnq 60 [ilht] 59

60

If my understanding of this passage is correct, this alludes to another metaphor for the deification of the king, in that he drank divine milk from birth. In view of the general tenor of our evidence, this is best seen as proleptic, guaranteeing him a future immortality and divine status, rather than a present apotheosis. Let us return to the Rpum. A passage of some obvious consequence from Keret is the promise outlined in KTU 1.15 col. iii. Lines 2–4 = 13– 15, framing the blessing of many female offspring, read as follows: 61 [mid rm] krt [btk rpi] arß [bphr] qbß dtn ... mid rm[krt] btk rpi ar[ß] bphr qbß dtn

[Be greatly exalted,] Keret, [among the Saviors of] the underworld, [in the convocation of] the assembly of Ditan. ... Be greatly exalted, [Keret], among the Saviors of the underwo[rld], in the convocation of the assembly of Dita[n].

58. In Wyatt 2005b: chap. 15, I have explored the theme of the king’s marrying as an aspect of his accession to the throne. But this is generally seen (at least ideologically) as an incestuous marriage with his own mother. 59. There is no compulsion to read the divine name Anat here. On Athirat and Rahmay as the geminized mothers of the king, see KTU 1.23. 60. KTU’s reading of msnqt seems to be led by expectation rather than evidence. The tablet breaks precisely at the point where a vertical stroke would change the visible t into an m. So the context must play a part in elucidation of the issue. 61. Following Wyatt 2002a: 210, 212; and see nn. 152, 153, 156, 157, ad loc., for discussion of aspects touched on here.

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Most commentators have rejected the view of L’Heureux (1979), that the Rpum are living persons. We have seen above that they are deified dead kings. The difference between the various scholars of this persuasion would be whether the term rpum denoted all dead kings and thus mlkm and ins ilm were subcategories; or whether we have three grades, these two denoting recent and dynastic kings, while rpum was a term reserved for figures of a more legendary and certainly remote dimension. I would incline to the latter emphasis. But, however we assess the issue, and it seems unlikely that either will be demonstrated beyond peradventure on present information, the fact remains that Keret in this passage was offered membership in this august body, as part of the divine promise that granted him a fruitful marriage. This was offered, mythically, in the most solemn fashion, with the appropriate blessing-rite of a libation and a vow, following the direct intercession of Baal, the dynastic god (1.15 ii 16–iii 16). While there is an awkward gap of some 15 lines, we may tentatively reconstruct the pattern as follows: a b c d e d1 e1 c1 b1

1.15 ii 16–20 1.15 ii 21–24 1.15 ii 25–28 1.15 iii xxx 1.15 iii 2–4 1.15 iii 5–12 1.15 iii 13–15 1.15 iii 16 1.15 iii 17–19

Introductory formulaic account of blessing rite; Promise of (male) offspring; Yasibu (eldest) will be a suckling of goddesses; lacuna of ca. 15 lines, probably list of seven sons; promise of membership of the rpum; list of seven daughters; promise of membership of the rpum; the youngest daughter will be as blessed as the first; the gods bless Keret and depart.

There is a potential chiastic sequence here, if the restoration is allowed, that is more symmetrical than it appears at first glance, because the d:e::d1:e1 sequence consists of two logical units, not four. This emphasizes the way in which future membership of the rpum is the outcome of producing a healthy brood of royal offspring. The eldest son and the youngest daughter are emphasized as having special blessings, the former as a suckling of goddesses (and therefore divine), the latter as equally blessed (even perhaps to the point of divinity). Of course, this will all unravel in the sequel and is undoubtedly hyperbolic, yet it gains its literary power precisely by its appeal to royal ideology.

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Conclusion We have not demonstrated that the living king was the recipient of cult, which some may consider the minimal requirement for divinity (see, for example, Hurtado 1988). The fact remains, however, that theological language was used of him, in a way that indicates that he was set apart from common humanity and even from the priesthood and the nobility, and he somehow shared in the ontology of the divine realm. The spatial imagery of the royal ascent and his participation in the cult suggest a periodic transformation of the king, in which he was in some manner “divinized.” Former kings were certainly permanent members of the pantheon, under a number of umbrella categories, the rpum, mlkm, and ins ilm. And the language of the sacred marriage—irrespective of its actualization in sexual rites independent of the royal marriage-bed—in which the current king was represented as the partner of a goddess and in which heirs and future kings were regarded as divinely conceived, borne, and suckled certainly supports the view that the king’s position was distinctive and not simply the apex of the social order. Or, to put it in modern social-scientific terms, his position at the apex was represented symbolically through the language and practice of appropriate ritual, which reinforced his position and validated it within the community. All the language and ritual forms point to his function in bridging the liminal boundary between the divine and the human orders. This is a pattern that was widely attested throughout the ancient Near East, even though variations and different emphases may be found in various societies.

References Allan, R. 2003 O El! A Study of Titles and Epithets Attributed to El in West Semitic Religion, Literature and Personal Names. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Edinburgh. Annus, A. 1999 Are there Greek Rephaim? On the Etymology of Greek Meropes and Titanes. UF 31: 13–30. 2001 Ninurta and the Son of Man, Pp. 7–17 in Mythology and Mythologies, ed. R. M. Whiting. Melammu Symposia 2. Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. 2002 The God Ninurta in the Mythology and Royal Ideology of Ancient Mesopotamia. SAAS 14. Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Arnaud, D. 1998 Prolégomènes à la rédaction d’une histoire d’Ougarit ii: Les bordereaux de rois divinisés. SMEA 41: 153–73.

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Ninurta in the Mid-Second Millennium “West.” Pp. 361–67 in Landwirtschaft im Alten Orient: Ausgewählte Vorträge der XLI. Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale Berlin, 4.–8.7.1994, ed. H. Klengel and J. Renger. RAI 41. BBVO 18. Berlin: Reimer. Beckman, G. 1999 Hittite Diplomatic Texts. 2nd edition. SBLWAW 7. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Bordreuil, P., and Malbran-Labat, F. 1997 Les archives de la maison d’Ourtenou. CRAIBL 443–49. Bordreuil, P., and Pardee, D. 2004 Manuel d’Ougaritique. 2 Vols. Paris: Geuthner. Caquot, A., and Dalix, A.-S. 2001 Un texte mythico-magique (No. 53): RS 92.2016. Pp. 393–405 in Études ougaritiques: I. Travaux 1985–1995, ed. M. Yon and D. Arnaud. RSOu 14. Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations, 2004. Cornelius, I. 1999 The Iconography of Ugarit. Pp. 586–602 in Handbook of Ugaritic Studies, ed. W. G. E. Watson and N. Wyatt. HO 1/39. Leiden: Brill. Dietrich, M. 2003 Salmanassar I. von Assyrien, Ibiranu (VI.) von Ugarit und Tudhalija IV. von Hatti: RS 34.165 und die Schlacht von Nihrija zwischen den Hethitern und Assyrern. UF 35: 103–39. Dijkstra, M. 1989 Marginalia to the Ugaritic letters in KTU (II). UF 21: 141–52. Durand, J. M. 1993 Le mythologème du combat entre le dieu de l’orage et la mer en Mésopotamie. MARI 7: 41–61. Dussaud, R. 1931 Brèves remarques sur les tablettes de Ras Shamra. Syria 12: 67–77. 1935 Le mythe de Baºal et d’Aleyan d’après des documents nouveaux. RHR 111: 5–65. Eissfeldt, O. 1952 Sanchunjaton von Berut und Ilumilku von Ugarit. BRA 5. Halle: Max Niemeyer. Feliu, L. 2003 The God Dagan in Bronze Age Syria. SCHANE 19. Leiden: Brill. Fleming, D. E. 1992 The Installation of Baal’s High Priestess at Emar: A Window on Ancient Syrian Religion. HSS 42. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Galliano, G., and Calvet, Y., eds. 2004 Le royaume d’Ougarit: Aux origines de l’alphabète. Catalogue, Lyon Exhibition, 2004–5; Paris: Somogy / Lyon: Musée des Beaux Arts. Gaster, T. H. 1950 Thespis. New York: Schuman. 2nd edition, New York: Harper & Row, 1961.

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Gray, J. 1965 The Legacy of Canaan. VTSup 9. 2nd edition. Leiden: Brill. Green, A. R. W. 2003 The Storm-God in the Ancient Near East. Biblical and Judaic Studies from UCSD 8. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Hurtado, L. W. 1988 One God, One Lord: Early Christian Devotion and Ancient Jewish Monotheism. Philadelphia: Fortress. Kitchen, K. A. 1977 The King-List of Ugarit. UF 9: 131–42. Lambert, W. G. 1986 Ninurta Mythology in the Babylonian Epic of Creation. Pp. 55–60 in Keilschriftliche Literaturen, ed. K. Hecker and W. Sommerfeld. RAI 32. BBVO 6. Berlin: Reimer. Lévi-Strauss, C. 1988 Structural Anthropology. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Lewis, T. J. 1996 CT 13.33–34 and Ezekiel 32: Lion-Dragon Myths. JAOS 116: 28–47. L’Heureux, C. 1979 Rank among the Canaanite Gods: El, Baºal and the Rephaªîm. HSM 21. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press. Lloyd, J. B. 1996 Anat and the “Double” Massacre in KTU 1.3 ii. Pp. 151–65 in Ugarit, Religion and Culture: Proceedings of the International Colloquium on Ugarit, Religion and Culture, Edinburgh, July 1994. Essays Presented in Honour of Professor John C. L. Gibson, ed. N. Wyatt, W. G. E. Watson, and J. B. Lloyd. UBL 12. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. McNutt, P. M. 1999 In the Shadow of Cain. Semeia 87: 45–64. Moor, J. C. de 1971 The Seasonal Pattern in the Ugaritic Poem of Baºlu according to the Version of Ilimilku. AOAT 16. Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker / Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. 1987 An Anthology of Religious Texts from Ugarit. Nisaba 16. Leiden: Brill. Moran, W. L. 1992 The Amarna Letters. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Naªaman, N. 1990 On Gods and Scribal Traditions in the Amarna Letters. UF 22: 247–55. Niehr, H. 1997 Zur Semantik von nordwestsemitischen ºlm als “Unterwelt” und “Grab.” Pp. 295–305 in Ana sadî Labnani lu allik: Beiträge zu altorientalischen und mittelmeerischen Kulturen. Festschrift für Wolfgang Röllig, ed. B. PongratzLeisten, H. Kuhne, and P. Xella. AOAT 247. Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker / Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. 1998 Religionen in Israels Umwelt: Einführung in die nordwestsemitischen Religionen Syrien–Palästinas. NEchtB Supplement 5. Würzburg: Echter-Verlag.

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Nieuwenhuijze, C. A. O. van 1965 Social Stratification and the Middle East. Leiden: Brill. Olmo Lete, G. del 1999 Canaanite Religion according to the Liturgical Texts of Ugarit. Bethesda, MD: CDL. Pardee, D. 1997 Review of Brooke et al., Ugarit and the Bible (Münster, 1994). JAOS 117: 375–78. 2000 Les textes rituels. 2 fascicles. RSOu 12. Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations, 2000. 2002 Ritual and Cult at Ugarit. SBLWAW 10. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Parker, S. B. 1977 The Historical Composition of krt and the Cult of El. ZAW 89: 161–75. 1989 The Pre-biblical Narrative Tradition. SBLRBS 24. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Petersen, A. R. 1998 The Royal God: Enthronement Festivals in Ancient Israel and Ugarit? JSOTSup 259; CIS 5. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Petersen, D. L., and Woodward, M. 1977 Northwest Semitic Religion: A Study in Relational Structures. UF 9: 233–48. Quirke, S. 2001 The Cult of Ra: Sun Worship in Ancient Egypt. London: Thames & Hudson. Sasson, J. M. 1981 Literary Criticism, Folklore Scholarship, and Ugaritic Literature. Pp. 81– 98 in Ugarit in Retrospect: Fifty Years of Ugarit and Ugaritic, ed. G. D. Young. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Schmidt, B. B. 1994 Israel’s Beneficent Dead: Ancestor Cult and Necromancy in Ancient Israelite Religion and Tradition. FAT 11. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. [Reprinted, Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996.] Singer, I. 1999 A Political History of Ugarit. Pp. 603–733 in Handbook of Ugaritic Studies, ed. W. G. E. Watson and N. Wyatt. HO 1/39. Leiden: Brill.. Smith, M. S. 1986 Interpreting the Baal Cycle. UF 18: 313–39. 1994 The Ugaritic Baal Cycle Volume 1: Introduction with Text, Translation and Commentary of KTU 1.1–1.2. VTSup 55. Leiden: Brill. Soldt, W. van 1988 The Title tºy. UF 20: 313–21. 1989 ªAtn, prln: ªAtta/enu the Diviner. UF 21: 365–68. Virolleaud, C. 1931a Les cultes phéniciens et syriens au IIe millénaire avant l’ère chrétienne. JS 164–73. 1931b La lutte de Môt, fils des dieux et d’Aleïn, fils de Baal. Syria 12: 193–244. 1934 Fragment nouveau du poème de Môt et Aleyn Baal. Syria 15: 266–43.

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1937–38 La mythologie phénicienne d’après les poèmes de Ras-Shamra. AEPHE 5–19. 1965 Textes en Cunéiformes Alphabétiques des Archives Sud, Sud-Ouest et du Petit Palais. MRS 11. PRU 5. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, Klinksieck. Watson, W. G. E., and Wyatt, N. 1997 De nouveau sur les armes cérémonielles. NABU 1: 27–28. 1999 Handbook of Ugaritic Studies. HO 39. Leiden: Brill. Wiggerman, F. A. M. 1989 Tispak, His Seal, and the Dragon mushussu. Pp. 117–33 in To the Euphrates and Beyond: Archaeological Studies in Honour of Maurits van Loon, ed. O. M. C. Haex, H. H. Curvers, and P. M. M. G. Ackermans. Rotterdam: Balkema. Wyatt, N. 1983 A Suggested Historical Context for the Keret Story. UF 15: 316–18. 1985 “Jedidiah” and Cognate Forms as a Title of Royal Legitimation. Bib 66: 112–25. [= Chap. 2 in 2005b] 1990 The Story of Dinah and Shechem. UF 22: 434–58. 1992 The Titles of the Ugaritic Storm-God. UF 24: 403–24. 1994 The Theogony Motif in Ugarit and the Bible. Pp. 395–419 in Ugarit and the Bible: Proceedings of the International Symposium on Ugarit and the Bible. Manchester, September 1992, ed. G. J. Brooke, A. H. W. Curtis, and J. F. Healey. UBL 11. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1994. [= Chap. 9 in 2005b] 1995 The Liturgical Context of Psalm 19 and Its Mythical and Ritual Origins. UF 27: 559–96. [= Chap. 10 in 2005b] 1996 Myths of Power: A Study of Royal Myth and Ideology in Ugaritic and Biblical Tradition. UBL 13. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. 1997 Ilimilku’s Ideological Programme: Ugaritic Royal Propaganda, and a Biblical Postscript. UF 29: 775–96. [= Chap. 11 in 2005b] 1998a Arms and the King: The Earliest Allusions to the Chaoskampf Motif and Their Implications for the Interpretation of the Ugaritic and Biblical Traditions. Pp. 833–82 in “Und Mose schrieb dieses Lied auf”: Studien zum Alten Testament und zum Alten Orient. Festschrift für Oswald Loretz zur Vollendung seines 70. Lebensjahres mit Beiträgen von Freunden, Schülern und Kollegen, ed. M. Dietrich and I. Kottsieper. AOAT 250. Münster: UgaritVerlag. [= Chap. 12 in 2005b] 1998b Understanding Polytheism: Structure and Dynamic in a West Semitic Pantheon. JHC 5: 24–63. 1999a Degrees of Divinity: Mythical and Ritual Aspects of West Semitic Kingship. UF 31: 853–87. [= Chap. 13 in 2005b] 1999b The Religion of Ugarit: An Overview. Pp. 529–85 in Handbook of Ugaritic Studies, ed. W. G. E. Watson and N. Wyatt. HO 1/39. Leiden: Brill. 2000 Just How ‘Divine’ Were the Kings of Ugarit? Pp. 133–41 in Arbor Scientiae: Estudios del próximo Oriente Antiguo dedicados a Gregorio del Olmo Lete con ocasión de su 65 aniversario, ed. J. Sanmartín, M. Molina, and I. M. Rowe. AuOrSup 17–18. Madrid: CSIC.

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Space and Time in the Religious Life of the (Ancient) Near East. Biblical Seminar 85. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. 2001b The Mythic Mind. SJOT 15: 3–56. [= Chap. 11 in 2005a] 2001c Dennis Pardee, Les Textes Rituels (RSO 12, Paris, 2000): An Appraisal. UF 33: 697–706. 2002a Religious Texts from Ugarit. 2nd ed. Biblical Seminar 53. London: Continuum. 2002b Ilimilku the Theologian: The Ideological Roles of Athtar and Baal in KTU 1.1 and 1.6. Pp. 845–56 in Ex Mesopotamia et Syria Lux: Festschrift für Manfried Dietrich zu seinem 65 Geburtstag am 6.11.2000, ed. O. Loretz, K. Metzler, and H. Schaudig. AOAT 281. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. 2003 ‘Water, Water Everywhere!’ Musings on the Aqueous Myths of the Near East. Pp. 211–59 in De la Tablilla a la Inteligencia Artificial: Homenaje al Prof. Jesús Luis Cunchillos en su 65 aniversario, ed. D. A. A. González Blanco, J. P. Vita, and J. Zamora. Zaragoza: CSIC. 2004 Review of M. S. Smith, The Origins of Biblical Monotheism (Oxford, 2001). JNES 63: 291–95. 2005a The Mythic Mind: Essays on Cosmology in Ugaritic and Old Testament Literature. London: Equinox. 2005b There’s Such Divinity Doth Hedge a King: Selected Essays of Nicolas Wyatt on Royal Ideology in Ugaritic and Old Testament Literature. SOTS Monograph Series. London: Ashgate. 2005c Epic in Ugaritic Literature. Pp. 246–54 in The Blackwell Companion to Ancient Epic, ed. J. M. Foley. Oxford: Blackwell. Yon, M. 1991 Réalités agraires et mythologie d’Ougarit. Pp. 53–68 in Rites et rythmes agraires: Séminaire de recherche, ed. M.-C. Cauvin. TMO 20. Lyon: Maison de l’Orient Méditerranéen / Paris: Boccard. Yon, M., et al., eds. 1991 Arts et industries de la pierre. RSOu 6. Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations. Zijl, P. J. van 1972 Baal: A Study of Texts in Connexion with Baal in the Ugaritic Epics. AOAT 10. Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker / Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag.

Just How Many Monsters Did Anat Fight (KTU 1.3 III 38–47)? Wayne T. Pitard The University of Illinois, Champaign-Urbana

Over the past decade or so, considerable progress has been made in gaining a clearer understanding of KTU 1.1–6, the Baal Cycle from Ugarit, much of that progress coming from people here at this conference—notably, Mark Smith in his commentary on 1.1–2 (1994) and full translation in Ugaritic Narrative Poetry (Parker 1997: 81–176), Pardee in his translation and notes in Context of Scripture (Pardee 1997), and Wyatt in his Religious Texts from Ugarit (1998: 39–146), along with the translation by Dietrich and Loretz in the TUAT series (1997), as well as a number of articles dealing with specific issues. In spite of this new work, however, these tablets have still refused to yield up many of their secrets, and in this essay I would like to look at one of the most interesting ambiguous passages, 1.3 III 38–47. It is one that is not particularly difficult to translate but is seriously problematic because of the present limited state of our understanding about the overarching narrative arc of the cycle. This passage is part of a speech by the goddess Anat, in which she provides a list of cosmic enemies that she has defeated in the past. A brief look at the context in which the passage occurs will be helpful. The speech occurs in the opening scenes of the story of the way that Baal obtained permission to build his great royal palace, which is the primary subject of tablets 1.3 and 1.4. Although there is some disagreement among scholars (see the discussion in Smith 1994: 12–19), it seems likely that 1.3 follows directly upon the story of Baal’s conflict with Yamm, at the climax of which Baal is proclaimed ruler of the divine council, although, of Author’s note: This essay developed as a result of collaborative work I have been doing with Mark S. Smith for the upcoming commentary, The Baal Ugaritic Cycle, Volume 2: Introduction with Text, Translation and Commentary of KTU 1.3–1.4. I wish to thank Mark for his contributions to this paper and suggestions about the interpretation of this part of 1.3. A more extensive discussion of this passage will appear in the volume.

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course, he still remains under the authority of the king of the gods, El (1.2 IV 32–37). Tablet 1.3 is damaged, missing about the top third of the obverse (ca. 25 lines of each of the first three columns) and the bottom third of the reverse. Thus it is sometimes difficult to understand the flow of the narrative from one column to the next. The first column depicts a celebratory feast on Baal’s mountain, Íaphon, presumably in honor of Baal’s defeat of Yamm and his assumption of power. The second column, the connection of which with the first is not well understood, provides us with a very different scene, in which we find Anat at the center. In this passage, she goes out to battle against some human armies and brutally slaughters them. Numerous fascinating uncertainties highlight this passage, but they cannot detain us here. After the description of this conflict, the scene once again shifts in col. III to Baal, who has summoned his messengers Gapn and Ugar and is giving them a message for Anat, asking her to come see him on Íaphon. As the messengers approach, Anat notices them and is immediately afraid that they bring bad news that another attack has been made against Baal. It is in this context that the passage I wish to examine in this essay appears. Anat’s speech (III 36–47) reads: 36–38 ªik.mwy.gpn.wªugr/ mn.ªib.ypº [.]lbºl. ßrt/lrkb.ºrpt.

Why have Gapn and Ugar come? What enemy rises against Baal, What foe against the Rider of the Clouds?

38–42 lmhst.mdd/ªilym. lklt.nhr.ªil.rbm/ lªistbm.tnn.ªistm.lh mhst.btn.ºqltn/ sly†.d.sbºt.rªasm

Surely I struck down the Beloved of El, Yamm, Surely I finished off Nahar, the Great God, Surely I bound Tunnan, destroyed (?) him. I struck down the Twisty Serpent, The Powerful One with Seven Heads.

43–47 mhst.mddªilm.ªar[s]/ ßmt.ºgl.ªil.ºtk mhst.klbt.ªilm.ªist/ klt.bt.ªil.qbb. ªimthß.ksp/ªitrt.hrß.

I struck down the Beloved of El, ªArsu, I destroyed the Calf of El, ºAtaku, I struck down the Dog of El, ªIsatu, I annihilated the Daughter of El, Qabibu, That I might fight for silver, inherit gold.

As can be seen, the first tricolon expresses Anat’s fear that Baal has been attacked again (lines 36–38). She then begins to describe previous occasions on which she has fought enemies on Baal’s behalf. The list is somewhat startling, because it includes the names of a number of deities whose defeat is attributed to Baal elsewhere in the cycle (Yamm/Nahar in 1.2 IV, btn/slyt in 1.5 I 1–3). This apparent contradiction has led to considerable

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discussion. Some scholars have proposed that these lines refer to a battle Anat fought with cosmic enemies who were defeated prior to the creation of the world (as is the case in Israelite tradition in Ps 74:12–17 and other biblical texts, including Job 7:12, 26:7–12, 38:4–11; Prov 8:29, as well as in the Mesopotamian creation epic). 1 This tradition would be quite significant, because there is no other creation story from the Near East in which a goddess, rather than a god, defeats the primeval forces of chaos. But this interpretation seems problematic, because the Ugaritic texts appear to attribute the creation of the world (the standard outcome of the cosmic battle) to El (note El’s epithets, bny bnwt ‘creator of creatures’, ªab bn ªil ‘Father of the sons of El’, and ªab ªadm ‘Father of humanity’), and never to Anat (or Baal). In the same way that the story of Baal’s combat with Yamm appears unrelated to creation mythology in 1.2, it seems likely that the battles described here were not connected to the creation but to another episode concerned with Baal’s acquisition of status within the council of the gods. 2 Or it could be seen as a separate, parallel tradition about Baal’s conflict with Yamm in which Anat played a key role but that was unused in the Cycle except for this reference. In this case, we would assume that the poet made no effort to harmonize the two distinct traditions (compare Cross 1973: 149). The cosmic enemies mentioned by Anat here include nine different names or epithets: Yamm, Nahar, Tunnan, the twisty serpent, the powerful one with seven heads, ªArsu (Desire), ºAtaku (Binder), ªIsatu (Fire), and Qabibu (Flame). One significant question that arises is how many creatures Anat is referring to here. Is she describing confrontations with nine distinct beings, or are some of these parallel names for a single enemy? This issue has been the topic of a great deal of discussion, and there has been a general consensus that the list refers to a fairly large number of creatures. 3 I would like to argue that these nine names may refer to as few as three different beings. To do this, we will look at the first five names together, then the final four. A general examination of the five cola found in lines 38–42 allows us to see a number of obvious characteristics of the passage. First, the lines 1. For example, Day 1985: 12–18; de Moor 1971: 40–41; cf. Cross 1973: 149; Gray 1965: 31–32, 47–48; Kloos 1986: 67 n. 163. 2. Pardee (1997: 252 n. 91) suggests that this battle might have been a sequel to Baal’s conflict with Yamm in 1.2 or perhaps related to the broken reference to someone’s being driven from his throne in 1.1 IV 24–27. 3. See, e.g., Loewenstamm 1980: 352–56; Gaster 1961: 145; van Zijl 1972: 65– 66; Walls 1992: 175–77; Caquot, Sznycer, and Herdner 1974: 167 note g; Pardee 1997: 252, esp. n. 92.

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can easily be divided into two units: a tricolon, each line of which begins with the particle l, and a bicolon governed by the verb mahastu. The tricolon provides us with proper names of the enemy or enemies Anat has defeated. The bicolon, on the other hand, provides two epithets, rather than names. There is little controversy about the identity of the first two names in the tricolon, Yamm and Nahar. These are parallel names for Baal’s major antagonist in KTU 1.1 and 2, a single deity, whose two designations indicate that he represents both Sea and River—that is, the full range of water flowing on the earth. In 1.2 IV, Baal defeats him with the help of Kotharwa-Hasis, thereby securing his position as leader of the divine council. Anat does not appear in the account of this battle. Thus it remains unclear what relationship exists between the narrative in 1.2 and the reference here to Anat’s defeat of Yamm/Nahar. As mentioned above, some scholars have suggested that this section represents an alternative account of the battle with Yamm from the account in 1.2, but it also seems possible that this section refers to another episode of the larger story of the cycle that has not been preserved. The Baal Cycle as a whole portrays Baal as time and again receiving help from other deities in defeating his enemies (and also in getting his palace built; see 1.3 and 1.4). Thus a story of Anat encountering and defeating a number of Baal’s enemies fits reasonably well into the overall picture of the cycle. But the key point for our current purpose is that there can be no doubt that the reference to Yamm and Nahar in these lines is to a single figure. We will temporarily skip the third line of the tricolon and examine the following bicolon next. As mentioned above, these lines do not contain proper names but two epithets, “twisting snake” and “powerful one with seven heads.” Epithets such as these are not usually used independently of a proper name. Normally a character is named in the first line of a bicolon or tricolon, then referred to in the next line or two with epithets. 4 It is unlikely that epithets of this sort would be used to introduce a completely different character in a context such as we have here. We may also be fairly certain that the two epithets themselves describe a single entity. Similar examples of this type of usage abound in Ugaritic poetry. For example, 1.3 III 29–31:

4. For bicolonic examples, see 1.4 IV 23–24 and par.: “She comes to the mountain of El/ and she enters the tent of the King, the Father of Years”; 1.5 II 8–9: “Go, say to Divine Mot,/ Recite to the Beloved of El, the Hero”; 1.5 VI 9–10: Dead is Mightiest Baal,/ Perished the Prince, Lord of the Earth”; 1.6 IV 10–11: “Message of Bull El, your father,/ Word of the Beneficent One, your begetter.”

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In the midst of my mountain, Divine Íaphon, In the holy mountain of my heritage, In the beautiful hill of my might.

An even better example is found in 1.5 I 1–3. Here the same epithets appear in the second and third lines of a tricolon in which the monster Lotan is named in the first line. ktmhß.ltn.btn.br˙ tkly.btn.ºqltn sly†.d.sbºt.rªasm When you struck down Lotan, the fleeing snake, Annihilated the twisting snake, The powerful one with seven heads.

There can be little doubt that the second and third lines describe Lotan, particularly since there is the clear connection between batna bari˙ ‘the fleeing snake’, Lotan’s epithet in line 1, and batna ºaqalatana, ‘the twisting snake’. (note that Leviathan is described as both na˙as baria˙ and na˙as ºåqallatôn in Isa 27:1, just as we find here; see also Job 26:13). Looking back at 1.3 III, it seems most reasonable to argue that the two epithets must refer back to the being named in the previous line. In this case, that creature is Tunnan (line 40). It seems reasonable then to argue that the first five names refer to no more than two distinct beings. Pardee, in his translation (1997: 252), recognized the relationship between Tunnan and the epithets in the two lines that follow, and thus he proposed making line 40 the first line of a tricolon with those lines. However, the appearance of the thrice-repeated l in lines 38–40 argues for an intimate relationship between line 40 and the preceding two cola as well. How can we interpret the situation? Let us turn now to line 40 and Tunnan. This name appears to be vocalized in the Ugaritica V polyglot (#137: 8u) as tu-un-na-nu. Unfortunately, the Sumerian, Akkadian, and Hurrian equivalents are not preserved on the tablet, though #135: rev. 15u, which is probably a parallel, reads muß = ßi-i-ru ‘snake’ in the Sumerian and Akkadian columns. 5 The name is also found in an uncertain context in KTU 1.82:1, where it is preceded before a break by ]mhß.bºl[. This strongly suggests that the line is describing a conflict between Baal and Tunnan. The 5. With regard to identifying tu-un-na-nu with the tnn of our text, note should be made that the word in the polyglot vocabulary apparently is equivalent to the natural creature, the snake, not the monster described in our text. It is thus possible that our tnn was pronounced differently from the standard word, tunnanu, listed in the polyglot. See Landsberger and Hallock (1955) for the Mesopotamian texts of this syllabary, esp. p. 34.

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name almost certainly appears also in 1.83:8, where the text reads tªan. The context of this passage, with references to Yamm/Nahar (lines 4, 7, 11–12) and the appearance of the root sbm, which also occurs with tnn in our passage, seems to assure that the ªa in tªan is a mistake for n (simply missing a third horizontal wedge). A third reference to Tunnan, alongside ªars, is found at the very end of the Baal Cycle, in 1.6 VI 51, in a very ambiguous context. Tunnan is clearly related to Hebrew Tannin, also a mythological being, himself related closely to Yamm/Nahar/Leviathan/Rahab in Ps 74:13–15; Isa 27:1, 51:9; Job 7:12. In these passages he is identified as a snake-like dragon and is probably characterized with multiple heads in Psalm 74. The appearance of Tunnan in the third line of the tricolon requires us to consider whether the name should be identified as another term for Yamm/Nahar. Could the dragon with seven heads described in lines 40– 42 be Baal’s primary enemy, Yamm/Nahar, so that all five of the lines, 38– 42, actually refer to a single opponent? While a definitive answer cannot be given, there are a number of reasons to suggest that Tunnan should be identified with Yamm/Nahar. Significant evidence for this identification is found in KTU 1.83, which presents another context in which Yamm/Nahar is found in close relationship with tnn. This small tablet originally contained some 25–27 lines, but now only 14 survive. In these lines, we find a description of a conflict between Yamm/Nahar/Tunnan and an unnamed opponent, who is certainly a deity, and perhaps Anat herself (Pitard 1998). When arranged in poetic lines, the text preserves three clear bicola (lines 5–12), preceded by the second line of a bicolon (lines 3–4) and followed by the first of another (lines 13–14). 6 4 5–7 8–10 11–12 13–14

mhnm.trp ym lsnm.tl˙k.smm. ttrp ym.qnbtm. tn!n.lsbm tst. trks (10)lmrym.lbnn pl.tbtn.yymm hmlt.ht.ynhr ltph.mk t˙mr.

Translation of the text is difficult in that it is not clear whether the verbs in lines 5–10 are 3 f.s., 2 m.s., or 3 pl. (the verbs in lines 4–7 could also be interpreted as 3rd c. duals; see Mazzini 2003: 391–94). It is also unclear 6. For the text, including photographs, see Pitard 1998.

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whether they all refer to a single subject or whether the verbs in lines 5–6 refer to one being, while the verbs in line 9 refer to a different person (see Mazzini’s translation, 2003: 392). A case can be made for all these renderings (see Pitard 1998: 273–74). 7 This problem does not play a significant role in the issue at hand, however. Below I have rendered the translation very tentatively with the verbs as 3rd f.s. 4

10

With mhnm, (do something to) Yamm! With (her) tongues she licks the heavens. With (her) twin tails she . . . . . . . .s Yamm. She sets a muzzle on Tunnan. She binds him on the heights of Lebanon. “Toward the desert [or: Dried up,] shall you be scattered, O Yamm! To the multitude of ht, O Nahar! You shall not see [or: Indeed shall you see]; lo! You shall foam up!” [or: You shall be parched!]

The two bicola that precede the reference to Tunnan in line 8 both seem to refer to a conflict with Yamm. 8 Unfortunately, the verb used with Yamm as its object is otherwise unknown, and thus its meaning is unclear. But the context indicates that the opponent of Yamm is defeating him. This is followed directly by an account of the opponent binding Tunnan in lines 8–10, which in turn is followed by a direct address to Yamm/Nahar in lines 11ff. In this context, it seems quite unlikely that lines 8–10 are describing a separate conflict with a dragon. The three previous lines apparently deal with the defeat of Yamm, and the three following lines are 7. Lines 3–6 are extremely difficult because of the broken context. The number of different translations is about equal to the number of scholars who have studied the text. There is even some uncertainty about whether the text is actually poetic or whether it simply is using elegant prose (Dijkstra 1999: 152). Nor is the division of the lines, particularly lines 3–4, clear, if we assume a poetic structure (see, for example, the proposals of Loewenstamm 1980: 357–58; Parker 1997: 192). 8. Several scholars understand ym in lines 4 and 7 as references to the nonpersonified sea (e.g., del Olmo Lete 1999: 131; Mazzini 2003: 392). They have often assumed that the description in lines 4–7 must be of the dragon rather than its opponent. This is certainly possible. However, one should note that such a large circumstantial description of the enemy in such a small text seems odd. In addition, the shift of the verbs from 3rd dual to 3rd f.s. with no clear indication of the shift in subject seems awkward. It still seems better to argue that all these lines have the same subject and that ym in lines 4 and 7 is a proper name, just as it is in line 11.

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directly addressed to the defeated and captured Yamm. So I believe that here in 1.83 the identity of Yamm/Nahar and Tunnan is by far the most plausible interpretation. In turn, the close relationship between this text and the speech of Anat in 1.3 III, including the appearances of the three names together both in lines 38–40 and in 1.83.8–12 and the occurrence of the root sbm in context with Tunnan in both texts strongly suggests that the relationship between Tunnan and Yamm/Nahar is the same in both. Another aspect of our passage that bears on this issue involves the distribution of the five epithets in these lines that specifically relate some of the opponents to the god El (that is, Yamm, the Beloved of El, in lines 38– 39; ªArsu, Beloved of El, ºAtaku, Calf of El, ªIsatu, Dog of El, and Qabibu, Daughter of El, in lines 43–46). Because Nahar in line 39 is clearly equivalent to Yamm, it is not surprising that this name does not have an Elrelated epithet. However, if we assumed that Tunnan, along with his two epithets in lines 41–42, was a separate creature, he would be the only one in the list who does not have an epithet relating him to El. If, on the other hand, Tunnan is to be identified with Yamm, then the epithet mêdada ªili in lines 38b–39a applies to him as well, and therefore all the enemies described here are connected with El. If we are to identify the five names in lines 38–42, then we must address the fact that Yamm is not portrayed as a multiheaded sea monster in 1.2. In the description of Baal’s battle with Yamm (1.2 IV), the latter appears to be portrayed in fully anthropomorphic style. He has shoulders (ktp) and hands (ydm; 1.2 IV 16–17), a single head, and a pair of eyes (IV 21–22). But this does not preclude his appearing in literary texts in other forms. In the first instance, it is important to remember that, even though he is portrayed anthropomorphically in 1.2 IV, he is also the sea and the rivers, the waters upon the earth, and therefore not humanlike at all. We see a similar multiformism in the presentation of Tiamat in Enuma Elish. At certain points in the narrative, she is specifically the waters of the Ocean (see I 4–5), but elsewhere she is clearly being portrayed anthropomorphically (see I 29–34, II 92, 145 [here she is called si-in-is-tu ‘woman’]; see Foster 1993: 354–55, 364, 366). Then she seems to change shape again in the climactic battle, where she opens her mouth, apparently to swallow Marduk (IV 97–104; cf. Foster 1993: 375). Here she seems to be a dragon with a ferocious maw. Upon her death, Marduk splits her in two, “like a fish for drying” (IV 137; compare Foster 1993: 376) and later on coils up her tail to make “The Great Bond” (V 59; compare Foster 1993: 380). Within this same section that deals with Tiamat’s dismemberment, there are also references to her strictly as Ocean (for example, IV 140: “he ordered them not to let her waters escape,” Foster 1993: 377). Thus, within the Enuma Elish, we see three different forms of Tiamat, sometimes used

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back and forth within the same scene. Wiggerman (1997: 37–39) presents examples of iconographic multiforms on cylinder seals. On several seals that he discusses (p. 51, fig. 2c; p. 52, fig. 3c; p. 53, fig. 4a), an anthropomorphized god who is related to snakes is portrayed as a human with snake heads emerging from his shoulders or feet. In view of these multiform presentations of deities in the surrounding cultures (particularly of Tiamat), there is no reason to discount the notion that Yamm/Nahar might be also portrayed as a dragon/sea monster in a poetic description such as we find in III 38–46. Biblical passages use both yam and tannîn together but actually provide little additional evidence for the issue of identity in this passage. Ps 74:13 places Tannin (the MT reads tnynym as a plural, but it probably was originally the singular with an enclitic m) in parallel with Yam: “It was you [Yahweh] who destroyed Yam with your might./ You shattered the heads of Tannin upon the waters.” Although one could easily identify the two here, the context is not precise enough for certainty. Job 7:12 has Job ask God, hå-yam ªanî ªim tannîn ‘Am I Yam or Tannin that you set a guard over me?’ This might suggest that the two are distinct characters, but within the type of poetic, rhetorical question that we have here, it seems problematic to argue strongly one way or the other. Isa 51:9–10 is a fascinating passage, where reference is made to Yahweh’s smiting Rahab//Tannin, followed by a bicolon that refers to the drying up of Yam//Tehom rabbah. The context allows for the possibility that all four of the terms refer to the same deity, but this is far from certain. It is striking here, however, that Rahab and Tannin are mentioned first, rather than Yam and Tehom. In the other passages, Yam is always in the primary position, and the order here suggests that Rahab/Tannin are on the same level as Yam/Tehom, not subordinate. But here the wider context must be considered. The bicolon describing the drying up of Yam and Tehom is already being modified from the classic story of the cosmic battle into a reference to the drying up of the Sea of Reeds in the Exodus tradition. This may explain the surprising appearance of Yam in the second bicolon: the poet may have used the reference to the sea in this position in order to focus the imagery toward the historicized climax of the passage. So again, no certainty about the identity of Yam and Tannin can be reached from this passage. The only other text that mentions the two together, Isa 27:1, is likely under the influence of the theology represented by Gen 1:21, where the tannînîm are part of Yahweh’s created world. Here Leviathan and the tannîn (with a definite article) are to be killed in the future, when Yahweh brings on a new age. The evidence adduced here makes a plausible case for identifying Tunnan and his epithets with Yamm/Nahar in our passage. If this is so, then the third line of the tricolon becomes a pivot, connected to the preceding

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lines and to the following lines, joining them together in one large, elegant description of Baal’s powerful enemy. Let us now turn to the other four deities who occupy the final lines of Anat’s list of enemies. These are listed in a pair of bicola, the first mentioning ªArsu ‘Desire’ or ‘Demander’ (so Pardee 1997: 252) and ºAtaku ‘Binder’, while the second lists ªIsatu ‘Fire’ and Qabibu ‘Flame(?)’. Very little can be said about any of these deities and their roles within the context of Baal’s struggle for power. A close relationship to El is suggested by the epithets given to each. We will take a brief look at these deities and then discuss the issue of their relationship to one another. ªArsu appears here and in one other passage in the Ugaritic texts, 1.6 VI 51. The latter, however, is in an unfortunately ambiguous context. The line there stands in the midst of a discussion of Kothar-wa-Hasis and reads, bym ªars wtnn, which could mean, ‘in the day of Arsu and Tunnan’ or ‘in the sea are ªArsu and Tunnan’. If the latter were correct, then this would suggest that ªArsu is another sea creature. However, in our passage, he is paralleled in line 44 with a creature clearly related to land rather than sea, ºtk, the calf of El. The following bicolon mentions two more beings that are also land-based. This suggests that with the bicolon in lines 43–44 we have moved away from references to a water monster (or monsters) to a list of land creatures. Thus bym in 1.6 VI 51 may better be translated as ‘in the day of’. Of course, one cannot with certainty dismiss the idea that ym is a reference to Yamm. The entire line simply remains ambiguous. ªArsu’s epithet, mêdada ªili-ma ‘beloved of El’, appears to be the same as the epithet of Yamm in lines 38–39, assuming that the m on ªilm is enclitic. That ªilm in lines 43 and 45 refers specifically to El both times would fit the parallel lines in 44 and 46, where the epithets both contain simply ªil, certainly El. The deity ºAtaku stands in parallelism with ªArsu. The name of this figure has been understood in two ways. It has been translated ‘the Attacker’ or the like (see Gibson 1978: 50 n. 9; Gray 1979: 316 n. 6), based on Arabic ºataka ‘rush to attack’, or as ‘Binder’ (Pardee’s rendering in 1997: 252), which is more defensible, based on *ºtk attested elsewhere in Ugaritic, apparently in the meaning ‘to attach’ (in 1.3 II 11//1.7.2//1.13.7; compare del Olmo Lete and Sanmartín 2003: 191). ºAtaku’s epithet, ºigla ªili, provides some information about this god. There is little doubt about the meaning of ºiglu ‘calf’, known from the cognate in Hebrew, ºegel. 9 While in English the term “calf” perhaps gives a sense of youth and weakness, it is clear that the word evoked a connota9. The Akkadian cognate, agalu, is more ambiguous and likely refers to a different animal, perhaps a type of donkey. See CAD A 141 for a discussion of the problem.

spread is 12 points long

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tion of divine power in West Semitic religion. In the context of our passage, it is clear that ºtk, the calf, is a powerful enemy of Baal and Anat. In the Hebrew Bible, ºegel is used of the ‘molten calf’ made by Aaron in the wilderness (Exod 32:4, 8) and the golden images of Jeroboam for the temples at Bethel and Dan (1 Kgs 12:28, 32). At the same time, the use of a title that is a diminutive suggests both the subordination of the person to his superior (here, presumably, El) and perhaps a familial relationship (‘calf’ of Bull El the Father?). ªIsatu ‘Fire’ as a deity appears only here in Ugaritic. A god dì-sa-tù is attested also at Ebla (see the commentary on 1.2 I 32, in Smith 1994: 306– 7). In our text, she is given the epithet kalbata ªili-ma, which is probably best rendered ‘the (female) Dog (Bitch) of El’ (for example, Pardee 1997: 252; Coogan 1978: 93; Wyatt 1998: 80; compare the alternatives, ‘bitch of the gods’ [Caquot, Sznycer, and Herdner 1974: 168; Gibson 1978: 50], or ‘the Divine Bitch’ [Ginsberg in ANET 137; del Olmo Lete 1981: 185], or finally, ‘the Mighty Bitch’ [Gaster 1961: 240]). For this particular epithet, there is parallel material that supports the rendering ‘Dog of El’. Akkadian sources mention a number of deities who have divine dogs that attack their enemies, including Marduk (who has four such dogs), Ea, Damkina, Gula, Ninkarrak, “the Lady of Byblos,” and others (see CAD K 71 kalbu, meaning 1f). Thus the ‘Dog of El’ fits well into this context. The last-named enemy is Qabibu, a hapax legomenon in Ugaritic. One would initially expect this name to be cognate to Hebrew zébûb and Arabic qubab. However, these words designate the insect, ‘fly’, which seems an unlikely name for a deity. A somewhat problematic but possible alternative is to relate it to BH sabîb and Aramaic sbiba ‘flame’ (Greenfield 1994: 89; see also del Olmo Lete and Sanmartín 2003: 285). Job 18:5 and Sir 8:10 refer to sébîb ªissô ‘the flame of his [Yahweh’s] fire’. The close relationship between BH sébîb and ªissô in these two passages is similar to the parallelism of Ugaritic qbb and ªist, suggesting that BH sébîb may be cognate with Ugaritic qbb despite the irregular correspondence of their initial consonants (Greenfield [1994: 89] proposes additional examples of this shift). The name ‘Flame’ would then be parallel to the name ‘Fire’ in the previous line. Qabibu’s epithet directly relates her to El as his daughter. The use of repeated epithets relating Anat’s enemies to El is certainly intentional and has to do with the strained relationship between Baal and Anat, on the one hand, and the family of El and Athirat, on the other, a clear and important narrative element in the Baal Cycle. This situation is most visible in the story of Baal’s conflict with Yamm, where El supports Yamm against Baal in the story (compare 1.1 IV 13–25; 1.2 I 36–38). The four names in lines 43–46 may be interpreted as separate characters, four enemies, perhaps all closely related in an otherwise unknown story of conflict. But it is also possible to view each pair, ªArsu/ºAtaku and

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ªIsatu/Qabibu, as a single deity, because the epithets of each pair may easily be understood as complementary, each consisting of a relational and an animal designation (mêdada ªili-ma/ºigla ªili ‘beloved/calf of El’ for the god ªArsu/ºAtaku, and kalbata ªili-ma/bitta ªili ‘dog/daughter of El’ for the goddess ªIsatu/Qabibu). In addition, the names in each bicolon, ‘Desire/ Binder’ and ‘Fire/Flame’, can be seen as reasonable parallel names for a single deity. However, because nothing else is known about these gods, no firm conclusion can be reached. None of these names appears in any of the offering or deity lists from Ugarit (see Pardee 2000: 962–96). To conclude then, it seems that the enemies that Anat describes in this passage are to be divided into two groupings—water-based and land-based deities. The former, with five names and epithets, appear to represent most likely one, but no more than two creatures (Yamm/Nahar, Tunnan/ snake/Powerful One). I argue that the evidence suggests this is only one deity. The land-based deities remain ambiguous, but an argument can be made that each bicolon is describing a single deity with two names. Thus, this list may refer to as few as three gods or as many as six.

References Caquot, A.; Sznycer, M.; and Herdner, A. 1974 Textes ougaritiques: I Mythes et légendes. LAPO 7. Paris: Cerf. Coogan, M. D. 1978 Stories from Ancient Canaan. Louisville: Westminster. Cross, F. M. 1973 Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Day, J. 1985 God’s Conflict with the Dragon and the Sea: Echoes of a Canaanite Myth in the Old Testament. University of Cambridge Oriental Publications 35. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dietrich, M., and Loretz, O. 1997 Mythen and Epen IV. Pp. 1091–1198 in vol. 3/6 of Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments, ed. O. Kaiser, B. Janowski, and G. Wilhelm. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Dijkstra, M. 1999 Ugaritic Prose. Pp. 140–64 in Handbook of Ugaritic Studies, ed. W. G. E. Watson and N. Wyatt. HO 1/39. Leiden: Brill. Foster, B. 1993 Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature. 2 vols. Bethesda, MD: CDL. Gaster, T. H. 1961 Thespis: Ritual, Myth, and Drama in the Ancient Near East. New York: Harper & Row.

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Gibson, J. C. L. 1978 Canaanite Myths and Legends. 2nd ed. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. Gray, J. 1965 The Legacy of Canaan: The Ras Shamra Texts and Their Relevance to the Old Testament. 2nd ed. Leiden: Brill. 1979 The Blood Bath of the Goddess Anat in the Ras Shamra Texts. UF 11 (C. F. A. Schaeffer Festschrift): 315–24. Greenfield, J. C. 1994 Keret’s Dream: DHRT and HDRT. BSOAS 57: 87–92. Kloos, C. 1986 Yhwh’s Combat with the Sea: A Canaanite Tradition in the Religion of Ancient Israel. Amsterdam: van Oorschot / Leiden: Brill. Landsberger, B., and Hallock, R. T. 1955 Syllabary A. Pp. 3–87 in MSL 3. Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute. Loewenstamm, S. E. 1980 Comparative Studies in Biblical and Ancient Oriental Literatures. AOAT 204. Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker / Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. Mazzini, G. 2003 The Defeat of the Dragon in KTU 1.83, 4–10. UF 35: 391–406. Moor, J. C. de 1971 The Seasonal Pattern in the Ugaritic Myth of Baºlu according to the Version of Ilimilku. AOAT 16. Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker / Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. Olmo Lete, G. del 1981 Mitos y leyendas de Canaan segun la Tradicion de Ugarit. Institucion San Jeronimo para la Ciencia Biblica 1. Madrid: Cristiandad. 1999 KTU 1.83: An Astro-Mythological Text? AuOr 14: 130–33. Olmo Lete, G. del, and Sanmartín, J. 2003 A Dictionary of the Ugaritic Language in the Alphabetic Tradition, trans. W. G. E. Watson. 2 vols. HO 67. Leiden: Brill, 2003. [2nd rev. ed., 2004] Pardee, D. 1997 The Baºlu Myth. Pp. 241–74 in vol. 1 of The Context of Scripture, ed. W. W. Hallo and L. Younger. Leiden: Brill. 2000 Les textes rituels. 2 fascicles. RSOu 12. Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations. Parker, S. B., ed. 1997 Ugaritic Narrative Poetry. SBLWAW 9. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Pitard, W. T. 1998 The Binding of Yamm: A New Edition of the Ugaritic Text KTU 1.83. JNES 57: 261–80. Smith, M. S. 1994 The Ugaritic Baal Cycle, Volume 1: Introduction with Text, Translation and Commentary of KTU 1.1–1.2. Leiden: Brill. Walls, N. H. 1992 The Goddess Anat in Ugaritic Myth. SBLDS 135. Atlanta: Scholars Press.

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Wiggermann, F. A. M. 1997 Transtigridian Snake Gods. Pp. 33–55 in Sumerian Gods and Their Representations, ed. I. L. Finkel and M. J. Geller. Cuneiform Monographs 7. Groningen: Styx. Wyatt, N. 1998 Religious Texts from Ugarit: The Words of Ilimilku and His Colleagues. Biblical Seminar 53. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Zijl, P. J. van 1972 Baal: A Study of Texts in Connexion with Baal in the Ugaritic Epics. AOAT 10. Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker / Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag.

Ugarit and the Bible: New Data from the House of Urtenu Pierre Bordreuil Institut d’études sémitiques du Collège de France

My intention in this essay is to present three of the most important texts unearthed in the House of Urtenu that shed light on the Hebrew Bible. These few considerations certainly do not qualify as a remarkably original contribution, but it did appear useful to me to summarize what we have learned from these texts. This is because, in spite of a number of contributions on matters of detail having to do with points of contact between the new texts and biblical literature, there is as yet no comprehensive study undertaken from this particular perspective—this in spite of the fact that the Urtenu archive is only second to the archives from the palace in number of tablets, with a total going even beyond the number found in the House of the High Priest, where the first revolutionary discoveries began appearing 75 years ago. In this essay, I will consider three texts: the first, an Ugaritic text, RS 34.126, has been known for three decades now; the second, in Akkadian, RS 86.2221+, was published in 2001; the third, again in Ugaritic, RS 94.2401, is currently in press.

RS 34.126: The Rapaªûma/Rephaim Let us begin with the most important of the Ugaritic texts brought to light in 1973, at the very beginning of the exploration of the House of Urtenu, when an accidental find led to the sifting of an earth heap left by the army, and more than 100 tablets and fragments were rescued from destruction. This was the first tablet that Dennis Pardee and I examined together and it was thus at the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration (Bordreuil and Pardee 1982). We interpreted this long text—long for Ugaritic!—as the libretto for the funeral ceremony of a king of Ugarit, a liturgy for the burial of a king who

Authors note: I am grateful to Dennis Pardee for the English translation.

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had just died and for the commemoration of his death. We hypothesized that the king was Niqmaddu III, the next-to-the-last king of Ugarit and the immediate predecessor of Ammurapi, either the father or the uncle of the latter. The burden of the ritual is to allow the king to be received in the hereafter by his ancestors, the Rapaªûma. The importance of these ancestors in the hierarchy of the afterlife seems to grow as one moves back in time: the “ancient Rapaªûma,” who are not named, are evoked by this title alone after a series of others are addressed by name—the oldest of these appears to be Didanu, in whose assembly the legendary Kirta himself is known to have taken his place. At the end of the liturgy, a blessing is pronounced calling for well-being and peace for the deceased king, for his widow, for his heir, as well as for the city wall and the gates of Ugarit. As is well known, beneath most houses in the city of Ugarit was located a family tomb that was reached by a stairway and a dromos and that served as a concrete sign of the proximity of the living and the dead. The palace had a particularly luxurious tomb, in fact a double tomb, reached by a central entrance with stairs and a separate dromos leading in opposite directions through a 90-degree turn to each of the burial chambers. These tombs are still visible today, though their roofs have collapsed and some of the stones have been robbed. It appears plausible that the text of RS 34.126 would have been recited as part of the funerary liturgy at the place where the king was placed with the remains of his ancestors. It was everything for a given individual to be a part of an ancestral line, and the Ugaritian must have desired, just like the biblical patriarchs, to be “gathered to” his fathers after his death. The Rapaªûma are thus both the king’s predecessors on the throne and his ancestors in a more or less direct line. The older they are the greater they are, all the way back to Didanu, chief of an assembly. Here is an extract: You have been called, O Rapaªûma of the Earth, You have been summoned, O Assembly of Didanu; King ºAmmittamru has been called, King Niqmaddu has been called as well. O Throne of Niqmaddu, be bewept, And may tears be shed over the footstool of his feet. Before him they must beweep the king’s table, Each must swallow down his tears: Desolation and desolation of desolations!

An echo of this invitation is found in Isa 14:9–10, where the king of Bablyon’s arrival in the underworld is described as follows: “Sheol beneath is stirred up to meet you when you enter; it rouses the shades to

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greet you, all who were leaders on earth; it raises from their thrones all who were kings of the nations. All of them speak and say to you: ‘You have become as weak as we! You have become like us!’ ” In this text, the kings of the nations are roused by Sheol and rise up from their thrones. This image leads me to add an element of comparison that is not from Ras Shamra but from central Syria. Recently in the course of excavations at Qatna-Mishirfeh, Dr. M. al-Maqdissi unearthed a funerary installation that included an underground chamber made of mud bricks. On either side of the entrance to this room was found a statue representing a seated individual, a striking illustration of the kings of the nations who rise from their thrones to greet the arrival of an illustrious newcomer to the abode of the dead (see Lange 2005). We have just seen how the memory of the Rephaim, translated ‘shades’, has been preserved in prophetic imagery, and these denizens of the underworld appear in several other biblical texts. Before attempting to define the biblical Rephaim, let us examine in more detail how they are described in Ugaritic literature. I will now be relying on a study by my colleague and friend Hedwige Rouillard-Bonraisin, who has kindly given me permission to present her ideas here (Rouillard-Bonraisin 2005). The role of psychopomp (‘bearer of souls’) played by the sun-goddess Shapshu is clear in the funerary liturgy that we have just been discussing: Be hot, O Sapsu, Yea, be hot, O Great Light. On high Sapsu cries out: After your lords, from the throne, After your lords descend into the earth, Into the earth descend and lower yourself into the dust: Under SDN-wa-RDN, Under TR ºLLMN, Under the Ancient Rapaªûma; Under King ºAmmittamru, Under King Niqmaddu as well.

This role of the goddess is visible again in the hymn to Sapsu that appears at the end of the Baal Cycle (CAT 1.6 VI 45–49) 1 and again specifically in connection with the Rapaªûma. “The Rapaªûma are beneath you, O Sapsu.” Also mentioned in this context are the divine beings known as ªIlanûma, which are certainly chthonic divinities: “under you are the ªIlanûma-gods”; with the gods: “under you are the ªIlûma (that is, the gods)”; and with the deceased of the human race: “the dead (mûtûma) are all around you.” Also 1. Caquot, Sznycer, and Herdner 1974: 270; Pardee 1997: 273.

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named is the craftsman deity Kotharu-wa-Hasisu, and the fact that this deity’s place of dwelling is subterranean confirms that the passage deals with the underworld, over which the solar deity presides during her nocturnal passage beneath the earth. Prominent here are the Rapaªûma, the divinized dead, gathered around their ruler, the sun-goddess. The order ascribed to Shapshu’s visit by the poet appears to reflect the hierarchy of the universe: in the underworld, the Rapaªûma are above the common human deceased but below the chthonic divinities; on the earth, she passes among the living mortals; and in the heavens, among the gods (Wyatt 2002: 144 n. 123). As a guide leading the deceased to their place in the underworld, Shapshu plays exactly the same role as at the end of the myth of Baal and Mot, 2 where she accompanies Anat in seeking Baal after he has been swallowed down by Mot. According to lines 20 to 26 of the funerary liturgy, it is Shapshu who gives the order to “descend into the earth” to “go down into the dust.” It appears probable that it is the deceased king who is hereby invited to join his ancestors, rather than the Rapaªûma who would thereby be ordered to return to their subterranean dwelling place. Here again, the context is close to the text from Isaiah 14 discussed above. The last few lines call down well-being and peace on Ammurapi, on his house (that is, his dynastic line), on Thariyelli (the mother or wife of the king), on Ugarit, and, finally, on its gates. The insistence on salamu ‘wellbeing’ and ‘peace’, repeated seven times in the space of four lines, reveals the purpose of the liturgy—that of honoring the deceased king and commemorating his death at a funerary banquet. It is thus proper that his ancestors be convened to the feast, to offer to them sevenfold offerings, and then to send them replete back to their subterranean dwelling in order that well-being might continue to infuse the lives of the reigning king, his wife, his dynastic line, and the kingdom. 3 But we should remember that this appeal for peaceful plenitude dates to about 1200 b.c.e., at the very beginning of the reign of Ammurapi, the last king of Ugarit, shortly before the final catastrophe that wiped Ugarit from the map. The root RPª shows a semantic range in Ugaritic that is similar to what one finds in Hebrew, in Phoenician, in Punic, and in Palmyrene: the principal meaning is ‘to heal’, a meaning that at first glance does not appear to indicate clearly what the role of the Rapaªûma may have been. Nevertheless, the consistent writing with ªalep leaves little doubt that this is the ety2. CAT 1.6 IV 22–44; Caquot, Sznycer, and Herdner 1974: 263–64; Pardee 1997: 271. 3. Rouillard-Bonraisin (2005: 181–82) stresses the contrast between this blessing and the curse in Isa 14:18–20 against the king of Babel and his people.

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mology with which we must deal. H. Rouillard-Bonraisin correctly points out that Père Lagrange had interpreted the biblical Rephaim as “healers” par excellence, deceased members of the human race from whom one hoped to receive “the revelation of secrets inaccessible to the living” (see Tropper and Rouillard 1987). The mythic Rapaªûma of Ugarit, clearly divine beings, may also be identified as “healers” par excellence (Lagrange 1987: 318–20), exercising their powers on all levels, individual and collective, from the individual stricken by illness, infertility, or loss of children, to the kingdom as a whole, healed of poor crops or the fear of seeing the dynastic line come to an end. How is one to enter into the good graces of the dead except by worshiping them appropriately? The cult of the dead is well attested among the civilizations of the ancient Near East, both in the second millennium b.c.e. and in the first. For example, in one of the Zinjirli inscriptions, the speaker stipulates that sacrifices are to be offered both to Hadad and for his “soul” after his death (Caquot, Sznycer, and Herdner 1974: 466–67). Relations with the dead are tightly restricted in the biblical corpus: necromancy, which links the obtaining of offspring with the cult of the dead and, according to Jer 35:18–19, constitutes respect for an ancestor’s command is considered in the Deuteronomic History to be at best a potentially dangerous practice (1 Samuel 28). Finally, allow me to remark that the fifth commandment, “Honor your father and your mother that your days may be long in the land that the Lord your God is giving you” (Exod 20:12), may be interpreted as an allusion to the cult of the ancestors and the perpetuation of the family line. I will complete this rapid overview of RS 34.126 by remarking about the offering ritual prescribed in lines 27–30: it is a sevenfold repetition of a taºû-sacrifice, either over seven days or repetitively in the course of a single ceremony. After these seven sacrifices, the officiating priest is to present a bird offering of well-being. Though badly damaged and hence without a clear context, one of the so-called Rapaªûma texts provides a clear parallel in describing the Rapaªûma as participating in a seven-day feast: “For a day and a second day the Rapaªûma eat and drink; for a third and a fourth, a fifth and a sixth, the Rapaªûma eat and drink in the banquet house: the first-fruits that pour forth from the heart of Lebanon.” 4 We may surmise that the Ugaritian’s veneration of the Rapaªûma was based on fear but also on a sort of convivial veneration made real by the sharing of a meal. We may identify the Rapaªûma and the Rephaim as a brotherhood or a company consisting of the elite of deceased mortals, in particular of kings divinized when they passed into the netherworld: 4. CAT 1.22 I 22–25 (Caquot, Sznycer, and Herdner 1974: 476–77).

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though death has broken the mortal link with them, the cult of the dead establishes and maintains a different sort of link, one that guarantees wellbeing on the earth, a multidimensional earth that incorporates the expanse of the kingdom, its inhabitants, and their ancestors who dwell in the earth.

The paroket: Considerations on the Holy of Holies in Canaan and in Judah (RS 94.2221+) In the biblical descriptions of the sanctuary, both the desert tabernacle and the temple of Solomon, two particularly important terms are feminine nouns with identical consonants but in a different order: paroket, which means ‘veil’ or ‘curtain’, and kapporet, which means ‘cover’. 5 The “curtain” veiled the way from the ‘holy place’ (hêkal) to the ‘most holy place’ (débîr) while the second was constructed along with the ark of the covenant (the ªaron) and was placed with it in the “holy of holies.” I will here be discussing the paroket, for an Akkadian equivalent of the term has now appeared in a letter discovered in the House of Urtenu that originated in Sidon and is to be dated to the 13th century. The term paroket is attested 25 times in the Hebrew Bible, in descriptions of the tabernacle in the books of Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers (Gane and Milgrom 1989). As one of the furnishings of the temple of Solomon, it is mentioned only in the book of Chronicles, as having been made of “blue and purple and crimson fabrics and fine linen” (2 Chr 3:14); but it goes unmentioned in the account of 1 Kings 8. Here it is only said that it was possible “to see the ends of the (carrying) poles of the ark from the holy place outside the holy of holies; from beyond it could not be seen” (1 Kgs 8:8). The precise meaning of this verse has been much debated over the centuries, but it appears to me to be saying that the ends of the poles of the ark were only visible when the doors that closed the hêkal off from the débîr (1 Kgs 6:31) were opened up (Légasse 1980: 563– 64). Thus the poles would only have been visible when the doors were open. The reference would have been to one tip of each of the two carrying poles; these tips would have been visible because they were attached to the short sides of the ark, while the ark itself was placed in the débîr with one long side facing out. According to this understanding, the tips are mentioned in the text as being visible because they extended farther toward the hêkal than did the ark itself, which was hidden in obscurity, even when the doors of the débîr were open.

5. For this section, see also Bordreuil in press.

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However that may be, the idea of a separator called paroket between the holy place and the most holy place was not a simple innovation on the part of the Chronicler, for there is an Akkadian term pariktu meaning ‘obstacle’ or ‘obstruction’. 6 A religious connotation of this basic meaning close to the biblical usage is now attested in an Akkadian letter from Sidon discovered at Ras Shamra in 1992 and recently published. The text refers to a profanation that has occurred in the Temple of the Baal of Sidon. Lines 21 and 22 read: ù ki-i lú [ki-i pa-]ni-ti-sa hi-†a gal-a an-na-ka i-na kur ßi-du-ni ih-†í-ú-[ni i-na q]a-ab-le pe-[r]ek-te i-na qa-qa-de4 sa dIskur, which may be translated, ‘Because the man, [as be]fore, here in the land of Sidon committed the great sin within the pariktu against the person of the Weather God . . . ’. 7 This text does not appear to refer to the separator per se but to the inner sanctum of the sanctuary. The Akkadian expression [i-na q]a-ab-le pe-[r]ek-te finds its correspondent in Hebrew ûlémibbêt lapparoket ‘on the inner side of the divider’ (Num 18:7). According to the letter from Sidon, the blasphemy occurred within the divider; the word denotes either the space closed off by the divider or the closing device itself. In the passage from 2 Chronicles cited above, only the latter meaning is preserved, and the term has in general been rendered in the versions as a curtain made of cloth. Despite their similarity, it is necessary to distinguish between the two Akkadian words pariktu and parakku: while pariktu is a good Semitic term, parakku is the Akkadian form of Sumerian barag, which means ‘dais of a throne’ or ‘sanctuary’, as may be seen from an entry in a polyglot vocabulary from Ras Shamra, 8 where the Ugaritic equivalent of barag is qi-i[d-su] ‘sanctuary’ (see Huehnergard 1987: 101, 173). The resemblance between pariktu and parakku is thus more apparent than real. The presence of the term paroket only in Chronicles with reference to Solomon’s temple shows the importance of the idea of a concrete separation in the Chronicler’s theology. 9 As with the cherubim on the ark, the divider in the temple was considered only the reproduction of what had existed in the desert tabernacle, and its origins must hence go back to the desert period. What the term paroket expresses is a “separating curtain.” Its most basic meaning appears to be that of ‘separation’ or ‘closing off’, and this notion was made concrete in the woven curtain described in Chronicles. In any case, the mention of a pariktu in a letter of the 13th 6. In a Mari text: Dossin 1956: 61, lines 21, 26. 7. RS 86.2221+2225+2226+2240; cf. Arnaud in Yon and Arnaud 2001: 267–72 (lines 21–22, pp. 268–69). 8. Nougayrol 1968: no. 137, IV a 14. 9. Compare Luke 23:45: “The curtain of the temple was torn in two.”

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century b.c.e shows that unauthorized entry into the holiest part of a sanctuary was considered profanation and a crime worthy of the harshest sanctions—though the text also shows that these sanctions could be lifted, if an important monetary compensation was provided.

RS 94.2401 Dennis Pardee and I are responsible for the publication of the Ugaritic texts discovered in 1994 through 2002, and the manuscript has been submitted. RS 94.2401 is the last text that I will discuss here; it has been chosen because it provides an attestation in Ugaritic of a word corresponding to Hebrew karkob, of which the meaning has been much debated. The text is administrative in nature and deals with amounts of copper and tin required for the manufacture of bronze karkubbûma. The text may be translated as follows: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Fifty talents, three thousand nine hundred and th[irty (shekels) of ] copper; five talen[ts], two thousand three hundred and twenty (shekels) of tin, for forty karkubbûma.

6. Six karkubbûma, of which the length 7. is ¡pdrq and the width six half-cubits, (each with) four wheels, 8. each (karkubbu) being of the same weight: two talents, eight hundred (shekels). 9. Six karkubbûma, of which the length is six half-cubits, 10. the width four half-cubits. . . . Then the text breaks off. The first paragraph deals with the total amount of metal necessary for the manufacture of 40 of these objects called karkubbûma: 50 talents of copper plus 2,320 (shekels) of tin. The following paragraphs divide this total into smaller amounts used for a given number of these objects, each group defined by the size, expressed as length and breadth, of each one of the objects. The second paragraph describes 6 karkubbûma, each 6 halfcubits wide and a ¡pdrq long, each with 4 wheels, and weighing 2 talents, 800 (shekels); the third also describes 6 karkubbûma, measuring 6 halfcubits by 4 half-cubits, but the rest of the entry is too damaged for interpretation, and it is uncertain what the remaining details on this set of karkubbûma were. The quantity of tin mentioned in the first paragraph is about 11% of the total, a proper ratio to produce a good quality of bronze.

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In the Hebrew Bible, the karkob is mentioned in passing as part of the altar of sacrifice constructed for the desert tabernacle; it appears in Exod 27:5 in the Lord’s commands to Moses to build the altar and again in 38:4 in the account of the construction. The latter text reads: “He made for the altar a grill, a net-like work of bronze, under its frame downward to its [the altar’s] half.” There is no description of the object in question; its function as indicated in the text is to fix the position of the ‘grill’ (mikbar) and of the ‘net-like work’, though the precise meaning of these two terms is uncertain. The Ugaritic text, because it indicates only the length and breadth of these objects, does not allow us to determine whether the object consisted of a solid sheet, a solid framework, or a framework constructed of four joined pieces. The biblical references may be interpreted as a metal framework functioning to encase the top of the altar, which itself consisted of a grilled burning area. There is clearly nothing in the Ugaritic text to preclude its karkubbûma’s having had a similar form and function. The third paragraph of this text describes the karkubbûma as rectangular, but our total incomprehension of the word ¡pdrq in the second paragraph leaves the form of the karkubbûma mentioned there uncertain. We have hypothesized that their shape would have been square, but this must be classified as a simple deduction based on the general formulation of that paragraph in comparison with the following description as rectangular until further data appear, allowing the interpretation of the unknown word. The word for ‘half-cubit’, ªû†u, is new but must correspond to the Akkadian word of the same form that has this meaning. The rectangular karkubbûma would thus have measured about 1 meter, 20 by 80 centimeters, while the grills described in the first paragraph may have been square, measuring about 1 meter 20 on each side. The Ugaritic text provides no indication of the use or the function of these karkubbûma, and there is no basis on which to assume that they were intended as part of an altar. Indeed, the mention of wheels as part of the first set of these objects leads, at least in the case of this group of six, in the opposite direction, for the biblical altar of which the karkob was a part, was, as with most altars, assumed to occupy a fixed location. It appears plausible, then, to see these wheeled objects as frames for holding movable braziers. No object of this sort has yet been discovered at Ugarit, but a nearly intact example was found in an early-first-millennium level at Tell Halaf. The quantity of metal necessary for the construction of these objects and hence their monetary value must have limited their use to the largest mansions and the largest rooms of the palace—in particular, banquet and reception halls. The presence of this tablet in the House of Urtenu confirms that this personage had connections with the highest strata of Ugaritic society. For us humble philologists of the 21st century, it

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provides precious information on the form and function of these objects known as karkubbûma. We now know that they could function either as a framework consolidating the burning platform of a fixed altar or as a wheeled framework into which a brazier could be fitted that had the simple function of heating a large room. We have only to lament, in closing, that the Ugaritic text is not complete, for the additional details that it once contained would have allowed an even more complete description of how these objects were manufactured and used.

References Bordreuil, P. 2006 Paroket et kapporet: À propos du Saint des saints en Canaan et en Judée. Pp. 161–68 in Les espaces mésopotamiens: Dimensions de l’expérience humaine au Proche-Orient ancien. Volume d’hommages offerts à J. C. Margueron, ed. P. Butterlin et al. Subartu 17. Turnhout, Belgium: Brepols. Bordreuil, P., and Pardee, D. 1982 Le rituel funéraire ougaritique RS 34.126u. Syria 59: 121–28. Caquot, A.; Sznycer, M.; and Herdner, A. 1974 Textes ougaritiques, I: Mythes et légendes. LAPO 7. Paris: Cerf. Dossin, G. 1956 Une lettre de Iarîm-lim, roi d’Alep, à Iabûb-Iahad, roi de Dîr. Syria 33: 62–69. Gane, R., and Milgrom, J. 1989 tkrP paroket. Pp. 95–97 in vol. 6 of TWAT. [= Cols. 755–57 in vol. 12 of TDOT.] Huehnergard, J. 1987 Ugaritic Vocabulary in Syllabic Transcription. HSS 32. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Lagrange, M. J. 1987 Études sur les religions sémitiques. 2nd ed. Paris: Cerf. Lange, K. E. 2005 Cult of the Dead. National Geographic 207/2: 108–23. Légasse, S. 1980 Les voiles du temple de Jérusalem: Essai de parcours historique. RB 87: 560–89. Nougayrol, J. 1968 Ugaritica V. Paris: Geuthner. Pardee, D. 1997 Ugaritic Myths. Pp. 241–375 in vol. 1 of COS. Rouillard-Bonraisin, H. 2005 L’énigme des refaªîm bibliques résolue grâce aux rapaªûma d’Ougarit? Pp. 145–82 in La Bible et l’héritage d’Ougarit: Mélanges bibliques et orientaux en hommage posthume à Monsieur André Caquot, ed. J. M. Michaud. Sherbrooke, Quebec: GGC.

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Tropper-Rouillard, J., and Rouillard, H. 1987 TRPYM: Rituels de guérison et culte des ancêtres d'après I Sam. XIX 11–17 et les textes parallèles d’Assur et de Nuzi. VT 37: 340–61. Wyatt, N. 2002 Religious Texts from Ugarit. Biblical Seminar 53. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Yon, M., and Arnaud, D., eds. 2004 Études ougaritiques I: Travaux 1985–1995. RSOu 14. Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations, 2004.

Ugarit: The Kingdom and the City— Urban Features Yves Calvet Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique

From the tell of Ras Shamra (“Fennel Hill”), on the northwest Syrian coast about 10 km north of Latakia, remnants of the capital of a Late Bronze kingdom that in antiquity bore the name of Ugarit have emerged. The ruins that have been uncovered during the excavations of the last three-quarters of a century belong principally to the end of the Late Bronze Age and represent the city that was destroyed at the beginning of the 12th century b.c.e. Under this latest stratum lie a series of levels representing human occupation beginning in the Neolithic period, when a group of hunter-gatherers first settled on the rich coastal plain in the eighth millennium. As one age succeeded another, residents worked at agriculture and animal husbandry, followed by metallurgy, and eventually developed various other technical skills. Evidence from other sites, particularly Mari, indicate that syllabic writing was already in use in the Middle Bronze Age, but the local system of alphabetic cuneiform was not devised for the purpose of writing the local language until late in the Late Bronze Age, probably less than a century before the destruction of the city. My remarks on the urbanism of Ugarit will draw on the data from this latest, relatively well-excavated level of the tell and thus will have to do with the last stages of the Late Bronze Age, from the middle of the 14th century to the beginning of the 12th.

The Kingdom of Ugarit The territory of the kingdom covered about 2,000 square km and was enclosed within natural boundaries (fig. 1): the Mediterranean to the west and Jebel Ansarieh to the east (also known as the Alouite range); the Author’s note: I thank M. Yon and D. Pardee for their help in the translation and editing of this essay. The maps used here were drawn by O. Callot, E. Laroze, P. Rieth, and M. N. Baudran.

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Figure 1. Map of the Kingdom of Ugarit.

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northern border runs along a chain of highlands and mountains of which the highest point is Jebel el-Aqra, known by the Ugaritians as Mount Íapunu (ßapôn in Hebrew) and envisioned as Baal’s dwelling place; the farthest extent to the south ran along the coast to the point where Jebel Ansarieh approaches the sea and gives rise to a rich spring that feeds the Nahr es-Sinn. Thus, to the west, the kingdom opens onto the Mediterranean world, while the route that follows the Rahbanu River (the modern Nahr el-Kebir) northeast and continues across Jebel Ansarieh permitted communication with Anatolia, central Syria, and beyond—with the Euphrates River and Mesopotamia. For the last century and a half of the history of Ugarit, texts in Akkadian and Ugaritic reveal both the names and the activities of a series of kings who occupied the throne. King lists in both languages provide purely onomastic data on their ancestors, stretching back several centuries. A dynastic seal was in use that laid claim explicitly to this ancient tradition. The small levantine kingdoms were under the hegemony of the major powers that disputed over control of the entire area: the Egyptian pharaohs of the New Kingdom, the Great King of Hatti, and the king of Babylon. Texts in Akkadian, the international lingua franca of the time, discovered at el-Amarna, Bogazköy (Hattusa), Ras Shamra, and elsewhere attest to direct contacts between the Kingdom of Ugarit and the great kings as well as to communication with the neighboring minor kings (Cyprus, the levantine coast from Byblos to Acco, central Syria as far as the Euphrates). Early in the 14th century, the Kingdom of Ugarit was under Egyptian domination, then for a time under Mitanni; for three-quarters of a century after about 1350, the Hittites controlled the area; after the battle of Qadesh, a treaty between Ramesses II and Hattusili III, signed in about 1270, established the Hittite and Egyptian zones of influence, confirming thereby the suzerainty of each over its respective territory. The king of Ugarit was required to pay tribute to the Hittite great king and to furnish troops and chariot forces. The economy of the kingdom had two primary bases: agriculture and commerce; in the latter sphere, local entrepreneurs more or less closely tied to the palace were involved in import and export operations, while the port of Ugarit served as a transit point permitting circulation of goods between the Mediterranean and inner Syria.

The City of Ugarit Less than a kilometer from Tell Ras Shamra was the port of Ugarit, situated in the Bay of Minet el-Beida, the best natural port along this entire stretch of coastline. Five km south, a royal residence was established in the 13th century on what is today the peninsula known as Ras Ibn Hani. The

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tell on which the capital city was located was some 20 m high in the Late Bronze Age; in today’s terms, the city covered some 28 square hectares. Aside from minimal occupation in the Persian period, what lies immediately under the surface of the mound today dates to the last period of occupation at the end of the Late Bronze Age.

The City Wall and Means of Access to the City The tell (fig. 2) is situated between two small streams, the Nahr elDelbeh to the south and the Nahr Shebayyeb to the north; the two run to-

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Figure 3. Postern gate (Photo: Mission de Ras Shamra).

gether to the west of the tell and flow into the Mediterranean as a single stream. The north side of the tell has been significantly eroded away by flooding of the Nahr Shebayyeb, and the fortification walls on this side have disappeared to such an extent that there is a steep descent from the acropolis to the plain. To the south, the tell slopes down to the plain, but most of the area today is covered by orange groves held by private owners, making exploration impossible for the most part. The city ramparts mentioned in texts from the Late Bronze Age are known from the excavations but only partially. The most visible and best known are the remains of the western rampart and entrance gate, with a glacis at a 45-degree angle, an approach ramp that runs south–north with a sharp turn to the gate, and the famous postern gate, which actually dates to an earlier period and would have been covered by the Late Bronze approach ramp (fig. 3). The excavated remains run for about 40 m north– south, but the unexcavated southwest corner of the tell probably covers another section of the rampart. All traces of the city wall have disappeared to the north and east, which has been badly eroded, while the south side of the mound is under the orange groves mentioned above. Access to the city must have been through at least four principal gates, of which only one has actually been discovered, the western entrance just

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Figure 4. Plan of the royal palace.

discussed; however, it was for the exclusive use of the palace sector and hence would not have been open to the general public for access to the city from the east. Study of the topography of the tell and of the street patterns inside the city has led to the conclusion that there must have been an entrance to the south on a line with a bridge that doubled as a dam, which was excavated about a decade ago and leads to a large open square in the section known as the “City South.” The gate itself would have lain somewhere north of this bridge, though it is buried today under the orange groves. For the other two sides of the city, the data are less clear. There was very likely a gate to the east that would have lined up with streets excavated on the acropolis (“Mot Street”) and in the two trenches that run south from the acropolis (“City South” and “Acropolis South”). In the other direction, “Mot Street” probably ran into a north–south street that would have come in from a northern gate, of which the only

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Figure 5. Street (Photo: Mission de Ras Shamra).

witnesses today are traces of an ancient bridge, not yet excavated, across the Nahr Shebayyeb.

Street Grid and Habitation Zones The city was clearly divided into several habitation zones, which become visible on analysis of the layout of the streets. The palace (fig. 4) forms the center of the royal area, with its fortified gate leading to a formal entryway, marked by a column on either side. Another entrance to the royal area leads in from the main city to the east, closed off by a monumental double gate. A third gate, leading to the

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south, runs between the palace and the western rampart and is also barred by a gate 40 m long. A temple, dubbed the “Hittite temple” by the excavator, is located to the north of the palace; it is probably the principal “royal chapel.” Farther north is the so-called “pillared building,” in all likelihood the royal banqueting hall, where official receptions took place. The main city lay to the east of the palace sector, and it differs from the royal zone by its narrow streets that run roughly parallel and perpendicular, thus forming a grid. These intersecting roads formed “islands,” each one made up of a group of dwellings (fig. 5). The present state of excavation does not reflect an organization determined by social hierarchy, for any given “island” may contain rich dwellings and poor ones situated alongside artisan and commercial establishments, and even something as extraordinary as the meeting place of a marzi˙u-group. This is the so-called “Rhyton Temple,” which is part and parcel of its urban environment and was isolated only by its peculiar architectural characteristics and the discovery there of a statuette, plausibly thought to represent a divine figure, who has been identified as the god El.

Population The analysis of the various dwellings and of tablets bearing fiscal data or lists of all kinds have resulted in a hypothetical evaluation of the population of the city in the Late Bronze Age at around 6,000–8,000 persons and of the kingdom at around 25,000. But the population density evolved over time; the dividing of larger houses into smaller dwellings has been interpreted as reflecting an influx of the rural population and the ensuing necessity of housing a larger population in the same number of dwellings.

History of Excavations It is this kingdom and its capital that in 1929 began to emerge from 3,000 years of oblivion. A Late Bronze tomb uncovered in 1928 near the Bay of Minet el-Beida provided the starting point for an archaeological process that has resulted in a profound revision of knowledge about the civilizations of the Levant in the Late Bronze Age. A report of the discovery was sent to Paris by René Dussaud, who was then head of the Department of Oriental Antiquities at the Louvre, to make a formal request to the Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres for the funds necessary to expand the exploration of the site. This in turn lead to Claude Schaeffer’s being entrusted with heading up an archaeological team to begin excavating the site of Minet el-Beida in April of 1929. The first season of excavations began at the port site, but concomitantly work was undertaken at Ras Shamra, only about 800 m away. Work began on the acropolis, and within three weeks the first tablet inscribed in

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the unknown script that came to be identified as alphabetical cuneiform came to light, to be followed by the discovery of bronze tools bearing alphabetic inscriptions, and many other tablets in a dwelling known as the “Library of the High Priest.” These various inscriptions immediately became a focus of analysis by three scholars, Hans Bauer, Édouard Dhorme, and Charles Virolleaud, and within a year there was agreement that a new graphic system had been discovered and that this system had been used for inscribing a hitherto unknown Semitic language, which was ascribed the name Ugaritic, after the ancient name of the city. This name appeared in tablets excavated during the second season and had previously also been attested in Akkadian texts from el-Amarna and Bogazköy. The fame of the site and its native language is principally due to the fact that among these first tablets were large, multicolumned mythological texts that recount the exploits of various deities such as El and Baal who were known to be primary figures in the Syro-Canaanite pantheon. This new language—showing that the alphabetic principle had been developed in a fully literary language well before the end of the Late Bronze Age, a linguistic cousin of the Phoenician language and writing system, and hence of the Greek and Latin alphabets, reflecting a civilization that was close to the Canaanite and biblical worlds and expressing a new corpus of myths in poetic diction—this language has been the focal point of a whole series of exceptional discoveries that have placed Ugarit at the forefront of archaeological discovery for the last seven and a half decades. Claude Schaeffer led ten excavations before World War II began. Minet el-Beida, which was immediately recognized to be the main port of the Kingdom of Ugarit, was the object of archaeological exploration until 1935. It was abandoned in order to permit the excavator to concentrate all his efforts on Ras Shamra, which, because of the exceptional nature of areas such as the acropolis (with two temples and a Middle Bronze necropolis) the “Lower City,” and the western areas of the tell (rampart and palace) required all his attention. The hostilities that became World War II stopped work at the site, and excavations were not resumed until 1948, two years after Syria had gained its independence. Schaeffer immediately resumed excavation of the palace, of which only the northwest corner had been touched before the war, and the major part of the excavation was concentrated on that site from 1950 through 1955. The palace has furnished the single greatest architectural complex of the site as well as the greatest concentration of tablet finds. Then the excavations moved east, and three areas of the nonroyal sector of the city were uncovered that are known as the “Residential Quarter” (beginning in 1953), “South City” (in 1959 and 1960), and “South Acropolis” (in 1961–64). A deep sounding was begun on the west side of

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the acropolis in 1962 by Henri de Contenson and concluded in 1967; eventually it reached bedrock and thereby provided the backbone of the chronology of the site from the Neolithic through the Late Bronze Age. The same Henri de Contenson directed the Mission de Ras Shamra from 1971 to 1974; during this period, the excavation of the “Residential Quarter” continued, and the large building just to the south of the palace as well as occupation during the Persian period were investigated. Jean Margueron took over the direction of excavations in 1975 and 1976; he oversaw the excavation of a large dwelling located on the northern edge of the tell, and de Contenson’s deep sounding finally reached bedrock at 16 m below the point on the surface at which excavation had begun 14 years before. Marguerite Yon was appointed director in 1978. She concentrated her efforts on two principal areas: excavation (“City Center,” “Great Street,” and the “House of Urtenu”) and synthetic analyses of data discovered during previous excavations—principally the data from the “South City” and “South Acropolis.” Moreover, Yon not only promoted the publication of archaeological data but also devoted considerable time and effort to overseeing the republication of the Ugaritic texts by literary type (hippiatric and ritual texts) as well as the publication of the texts that emerged from excavations old and new in the House of Urtenu (excavations of 1973 through 1992). In 1999, the Mission became a joint FrenchSyrian venture, and Bassam Jamous and I were named directors. Since that date, reanalysis of three previously excavated areas has been undertaken (the palace, the “Lower City East,” and the “Residential Quarter”), and excavations of the “North Residence” and the “House of Urtenu” (with its 600 tablets and fragments) have been brought to a close. If present plans come to fruition, two principal areas of the tell will occupy our attention in the coming years: First, the area on the south where the main road leads up from the gate toward the acropolis, which is known as “Great Street.” In preliminary exploration several years ago, a tablet fragment was found here, and there are legitimate expectations that the excavation of this sector will reveal a new archive. Second, we would like to oversee the excavation of the southwest corner of the tell, which has so far remained untouched. Its profile, essentially unchanged over the millennia, permits legitimate expectations of uncovering, with modern scientific methodology, a section of the city ramparts.

References Calvet, Y. 2004 Le royaume d’Ougarit, aux origines de l’alphabet. Catalogue d’exposition (Lyon, musée des Beaux-Arts 2004; Dir. G. Galliano and Y. Calvet). Paris: Somogy éditions d’art.

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Saadé, G. 1979 Ougarit, métropole cananéenne. Beirut: Imprimerie Catholique. Schaeffer, C. F.-A. 1939–78 Ugaritica. 7 vols. Paris: Geuthner. Yon, M. 1997 La cité d’Ougarit sur le tell de Ras Shamra. Guides archéologiques de l’Institut français d’archéologie du Proche-Orient 2. Paris: Editions Recherche sur les civilisations. 2006 The City of Ugarit at Tell Ras Shamra. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.

Arrowheads from Iron Age I: Personal Names and Authenticity Richard S. Hess Denver Seminary

In this essay, I will analyze personal names from Canaan in the latter part of Iron Age I and possibly at the beginning of Iron Age II. I will examine 47 published arrowheads with proto-Canaanite inscriptions that contain personal names. Of these, only 4 may come from Palestine, the arrowheads of ºbdlbªt, reputedly from El-Óadr, west of Bethlehem. The provenance of these is not certain, however, and they may be more closely related to the remaining arrowheads. Those arrowheads appear to derive from Lebanon, but none of them was found in situ. Paleographical analysis dates them to the 11th and the first half of the 10th centuries. Unprovenanced materials are always more difficult to use for scientific study. Nevertheless, when authenticated with the analytical tools available, they deserve to be studied as legitimate sources of information for the period they represent. Of course, the persons whose names appear on these arrowheads may have been mercenaries from distant lands and not local residents. However, as will be shown, their names’ close connection and their spellings, which are often identical to West Semitic personal names from nearby sites such as Ugarit, strongly support the conclusion that they derive from the same cultural context as the Late Bronze Age West Semitic archives from nearby cities. Most of the arrowheads contain both the name associated with the weapon and the patronym. A tabulation reveals some 55 distinctive names: ªdª, 1 ªdº, ªdnbºl, ªdnsº, ª˙ª, ªky, ªlbºl, ªlߪl, ªmº, ªny, bnª, bnyª, bºlª, grbºl, wry, zkrbºl, zmª, zrº y, ydbºl, yw˙nn(?), y˙s, y†l, ykbºl, ymn, ysº, ysbº, ytª, ytrßdq, mhrn, mlky, mlkyrm, mrdgn, mrß, swr, ºdbªlm, ºbdy, ºbdlbªt, ºbdny, ºzbºl, ºzm, ºzrbºl, ºstrt, pª, pdy, pq˙y, qry, rm, rpª, sª, slm, smbºl, smdº, smrm, sp†, and tdbºl. 2 1. This was originally read ªbª. 2. Cross 1996: 14*–16*; Deutsch and Heltzer 1995: 24–27; McCarter 1999. Two new names appear on two arrowheads published in Deutsch and Lemaire 2003: 9– 10. The names are ªnl and syy. These names have yet to be attested elsewhere. The

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Although 55 names is a smaller sample than might be desired, it constitutes virtually all the epigraphic material associated with the southern Levant of the 11th and early 10th centuries. Therefore, it deserves to be studied in order to learn what can be known of the cultural context of the period. As future discoveries produce more written materials from this period, they will doubtless modify the conclusions suggested here. However, this is the evidence currently available. Indeed, if the names resemble names in nearby archives in terms of their forms and elements, this will support the conclusion that the culture they represent is not very distant or different from the culture of its neighbors, despite the small sample. In this essay, I will examine groups of personal names that provide some of the most interesting additions to our understanding of the early Iron Age onomastica. I will include the personal names that appear to be non-Semitic, the divine names represented in the personal names, and personal names with elements previously attested only from the Bronze Age. In all this, I will note the difficulty of certainty with regard to the reading and interpretation of isolated personal names with no literary context. However, the Semitic alphabet had been in use for perhaps seven centuries by the time these texts were written. The widespread use of the 13th-century (and earlier) Ugaritic alphabet in numerous texts scattered throughout Ugarit demonstrates skill and experience in the writing of the West Semitic dialect and personal names associated with it (whether West Semitic, Hurrian, or other). To anticipate the following study—the fact that similar names from Ugarit and elsewhere are spelled in an identical fashion on the arrowheads suggests competency in writing these names and endorses our confidence that the remaining names are written accurately and reliably.

Non-Semitic Personal Names Four personal names are best analyzed as containing elements of a language other than Semitic: ªky, wry, swr, and tdbºl. ªky

Deutsch and Heltzer (1995: 17) suggest a gentilic, ‘Akko’. However, this is not the manner in which the Ugaritic name, ªaky, has been understood. Gröndahl (1967: 216, 363) relates this name to the Hurrian element ag/ak ‘to bring, direct’ (at Nuzi, Purves 1943: 198; cf. a-ki-ia; and at Emar, Pruzsinszky 2003: catalog p. 115, a-gi5-ia). This form is productive of many Hurrian

first name may be compared with a-mi-li at Ugarit and related to Akkadian amilu (Gröndahl 1967: 98). Gelb (Gelb et al. 1980: 234) identifies an Old Babylonian name from Kisurra, a-bi-a-ma-al, as Amorite.

Arrowheads from Iron Age I

wry

swr

tdbºl

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personal names, often with the addition of a divine name. Here, the hypocoristic suffix replaces the divine name. Deutsch and Heltzer (1995: 14) identify this as an Egyptian name with wr, the meaning of which is ‘great, great one’ and which occurs in names such as wr.y and ˙r.wry ‘the god Hor is great’ (Ranke 1935: 248, no. 18). Cross (1996: 9*) appears to follow Gröndahl (1967: 256), who also finds a swr personal name at Ugarit and analyzes it as Hurrian. This is based on the study (Purves 1943: 260) of the sura element in Nuzi personal names. However, the entry there indicates ultimately an Indo-Aryan origin. Mayrhofer (1956–80: 3.566–67) identifies the element as *suvar, related to Sanskrit svà˙ ‘sun, sky’. In Hurrian, the element is suwari (Laroche 1976– 77: 246), and this may be the form related to swr, although the conservative nature of personal names suggests that swr may derive directly from the Indo-Aryan onomasticon that is attested in the Hurrian world in the mid-second millennium. 3 Deutsch and Heltzer (1995: 11) know of no parallels with this name and do not analyze it. However, the first element could possibly be the Hurrian tad ‘love’, which occurs in personal names from Nuzi, Ugarit, Pella, Mitanni, and Emar in the Late Bronze Age (Hess 1993: 151–53; Purves 1943: 263; Gröndahl 1967: 262–63; Pruzsinszky 2003: 240, 248, 251; catalog pp. 766– 68).

A fifth personal name is zmª. This name has no clear analysis or relationship to biblical zimmâ. One may compare zi-me, zi-mi, and other names from Nuzi. Purves (1943: 278) identifies it as possibly Hurrian but remains uncertain. The appearance of an Egyptian name on the arrowheads is not surprising. Egyptian personal names appear frequently in Late Bronze Age Canaan and occasionally in the attestations of personal names from later periods. 4 However, this is not true of the Hurrian and Indo-Aryan elements found in these personal names. While they do appear in the Late Bronze Age and the Iron Age I periods, they are not attested later. Until the publication and analysis of these arrowheads, these personal names 3. The same remains true of the Amarna personal name su-wa-ar-da-ta (Hess 1993: 151). See the discussion in Hess 2003 for further problems with the Hurrian etymology. 4. See, for example, the Egyptian names in the 14th century Amarna Letters from throughout Canaan (Hess 1993: 216–17).

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were known from Iron Age I Canaan only from the traditions of Joshua and the stories surrounding David and Saul (Hess 1996; 1998). The presence of these name elements in the personal names of the arrowheads provides one of the strongest pieces of evidence for a cultural connection between the name-bearers of these arrowheads and the Late Bronze Age cultures represented in the archives of Amarna, Ugarit, Alalakh, Emar, and Ekalte.

Divine Names as Elements within the Personal Names West Semitic personal names contain examples of divine names as part of their composition. The most obvious divine names include: ªl, bºlª, dgn, yw(?), mlk, ºstrt, ßdq, rpª, and slm. Lbªt may also be a divine name. 5 Among the personal names, there are 11 with bºl, 2 with ªl (although ªlߪl cannot be successfully analyzed), and 2 with mlk, while each of the remaining divine names appears in a single personal name. Except for yw and ºstrt, all of these divine names may also occur as common nouns. Often it is difficult or impossible to tell in a given personal name whether the element is a divine name or a common noun used as a divine epithet. The following personal names are compounded with bºl: ªdnbºl

ªlbºl

bºlª grbºl

zkrbºl

This two-element name, ‘Baal is (my) lord’, contains elements that appear frequently throughout the West Semitic onomastica of the Bronze and Iron Ages. ‘El is (my) lord’ or ‘Baal is (my) god’ are possible interpretations of a personal name that contains some of the most common divine names appearing in West Semitic personal names. This common Semitic divine name is followed by a hypocoristic ªalep. The name may be translated ‘client of Baal’. The first element occurs in Phoenician names (including grbºl, Benz 1972: 103, 298) and in the personal name gi-ri from Emar (Pruzsinszky 2003: 161; catalog p. 329). This could be translated ‘remembrance, name of Baal’ or ‘Baal has remembered’. It includes common elements found in all periods. Less likely is ‘man of Baal’ (Deutsch and Heltzer 1994: #1), because zakar ‘male’ is not as common in West Semitic.

5. sm is best interpreted as other than a divine name. See the discussion on smdº in the appendix.

Arrowheads from Iron Age I ydbºl

ykbºl

ºzbºl ºzrbºl

smbºl

tdbºl

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Yd ‘hand’ appears among Bronze Age Amorite personal names (Gelb et al. 1980: 271). At Ugarit, the personal name ydbºl also appears (Gröndahl 1967: 390; see Sivan 1984: 285 for other examples). In the Iron Age, this element appears in Ammonite names (Aufrecht 1989: 365). The name ‘Baal has smitten’ includes the verbal root nky/nkh. This root is rare in West Semitic personal names, attested with certainty only in nonassimilated forms from Ugarit (en-ki-li; PRU 3.141 [RS 16.134.6, 10]; Gröndahl 1967: 166; Sivan 1984: 254) and the Egyptian Execration Texts (yanki-ilu, ruler of Aphek; Dussaud 1940: 172, no. E9; McCarter 1999: 127* n. 12). It is not attested in the Iron Age. ‘Baal is (my) strength’. The two elements are commonly used in West Semitic personal names of both the Bronze and Iron Ages. As the interpretation suggests, ‘Baal has helped’ or ‘assistance of Baal’, both elements of this personal name and its structure are common in the second and first millennia among West Semitic name collections (For ºzr/ºqr, see the summary in Hess 1993: 210; and for Emar, Pruzsinszky 2003: 150, 159, 165, 167, 188). ºZrbºl appears in Phoenician names (Benz 1972: 376). ‘Name of Baal’ is the likeliest interpretation. For the problem with sumu as a divine name, see the appendix under smdº. The two elements of this personal name are common in West Semitic. A smbºl is also attested at Ugarit (Gröndahl 1967: 194) with similar names found in Amorite (Huffmon 1965: 247–49), in Phoenician (Benz 1972: 419), and in the Hebrew personal name sémûªel. See the explanation above, under non-Semitic personal names.

For the ªl names, ªlbºl above is the only clear example of a possible divine name. The mlk names include the following: ‘(Divine name) is king/Milku’ with a hypocoristic yod suffix. There is the question of mlk as a divine name, Milku/Malik. It clearly appears in some divine names of the Late Bronze Age in which the divine determinative precedes the mlk element of the name. For example, dmil-ku at Ugarit requires it be understood as a divine name and thus allows for the presence of the divine name in personal names such as this (Sivan 1984: 247). mlkyrm Deutsch and Heltzer (1995: 18), noting the mlkrm form in Phoenician names (e.g., Benz 1972: 140) and the mlkyrm of 1 Chr 3:18 (son of Jehoiakin), interpret the name as ‘my king is mlky

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Richard S. Hess high, exalted’. They note the yod as a surprisingly early sign of plene writing. However, while the later biblical name may contain a pleonastic yod, the explanation for this Iron Age I name may be different. A similar name appears in syllabic writing at Ugarit, where the elements are reversed but the yod remains with the verb, ia-ri-milku (lugal) (Gröndahl 1967: 182). The yod prefix form of this root occurs frequently in Late Bronze Age West Semitic personal names (Sivan 1984: 266), normally although not always in initial position. A confessional form, ‘Milku is exalted’, could be a legitimate interpretation of this personal name.

The remaining divine names (dgn, yw, ºstrt, ßdq, rpª, slm, and perhaps lbªt) appear in a single personal name each: mrdgn Deutsch and Heltzer (1995: 15) suggest ‘my lord is Dagan’. If this were correct, it would be an early occurrence of the Aramaic form mrª ‘lord’. More likely is the mrr root, ‘to be strong’, so that the sense of the name would be ‘Dagan is strong’. The mrr root occurs in Ugaritic names (ymrn, ªamrr; Gröndahl 1967: 160) as well as on Hebrew seals (mrbºl, mrmwt; Davies 1991: 434; cf. biblical miryam; Zadok 1988: 130). The divine name Dagan appears in personal names throughout the Bronze Age (summary in Hess 1993: 237) but has not been attested in personal names in the Iron Age. See the discussion in Tigay 1986: 76. Thus, this would be the latest attested personal name with this divine name element. yw˙nn(?) This personal name has been identified as Yahwistic (Cross 1992: 21*, 26*), but both the reading and the interpretation are disputed by epigraphists who have studied the arrowhead. If it were Yahwistic, this would be the earliest appearance of the divine name in personal names. This would be true despite its possible occurrence as part of a place-name in a Late Bronze Age itinerary (Hess 1991). However, the debated reading at this point renders certainty impossible regarding the interpretation of the first element of this name. The second element, ˙nn ‘to be gracious, merciful’, appears in West Semitic personal names from Ugarit and other Bronze Age sources (Huffmon 1965: 200; Gröndahl 1967: 135–36; Gelb 1980: 250–51; Sivan 1984: 224; Pruzsinszky 2003: 182–83, 208), as well as in Israelite personal names of the Iron Age (Fowler 1988: 345; Aufrecht 1989: 364; Benz 1972: 313–14).

spread is 9 points short

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ºstrt

Deutsch and Heltzer (1995: 22) note that Josephus refers to a 9th-century king of Tyre by this name. Otherwise, Phoenician personal names compound the name of the goddess with a second element (Benz 1972: 162, 173, 175). From Alalakh, there is a personal name as-tar-ti (AT 235.4; Sivan 1984: 205).

ytrßdq

This two-element name with the meaning ‘Íidqu is preeminent’ has been discussed elsewhere (McCarter 1999: 124*). There is evidence for both elements in both Bronze Age and Hebrew sources.

rpª

This name is a shortened form of ‘(divine name) heals, has healed’ or the divine name Rapiª. The root rpª ‘to heal’ appears in similar personal names from Mari, Byblos, Kamid el-Loz, Ugarit, Emar, and also in Biblical and Epigraphic Hebrew and Punic sources (summary in Hess 1993: 89, 211–12; Pruzsinszky 2003: catalog, p. 690; Davies 1991: 487; Zadok 1988: 96; Benz 1972: 179; 1 Chr 4:12; 2 Chr 8:2). The interpretation of this name and many of the Bronze Age occurrences as the divine name Rapiª is also possible.

slm

This root, ‘to be well, at peace’, appears in many West Semitic personal names of all periods. Compare with slm at Ugarit (Gröndahl 1967: 193) and in Phoenician (Benz 1972: 180) and Aramaic (Maraqten 1988: 102). This may be a sentence name that was shortened by omission of the divine name. Alternatively, this may be a divine name used as a personal name. Compare the personal name dsal-ma at Ugarit (Sivan 1984: 274).

ºbdlbªt

‘Servant of the Lionness’, this two-element name includes the initial noun ºbd ‘servant’, which is common in West Semitic onomastica, although especially prevalent in the Late Bronze Age. Personal names with the masculine ‘lion’ appear at Ugarit (la-ab-ªi-ya; PRU 6.79 [RS 19.42.3]) at Late Bronze Age Shechem (la-ab-a-ya; Hess 1993: 102–3), and in Punic (lbª; Benz 1972: 133, 337–38). The feminine form also appears in an Ugaritic personal name spelled like the name here (ºbdlbªit; Huffmon 1965: 225; Gröndahl 1967: 154). A plural form appears in the personal name of a female writer of at least two Amarna letters possibly from S. Palestine (nin-ur.ma˘-meß ‘Lady of the lions’; Hess 1993: 175) and in the name of cult centers in southwest Judah and in Northern Israel ([bêt] lébaªôt; Josh 15:32, 19:6). Given the construction of this name and the association of the lionness with Asherah, Anat, or Astarte (Puech 1995: cols. 981–83; see

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Richard S. Hess especially the evidence relating this imagery to Ugaritic ºAttartu presented by D. Pardee in this volume), it seems that the name is designating the lionness as (the epithet of[?]) a deity.

Of the divine names discussed here, most appear throughout the West Semitic world of the second and first millennia. There is one exception. The name Dagan does not appear consistently throughout all periods. This divine name is heavily attested in the Bronze Age but little, if at all, in periods subsequent to Iron Age I. This unique attestation of a personal name on an arrowhead at the end of the second millennium suggests that the deity was not unknown to inhabitants of Palestine at this time. It is of interest that the biblical traditions that mention the deity Dagan in an undoubted manner cluster around Samson, Samuel, and Saul and their conflict with the early Philistines. 6 Of special importance for this study is the connection of this divine name with personal names in the Late Bronze West Semitic archives. Like the Hurrian and Indo-Aryan name elements, the use of Dagan in this personal name provides another small piece of evidence connecting this Iron Age I attestation with its antecedents.

Elements in the Personal Names Found Largely in the Bronze Age In light of the conclusions suggested by analysis of the earlier evidence, it is now appropriate to survey the remaining personal names with the intention of identifying elements distinctive to personal names of the second-millennium West Semitic world. From the perspective of the grammatical form of the personal names, one is of interest: ªdº

Gröndahl (1967: 142) analyzes the personal name ªadº, at Ugarit, as a 1 c.s. yqtl G-stem of ydº. While the 1 c.s. form is rare in firstmillennium West Semitic personal names, it does appear in second-millennium names (Sivan 1984: 149–56).

The following personal names contain lexical elements that are attested almost exclusively in personal names of the Bronze Age (in addition to the Hurrian and Indo-Aryan personal names in the first section): zrº y

This personal name is constructed from the root zrº ‘to sow’, followed by the hypocoristic suffix yod. Thus this may be translated ‘(divine name) has sown’. The zrº root is rare in

6. Judg 16:23, 1 Sam 5:1–7, 1 Chr 10:10. See also the two occurrences of the divine name in place-names, a Beth Dagon in the South ( Josh 15:41) and one in the North ( Josh 19:27). Healey 1995.

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personal names, found mainly in Amorite names of the early second millennium (Huffmon 1965: 188; Gelb et al. 1980: 298). The only personal name attested from the Iron Age is yizreºeªl, itself derived from the place-name in Hosea (1:4, 2:24) and probably related to a different place-name in 1 Chr 4:3 (cf. Josh 15:56). If so, then this is the first Iron Age attestation of a personal name with this root and not derived from a place-name. y˙s Following Deutsch and Heltzer 1995: 32, read this from the root ˙ws ‘to hurry’ and compare the only other name formed from this root, ia-husx-si, from Late Bronze Age Ugarit (Gröndahl 1967: 138; Sivan 1984: 225). 7 ykbºl See above under the bºl personal names for the discussion of the first element of this personal name. mrdgn See above for attestations of the divine name dgn as unique to the second millennium. mrß This root, ‘to be sick’, appears in West Semitic names only in the Amorite personal names of the Bronze Age (Huffmon 1965: 233–34; Gelb et al. 1980: 324–25). ºbdlbªt See above under divine names for attestations of ‘lionness’ in personal names. ºzm The etymology of this personal name is not certain. Deutsch and Heltzer (1995: 33) follow Benz (1972: 375) and his identification of the Phoenician ºzm as an abbreviated form of a longer personal name such as ºzmlk ‘Mlk/the king is (my) strength’. However, Huffmon wondered whether there were not at least one Amorite personal name composed of the root ºzm ‘to be srong’ (1965: 193). See also a possible Ugaritic form using this root (Gröndahl 1967: 112–13). pª Although Deutsch and Heltzer (1995: 34) remain uncertain about the interpretation of this personal name, the most likely understanding is that of pu ‘mouth’ followed by a hypocoristc suffix, ªalep. Although this element does not appear in Israelite personal names (Fowler 1988: 190, 211), it is attested in many West Semitic names of the Bronze Age (Gelb et al. 1980: 170–72; Huffmon 1965: 254; Gröndahl 1967: 170). pu(?)-ba(?)-ah(?)-la ‘mouth/command of Baal’ appears as the son of abdi-a-si-ir-te, leader of Amurru (EA 104.7). The name also appears elsewhere 7. This excludes the artificial biblical personal name, Mahershalalhashbaz (Isa 8:1, 3), which also contains this root.

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Richard S. Hess in the Amarna Letters from Canaan, and a form of this personal name, pu-dim, appears at Taanach (Hess 1993: 126–27; Sivan 1984: 259). Based on this understanding, the name would be interpreted ‘mouth/command of (divine name)’.

Altogether, there are seven additional elements that appear in the second millennium but not in personal names of the first millennium. To this may be added the three non-Semitic elements from the second-millennium Hurrian (and Indo-Aryan) onomastica and also the Dagan divine name. Further, the remaining personal names all contain elements, where they can be identified, that are common to both the Bronze and Iron Ages, both the second and first millennia. There is no indication of any element that is unique to personal names of the first millennium and not also found in the second millennium. The conclusion of this study is that the personal names of the arrowheads form a kind of missing link between the Late Bronze onomastic profiles of the West Semitic archives and the Iron Age II personal names from seals and other sources. Past studies of these personal names have emphasized their connections with the personal names of the seals and other later traditions, including the biblical texts. However, a review of the evidence suggests that they have as much and often more in common with the onomastica of the preceding period. Indeed, such a connection supports the claim of authenticity for these inscriptions. If they were forged, one would expect them to resemble biblical names—names that would have been known to the interested parties and would increase the value of the arrowheads. One would not expect a significantly closer connection with the less-well-known onomastica of the Late Bronze Age West Semitic archives. That this connection exists as closely as it does argues that the inscriptions are authentic. From the standpoint of the personal names on these 11th- and 10th-century arrowheads, they are heirs of the Bronze Age onomastica of the West Semitic archives from Amarna, Ugarit, Emar, Alalakh, Mari, and Ekalte.

Appendix: The Remaining Names on the Arrowheads ªdª 8

The Amorite term for ‘father’, ad(d), is followed by the common -a suffix. The first element appears in the second millennium and in later Phoenician names but is rare in first-millennium Hebrew names (Benz 1972: 259; Gröndahl 1967: 88–89; Hess 1993: 203; Zadok 1988: 178; Huffmon 1965: 156; Pruzsinszky 2003: 154).

8. This was originally read ªbª.

Arrowheads from Iron Age I ªdnsº

ª˙ª

ªmº

ªny

bnª bnyª y†l

ymn

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The second element of this personal name in uncertain. Citing the personal name sa-i-ya as an example, Sivan (1984: 281) relates the name to taºiyu ‘nobleman, notable’. Alternatively, Gröndahl (1967: 197) relates it to tºy/tºh ‘to seek, seek, regard with favor’. Benz (1972: 423) notes this possibility for the Phoenician name ªdnsº but also considers the view of Noth (1928: 154), who identifies the root as ysº ‘to save’. Zadok (1988: 182) identifies s(w)º as a theophoric element. Deutsch and Heltzer (1995: 21–22) note the meaning ‘brother’ followed by a hypocoristic ªalep suffix. Always followed by a second element in Biblical Hebrew names, it appears in the form attested here many times in Epigraphic Hebrew. It is also found as syllabic a-ha at Alalakh in the Late Bronze Age (Sivan 1984: 196). McCarter (1999: 124*) identifies this personal name as ummi ‘my Mother’ followed by a shortened form of a divine name beginning with an ºayin, such as ºastart. Although attested in Phoenician, this form of abbreviation is not found elsewhere in the personal names of these arrowheads. Deutsch and Heltzer (1995: 22) find this name on an 8th-century seal as well as part of ªnyhw on a seal published by Avigad. That seal portrays a ship, and this may be the meaning of the name. The name may also occur at Amarna as a-na-ya (EA 245.28; Sivan 1984: 197). From the root bny/bnh ‘to build’, followed by a hypocoristic suffix, the name confesses that ‘(divine name) has built’. This personal name also carries the same sense as bnª. This form cannot be identified with certainty. Perhaps it is related to †ll ‘to drop dew’. If so, then the root appears in Bronze Age West Semitic sources (Gelb et al. 1980: 201; Streck 2000: 230; Huehnergard 1987: 214; Gröndahl 1967: 202; Sivan 1984: 280). The element is also attested in later Israelite and possibly other Iron Age personal names (Layton 1990: 60–61). However, all the attested forms are interpreted as nouns, whereas the occurrence here would be a yod-prefix verb. This is a yod-prefix name shortened by omission of the divine name. With the mny/mnh root, it translates ‘(divine name) has numbered’. In Biblical Hebrew, yimnâ appears as a “son” of Asher (Gen 46:17, Num 26:44). The root also appears in Phoencian mny (Benz 1972: 350). In the Bronze Age, similar

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ysº

ysbº

ytª

mhrn

Richard S. Hess nonprefixed forms appear in Amorite personal names, including forms from Ugarit (Gelb et al. 1980: 323; Gröndahl 1967: 159) and Emar (Pruzsinszky 2003: catalog, p. 607; ma-ni-i). A prefixed form, similar to the one here, appears at Alalakh as ia-am-mu (Sivan 1984: 248). Most likely to be analyzed as ‘divine name exists’, where ys is a variant of ªys ‘there is’ and the final ªalep is a hypocoristic marker. The first element is found in various Israelite names (Zadok 1988: 52, who compares Bronze Age i-si-ia; Davies 1991: 379). See also Ugaritic ytªil ‘Ilu exists’ (Gröndahl 1967: 147). Cross (1993: 538–39) compares David’s father, yisay. Best interpreted ‘(divine name) has satisfied’, this name consists of yod-prefix root sbº used in its causative stem. The name is shortened by omission of the divine name. As ia-as-bi, with and without a divine name, it appears in Amorite personal names of the Bronze Age (Gelb 1980: 31, 599) and without the divine name especially at 13th-century Emar (Pruzsinszky 2003: 168, catalog, p. 426). The Israelite bat-sebaº is one of several forms in which this root appears in Hebrew personal names (Noth 1928: 147, 226; Zadok 1988: 117; Davies 1991: 490–91) and in a Phoenician personal name (sbº ; Benz 1972: 413). The derivation of this name is uncertain. However, it is possibly related to the root ªth ‘to come’. Also containing this root is élîªatâ, from the time of David (1 Chr 25:4; cf. 25:27), the Hebrew personal name from a seal ªtªb, the Moabite personal name kmsyt, and the Phoenician personal names ytbºl, yty, ytßd, bºlyt, and mhryt[n] (Benz 1972: 327–28; Fowler 1988: 147; Zadok 1988: 25). At Ugarit, the -yatu or -yt is identified as a suffix on personal names (bin-abuyati, bn abyt, ºbdyt, and adduyatu[m]; Gröndahl 1967: 54). However, i-ia-ti from Emar and ià-a-ti-um from ca. 2000 suggest the presence of this element in personal names of the second millennium (Pruzsinszky 2003: 169 [though without committing to this derivation], catalog, p. 428; Zadok 1993: 319). With the diminutive -anu ending, Deutsch and Heltzer (1995: 18–19) relate the form to the West Semitic root mhr ‘warrior, soldier’. They compare one of David’s soldiers, mahray (2 Sam 23:28; 1 Chr 11:30, 27:13). In fact, the term probably refers to a chariot driver. It occurs frequently in Late Bronze Age personal names from Ugarit (Gröndahl 1967: 156) and elsewhere (Sivan 1984: 246).

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ºbdªlm Deutsch and Heltzer (1995: 6) cite Phoenician and Punic names with this spelling, ‘servant of the gods’ (Benz 1972: 149). Alphabetic and syllabic forms occur earlier at Ugarit (Gröndahl 1967: 216–17) as well. ºbdy This name form, which occurs frequently in the Late Bronze Age, is a hypocoristic form from the root ºbd ‘to serve, servant’. Here it carries the meaning ‘servant of’ and is followed by a hypocoristic yod. ºbdny This form of ºbd ‘servant’ has an -ôn (diminutive; Noth 1928: 38, 137) suffix followed by a hypocoristic ending, yod (for which, see ºbdy). The name ºabdôn/ºabdan appears at Mari, Ugarit, Emar, and elsewhere (Gelb et al. 1980: 257; Gröndahl 1967: 105 [ºabdina], 106; Sivan 1984: 205; Pruzsinszky 2003: catalog, p. 15). It appears as well in a number of Israelite personal names; of interest is the judge ºabdôn ( Judg 2:13–15). pdy This name is a shortened form of ‘(divine name) redeems, has redeemed’. The biblical name pédayah (2 Kgs 23:36; Neh 3:25, 8:4, 11:7, 13:13; 1 Chr 3:18–19) and the Ugaritic personal name pdy are two examples of this root used in personal-name collections throughout the second and first millennia (Gröndahl 1967: 171; Deutsch and Heltzer 1995: 34; and for Emar, Pruzsinszky 2003: 214). pq˙y This name is a shortened form of ‘(divine name) opens, has opened’, ‘opened by (divine name)’. The final yod is a hypocoristic suffix. The root used in this name appears in Amorite names from Mari (Streck 2000: 340; cf. Gelb et al. 1980: 339) and in first-millennium personal names in Biblical and Epigraphic Hebrew and in Aramaic (Maraqten 1988: 204; Fowler 1988: 357; Zadok 1988: 28). qry This name is a shortened form of ‘(divine name) names, has named’. The qrª root is supplemented by the yod hypocoristic suffix. To the Biblical Hebrew personal name qôrêª (1 Chr 9:19, 26:1; 2 Chr 31:14) may be added Epigraphic Hebrew qry and qrªh (Zadok 1988: 106; Davies 1991: 482), various forms in Amorite (Gelb et al. 1980: 341–42), and the Emar personal name qa-ri (Pruzsinszky 2003: catalog, p. 686). rm Deutsch and Heltzer (1995: 11–12) identify this as possibly hypocoristic, compare personal names in Job 32:2; Ruth 4:19; and 1 Chr 2:9, 25, 27, and note that rm ‘high’ (and so) ‘exalted’ acts as a theophoric element in other names of West Semitic

126

sª

smdº

smrm

sp†

Richard S. Hess languages and literatures. For Bronze Age examples, see Hess 1993: 211, 239. Deutsch and Heltzer (1995: 20) identify this name as West Semitic, either with Lipinski (1979: 81; 1994: 181) as Aramaic, or as Canaanite. They compare the scribe of David, séwaª (2 Sam 20:25, 1 Chr 2:49). The derivation is not clear. This personal name contains two roots, sm ‘name’ and ydº ‘to know’. Jirku (1927: 84–85) proposed that sm was a divine name. However, there are no certain cases in West Semitic personal names in which the use of sm requires it to be understood as a divine name rather than a theophoric element. Layton (1990: 85–86) has demonstrated that sm in these personal names can always be interpreted as ‘name, offspring’ and sometimes (when occurring in a personal name that already possesses a divine name) must be so understood. A personal name with the same two elements appears in Amorite as sa-ma-a-da-hu(-um) ‘offspring of knowledge’, where the second element is interpreted as an infinitive (Streck 2000: 160, 164, 303). The Biblical Hebrew name sémîdaº appears among clan names of the settlement (Num 26:32, Josh 17:2, 1 Chr 7:19). A similar place-name appears in the Samaria ostraca, smydº (Davies 1991: 498–99). The translation of this name may be ‘the name/offspring knows, has known’ (Fowler 1988: 65, 364). Deutsch and Heltzer (1995: 14) interpret as ‘the name is high’ while observing that the second element, rm, can appear as a name for a deity in Phoenician names such as Rmbºl (Benz 1972: 179, 181). They compare the Northern Israelite eighth-century name rémalyahû ‘Be exalted, O Yahweh’ (using a precative lamed). In fact, the use of the root rwm ‘to exalt, be high’ appears in personal names throughout the second and first millennia (Hess 1993: 211). The name ‘(divine name) judges, has judged’ or ‘judgment of (divine name)’ is shortened by omission of the divine name. However, the root tp† ‘to judge’ appears in many West Semitic personal names of the second and first millennia (Hess 1993: 213). It occurs by itself in a nominal form from Alalakh, si-ip-†ì (AT 169.19 in Sivan 1984: 281), as sapa† in Biblical Hebrew (Num 13:5; 1 Kgs 19:16, 19; 2 Kgs 3:11; 1 Chr 3:22; 27:29), and in Phoenician names as sp† (Benz 1972: 364–65).

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References Aufrecht, W. 1989 A Corpus of Ammonite Inscriptions. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen. Benz, F. L. 1972 Personal Names in the Phoenician and Punic Inscriptions. Studia Pohl 8. Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute. Cross, F. M., Jr. 1968 The Canaanite Cuneiform Tablet from Taanach. BASOR 190: 41–46. 1980 Newly Found Inscriptions in Old Canaanite and Early Phoenician Script. BASOR 238: 1–20. 1992 An Inscribed Arrowhead of the Eleventh Century from the Bible Lands Museum in Jerusalem. ErIsr 23: 21*–26*. 1993 Newly Discovered Arrowheads of the 11th Century b.c.e. Pp. 533–42 in Biblical Archaeology Today, 1990: Proceedings of the Second International Congress on Biblical Archaeology, Jerusalem, June 1990, ed. A. Biran and J. Aviram. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. 1996 The Arrow of Suwar, Retainer of ºAbday. ErIsr 25: 9*–17*. Davies, G. I. 1991 Ancient Hebrew Inscriptions: Corpus and Concordance. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Deutsch, R., and Heltzer, M. 1994 Forty New Ancient West Semitic Inscriptions. Tel Aviv–Jaffa: Archaeological Center. 1995 New Epigraphic Evidence form the Biblical Period. Tel Aviv–Jaffa: Archaeological Center. Deutsch, R., and Lemaire, A. 2003 The Adoniram Collection of West Semitic Inscriptions. Geneva: Archaeological Center. Dussaud, R. 1940 Noveaux textes égyptiens d’execration contre les peuples syriens. Syria 21: 170–82. Fowler, J. D. 1988 Theophoric Personal Names in Ancient Hebrew: A Comparative Study. JSOTSup 49. Sheffield: JSOT Press. Gelb, I. J., et al. 1980 Computer-Aided Analysis of Amorite. AS 21. Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Gröndahl, F. 1967 Die Personennamen der Texte aus Ugarit. Studia Pohl 1. Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute. Healey, J. F. 1995 Dagon. Cols. 407–13 in DDD. Hess, R. S. 1989 Cultural Aspects of Onomastic Distribution in the Amarna Texts. UF 21: 209–16.

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The Divine Name Yahweh in Late Bronze Age Sources? UF 23: 181–88. Amarna Personal Names. ASORDS 9. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Joshua: An Introduction and Commentary. Tyndale Old Testament Commentaries. Leicester: Inter-Varsity. 1997 Hurrians and Other Inhabitants of Late Bronze Age Palestine. Levant 29: 153–56. 1998 Issues in the Study of Personal Names in the Hebrew Bible. Currents in Biblical Research 6: 169–92. 1999 The Onomastics of Ugarit. Pp. 499–528 in Handbook of Ugaritic Studies, ed. W. G. E. Watson and N. Wyatt. HO 1/39. Leiden: Brill. 2003 Preliminary Perspectives on Late Bronze Age Culture from the Personal Names in Palestinian Cuneiform Texts. Dutch Studies in Near Eastern Languages and Literatures 5/1–2: 35–57. Huehnergard, J. 1987 Ugaritic Vocabulary in Syllabic Transcription. HSS 32. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Huffmon, H. B. 1965 Amorite Personal Names in the Mari Texts: A Structural and Lexical Study. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Jirku, A. 1927 Zur Götterwelt Palästinas und Syriens. Pp. 83–86 in Sellin Festschrift: Beiträge zur Religionsgeschichte und Archäologie Palästinas, Ernst Sellin zum 60. Geburtstäge dargebracht. Leipzig: Scholl. Laroche, E. 1966 Les noms des Hittites. Études linguistiques 4. Paris: Klincksieck. 1976–77 Glossaire de la langue hourrite: Première partie (A–L). RHA 34: 13– 161; Glossaire de la langue hourrite: Deuxième partie (M–Z, Index). RHA 35: 163–322. Layton, S. C. 1990 Archaic Features of Canaanite Personal Names in the Hebrew Bible. HSM 47. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Lipinski, E. 1979 Aram et Israel du Xe au VIIIe siecle au n.e. Acta Antiqua Hungarica 27: 49–102. 1994 Studies in Aramaic Inscriptions and Onomastics. OLA 57. Leuven: Peeters. Maraqten, M. 1988 Die semitischen Personennamen in den alt- und reichsaramäischen Inschriften aus Vorderasien. Texte und Studien zur Orientalistik 5. Hildesheim: Olms. Mayrhofer, M. 1956–80 Kurzgefasstes etymologisches Wörterbuch des Altindische: A Concise Etymological Sanskrit Dictionary, ed. Vier Bände. Heidelberg: Carl Winter. McCarter, P. K., Jr. 1999 Two Bronze Arrowheads with Archaic Alphabetic Inscriptions. ErIsr 26 (Cross volume): 123*–128*.

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Noth, M. 1928 Die israelitischen Personennamen in Rahmen der gemeinsemitischen Namengebung. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Pruzsinszky, R. 2003 Die Personennamen der Texte aus Emar. SCCNH 13. Bethesda, MD: CDL. [Catalog on CD-ROM] Puech, E. 1995 Lionness. Cols. 981–83 in DDD. Purves, P. M. 1943 Elements Other Than Akkadian and Sumerian. Pp. 183–279 in Nuzi Personal Names, ed. I. J. Gelb, P. M. Purves, and A. A. MacRae. OIP 57. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ranke, H. 1935 Die ägyptischen Personennamen, Band I: Verzeichnis der Namen. Glückstadt: Augustin. Sivan, D. 1984 Grammatical Analysis and Glossary of the Northwest Semitic Vocables in Akkadian Texts of the 15th–13th b.c. from Canaan and Syria. AOAT 214. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. Streck, M. P. 2000 Das amurritische Onomastikon der altbabylonischen Zeit. AOAT 271. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Tigay, J. 1986 You Shall Have No Other Gods: Israelite Religion in the Light of Hebrew Inscriptions. HSS 31. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Zadok, R. 1988 The Pre-Hellenistic Anthroponymy and Prosopography. OLA 28. Leuven: Peeters. 1993 On the Amorite Material from Mesopotamia. Pp. 315–33 in The Tablet and the Scroll: Near Eastern Studies in Honor of William W. Hallo, ed. M. E. Cohen, D. C. Snell, and D. B. Weisberg. Bethesda, MD: CDL, 1993. 1996 A Prosopography and Ethno-Linguistic Characterization of SouthernCanaan in the Second Millennium bce. Pp. 97–145 in Mutual Influences of Peoples and Cultures in the Ancient Near East, ed. M. Malul. Michmanim 9. Haifa: University of Haifa Reuben and Edith Hecht Museum.

The Late Bronze Age / Iron Age Transition and the Origins of the Arameans K. Lawson Younger Jr. Trinity Evangelical Divinity School, Deerfield, Illinois

Introduction In the past, scholars have proposed a number of different models to explain the origin of the Arameans. Connected with the transition from the Late Bronze Age to the Iron Age, one of the dominant models of 20th-century scholarship portrayed the Arameans as “waves” of wild barbaric nomads flowing out of the desert and overwhelming the agricultural zones, often wiping out the settled populations and bringing urban civilization to an abrupt end and thus ushering in a “dark age.” These nomadic hoards quickly Aramaized the areas that they conquered. As part of a cyclical process, these nomads, whether by invasion or migration, would see the advantages of sedentary life and would settle into villages and towns, their place on the steppe taken by other nomadic groups, which in turn would eventually follow this process. Thus the Arameans “invaded en masse” the Fertile Crescent from the Syrian Desert (Albright 1975: 532) and, by the late 12th century, were threatening the very existence of Assyria. One of the more influential supporters of this hypothesis was W. F. Albright, who proposed that the Arameans were “camel nomads” whose use of the camel was an integral part of their mercantile and military success. 1 One of the difficulties with this model was its heavy dependence on late-19th- and early-20th-century notions of nomadism. More recent studies have emphasized that, while there is often confrontation between pastoral nomadism and sedentary agriculture, the two are fundamentally complementary. G. Schwartz (1989: 281) emphasizes that “the nomads, rather than keeping to the fringes of sedentary society, moved well within the borders of the settled zone, where nomad and sedentist existed in a 1. Albright 1975: 529–36; see also H. Tadmor 1979: 11–14; Saggs 1984: 65–69.

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mutually dependent symbiotic relationship.” Another difficulty with the older model was its dependence on a reading of some of the Assyrian sources that was not particularly supported by these texts (Pitard 1996). In contrast to this older model, a recently proposed model sees the Aramean states arising from diverse, seminomadic peoples, who lived on the periphery of the Fertile Crescent and who were secondary to and dependent on the economy of the great civilizations of the Late Bronze Age. In the wake of the collapse of the Late Bronze Age kingdoms, these Aramean tribes filled the vacuum left by the collapse of these kingdoms. In this, they followed a well-established settlement pattern in the ancient Near East (Liverani 1987: 69). According to this model, internal factors of socioeconomic dynamics were preeminent, and the external and migratory factors were rather limited, even minimal. H. Sader (1992: 158, 162) states: “the primary, if not only, cause for the collapse is to be looked for in the social and economic crisis of the city-state. . . . The emergence of the Arameans is to be understood not as the cause but rather as the result of the collapse of the urban system” (see also Pitard 1994; 1996; Schniedewind 2002). 2 While this “collapse” explanation advances our understanding of the rise of the Arameans, it is clear that such a monocausal explanation is insufficient for all the data, as T. L. McClellan (1992) first pointed out. More recently, E. van der Steen has pointed out that there is never simply one reason that nomads settle or that they take to nomadism and pastoralism again. She notes: Factors like climate, disease, population pressure, economic decline or its opposite economic revival and international political circumstances have all been used as possible explanations, but not one of them can claim to provide the final answer and which of these, or which combination of these, is valid may differ with every event. (van der Steen 1999: 171) 2. While the earlier model showed dependence on an ideologically constructed model of nomadism, this recent model reveals a heavy dependence on the French Annalistes’ ideologically constructed model of the longue durée, combined with a Marxist dialectic. Not intending to do so, W. W. Hallo (1992: 7 n. 6) reveals this in a note about the conference at Brown University in 1990 (subsequently published under the title The Crisis Years: The Twelfth Century b.c.; see Ward and Joukowsky 1992), stating: “C. H. Gordon cited Amos 9:7, which appropriately links the contemporary movements of Israelites, Sea Peoples (Philistines) and Aramaeans. Sams stressed the possible ‘Phrygian’ role in Anatolia. An alternative model—indeed the only one presented at the Conference—would minimize the role of migrations in favor of a shift in the structure of society, with the older elites ceding power to the previously dispossessed classes and with the urban populations yielding to (or converting into) rural settlers; see especially W. G. Dever 1992 and H. Sader 1992 (the latter citing particularly Liverani 1987 and 1988).”

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Sader (2000: 63, 68) herself has recently acknowledged this. The very complexity of the geographical situation in Syria demands that the “collapse model” may explain some but not all of the Aramean states’ rise. The very designation Arameans masks the fact that they were not a unified group, except in general terms of language. The Aramean states arose over a wide and geographically diverse area, and there were many other factors involved in their development (some regional and some within individual states). As McClellan (1992: 165) has pointed out, one can distinguish at least two major different geographical/economic spheres: (1) the western coastal Mediterranean sphere, where there was a palace economy, a thriving network of maritime trade, partly based on a metallurgic industry, with unusually high levels of luxury goods and monumental architecture, and unusually depressed lower classes; and (2) the inland Syria sphere, where there was very little palace economy; instead, the domestic and rural elements of society were relatively well off. Furthermore, inland Syria can be separated into three regions: Hittite, Assyrian, and Levantine (that is, central and southern Syria). The diversity of the Aramean tribes (as reflected in the diversity of Aramaic dialects in the earliest Old Aramaic inscriptions) seems to necessitate varied responses on their part, responses that were in their best interests. In this vein, there were probably a number of dynamics at work in the creation of the different Aramean states. Further, recent excavations throughout the eastern Mediterranean and especially in southeastern Turkey and Syria have begun to clarify the Late-Bronze-Age to IronAge transition, casting new light on the so-called “dark age” which “was perhaps not so dark but only dusky” (Muhly 2003: 26). Thus, instead of speaking of the “origin” of the Arameans, it would be more accurate to speak of the “origins” of the Arameans. This essay advocates a regional approach to the Late-Bronze-Age to Iron-Age transition and to the question of Aramean origins. Through a detailed analysis of the different geographical regions in which the Arameans are encountered, we will obtain a better description of their origins. One area, however, that will not be addressed, due to time and space, is the region of southern Mesopotamia.

The Origins of the Arameans Aram in Early Sources Scholars have cited various alleged occurrences of Aram in many earlier third- and second-millennium texts. 3 However, most of these words 3. For a complete recent discussion, see Lipinski 2000: 26–35.

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cannot be definitely linked with the Arameans. 4 Two possible exceptions appear in texts from Egypt and Ugarit. An Egyptian list of place-names from the reign of Amenhotep III (ca. 1390–1352 b.c.e.) mentions p·ªrm(w) ‘the one of Aram’, 5 and in Papyrus Anastasi III (from the time of Merenptah 1213–1203), a report from an officer on the eastern frontier of the Delta about 1210 b.c.e. (the third regnal year of Merenptah) tells of a colleague arriving from a town “in the district of Aram.” 6 Amenhotep III’s list seems to locate this Aram in central Syria. Papyrus Anastasi III, however, is more difficult and unhelpful. Though M. Görg (1970; 1976; 1989: 157–60) has argued that these are early references to the Arameans in the Egyptian texts, 7 only the Amenhotep III list appears actually to mention Arameans. The other possible exception is found in 13th-century texts from Ugarit. Some scholars have interpreted these references as a gentilic meaning ‘Aramaean(s)’. 8 However, in the case of the alphabetic inscriptions, it is clear that all of the occurrences are, in fact, personal names of individuals, not gentilic forms. 9 The same is true in the case of the cuneiform texts. 10 The first indisputable use of the name Arameans occurs in the inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser I (1114–1076 b.c.e.), who describes fighting against the ahlamû-Arameans (ah-la-mì-i kur ar-ma-ia.meß) (RIMA 2: 23, lines 46–47). In sum, only the Egyptian text of Amenhotep III seems to attest to a region called ªrm possibly located in central Syria as early as the 14th century b.c.e., but little else can be gleaned from this attestation. In the case of Ugarit, Aram is not attested. The first sure attestation in a narrative context is found in Tiglath-pileser I’s inscriptions (see below).

Links with the Ahlamu and Sutians The early history of the Arameans is tied to the Ahlamu and Sutians, who were groups of nomadic tribes already known in the Late Bronze Age 4. For example, a place-name A-ra-mu ki appears in the third-millennium Ebla tablets, along with similar place-names such as Arimu ki and Arramu ki. But these cannot be linked with any certainty to the Arameans. 5. For Amenhotep’s list, see Edel 1966: 28–29. 6. For this portion of Papyrus Anastasi III, see Gardiner 1937: 31–32; and ANET 258–59. 7. Lipinski (2000: 32–33) argues against these Egyptian texts’ referring to Arameans. K. A. Kitchen accepts the Amenhotep III reference (personal communication). 8. Most recently, Reinhold 1989: 27. 9. Olmo Lete and Sanmartín 2004: 104. In one case, ªarm is a toponym (a village, not a gentilic). 10. RS 15.37 (line 13); RS 20.176 (line 25); RS 16.178 (line 10).

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and seem to have played a role in that period’s demise (Brinkman 1968: 277–78 n. 1799).

The Ahlamu Various etymologies of the term Ahlamû have been suggested 11 with the most recent proposal being by Lipinski (1989: 32; 2000: 37–38), who argues that the term derives from the West Semitic root wlm (compare Heb. ºlm) ‘boy, lad’; hence, the ahlamû must have been literally ‘bands of lads’. This etymology is not problem free. The term is encountered in a growing number of early Babylonian contexts. Persons described as Ahlamu appear sporadically in documents that primarily come from the latter half of the second millennium b.c.e., but there are a few references from earlier in the second millennium. The following are some of the more important attestations: 1. Ahlamu are attested in an Old Babylonian letter (possibly written to Hammurapi, ca. 1696–1654 b.c.e.) concerning events in Suhum (van Soldt 1994: 54–55, text 60, line 32); 2. Ahlamayu messengers (dumu.meß lú.kin.gi4.a ah-la-ma-iu) at Uruk, second half of the 18th century during the time of Rim-Anum (Loretz 1978: 129, 149, no. 20); 3. during the reign of Ammißaduqa of Babylon (ca. 1550–1530 b.c.e.), a tribe of Ahlamites was living near Sippar (Nashef 1982: 5; Groneberg et al. 1980: 5; van Lerberghe 1982); 4. at Sippar-Amnanum, Ah-la-mu-ú were expected to bring barley (16th century b.c.e.; van Lerberghe and Voet 1991: no. 87 [Di 227], lines 16–22); 5. Ahlamu gold caravans between Babylonia and Egypt (ca. 1400 b.c.e.); 6. Ahlamu plunder Dilmun dates (ca. late 1400s); 7. Ahlamu gate guards at Nippur (ca. 1300 b.c.e.; PBS 2/2 56:3); 8. the Hiranu tribe was called Ahlamu as well as Amurru, mid-13th century (Gurney 1949: 139–40, 148); 9. Ahlamu from Suhu visit Emar (ca. 1200?); 10. around 1050 b.c.e., during the reign of Adad-apla-iddina, according to an inscription of Simbar-Sipak (Simbar-Sihu; RIMB 2: 73, B.3.1.1, lines 10, 14) and Babylonian Chronicle 25 (Walker 1982: 399–402

11. Pitard 1987: 84–85. One proposed etymology derived Ahlamu from an Arabic root taken to mean ‘companion, confederate’, which then assumed that the Ahlamu were a confederation of nomadic tribes. Moscati (1959) demonstrated that this was quite faulty because the actual meaning of the Arabic root is not ‘companion, confederate’!

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K. Lawson Younger Jr. [lines 29–34], 416 [lines 8–11]), Arameans and Sutians sacked temples in Sippar, Nippur, and other cult centers.

Moscati (1959: 304–5) argued that the term ahlamû was the proper name of a particular group and that there was no compelling reason to suggest that the Arameans were linked closely to the Ahlamu. Brinkman (1968: 277), however, pointed out the difficulty with understanding ahlamû as a proper name. Besides the fact that the scribes of Tiglath-pileser I qualify the Arameans as ahlamû, there are other important connections between the terms ahlamû and arumu/aramu (Brinkman 1968: 277–78 n. 1799). After the texts of Tiglath-pileser I and Ashur-bel-kala, the word ahlamû generally disappears from the Assyrian royal inscriptions, except for a few clearly anachronistic occurrences. Babylonian scribes continue its usage for a time, but by around 1000 b.c.e., ahlamû becomes an accepted archaism for “Aramean,” being included in the lexical texts and other materials where the label “Ahlamite” means Aramaic or Aramean (Brinkman 1968). Although the precise relationship of the Ahlamu to the Arameans is not entirely clear, the Assyrians saw it as very close. Thus a scribe of the 9th century might have termed “Aramean” the people whom his predecessor in the 13th century b.c.e. would have termed “Ahlamite.” That the two groups were related in this way can be seen by the fact that the tribe of Hiranu are identified as Ahlamu in the Kassite period (Clay 1912: 114) and as Arameans in the inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser III (Tadmor 1994: 158–60, Summary Inscription 7). The situation can be understood if the Ahlamu were the section or group of the Arameans whom the Babylonians first encountered (Millard 1992: 348). Lipinski (2000: 38) sums up the discussion this way: Ahlamû was not a proper name of a particular ethnic or linguistic group, but a nomadic designation of the raiding forces that were making forays or razzias for the capture of flocks, slaves, food supplies, etc. In the language of the sedentary population, this word became an appellation of the members of nomadic clans making such razzias. The Aramaeans have obviously belonged to this category of roaming tribes and they became its most conspicuous representatives towards the end of the second millennium bc.

As many scholars have observed, the appearance of the Aramean tribes in Upper Mesopotamia and their expansion into Babylonia is comparable with the spread of the Amorites a millennium earlier. Some type of kinship of Arameans and Amorites is possible, but the attempt by M. Noth (1961) to prove that the Arameans originated from the Amorites was disproved by D. O. Edzard (1964: 142–49). A. R. Millard (1992: 348) rightly remarks:

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Certainly there are a few similarities, such as names beginning with ya or ending with -an, and although when the only distinctive Aramean feature, the language, can be analyzed—and none survives from before ca. 850 bc—it has some markedly different characteristics, no more can be said at present than that both stem from a common NW Semitic ancestor.

The fact that the Arameans were nomadic pastoralists and were associated with the Ahlamû seems to indicate that the Mount Bishri region was the particular area from which the Arameans originate (Zadok 1991: 109). This seems to be confirmed by the equation: Ya˙madiu(m) = Ahlamû. 12 The Bishri range is a good place for pasture, has many wells near its southeastern section, and sustained a continuous and important concentration of Amorite and later of Aramean seminomads. 13 It stands to reason that the “Ahlamites’ mountains” are to be identified with Mount Bishri or with a wider mountainous territory west and south of Hana that included Mount Bishri, seeing that the sources usually specify the mountain’s name.

The Question of Qir/Kir In Amos 9:7 (see also Amos 1:5), Yahweh is said to have brought the Arameans (in this context referring specifically to the Arameans of Damascus) to their present homeland from a place called Kir or Qir, and he is about to reverse their history by sending them back to their place of origin (Paul 1991: 55). Concerning these passages, A. Malamat (1973: 139) remarks: The passages in Amos imply that, after almost half a millennium of Aramean settlement in Syria, there still circulated a national account of Aramean migration, much like the chronicle of the Israelite exodus from Egypt or that of the Philistines from Caphtor. They further point to the historical consequences of Aramean “misbehavior,” leading to their return to their ancestral homeland—reminiscent of the threat to a disobedient Israel of being sent back to Egypt (cf. Deut 28:68; Hos 8:13).

Two other passages mention Kir/Qir. 2 Kgs 16:9 describes the fulfillment of Amos’s threat when Tiglath-pileser III captured Damascus (732 b.c.e.) and deported its inhabitants to Kir. 14 Unfortunately, the section on 12. Or Martu = Ya˙madiu(m) = Ahlamû. This description of the area in which the Ahlamu were found matches the posited area for the location of the city-state of Ya˙madiu and the tribal area associated with it. See Owen 1993: 182 n. 6. 13. Saggs speculates that the reason for the Aramean thrust into the Euphrates area beginning at this time was the great deforestation of Jebel Bishri. See Saggs 1984: 62. 14. Most Old Greek manuscripts do not refer to Kir in 2 Kgs 16:9, perhaps suggesting that this is a scribal gloss based on the reference in Amos. See Rollston

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Tiglath-pileser’s capture of Damascus in 732 is missing from his annals. Finally, Kir/Qir is mentioned in Isa 22:6 along with Elam as areas from which troops are mustered. The exact location of Kir/Qir is still uncertain. Some scholars, on the basis of Isa 22:6, have sought its location in the vicinity of Elam (Malamat 1973: 139; Gehman 1970: 540). However, the poetic parallelism of this verse does not demand an immediate geographical proximity with Elam. Qir may be located in the Mount Bishri area, but there is, at present, no evidence. With the publication of a tablet from Emar (Emar VI 42), some scholars noted that there seemed to be support for a place named Kir or Qir (Zadok 1991: 114; Lipinski 1989: 39; 2000: 41 n. 101; Rollston 2000). Because D. Arnaud (1985–87: no. 42, 8–9) originally read the signs of the place-name as ki-ri, the text appeared to read: ‘Pilsu-Dagan, son of Baalkabar, king of Emar, king of the people of the land of Kiri’. This seemed to locate Kir/Qir along the course of the Middle Euphrates, not all that far from Mount Bishri. However, no sooner was the tablet formally published than Arnaud himself raised doubts about the reading (1987: 11 n. 4). A number of other scholars proposed reading the toponym as Hurri (Hurri, instead of ki-ri or qí-ri). 15 The confirmation of the reading ‘Hurri’ came with the publication of another tablet from Emar. 16 Thus, there is still no evidence for the location of Kir/Qir.

The Sutians The Sutians were also a group of tribes known from early sources. They are attested in the Mari correspondence of the 18th–17th centuries as a type of confederation of nomadic tribes, active over the Syrian steppe to the west of the Middle Euphrates. 17 They are mentioned in Syrian and Egyptian sources as nomadic tribes of the Levant, as well as being groups that are encountered in Old Babylonian sources (Heltzer 1981: 79–98). While the Sutians and Ahlamu were identical with some, if not all of the 2000: 773–74. However, the Lucianic recension of 2 Kgs 16:9 has ajpwvÄkisen th;n povlin, which is understanding qîr as ‘city’. Furthermore, in the LXX all of the references to Kir (2 Kgs 16:9; Amos 1:5, 9:7; Isa 22:6) are corrupted, which may imply some type of late scribal redactional work. See Thompson 1992. 15. Durand 1989a: 34–35; 1989b: 183; Arnaud 1987: 21; Zaccagnini 1990: 518– 20; Dietrich 1990: 33–35; and Fales 1991: 81–90. In spite of this evidence, Lipinski (2000: 41 n. 101) insists on reading Qí-ri. He proposes locating Qir at the ancient Roman fortress of Qraya, but the textual evidence does not support this. 16. Tsukimoto 1990: 191–92 (HCCT no. 7, lines 28–36). See now Astour 1996: 31–32; and Adamthwaite 2001: 262–65. 17. Anbar 1991: 88–89, 97, 110, 115–17, 133–34, 205–7.

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seminomadic segments of the Amorites (Zadok 1991: 105), they were not all the same. In the Middle Assyrian and Neo-Assyrian texts, the Sutians are rarely mentioned; 18 but in the Babylonian texts of the same time period, their distribution in time and place roughly matches the distribution of the contemporary Arameans. In other words, wherever Sutians are mentioned, Arameans may generally be linked with them but not vice versa. While the two groups are apparently distinguished in an inscription of Simbar-Sipak (Simbar-Sihu; 1025–1008 b.c.e.) which describes an attack of “hostile Arameans and Sutians” during the reign of Adad-aplaiddina (1068–1047), 19 as Brinkman notes, in Babylonian usage the terms ‘Sutian’ and ‘Aramean’ may not always have designated distinguishable groups (Brinkman 1968: 285). 20 W. Heimpel (2003: 25–28) has recently argued that the Sutian language was, in fact, Aramaic. But this seems to be going beyond what the evidence would allow. Nevertheless, like the term ahlamû, the term sutû was certainly used in later times anachronistically to refer to Arameans.

The Assyrian Texts It is only with Tiglath-pileser I (1114–1076 b.c.e.) that the name ‘Aramean’ enters Assyrian usage, first associated with the Ahlamu, and then, from the time of Ashur-bel-kala onward, as an autonomous designation. Without the Assyrian inscriptions, a political history of Syria during the early Iron Age would be very difficult to write (Klengel 2000: 21–30). The Assyrian texts relevant to the question of Aramean origins are given in the appendix (pp. 154–162). The data from these texts will be integrated into the reconstruction presented on pp. 145–152 below. 18. The Sutu are mentioned in the recently published Middle Assyrian texts from Tell Sheikh Hamad (Cancik-Kirschbaum 1996: 103 n. 41) and Tell Sabi Abyad (Wiggermann 2000: 208). 19. RIMB 2: 71–73, B.3.1.1, line 10. While earlier scholars thought that Adadapla-iddina was an Aramean usurper, it has been demonstrated that this is not the case. See Walker 1982: 414–15. 20. The Sutians, along with the Ahlamu, are mentioned in a tamitu text from a Babylonian king (identified only as annanna “so-and-so”) dating from the period 1100 to 900 (Lambert 2007: no. 5). There are two interesting things about this text relating to the Sutians. First, they are described as tent-dwellers living within this king’s land by the edge of the sea, implying that they were still nomads and had not yet settled down. Second, the earliest use of the term rabannatu ‘sheikhs’ occurs in this tamitu (line 6), apparently referring to the Sutian leaders. This is significant because the term is derived from the Aramaic word rbn and thus may imply that this group of Sutians had Aramean affinities. I thank Prof. Lambert for providing a prepublication copy of this text.

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The Archaeological Evidence G. Bunnens (1999: 605) points out the archaeological situation concerning Aramean origins: The evidence concerning the emergence of the Arameans is almost entirely textual. Archaeology sheds light on the first Aramean states, but is of little help to understand the settlement process of a people that is commonly recognized as nomadic in origin. No early Aramean site has been identified in the Upper Euphrates area, no regional survey has identified changes in the site distribution and settlement patterns that could reflect the irruption of new social groups.

Just as the Amorites did before them, the Arameans appear to have lived for generations as nomadic pastoralists before asserting themselves on the political scene of the Fertile Crescent. 21 In fact, vocabulary terms such as ummatum, hibrum (‘clan, community’) and kaprum (‘village’) may suggest affinities between the ancestors of the Arameans and the nonurban societies reflected in the 18th-century cuneiform texts from Mari. Unfortunately, archaeologists cannot yet tell us what the material culture of the Arameans was like when their tribes began to spread over Syria and Mesopotamia at the end of the Late Bronze Age (Dion 1995: 1281). However, the archaeological evidence speaks to the more general material cultural developments between the Late Bronze II and Iron I periods. This will be integrated into the following sections.

Regional Reconstructions The Western Coastal Sphere In an important essay in 1987 and in his subsequent writings, M. Liverani has emphasized the extensive power and exploitive character of the large royal establishments in the Late Bronze Age, a power corroborated by the opulence of the large palatial complexes found at sites such as Alalah, Ugarit and Ras ibn Hani (Liverani 1987; 1990). Coastal Syria was extensively involved in the eastern Mediterranean maritime trade network. This is manifested by the extensive quantities of Cypriot and Mycenean pottery and other exotic items found in the coastal sites. It is clear that Egypt, Palestine, and most of the eastern Mediterranean were linked into this prosperous trade network. The palace economy, partly based on a metallurgic industry, thrived. It manifested unusually high levels of luxury goods and monumental architecture and unusually depressed lower classes. 21. For recent discussion, see Streck 2001; 2002.

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Around 1200 b.c.e., many of the great urban centers and political systems of the eastern Mediterranean experienced a period of crisis and collapse. Some of the great urban centers such as Ugarit and Emar were destroyed and never reoccupied. Other centers such as Alalah were abandoned. The great political powers of the Late Bronze Age saw significant power reductions, even destruction. The Hittite Empire was destroyed, at least in the sense that its political control was terminated, its tradition of cuneiform writing ended, and the site of Hattusa was destroyed or perhaps abandoned (Hawkins 2002: 151). 22 The Egyptian Empire was greatly curtailed, and the centers of Mycenaean Greece and Cyprus suffered decline and destruction. Traditionally, this series of events has been attributed to an invasion of the “Sea Peoples” migrating from diverse parts of the Mediterranean toward the Levant. While the Sea Peoples may have had a role in the end of the Late Bronze Age, it was restricted (Oren 2000). Today, it is generally understood that foreign invasion was only one of many variables that contributed to the end of the Late Bronze Age. In the case of Ugarit, A. Caubet (1992: 123) notes that the disappearance of the Late Bronze palatial civilization had a double cause: internal disintegration and external events in which the Sea Peoples played a role. The “enemies from the sea” of the Ugaritic texts were likely “Sea Peoples” (Yon 1992: 116–18). A letter from the king of Hatti (RS 34.129) mentions the “Shiqala people who live on boats” (compare the Shekelesh of the Egyptian Medinet Habu inscription of Ramesses III). But it is clear that these invaders were not interested in occupying the site—simply in plundering it. Until recently, most of the evidence attesting to the very end of the existence of Ugarit was believed to come from an “oven” in a courtyard of the royal palace containing the last batch of cuneiform tablets, including a letter of the Sun King to Ammurapi of Ugarit, which was baked as the city was destroyed. But as Caubet (2003: 17) notes, this dramatic picture has now been revised because the oven was installed by squatters after the destruction of the palace and has nothing to do with the tablets, which probably fell down from an upper floor where they were originally stored (see Calvet 1990: 40; Lombard 1995: 228–29; Millard 1995: 119 n. 2; Singer 1999: 705), and it is now believed that these tablets do not date to the very end of the city, although they cannot be dated much earlier. Whatever the case, there can be no doubt that with the reign of Ammurapi all texts cease

22. J. Seeher (2001), the present excavator of Bogazköy (Hattusa), suggests that the site experienced a slow decline and abandonment.

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from Ugarit, and archaeological evidence at the site clearly shows that the city was violently destroyed and looted (Yon 1992: 117). There are a few traces of a reoccupation at Ugarit, but it was shortlived, and the site remained in ruins for nearly 1,000 years. Interestingly, however, there is substantial evidence for the reoccupation of Ras ibn Hani and Ras Bassit. At these sites, Mycenaean IIIC:1-type pottery has been discovered. This is the same type of pottery that appears in Cyprus and along the Levant from Cilicia to Philistia and is traditionally associated with the new settlement of “Sea Peoples” along the coastal areas. I. Singer, following the excavators of the sites (Bounni, Lagarce, and Saliby 1976: 241; 1978: 246, 280), understands this pottery along with local ceramic traditions found there to indicate that “the reoccupation of the coastal sites was carried out by mixed populations of newcomers and remnant groups of the local inhabitants” (Singer 1999: 732). Caubet, however, argues: As for the occupants of the Syrian coastal sites following the destructions at the end of the Bronze Age, at present no material or historical argument permits their identification as “Sea Peoples.” The archaeological evidence which bears witness to any reoccupation is essentially pottery, the significance of which is more chronological than cultural. Nothing suggests connections between the pottery discovered at Tell Bassit or Ras Ibn Hani with foreign populations. Moreover, the proportion of imported pottery is instead far less than that of the Late Bronze Age levels. The Mycenaean IIIC:1 imported or locally imitated ceramics were simply the type of ware being made for everyday use at this time. (Caubet 1992: 130)

S. Sherratt (2003) calls this pottery “Cypriot-looking ‘Mycenaean IIIC:1’ pottery (at least some of it locally made)” and perceives it as evidence of continued coastal trade. She connects with this the “locally made imitations of Aegean pottery” from the period between 1200 and 1000 b.c.e. from the ºAmuq (Yener et al. 2000) to posit “an active maritime trading and manufacturing core in the eastern Mediterranean, at least for most of the 12th century, with its epicenter in the sea between Cyprus and certain areas of the mainland littoral, from Cilicia in the north to Philistia in the south” (Sherratt 2003: 48–50). This, in turn, paved the way for the rise of Phoenician commercial expansion, in particular the rise of Tyre. She notes that “Tiglath-pileser I would hardly have been drawn all the way to the Phoenician coast unless the ‘tribute’ extracted from Arvad, Sidon and Byblos were something well known to be worth pursuing” (2003: 52). In terms of Aramean origins, the western coastal sphere played a minor role. Most of this area saw the rise of Phoenician city-states, not Aramean political entities. Nonetheless, the circumstances in this coastal sphere at

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the time of the Bronze-Age/Iron-Age transition were interconnected with the inland sphere where the bulk of the Aramean states arose.

The Inland Syria Sphere McClellan (1992: 165) has observed that the evidence for the extensive palatial establishments is largely restricted to the Syrian coast, while sites in the interior rarely evince archaeological evidence of an extensive palatial establishment. The material and textual evidence demonstrates that Syrian involvement in the eastern Mediterranean sea trade was mainly restricted to the coastal regions (Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 353). In the Middle Euphrates, for example, the material culture is largely autonomous, with few traces of western ceramics or other objects, and the local texts are similarly insular in character (Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 353). The greatest number of attestations of imported Cypriot or Aegean pottery are found at sites on or near the coast, while the numbers fall off dramatically in the Syrian interior and are nearly absent in the Jezireh. In the inland Syria sphere, the domestic and rural elements of society were relatively well off. Continuity of occupation is attested at some large centers such as Hama and Carchemish, and the extent of the crisis at the end of the Late Bronze, economically and otherwise, is sometimes viewed as relatively minor, particularly in inland western Syria (Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 361; Mazzoni 1997). In fact, the best-documented sequence from the Late Bronze Age into the early Iron Age has been obtained from Tell Afis, north of Ebla (Cecchini and Mazzoni 1998). Evidence of architectural and other material culture continuities with the preceding Late Bronze levels is indicated in the earliest Iron Age strata, contradicting the notion of a dramatic break between the two periods. Inland Syria can be separated into three regions: Hittite, Assyrian, and northern Levantine (that is, central and southern Syria). The Hittite Region Since the time of the Hittite king Suppiluliuma I (that is, the last part of the 14th century), north Syria and the Upper Euphrates had been key areas in the organization of the Late Bronze Age Hittite Empire. In fact, Suppiluliuma had established his son Sarri Kusuh as ruler over Carchemish. When the Hittite Empire collapsed, Carchemish survived, and its kings assumed the title “Great King” which was, up to this time, the privileged title of the Hittite king in Hattusa alone. Carchemish remained in control of a part of the Hittite Empire southeast of the Taurus, stretching at least from Malatya to Emar on the Euphrates. The very connotation of the name Hittite shifted from central Anatolia to north Syria. In

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fact, subsequent kings of Carchemish, during the period 1150–1000 b.c.e., retained the title “Great King.” Thus, while there was a collapse and destruction of the Hittite Empire, there was a cultural continuity that developed into the Neo-Hittite/Luwian culture, especially in areas that survived the empire’s demise (McClellan 1992: 166). The renaissance of the Neo-Hittite/Luwian kingdoms may now be dated to no later than the second half of the 12th century, more than a century earlier than had previously been assessed (Caubet 2003: 18). Hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions from Carchemish and Malatya (Melid) document this continuity (Hawkins 1995b; 1999; 2000). There was a direct dynastic ancestry between the rulers of a number of the Neo-Hittite/Luwian city-states and the old line from Carchemish. This helps to explain the survival of many Hitttite traditions in the early first millennium b.c.e., such as the use of circular royal seals. Additionally, victory steles continued to be carved on rocks on the mountainous borders, and stone reliefs were placed in the walls of palaces and temples. The Neo-Hittite/Luwian architecture and reliefs recently uncovered in excavations of the citadel at Aleppo are good examples (Khayyata and Kohlmeyer 1998; Kohlmeyer 2000; Gonnella, Khayyata, and Kohlmeyer 2005). Even excavations at the site of Kilise Tepe on the other side of the Taurus demonstrate the reevaluation of the Anatolian “dark age” and the Bronze Age–Iron Age transition, as Muhly (2003: 28–29) has recently observed. After the destruction of the Hittite-period level at the site, during which the settlement must have been part of the Kingdom of Tarhuntassa, the site was reoccupied by inhabitants still using hieroglyphic Luwian seals and painted architectural decoration (Baker et al. 1995; Postgate 1998; Hansen and Postgate 1999). Several Neo-Hittite territories eventually came under Aramean control. The Kingdom of Hamath is a good example. Controlling the middle course of the Orontes River, its rulers had non-Semitic names, and their monuments bore hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions until the Aramean Zakkur (probably from the Middle Euphrates city of Ana) seized power at the end of the 9th century, and his Aramaic inscription is followed by many others in the same language (Dion 1995: 1283). Moreover, this dynastic change between Luwian and Aramaic elements, as Mazzoni (1994: 325) notes, is reflected in the foundation of Hazrak as a new capital. Another example may be seen in the cultural mutations that took place at Til-Barsib (modern Tell Ahmar) on the Upper Euphrates, transforming it from the capital of the small Neo-Hittite kingdom of Masuwari to the capital of the Aramean state of Bit-Adini. Interestingly, a number of Luwian inscriptions have been discovered at Til Barsib but none in Aramaic dating to the pre-Assyrian period (Bunnens 1999: 613).

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The archaeological evidence indicates that some of the Neo-Hittite states maintained their Luwian cultural continuity until the campaign of Tiglath-pileser III in 738 b.c.e. Yet, the evidence points to a gradual process of cultural expansion that culminated in Aramean political independence during the late 9th and 8th centuries. For example, the evidence from the ancient state of Patina (also known as Umq or Unqi) as seen in the excavations at Tell Taºyinat (Harrison 2001b) evinces Luwian cultural continuity as late as the 9th century. In spite of Bron and Lemaire’s proposal to understand the “Hadad” of one of Hazael’s booty inscriptions 23 as a personal name, and thus the name of a ruler of ºUmq during the latter part of the 9th century b.c.e., this seems very unlikely because the known rulers of Patina during the 9th and 8th were Neo-Hittite (Hawkins 2000). 24 The evidence points to a decisive shift in the political order of late-9th-century northwest Syria, a shift that clearly coincided with the rise to power of the Arameans (Harrison 2001a: 142). 25 The archaeological record for this same period portrays a corresponding transformation of the cultural landscape. It is important to remember that there is a complexity in dealing with the textual and archaeological sources where two “layers” are extant: (a) the layer represented by the culture of the occupying or elite/power forces and (b) the layer represented by the indigenous or lower culture. For example, in the state of Samªal, the Kulamuwa Inscription (Younger 2000) distinguishes between the muskabîm and the baºrirîm. This stratification has been interpreted in terms of ethnicity; and a consciousness of ethnic duality certainly existed in other states where Arameans are eventually attested.

The Assyrian Region After the Middle Bronze Age, the Habur region (and north Syria to a lesser degree) underwent a Hurrianization process (Zadok 1991: 108).

23. For Hazael’s Booty Inscriptions, see Younger 2005. 24. Moreover, the probability that there was an Aramean dynasty between Sasi (829 b.c.e.) and Tutamuwa (738 b.c.e.) that had a king with an Aramaic personal name “Hadad” reduced to the sole theophoric element is very low (Lipinski 2000: 388 n. 222). 25. One of the recently discovered reliefs from the temple of the storm-god of Aleppo may illustrate the possible conflict between some Luwians and Arameans. On the left side of block six (see Kohlmeyer 2000: pl. 13), a deity—perhaps the Hittite deity Suli(n)katte (parallel to Mesopotamian Nergal) or the war-god Ninurta (Kohlmeyer 2000: 30)—is pictured seizing the hair of an enemy’s head in preparation for stabbing him with a sword. The enemy appears to be an Aramean.

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While its origins are still ambiguous, the beginnings of the Hurrian Kingdom of Mittani seem to date to the mid-16th century (Kühne 1999: 210) and, at its zenith, extended from Cilicia in the west to the foothills of the Zagros in the east. The Habur region was its core. The large site of Tell Fakhariyah near the headwaters of the Habur has been proposed as ancient Washukanni, the ancient capital of the Mittanian state, but this identification remains unconfirmed. However, evidence of Mittanian power has been discovered at Tell Brak (ancient Nawar), including a palace and temple constructed on the highest point of the tell (Oates, Oates, and MacDonald 1997). During the 14th and 13th centuries, the Kingdom of Mittani (also called Hanigalbat) was weakened by wars with Egypt, and eventually destroyed by the Assyro-Hittite conquest of most of its territory. A series of Middle Assyrian kings subjugated the Jezireh, making it a vital part of the Assyrian Empire. 26 This process included mass deportations (for example, 14,000 partially blinded Hanigalbatians were uprooted). The Assyrians generally did not rebuild the Mittanian cities. To fill the vacuums created by the deportations, some other groups were brought in. For example, in the case of the Habur (Röllig 1978: 428–29), there was a transfer of people from Katmuhu. Moreover, the Assyrians themselves colonized the region, creating numerous self-contained Assyrian communities. The arrangement of these with a provincial center and surrounding cities was patterned after the imperial capital Assur (Machinist 1982: 84). A tight administrative system was exercised by the Assyrians, as evidenced by the some 500 administrative tablets discovered at the provincial capital of Dur-Katlimmu (modern Tell Sheikh Hamad; Kühne 1983–84; Cancik-Kirschbaum 1996), in addition to numerous other sites in the Jezireh and the Assyrian homeland. Even the smaller dunnu (‘fortified agricultural center’) of the Grand Vizier and king of Hanigalbat at Tell Sabi Abyad (perhaps Dunni-Assur?) has yielded over 315 tablets (Wiggermann 2000: 175; Akkermans and Rossmeisl 1990). To these, one may now add the texts from Dunnu-sa-Uzibi (Giricano; see Radner 2004). Archaeological research has documented the process of Assyrian territorial expansion and political and economic reorientation in the 13th through 11th centuries at a number of sites from the Assyrian heartland proper and the Syrian Jezireh. In general, the process is demonstrated ar26. Machinist 1982: 80. “The Hanigalbat region was important to Assyria for at least two reasons: (1) it was a major breadbasket, especially in the Habur Valley; (2) it lay athwart the major east–west and north–south trade routes to which Assyria needed access” (p. 80 n. 31). See also Postgate 1983–84.

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chaeologically by the succession of “Mittanian” to “Middle Assyrian” material culture assemblages. Evidence of changes in material culture is drawn primarily from two sources: ceramic assemblages and cylinder seal styles. 27 A general trend in the Late Bronze Age is the decline in occupied sites compared with the number of occupied sites in the Middle Bronze Age. The archaeological evidence indicates that there was a serious decline of settlements in the Jezireh during the Late Bronze Age and the Iron I periods compared with the preceding period. 28 This pattern of decline has sometimes been interpreted in terms of an increasingly exploitative urban elite whose oppressive demands forced the peasants to abandon their homes. The fleeing peasants either embraced a mobile pastoralist lifestyle or attached themselves to roving bands of refugees and outlaws such as the rootless hapiru of the Amarna documents (Liverani 1987). On the other hand, one might consider the denigrating effect of conflicts between external imperial powers and of tributary obligations to these powers. The destructive effect of the Middle Assyrian aggression was the creation of a power vacuum. In this case, abandonment of the region could have been hastened by the policy of deportation, the destruction of villages, pestilence, and the general ravages of war. It is also possible that the Middle Assyrian aggression followed after a number of ecologically and socially induced disasters (Lyon 2000: 104). The deportees from the Jezireh recorded at Kar-Tukulti-Ninurta bore mostly Hurrian names. None of them had a West Semitic name (Zadok 1991: 112). According to R. Zadok, this implies that the Aramean penetration into these regions, which is reported in the Assyrian inscriptions from the 11th century onward, did not begin earlier (Zadok 1991: 113; 1995). Nevertheless, because the Assyrians generally did not rebuild the conquered and vacated Mittanian cities, the destruction of Mittani and its population’s deportation meant that some portions of the Jezireh

27. The ceramic assemblages demonstrate a cessation of Hurrian Nuzi Ware and Habur Ware. The introduction of new popular types include carinated flat or ringbased bowls and various shapes with nipple bases. Assyrian imperial control is also evinced by the centralized production of a standard pottery repertoire throughout the Jezireh. See Pfälzner 1995; 1997. The cylinder seal styles show a clear transition from Mittanian-style cylinder seals to Assyrian-style seals, characterized by balanced compositions with fantastic creatures. After the Mittanian period, seals of Middle Assyrian style predominate in the Jezireh. See Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 355–57. 28. Wilkinson and Tucker 1995: 58–62. It is possible that there is some blurring between Middle and Late Bronze pottery that may obscure some of the relevant data. See Yener et al. 2000.

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(particularly the western area) became prime targets for groups of West Semitic nomads. 29 The inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser I and Ashur-bel-kala record expeditionary campaigns to Lebanon (even to the Mediterranean Sea), giving the impression of successful emperors who were always victorious in battle and in control of a great empire. But both rulers struggled against military incursions of Arameans. From Tiglath-pileser I’s inscriptions (see the appendix, texts 1–4), it is clear that Aramean groups were carrying out raids along the Euphrates River, from Rapiqu in Babylonia to Carchemish in the north, and active as far west as Tadmor (Palmyra) in the Syrian Desert. Tiglath-pileser crossed the river at least 28 times in pursuit of these Aramean contingents and defeated them in the vicinity of Mount Bishri (appendix, text 1). Their preferred territory was thus, according to these inscriptions, to the west of the river. Nothing is said about their presence east of the Euphrates (Bunnens 1999: 606). Nevertheless, it is clear that Tiglath-pileser I’s victories were not decisive. Concerning Assyrian Chronicle 4 (appendix, text 5), the fragmentary state of the document makes it difficult to interpret. Thus Pitard (1996: 299) has concluded that “the reconstruction is actually quite uncertain. What is actually preserved indicates that there was a famine that affected the Assyrians and the Arameans, but it remains entirely unclear whether the Arameans attacked Assyria.” But when we scrutinize it more closely, the text reveals a number of important pieces of evidence. First of all, the events that the chronicle narrates can be accurately dated because the text refers to the death of Marduk-nadin-ahhe and the accession of his son Marduk-sapik-zeri. Thus we may date the events described in the chronicle to 1082/1081 b.c.e., placing it securely in the reign of Tiglath-pileser I (his 32nd regnal year). Second, it is clear that the vocabulary of war is being used in lines 3–7, and thus it is very likely that the conflict between the “houses of the Arameans” and the Assyrians is very likely in view. More specifically, the grammar indicates that the phrase bitat mat Aramaya ‘houses of the Arameans’ is the subject of a number of plural verb forms in the text: “they plundered,” “seized,” “captured,” “took” (2x), “increased,” and “seized.” Third, it is manifest that there was famine bad enough that cannibalism took place. It may well be that the famine was the result of climatic change during this period (Neumann and Parpola 1987). Fourth, it is interesting that people escaped “[t]o the mountains of Habruri for (their) lives” and that this is the very same place mentioned by Assur29. Zadok notes that these were, with the exception of the Yaureans, ethnolinguistically undifferentiated.

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dan II, who “brought back the weary [people] of Assyria [who in the face of ] famine, hunger, (and) shortage had abandoned [their cities (and) houses] (and) [had gone up] to oth[er] lands” (appendix, text 11, lines 54– 67). It is also interesting that a number of the same district names occur in this Chronicle and in an Assyrian administrative document from the reign of Tiglath-pileser I: 30 Kilizi, Idu, Katmuhu, and Nineveh. In fact, if one compares the area of direct Assyrian administration in the 13th–12th centuries with the situation revealed in this administrative text (a gazetteer of Tiglath-pileser I’s kingdom dating to either early in Tiglath-pileser’s reign or just before his accession), it is clear that TiglathPileser I may have lost control of parts of the Lower Habur, the lands between the Habur and Euphrates to the west, and perhaps the western corner of the Habur triangle (Tell Fakhariyah). 31 As Postgate notes, the Harran area may well have been lost earlier; in any case, by the time of this administrative document, his territory had been reduced. 32 The situation deteriorated even more during the reign of Ashur-belkala. The Assyrian king fought the Arameans not only on the middle Euphrates, as far as Carchemish, but also in the Habur region, an area considered by the Assyrians as their land. In the Broken Obelisk (appendix, text 8), campaigns directed against the Arameans are mentioned at least 15 times. Some scholars have questioned the historicity of some of these events because the phraseology of Ashur-bel-kala’s texts is in some cases very similar to the language of Tiglath-pileser I. But as Bunnens has noted, it would be hypercritical to doubt the very fact of an Aramean presence in the area or to doubt the threat it represented to the Assyrians (Bunnens 1999: 606). 30. VAS 21, number 21. See Freydank 1982. 31. Postgate 1992. Kühne (1995: 74–79) suggests that Assyria never lost complete control over the Lower Habur during the “dark ages.” Before any westward expansion could be attempted, the early Neo-Assyrian kings spent a long time conquering and subduing again the northern territories and the Jezireh—areas that the Middle Assyrian kings had colonized in the 13th century and then lost to the Arameans. The Aramean penetrations had established new polities, but there were “pockets” or “islands” of Assyrians that managed to endure even in precarious circumstances. One of these strategic outposts may have been Dur-Katlimmu (Tell Sheikh Hamad). See Kühne 1998: 282–84; Liverani 1988. In an important recent discovery, textual evidence of a local ruler subordinate to Assyria ca. 1100 has been obtained from Tell Taban (ancient Tabete) and Tell Bderi (ancient Dur-Assurketti-leser) on the Middle Habur. See Pfälzner 1990; Maul 1992; Ohnuma, Numoto, and Okada 1999. 32. Postgate 1985: 100. See also VAT 18066 (the fifth column gives a list of towns and provinces; p. 96).

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In addition, there is now new evidence from the period of Ashur-belkala. While the recently discovered texts from Giricano (ancient Dunnusa-Uzibi 33) are contracts (Radner 2004), they serve as an objective source on the conflict between the Assyrians and Arameans in the Upper Tigris region. All the Giricano texts (except one) are dated by eponym, mostly that of Ili-iddina (either 1069 or 1068, the 5th or 6th year of Ashur-belkala). During the eponym of Assur-rem-nisesu (either 1070 or 1069, 4th or 5th regnal year), the year before that of Ili-iddina, Ashur-bel-kala’s annals record fighting in Dunnu-sa-Lißur-ßala-Assur in the district of Sinamu (appendix, text 8). The city of Sinamu (see n. 51 below) is located a mere 40 km west of Giricano on the southern bank of the Tigris (not far west of Üçtepe) and is mentioned in one of the Giricano texts (Radner 2004: 90, vs. line 12). More battles took place in the Kasiyari Mountains (modern ˇur Abdin) south of the Tigris and in the region of Nabula (modern Girnavaz), located 90 km southeast of Giricano. The Middle Assyrian occupation at Giricano included at least three strata and spanned about 120–60 years, perhaps indicating that the settlement existed from the reign of Shalmaneser I (1269–1241) to Ashur-belkala (1073–1056; Radner 2004: 72). 34 The beginning of the Midde Assyrian remains at Giricano are directly above the remains of the Mittanian period; and the Middle Assyrian strata are separated from the early Iron Age remains by a layer of debris about 20–30 cm (8–12 inches) in thickness (Radner 2004: 5). The early Iron Age remains contain the so-called “grooved-type” (Bartl 2001) or “groovy” pottery (Roaf and Schachner 2005: 119–22) known especially in eastern Anatolia. 35 33. Meaning the “fortified agricultural production center of Uzibu.” 34. Radner’s calculations are based on the assumption that a mud-brick building lasts about 30 to 40 years; and obviously she is multiplying by 4 to obtain 120– 60 years. However, if Shalmaneser I took control of the region around 1260 and the Assyrians lost the region during Ashur-bel-kala’s reign in 1069/68, this yields an occupation span of 191–92 years. Thus, either the length of each stratum should be extended to 48 years, or (if the length of each stratum remains 30–40 years) the beginning of the Middle Assyrian occupation must be dated later—that is, 1230–1190 b.c.e. (during the reign of Tukulti-Ninurta I [1233–1197]). 35. In the past, it has been assumed that this “grooved-type pottery” was a marker of the Musku. However, as Bartl (2001: 398) notes, “the broad distribution of that pottery which is found in an area of nearly 700 km (E–W) x 500 km (N–S) which exceeds the documented ‘Musku area’ by far, makes this assumption impossible, apart from the fact that the identification of a cultural complex mainly defined by pottery with specific ethnic groups seems highly speculative.” Thus on historical and geographical grounds, an identification with the Musku must be ruled out (Summers 1994: 245–47). While the distribution of the grooved pottery

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Although the Broken Obelisk of Ashur-bel-kala does not provide us with an exact date for the collapse of Assyrian control over the Upper Tigris region, fortunately the tablets from Giricano offer a relatively secure clue, because it is unlikely that Assyrian control over Dunnu-sa-Uzibi and the entire area lasted for long after the year 1069/1068 b.c.e. The information gained from the Broken Obelisk indicates that Arameans were responsible for the end of the Assyrian dominion in the entire region of the Upper Tigris. Roaf and Schachner (2005: 119) conclude: “When the Assyrians returned to this region in the early ninth century, it was part of the lands of Nairi and was dominated by Arameans.” The Assyrian inscriptions also provide a window into the nature of the Arameans’ early social and political organization. In all these texts, they appear as a very mobile people, able to travel in the desert. Thus they yield ground to the Assyrian army only to come back when the danger is over. This agrees with their pastoralist lifestyle. The Arameans are viewed as the late-second-millennium version of the local pastoralists, of which the Amorites offer an earlier example. They seem to be loosely organized into tribes and clans, but no formal political structure is referred to. In the Middle Assyrian texts, they do not appear to have any area with territorial integrity that could be designated a matu; and the word sarru is not used to designate any of their leaders (Bunnens 1999: 606). Their tribal structure is seen in the Tiglath-pileser I Chronicle / Assyrian Chronicle Fragment 4, which refers to the “houses of the Arameans” (lines 3, 11). But Tiglath-pileser I does claim to have conquered “six cities” in one text and “seventeen of their cities” in another (appendix, texts 1 and 4). The exact nature of these settlements is not clear. They may have been simply encampments, but it is also possible that they were small permanent settlements. There is no doubt that in the two centuries between 1100 and 900 b.c.e. a considerable change took place in the countryside and that by the 9th century much of the population was now Aramean in areas formerly under the control of the Middle Assyrian kings (Roaf 2001: 366). The impact of the various Aramean penetrations 36 may have led to much of the Assyrian farmland’s being abandoned, and part of the populations of both cities and villages may have moved away and taken refuge in the regions corresponds to some extent with the Nairi lands, it is apparent that this pottery should not be associated with any one ethnicity, because it was used by a variety of peoples in the region. In the Upper Tigris region, it is an indicator of the end of Middle Assyrian control (Roaf and Schachner 2005: 120). 36. Kuhrt (1995: 401) visualizes the Aramean invasions as a continuous and pervasive movement of pastoralists, who took over existing centers and political institutions through both peaceful interaction and conflict.

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to the north (for example, Subria; see Parker 2001: 169, 230–42; or Habruri; see discussion above). It appears that at several sites there was a reduction of building activity in this period that was only resumed in the 9th century. For example, Tell al-Rimah was abandoned, and the later Neo-Assyrian occupation was on a smaller scale than that of the Late Bronze Age (Roaf 2001: 366). Wilkinson and Tucker (1995: 59–62) discuss the change in settlement pattern from the Middle to Neo-Assyrian periods in the northern Jezirah. In any event, according to Harrak (1987: 276), Assyria began to lose its hegemony over Hanigalbat sometime after the reign of Ashur-narari III (1193–1188). The actual Aramean Landnahme 37 in the northern Jezirah, however, took place rapidly (van Driel 2005: 8). Many years later, Hanigalbat, now fully “Aramaized,” is cited frequently in the inscriptions of kings Adad-narari II, Ashurnasirpal II, and Shalmaneser III (Harrak 1987: 277). This is clearly a “fossilized” usage of the term. Grayson (1991b: 280) observes that “the adoption of Middle Assyrian nomenclature is indicative of a feeling that they (i.e. the Neo-Assyrian kings) were recreating an old empire that was still rightfully theirs.” And Postgate (1992: 257) puts it this way: “The [early Neo-Assyrian] kings lovingly record the resettlement of erstwhile Assyrians on erstwhile Assyrian land, and tell us in whose reign recaptured cities had fallen to the Aramean intruders. The years when the Euphrates was the frontier to the west had not been forgotten” (see the appendix, texts 11–14).

The Levantine Region (Central and Southern Syria) Southern and central Syria was in the Egyptian sphere during most of the Late Bronze Age. Contemporaneous inscriptions confirm this, as the recently discovered steles of Seti I from Qadesh and Ramesses II from Keswe near Damascus demonstrate (Taraqji 1999). The current consensus (insofar as there is one) pictures a gradual but uneven retreat of Egyptian imperial control during the century following the battle of Kadesh, accompanied by the invasion and migration of the so-called “Sea Peoples,” some of whom settled in the Levant, for example, the Philistines, Sherden, and Tjekker (Weinstein 1992; 1998; 38 Mazar 1997: 218). 37. Van Driel (2005: 3) uses the term Landnahme in the following way: “Landnahme” . . . indicates “the likely phase of conflict, though not if an area is (virtually) empty. The selection of the term is intentional, as it indicates that the conflict on principle involves (perceived) vital economic interests, not only between those interested in arable land, but also regarding rights to pasture: this also plays a role between groups of non-sedentaries.” 38. One correction to Weinstein 1998: 192–93: the cartouches clearly read Siamun, contra Weinstein’s statement.

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Thus, the circumstances facing the Arameans in the western branch of the Fertile Crescent were different from the circumstances in the Hittite or Assyrian regions. With the demise in the 12th century of Egyptian hegemony, Aramean peoples were competing not with large states such as Assyria but with smaller political entities (Dion 1995: 1282). While the Aramean settlement in the Assyrian sphere was piecemeal and generally peripheral, in the Levant, already so badly affected by the collapse of the imperial superstructures, the small city-states were much more vulnerable, and it was precisely here that the Arameans were most successful in settling and seizing political control (Kuhrt 1995: 401; Mazzoni 1995). Thus, in central and southern Syria, Arameans appear to have been in control of new kingdoms that they had created (for example, Íobah, BethRehob, Geshur). The recent excavations at Qatna may add insight into this process. 39 In the case of Damascus, the first historical reference appears in the texts of Thutmose III. Recent excavations at nearby Tell Sakka have exposed Late Bronze Age pillared houses (Taraqji 1999). 40 With the collapse of Egyptian hegemony in the Levant, Damascus seems to have been seized by a group of Arameans. 41

Conclusions 1. There are some links between the Arameans and the Ahlamu and Sutians, though there is no one-to-one relationship in either case. The Arameans are attested in Mesopotamia and were associated with raiding (both in Assyrian and Babylonian sources). 2. Mount Bishri may have been a major homeland for the Arameans, at least the Arameans with which the Assyrians had contact at the beginning of the Iron I period. However, these same Arameans apparently ranged from Carchemish and Lebanon to Rapiqu. 3. In the coastal areas, the collapse of the palace economies created a power vacuum. Iron IB and IC saw the appearance of new political entities. 4. In the Hittite sphere of northern Syria, there was general continuity with the Neo-Hittite/Luwian material culture. Most Aramean activity seems to be attested from later times, though there may have been a lower social stratum of which they were a part.

39. Al-Maqdissi et al. 2002. Novák and Pfälzner 2000. 40. Note too the Middle Bronze Egyptianizing murals discovered at this site. 41. Sader 2000: 71. Compare 1 Kgs 11:23: “God raised up another adversary against him, Rezon, son of Eliada, who had fled from his master, King Hadadezer of Zobah.”

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5. In the Assyrian sphere, after the Assyrian conquest of the region in the Late Bronze Age, the Hurrian culture disappeared, and Assyrian control is clearly evident. The Arameans do not appear to have been indigenous in most of this area but are first attested as raiding Assyrian interests in the region. After the period of Assyrian weakness, the Arameans gained control over much of the region and the Assyrians had to reconquer it. 6. In central and southern Syria, the Arameans appear to have been in control of new kingdoms that they had created (for example, Íobah, Beth-Rehob, Geshur). Certainly the collapse of Egyptian hegemony in the Levant was a major contributor to this process. Finally, Damascus seems to have been seized by a group of Arameans.

Appendix Tiglath-pileser I (1114–1076 b.c.e.) Text 1 (RIMA 2: 23; A.0.87.1: lines v 44–63) With the support of the god Assur, my lord, I took my chariots and warriors (and) set off for the desert steppe. I marched against the ahlamû-Arameans, enemies of the god Assur, my lord. I plundered from the edge of the land of Suhu to the city of Carchemish of the land of Hatti in a single day. I massacred them. I carried back their booty, possessions, and goods without number. The rest of their troops, who fled from the weapons of the god Assur, my lord, crossed the Euphrates. I crossed the Euphrates after them on rafts (made of inflated) goatskins. I conquered six of their cities at the foot of Mount Bishri, burned, razed (and) destroyed (them, and) brought their booty, possessions, and goods to my city Assur.

Text 2 (RIMA 2: 37; A.0.87.3: lines 29–35) I have crossed the Euphrates [. . .] times, twice in one year, in pursuit of the ahlamû-Arameans, to the land of Hatti. I inflicted on them a decisive defeat from the foot of Mount Lebanon, the city of Tadmor of the land of Amurru, Anat of the land of Suhu, as far as Rapiqu of Karduniash (Babylonia). I brought their booty (and) possessions to my city Assur.

Text 3 (RIMA 2: 43; A.0.87.4: lines 34–36) I have crossed the Euphrates twenty-eight times, twice in one year, in pursuit of the ahlamû-Arameans. I inflicted on them a decisive defeat from the city of Tadmor of the land of Amurru, Anat of the land of Suhu, as far as Rapiqu of Karduniash (Babylonia). I brought their booty (and) possessions to my city Assur.

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Text 4 (RIMA 2: 59; A.0.87.12: lines 4u–9u) By the command of the gods Assur and Ninurta, the [great] gods, [my lords], I conquered [from the edge of the land of Suhu] to the city of Carchemish of the land of Hatti in a single day. I [crossed] the Euphrates as though it were [a canal]. Seventeen of their cities, from [the city of Tadmor of the land of Amurru, Anat of the land of Suhu, as far as Rapiqu of Karduniash (Babylonia)], I burned, [razed, (and) destroyed. I brought their booty], their hostages, and [their goods to my city Assur].

Text 5 (Tiglath-pileser I Chronicle / Assyrian Chronicle: Fragment 4, ABC 189; Glassner 2004: 188–91) (2)[In

the eponymy of . . . great starvation(?) . . .] The peopl]e (the Assyrians) ate one another’s flesh [. . .] (3)[. . .] the houses of the Arameans (4)[increased(?)] they plundered 42 [the harvest of Assyria]; they seized the roads; (5)They captured 43 (and) took [many districts of] Assyria. (6)[The people (the Assyrians) [(7)fled] (6)[t]o the mountains of Habruri 44 for (their) lives. (7)Their [gold], their silver, (and) their possessions they (the Arameans) took. (8)[Marduk-nadin-ahhe,

king of] Kardunias (Babylonia), passed away; Marduk-[sapik]-zeri 45 (9)ascended hi[s father’s throne]. Eighteen regnal years of Marduk-[nadin-a]hhe.

42. Tadmor (1958: 133) and Grayson (ABC 189) read: . . . a]-lak tap-pu-tu hu-laa-[ni]meß iß-bu-tu ‘. . . to] render aid they set out’, understanding alaku(m) tapputu as an idiom ‘to go to someone’s assistance’. Glassner (2004: 188–89) reads: . . .] ihtab-ba-tu hu-la-a-ni.meß iß-bu-tu. See also Neumann and Parpola 1987: 178; and Naªaman 1994: 33–34. 43. Although Grayson remarks that “it is difficult to say whether Assur is the direct object in this sentence when the beginning is missing” (ABC 189, note to line 5), the subject must be plural and the most reasonable option is the bitat mat Aramaya because these Aramean tribes are clearly the subject of a number of plural verb forms in the text. 44. Although this word was earlier read as Kirriuri (Tadmor 1958: 133; Grayson, ABC 189), Levine (1976–80) suggested reading Habruri based on a Sultantepe Eponym Chronicle text. He identified it with Dast-e Óarir located northeast of Arbail in the Zagros area closest to Assyria proper. For the reading, see Millard 1994: 35 (year 796). 45. The events date to the latter part of Tiglath-pileser I’s reign (probably 1082–1081 b.c.e.), because the text mentions the death of Marduk-nadin-ahhe (1099–1082 b.c.e.) and the accession of his son, Marduk-sapik-zeri (1081–1069 b.c.e.). Thus this would be Tiglath-pileser’s 32nd year. See Brinkman 1987–90a and 1987–90b.

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(10)[In

the eponymy . . .] the harvest of the land of Assyria, all of it, [was ruin]ed. 46 (11)[The houses of the Arameans] increased; they proceeded along (lit., “took”) the b[ank of the Tig]ris.47 (12)[They plundered] [. . .] Idu, 48 the district of Nineveh, the land of Kili[zi].49 (13)[In that year Tiglath-pil]eser (I), the king of Assyria, [marched] to Katmuhu.

Ashur-bel-kala (1073–1056 b.c.e.) Text 6 (RIMA 2: 93; A.0.89.2: lines iii 27u–28u) On [numerous] campaigns against the land of the Ar[ameans, hostile to the god Assur, who in the land . . .] I continually plundered [. . .]

Text 7 (RIMA 2: 94; A.0.89.3: line 6u) On numerous [campaigns against the Ar]ameans, hostile to the god Assur, who in the land [. . . I continually plundered . . .]

Text 8 (The Broken Obelisk, RIMA 2: 101–3; A.0.89.7: lines iii 1–32) 1070 or 1069, 4th or 5th Regnal Year In the month of Iyyar (2nd month, April–May), eponomy (limu) of Assur-remnisesu, he conquered the city of Tur[x]tu of the land of Mußri. In that year, in the month of Shebat (11th month, Jan.–Feb.), the chariots and [. . .] went from the Inner City (Assur) (and) conquered the cities of [x-x]indisulu and [. . .]sandû, cities which are in the district of the city of Dur-Kurigalzu. They captured Kadasman-Burias, the son of Itti-Marduk-bala†u, governor of their land. In that year, in the month of Iyyar (2nd month, April–May), on campaign against the Arameans, he fought at the city of Pauza, which is at the foot of Mount Kasiyari. 46. Tadmor (1958) restored [ra-hi]-iß ‘was ravaged’, speculating that the crop damage in this year was caused by excessive rains flooding the fields. Neumann and Parpola (1987: 178 n. 52) point out that “the verb can equally be read [ma-hi]iß, which simply means ‘was ruined’ (by any agent, e.g., by locusts).” 47. Naªaman (1994: 33–34) reads: si[d]-d[i íd.]id[igna]. Glassner (2004: 188) follows. Tadmor (1958: 133) reads: ªé.meߺ [kur A]r-m[a-a-ia-e] and Grayson (ABC 189) reads: bita[ti]me[ß mat A]r-m-a-a-iameß]. 48. Naªaman (1994) argues that Idu refers to a province located on the Tigris north of Nineveh, not far from Halahhu, Talmussu, and Katmuhu. 49. Although Grayson (ABC 189) reads kur ki.ta ‘the land downstream’, the reading kur.Ki-li-[zi ‘the land of Kili[zi]’ makes better sense in light of the mention of Idu, Nineveh, and Katmahu (see Glassner 2004; Naªaman 1994; Postgate 1976– 80: 592). It was located between Arbail and Kalhu.

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In that year, in the same month, on campaign against the Arameans, he fought at the head (front?) of the city of Nabula. In that year, in the month of Sivan (3rd month, May–June), he uprooted the troops of the land of Mußri. In that year, in the same month, on campaign against the Arameans, he fought at the city of [x]tibua, which is on the Tigris. In that year, in the month of Ab (5th month, July–Aug), on campaign against the Arameans, he fought at Dunnu-sa-Lisur-ßala-Assur, 50 which is in the district of the city of Sinamu. 51 In that year, in the same month, he uprooted the city of Su[ ]ru of the land of Hanigalbat. He conquered the city of Hulzu, which is in the midst of Mount Kasiyari, and the city of Eresu, which the people of the land of Habhu held. He brought out 3,000 captives. In that year, in the month of Elul (6th month, Aug.–Sep.), on campaign against the Arameans, he fought at the city of Murarir(?) of the land of Subrû. In that year, in the month of [Arah]samnu (8th month, Oct.–Nov.), he plundered the Arameans from the land of Mahiranu to the city of Suppu (or Rupu) of the land of Harran.

1069 or 1068, 5th or 6th Regnal Year In the month of Kislev (9th month, Nov.–Dec.), in the eponymy of Ili-iddina, on campaign against the Arameans, he fought at the city of Magrisu (Magarisu) of the land of Yari. In that year, in the same month, on campaign against the Arameans, he fought at the city of Dur-Katlimmu. In that year, in the same month, [he fought] [Aram] opposite the city of Sangaritu [which is on] the Euphrat[es].

50. Following the reading of Radner (2004: 71 n. 122) for line 14: ina uru.ªdu!niº-sa-mli-sur-ßa-la-da-sur sá pa-ha-at uru.si-na-mu im-ta-ha-aß. Grayson, RIMA 2; A.0. 89.7: iii 14 reads: ina uru.ªmeߺ-ni sa mli-sur-ßa-la-da-sur sá pa-ha-at uru.si-na-mu imta-ha-aß. 51. This city is mentioned in the newly published texts from Giricano (text 10, line 12). See Radner 2004: 90. Identified with Pornak by Kessler 1980: 117–21; Nashef 1982: 249. Lipinski (2002: 230–31) identifies Sinamu with Fafih, 30 km west of Midyat.

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[In] that [year], in the same month, [on campaign against the A]rame[ans] he fought [at the city of ˇabe]te(?). 52 [In] that [year, in the month of . . .], [on campaign against the Arameans], he fought in the land of Gulgulu.53 [In that year, in the month of . . . ,] [he fought(?) the Arameans at the city of . . .]ßiku of Mount Hanu. [In] that year, in the month of Arahsamnu (8th month, Oct.–Nov.), [he plunder]ed [the Arameans] upto the watering holes. [In that year, in] the same [month], [on campaign against the Arameans], [he fought at . . .] [. . .].

Text 9 (RIMA 2: 98; A.0.89.6: lines 6u–15u) [By the] command of Assur, Anu, and A[dad, the great gods, my lords, . . .], [I crossed the Euphrates] twice in one year in pursuit of the Arameans. I inflicted on them [a decisive defeat] [from the city of An]at of the land of Suhu and the city of [Tadmor and as far as the city of Rapiqu of the land of Kardunias(?)]. [I brought their] tribute and [tax to my city Assur]. The [. . .]-daiu, the Sutu, the [. . .]miraiu, who [live] at the foot of Mount [Lebanon . . .]. [In] rafts (made of inflated) goatskins [I crossed the Euphrates]. [I conquered the city . . . which (is) on] the opposite bank of [the Euphrates, (on the Sagura River)]. [At that time, the region of the A]hlamu which [. . .] the city of Mi[. . .].

Text 10 (RIMA 2: 107; A.0.89.9: lines 3u–10u) By the command of Assur (and) Adad, [the great gods, my lords, . . . , I crossed the Euphrates twice] in one year [in pursuit of] the Arameans. The Sutu, Naa[. . .] who [live] at the foot of Mount Lebanon [. . .]. [I crossed the Euphrates in rafts] (made of inflated) goatskins. [I conquered the city . . . which (is) (on the opposite bank of the Euhprates)] on the Sagur[a] River.54 At that time, the region of [the Ahlamu which . . .] numerous [. . .].

52. Compare Habur campaigns of Adad-nirari II and Tukulti-Ninurta II. 53. Compare West Semitic glgl. 54. Millard (1970: 168–69) and Kessler (1980: 191–92) observe that the event described here seems to be reflected in the later Kurkh Monolith of Shalmaneser III (RIMA 3; A.0.102.2: lines ii 85–86). Thus the conquered city in the Ashur-belkala texts is Pitru. Grayson (1991a: 98, note to 12u–13u) notes that there does not seem to be enough room in either of the two Assur-bel-kala texts for the full description given in Shalmaneser III’s Monolith.

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Ashur-dan II (934–912 b.c.e.) Text 11 (RIMA 2: 133–35; A.0.98.1: lines 6–32, 60–67) (lines 6–15) [In my accession year (and) in] my first regnal year, after [I nobly ascended] the royal throne, [. . .] the troops of the Yausu (an Aramean group) came up(stream), [. . .] they trusted in their own strength, they brought their [. . .]. With the support of Assur, my lord, [I] mustered [. . . my chariots (and) troops]. I plundered their settlements from the city of Ekal-pi-nari [(. . .) to . . .] (and) inflicted [upon them a major defeat]. Those that survived I slaughtered. [I carried off ] their [. . . herds] (and) flocks without number. [I] burned [(. . . and)] their [cities] (with) their inhabitants. I brought up from the Arameans [valuable booty]. (lines 16–22) [. . . who] from the time of Shalmaneser, king of [Assyria, my forefather], had destroyed [people of Assyria by . . .] and murder, had sold [all] their [sons (and) daughters]; [by the command of Assur], my lord, I took prisoners, I inflicted [upon them] a major [defeat], I carried off their booty, possessions, [property, herds (and)] flocks (and) [brought (them)] to my city [Assur . . .] the land Ruqahu, the river Zab of the land [. . .]. (lines 23–32) [. . . Y]ahanu, the land of Aram (kur a-ru-mu), which is behind the land Pi[. . .], [which from the time of Assur-ra]bi (II) (1012–972), king of Assyria, my forefather, the cities of the district of [my land, . . .] they captured [for them]selves; [I mustered] chariots (and) troops. [I plundered . . .]. I inflicted on them a major decisive defeat. [I destroyed], razed, (and) burned their [cities]. [I pursued the remainder of their troops which] had fled from my weapons [from . . .] to the city Halhalaush of the land Sa[. . .]zi. I inflicted upon them a major decisive defeat. I [carried off their booty (and) possessions]. I uprooted the rest of them, [settled them] in [. . .], (and) counted them [within] the borders of Assyria.55

55. Bunnens (1999: 606–7) asserts: “The first name can be restored Yahanu, which is the earlier name of the Aramaean state that will be called Bit Agusi (Arpad); Pi[ ]could be Pi[tru]; [Ashur-ra]bi is a very plausible restoration as there is only one name ending in -bi among the ‘forefathers’ of Ashur-dan II. We would thus have a description of the conquest of Pitru by the Aramaeans of Yahanu, also referred to by Shalmaneser III. This interpretation has been rejected, however, because the name Halhalaush sounds like toponyms from the Zagros region and because Ashur-dan does not mention his crossing of the Euphrates. The entire story should therefore be located to the east of Assyria, not on the Upper Euphrates. These objections are not as strong as they might look. The very plausible restorations [Y]ahanu, Pi[tru] and [Ashur-ra]bi, together with the sure mention of a king of Arumu (i.e. an Aramaean king), so well match the information we can get from Shalmaneser III’s inscriptions that it is hard to believe that Ashur-dan II’s text does

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(lines 54–59) By the command of Ass[ur, my lord], I marched [to the land of Habr]uri. I conquered the city of Suhu, the city of [. . .], the city of Simerra, (and) the land of Lu[. . .], cities of the land of Habruri. I carried away their booty, possessions, property, [herds (and) flocks]. I brought them to my city Assur. I gave [. . .] as donations to Assur, my lord. I gave [. . .] which I carried off to Assur, my lord. (lines 60–67) I brought back the weary [people] of Assyria [who in the face of] famine, hunger, (and) shortage had abandoned [their cities (and) houses] (and) [had gone up] to oth[er] lands. 56 [I settled] them in [proper] cities (and) houses. They dwelt in security. I constructed [palaces in the distri]cts of my land. [I hitched up] plows in the districts of my land. I [piled up] more grain than ever before. I hitched up horses trained to the yoke [. . . for the armed forces of] Assyria.

Adad-narari II (911–891 b.c.e.) Text 12 (RIMA 2: 149–50; A.0.99.2: lines 33, 49–53) (I, who) brought about the defeat of the field troops of the ahlamû-Arameans; (I, who) received the tribute of the Suhu. In the eponymy of Likberu (898 b.c.e.), I marched a fourth time to the land Hanigalbat. At that time Muquru, the Temanite, broke the oath of the great gods and sought me to do war and battle. He trusted in his fortified city, his not refer to the same events. The lacunae prevent us from putting too much weight on the absence of mention of the Euphrates. Similarly, there is a long lacuna before the mention of Halhalaush and it is not impossible that Ashur-rabi changed the orientation of his campaign. Shalmaneser III did exactly the same after his conquest of Til Barsib: he went to Urartu and came back to Assyria via Arbela.” Weidner (1926: 156) argued also for a north Syrian location. Malamat (1973: 142 and 151 n. 21) equates Yahanu with Bit-Adini. However, (1) Pitru is never determined by kur ‘land’, only uru ‘city’. (2) Assurdan’s activities in this passage indicate an area east and south of Assyria. (3) Halhalaus is only mentioned again in another text of Assur-dan II (RIMA 2: 136; A.0.98.2) and the “White Obelisk” of Assurnaßirpal II (RIMA 2: 255; A.0.101.18) and is located in the same general area. (4) The text is on a ruled tablet with selfcontained episodes within the rulings; thus the idea of a sudden change in content is questionable. See Weissbach 1928: 291; and Hawkins 1976–80. Lipinski (2000: 195) argues that the Aramean tribe of Yahanu was located in the area east of the Tigris and that “the same Aramean tribe or some of its clans finished by emigrating from Assyria to northwestern Syria.” 56. Because the immediately preceding section deals with the reconquest of Habruri (see appendix, text 5), it is possible that the passage refers to descendants of Assyria who had abandoned their homes during the famine in the days of Tiglath-pileser I about 160 years earlier and seems to indicate that the conditions in Assyria had continued to be adverse so that an earlier return was not possible. See Neumann and Parpola 1987: 181.

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strong bow, his extensive troops, and the land of Aram; and he rebelled against me. I mustered my chariotry (and) troops (and) marched to the city Gidara, which the Arameans call Raqammatu (and) which the land of Aram had taken away by force after the time of Tiglath-pileser, son of Ashur-resha-ishi,57 king of Assyria, a prince who preceded me.

Ashurnasirpal II (883–859 b.c.e.) Text 13 (Ashurnasirpal’s Kurkh Monolith, RIMA 2: 261–62; A.0.101.19: lines 91–97) 879 b.c.e. I flayed Bur-Rammanu, the criminal, (and) draped his skin over the wall of the city of Sinabu. I appointed Ilanu, his brother, to the position of chief. I imposed upon him as annual tribute: 2 minas of gold, 13(?) minas of silver, 1,000 sheep, (and) 2,000 (measures) of barley. I repossessed the cities Sinabu (and) Tidu—fortresses which Shalmaneser,58 king of Assyria, a prince who preceded me, had garrisoned against the land of Nairi (and) which the Arameans had captured by force. I resettled the Assyrians—who in the land of Nairi had held fortresses of Assyria (and) whom the Arameans had trampled—in their (the Arameans) abandoned cities (and) houses. I placed them in a peaceful abode. I uprooted 1,500 troops of the ahlamu-Arameans of Amme-Baªal, a man of BitZamani, (and) brought (them) to Assyria. I reaped the harvest of the land of Nairi (and) stored (it) for the sustenance of my land in the cities of Tusha(n), Damdammusa, Sinabu (and) Tidu.59

Shalmaneser III (858–824 b.c.e.) Text 14 (The Kurkh Monolith, RIMA 3: 19; A.0.102.2: lines ii 35b–38) 856 b.c.e. At that time, the city of (Ana)-Assur-uter-aßbat, which the people of the land of Hatti call Pitru (and) which is on the river Sagu[ra by the opposite bank] of the 57. This could refer to either Tiglath-pileser I (1114–1076), son of Assur-resaisi I (1132–1115), or Tiglath-pileser II (966–935), son of Assur-resa-isi II (971–967). 58. The reference could be to Shalmaneser I (1263–1234; Lipinski 2000: 158) or to Shalmaneser II (1030–1019; Grayson, RIMA 2: 261). Shalmaneser I’s founding these fortresses seems perhaps more likely than Shalmaneser II, who reigned during the time of Assyrian weakness and about whose military activities next to nothing is known. However, the distance in time would be much greater. With Shalmaneser I, there would be 380 years between the founding and Assurnaßirpal’s recovery; with Shalmaneser II, about 147 years. How long would the dispossessed Assyrians been able to maintain their “Assyrianness?” See Radner and Schachner 2001. 59. Tusha(n) is Ziyaret Tepe; Tidu is very likely Üçtepe (Kurkh); for Sinabu, see n. 51 above (Radner and Schachner 2001: 754–57; Liverani 1992: 38–39; and Kessler 1980: 117–20).

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Euphrates, and the city of Mutkinu, which is on this bank of the Euphrates, which Tiglath-pileser (I), my ancestor, a prince who preceded me, had established [ú-sá-ªaß-bit-ú-niº]—at the time of Assur-rabi (II) (1012–972 b.c.e.), king of Assyria, the land of Aram had taken (these two cities) away by force—I restored these cites. I settled Assyrians in their midst.

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Index of Authors Adamthwaite, M. R. 138 Akkermans, P. M. M. G. 143, 146–147 Albertz, R. 4 Albright, W. F. 3, 131 Allan, R. 65 Alter, R. 4 Anbar, M. 138 Annus, A. 42, 44–45, 47, 51–53, 64 Arnaud, D. 14, 63, 95, 138 Artzi, P. 53 Astour, M. C. 138 Aufrecht, W. 117–118 Avigad, N. 123 Baker, H. D. 144 Bartl, K. 150 Baudran, M. N. 101 Bauer, H. 109 Beckman, G. 51 Benz, F. L. 116–119, 121–126 Bloch-Smith, E. M. 1 Bordreuil, P. 13, 27, 43, 48, 89, 94, 96 Borowski, O. 15–17 Bounni, A. 142 Brinkman, J. A. 135–136, 139, 155 Bunnens, G. 140, 144, 148–149, 151, 159 Callot, O. 101 Calvet, Y. 58, 141 Cancik-Kirschbaum, E. C. 139, 146 Caquot, A. 35, 43, 77, 85, 91–93 Cassuto, U. 2 Caubet, A. 141–142, 144 Cecchini, S. 143 Clay, A. T. 136 Conroy, C. 4–5 Contenson, H. de 110 Coogan, M. D. 85

Cook, S. L. 6 Cooper, J. S. 5 Cornelius, I. 34, 58 Croft, P. 16 Cross, F. M. 2, 4–6, 77, 113, 115, 118, 124 Dalix, A. S. 43 Damrosch, D. 7 Davies, G. I. 118–119, 124–126 Day, J. 2–3, 5, 77 Deutsch, R. 113–119, 121, 123–126 Dever, W. G. 132 Dhorme, É. 109 Dietrich, M. 43, 75, 138 Dijkstra, M. 48, 81 Dion, P.-E. 140, 144, 153 Dossin, G. 95 Driel, G. van 152 Dubuisson, D. 4 Durand, J.-M. 44–45, 47, 138 Dussaud, R. 43, 108, 117 Edel, E. 134 Edwards, I. E. S. 34 Edzard, D. O. 136 Fales, F. M. 138 Feliu, L. 44 Firmage, E. 15 Fleming, D. 5 Foster, B. 33–34, 82 Fowler, J. D. 118, 121, 124–126 Frayne, D. 5 Freydank, H. 149 Frick, F. S. 16 Galliano, G. 58 Gane, R. 94

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Gardiner, A. H. 134 Gaster, T. H. 43, 77, 85 Gehman, H. S. 138 Gelb, I. J. 114, 117–118, 121, 123–125 Gibson, J. C. L. 84–85 Gilbert, K. S. 37 Ginsberg, H. L. 85 Glassner, J.-J. 8, 155–156 Gonnella, J. 144 Görg, M. 134 Gray, J. 43, 77, 84 Grayson, A. K. 152, 155–158, 161 Green, A. R. W. 44 Green, D. 8 Greenfield, J. C. 2, 85 Gröndahl, F. 114–115, 117–125 Groneberg, B. 135 Gubel, E. 34–35, 37–38 Gurney, O. R. 135 Hackett, J. A. 3 Hallo, W. W. 132 Hallock, R. T. 79 Hansen, C. K. 144 Harrak, A. 152 Harrison, T. P. 145 Harvey, S. 34 Hawkins, J. D. 141, 144–145, 160 Healey, J. F. 120 Heimpel, W. 139 Heltzer, M. 113–119, 121, 123–126, 138 Herdner, A. 27, 77, 85, 91–93 Hess, R. S. 115–119, 122, 126 Hesse, B. 1, 16–17 Hillers, D. 3 Huehnergard, J. 95, 123 Huffmon, H. B. 117–119, 121–122 Hurtado, L. W. 69 Jason, H. 4 Jirku, A. 126 Joukowsky, M. S. Kaufmann, Y. Keel, O. 6

4

132

Kessler, K. 157–158, 161 Khayyata, W. 144 Kitchen, K. A. 48, 134 Klengel, H. 139 Kloos, C. 77 Kohlmeyer, K. 144–145 Krahmalkov, C. 15 Kühne, H. 146, 149 Kuhrt, A. 151, 153 Lagarce, E. 142 Lagarce, J. 142 Lagrange, M. J. 93 Lambert, W. G. 51–52, 139 Landsberger, B. 79 Lang, B. 4, 6 Lange, K. E. 91 Lapinkivi, P. 5 Laroche, E. 115 Laroze, E. 101 Layton, S. C. 123, 126 Leclant, J. 33–34 Légasse, S. 94 Lemaire, A. 113, 145 Lerberghe, K. van 135 Levine, B. A. 17 Levine, L. D. 155 Lévi-Strauss, C. 51 Lewis, T. J. 47 L’Heureux, C. 68 Lipinski, E. 126, 133–136, 138, 145, 157, 160–161 Liverani, M. 132, 140, 147, 149, 161 Lloyd, J. B. 52 Loewenstamm, S. E. 77, 81 Lombard, P. 141 Loretz, O. 75, 135 Lyon, J. D. 147 MacDonald, H. 146 Machinist, P. 146 Malamat, A. 137–138, 160 Malbran-Labat, F. 48 Mankowski, P. 9 Maqdissi, M. al- 153 Maraqten, M. 119, 125

177

Index of Authors Maul, S. M. 149 Mayrhofer, M. 115 Mazar, A. 152 Mazzini, G. 80–81 Mazzoni, S. 143–144, 153 McCarter, P. K., Jr. 113, 117, 119, 123 McClellan, T. L. 132–133, 143–144 McLaughlin, J. L. 14 McNutt, P. M. 57 Milgrom, J. 14, 16–17, 94 Millard, A. R. 136, 141, 155, 158 Moberly, R. W. L. 2 Moor, J. C. de 43, 55, 77 Moran, W. L. 53 Morgan, J. de 34 Mosca, P. 11 Moscati, S. 135–136 Muhly, J. D. 133, 144 Naªaman, N. 53, 155–156 Nashef, K. 135, 157 Neumann, J. 148, 155–156, 160 Niehr, H. 58, 64 Nieuwenhuijze, C. A. O. van 57 Nissinen, M. 5 Noth, M. 123–125, 136 Nougayrol, J. 95 Novák, M. 153 Numoto, H. 149 Oates, D. 146 Oates, J. 146 Oden, R. 4–5 Ohnuma, K. 149 Okada, Y. 149 Olmo Lete, G. del 59–66, 81, 84–85, 134 Oren, E. D. 141 Owen, D. I. 137 Pardee, D. 1, 12–14, 30, 35, 43, 57, 60–64, 66, 75, 77, 79, 84–86, 89, 91–92, 96, 101, 120 Parker, B. J. 152 Parker, S. B. 4–5, 7, 49, 75, 81 Parpola, S. 148, 155–156, 160

Paul, S. M. 137 Petersen, D. L. 43, 48 Pfälzner, P. 147, 149, 153 Pitard, W. T. 3, 18, 52, 80–81, 132, 135, 148 Pope, M. H. 1, 20 Postgate, J. N. 144, 146, 149, 152, 156 Pruzsinszky, R. 114–119, 122, 124– 125 Puech, E. 119 Purves, P. M. 114–115 Quirke, S.

41

Radner, K. 146, 150, 157, 161 Ranke, H. 115 Redford, D. B. 8 Reinhold, G. G. G. 134 Rieth, P. 101 Roaf, M. 150–152 Roberts, J. J. M. 2, 4 Röllig, W. 146 Rollston, C. A. 137–138 Rosenthal, F. 15 Rossmeisl, I. 146 Rouillard, H. 93 Rouillard-Bonraisin, H. 91–93 Rummel, S. 6 Sader, H. 132–133, 153 Saggs, H. W. F. 131, 137 Saliby, N. 142 Sanmartín, J. 84–85, 134 Schachner, A. 150–151, 161 Schaeffer, C. F.-A. 108–109 Schmidt, B. B. 63–64 Schniedewind, W. 132 Schwartz, G. M. 131, 143, 147 Scurlock, J. 15 Seeher, J. 141 Sherratt, S. 142 Singer, I. 48, 50, 141–142 Sivan, D. 117–126 Smith, J. Z. 3–4 Smith, M. S. 3–6, 11, 14–15, 18–19, 44, 75, 85

178

Index of Authors

Soldt, W. H. van 135 Steen, E. J. van der 132 Streck, M. P. 123, 125–126, 140 Summers, G. 150 Sznycer, M. 77, 85, 91–93 Tadmor, H. 131, 136, 155–156 Talmon, S. 4 Taraqji, A. 152–153 Teeter, E. 34, 37 Thompson, H. O. 138 Tigay, J. 118 Toorn, K. van der 18 Tropper, J. 30, 93 Tsukimoto, A. 138 Tucker, D. J. 147, 152 Uehlinger, C.

6

Virolleaud, C. 27, 35, 43, 59–60, 109 Voet, G. 135 Walker, C. B. F. 135, 139 Walls, N. H. 77

Wapnish, P. 16–17 Ward, W. A. 132 Watson, W. G. E. 45 Weidner, E. 160 Weinstein, J. 152 Weissbach, F. H. 160 White, M. 8 Wiggerman, F. A. M. 47, 83, 139, 146 Wilkinson, T. J. 147, 152 Witt, C. de 34 Woodward, M. 48 Wright, D. 5 Wyatt, N. 36, 42, 44–45, 47–56, 58– 59, 62–68, 85, 92 Yener, K. A. 142, 147 Yon, M. 43, 58, 95, 101, 110, 141–142 Younger, K. L., Jr. 145 Zaccagnini, C. 138 Zadok, R. 118–119, 122–125, 137– 139, 145, 147–148 Zevit, Z. 6, 12, 16, 18 Zijl, P. J. van 43, 77

Index of Scripture Genesis 1 10 1–11 7–8 1:21 83 2:4 11 14:5 19 25 15 25:27 15 25:28 15 27:3 15 27:5 15 27:19 15 27:25 15 27:27–28 16 27:30 15 27:31 15 27:33 15 34:12 66 46:17 123 48:15–16 10 49 10 Exodus 2 2 3 2 6:2–3 2 15 10–11, 33 15:1 30 19–20 6 20:12 93 27:5 97 32:4 85 32:8 85 33–34 6 38:4 97 Leviticus 17 15, 17 17:13 15

Numbers 13:5 126 18:7 95 23–24 10 26:32 126 26:44 123

1 Samuel (cont.) 28 93

Deuteronomy 2:10–11 19 14 15, 17 14:4–6 15 28:68 137 32 10 33 10 33:4 6 33:8–11 6

1 Kings 6–8 10 6:13 10 6:31 94 8 10, 94 8:8 94 11:23 153 12:28 85 12:32 85 18:42 12–13 19:16 126 19:19 126 22:17–23 56

Joshua 15:32 119 15:41 120 15:56 121 17:2 126 19:6 119 19:27 120 Judges 2:13–15 125 5 33 5:3 31 6:21 17 13:19 17 15:15–17 36 16:23 120 Ruth 4:19

125

1 Samuel 5:1–7 120

179

2 Samuel 20:25 126 23:28 124

2 Kings 3:11 126 4:34 13 4:34–35 12–13 4:35 13 16:9 137–138 23:36 125 1 Chronicles 2:9 125 2:25 125 2:27 125 2:49 126 3:18 117 3:18–19 125 3:22 126 4:3 121 4:12 119

180

Index of Scripture

1 Chronicles (cont.) 7:19 126 9:19 125 10:10 120 11:30 124 25:4 124 25:27 124 26:1 125 27:13 124 27:29 126 2 Chronicles 3:14 94 8:2 119 31:14 125 Nehemiah 3:25 125 8:4 125 11:7 125 13:13 125 Job 7:12 77, 80, 83 18:5 85 26:7–12 77 26:13 79 32:2 125 38:4–11 77

Job (cont.) 40:26 37 Psalms 7:18 33 16 18 19 47, 73 29 9 50:1–6 6 69:31 33 74 80 74:12–17 9, 77 74:13 83 74:13–15 80 88 18 88:11 19 89:26 11 Proverbs 2:18 8–9 8:29 9:18

19 9 77 19

Isaiah 6 56 8:1 121 8:3 121 9:5 58

Isaiah (cont.) 14 92 14:9–10 90 14:18–20 92 22:6 138 26:14 19 26:19 19 27:1 79–80, 83 28 18 51:9 80 51:9–10 83 Jeremiah 35:18–19 Ezekiel 24:7 17 43 18 Hosea 1:4 121 2:24 121 6:2 65 8:13 137 Amos 1:5 9:7

New Testament Luke 23:45

95

Deuterocanonical Literature Sirach 8:10 85

93

137–138 132, 137–138

Index of Ugaritic and Other Ancient Sources ABC 189 155–156 Alalakh AT 169.19 126 AT 235.4 119 ANET 446–47 56 Angim 51–63 51 Aqhat 5 ARM A1858 44 Assyrian Chronicle 4 Atrahasis 7

CTA 1 i 8 32 3 36 5 36 16 vi 56 32 17 36 23 31 see also Dawn and Dusk, Poem of 148

Baal Cycle 4–6, 32, 43–44, 51, 66, 75, 80, 85, 91 1.3 III 6 Babylonian Chronicle 25 135 Broken Obelisk of Ashur-bel-kala 151 CAT 1.6 i 24–29 14, 17 1.6 iv 22–44 92 1.6 vi 45-49 91 1.14 ii 26 14 1.14 iv 8 14 1.17 v 39 14 1.17 vi 14 1.22 i 10–11 14 1.22 i 22–25 93 1.23 15, 18 1.23.13–16 14 1.23.16 13 1.92 14 1.114.1, 7 14 1.161 19 4.149.14–16 15 4.642.2, 4–8 14 Contendings of Horus and Seth, The 51

EA (El Amarna) 104.7 121 245.28 123 Emar 369 5 466:90 14 Enuma Elish 82 Gilgamesh 7 Gudea Cylinder A xxv–xxvi HCCT no. 7, lines 28–36 KAI 1.11 51 49:3 32 69:5, 9 15 74:5 15 Keret 49 Kirta Cycle 32 KTU 1.1 46, 78 1.1–1.2 48 1.1–6 75 see also Baal Cycle 1.1 iv 13–20 58, 62 1.1 iv 13–25 85 1.2 46, 82

181

51

138

182

Index of Ugaritic and Other Ancient Sources

KTU (cont.) 1.2 i 4–5 82 1.2 i 29–34 82 1.2 i 32 85 1.2 i 36–38 85 1.2 ii 92, 145 82 1.2 iii 12–25 47 1.2 iii 22–3 50 1.2 iii 38–46 83 1.2 iv 51, 76, 78, 82 1.2 iv 16–17 82 1.2 iv 21–22 82 1.2 iv 32–37 76 1.2 iv 97–104 82 1.2 iv 137 82 1.2 iv 140 82 1.2 v 59 82 1.3 46, 75, 78 1.3 ii 11 84 1.3 ii 1–41 52 1.3 iii 79, 82 1.3 iii 29–31 78 1.3 iii 36–iv 4 52 1.3 iii 38–47 75–86 1.3 iii 47–iv 3 53 1.3–1.4 48 1.4 46, 75, 78 1.4 iv 23–24 78 1.4 vii 35–44 53 1.5 47, 49 1.5–1.6 48 1.5 i 1–3 76, 79 1.5 ii 8–9 78 1.5 vi 3–5 49 1.5 vi 9–10 78 1.5 vi 26–28 49 1.6 47, 49 1.6 i 59 1.6 i 43–67 51 1.6 i 45–67 47 1.6 i 50–67 55 1.6 ii 15–17 49 1.6 ii 30–35 52 1.6 iv 10–11 78 1.6 vi 51 80, 84 1.6 vi 57–58 60 1.6 vi 59 62

KTU (cont.) 1.7.2 84 1.10 44, 47, 51 1.10–11 53 1.11 44, 47 1.12 44, 50 1.12 i 67 1.13 44 1.13.7 84 1.14 iii 52–iv 8 54 1.15 ii 26–8 67 1.15 iii 2–4 67 1.15 v 18–20 66 1.16 49 1.16 ii 24–25 66 1.16 iii 2–4 49 1.20–22 65 1.23 44, 50, 66–67 1.23.54 47 1.24 44, 50, 67 1.24.18 66 1.24.26 66 1.39.21–22 63 1.41.27, 29, 40 63 1.46.8–9 63 1.47 63 1.47.33 63 1.82:1 79 1.83 52, 80, 82 1.83:8 80 1.83.8–12 82 1.87.29–30, 31–32 63 1.90.7–8 63 1.102 60 1.105.26 63 1.106 62 1.106.1–2, 7–8 63 1.106.3–5 61, 63 1.108 64–65 1.111 65–66 1.112.5–6 63 1.113 51, 63 1.118 63 1.123.31 63 1.124 64 1.132 65–66 1.132.14–16, 16–17, 21, 24

63

183

Index of Ugaritic and Other Ancient Sources KTU (cont.) 1.134.10 63 1.148 63 1.161 64 1.171.5 63 1.173.7–8 63 7.63 59 Kurkh Monolith of Ashurnasirpal Kurkh Monolith of Shalmaneser III 161 Lugale 128–34

161

51

Mari A1968 44 Marriage of Nikkal Moabite Stele 4

31

PBS 2/2 56:3 135 Philo of Byblos PE 1.10.10 15 1.10.11 15 1.10.13 15 Phoenician History 2 Dawn and Dusk, Poem of

31

RIH 98:2 14, 34 98:2:1–5 28–32 RIMA 2; A.0.89.7: iii 14 157 2: 23; A.0.87.1: lines v 44–63 154 2: 23, lines 46–47 134 2: 37; A.0.87.3: lines 29–35 154 2: 43; A.0.87.4: lines 34–36 154 2: 59; A.0.87.12: lines 4u–9u 155 2: 93; A.0.89.2: lines iii 27u–28u 156 2: 94; A.0.89.3: line 6u 156 2: 98; A.0.89.6: lines 6u–15u 158 2: 101–3; A.0.89.7: lines iii 1– 32 156 2: 107; A.0.89.9: lines 3u–10u 158 2: 133–35; A.0.98.1: lines 6–32, 60– 67 159 2: 149–50; A.0.99.2: lines 33, 49– 53 160

RIMA (cont.) 2: 261–62; A.0.101.19: lines 91– 97 161 3; A.0.102.2: lines ii 85–86 158 3: 19; A.0.102.2: lines ii 35b–38 161 RIMB 2: 71–73, B.3.1.1, line 10 139 2: 73, B.3.1.1, lines 10, 14 135 RS 2.004 i 27u–28u 36 2.014+ iii 36 2.022+ vi 19 36 4.427 58 4.546 58 7.116 58 8.295 58 9.277 58 15.37.13 134 16.134.6, 10 117 16.178.10 134 19.039+ 35 19.42.3 119 20.24 63 20.24.33 63 20.176.25 134 23.393 58 23.394 58 23.395 58 24.258 35 34.126 89–90, 93 34.129 141 34.136 50 78.041 58 81.3659 58 86.2221+ 89 86.2221+2225+2226+2240 95 88.070 58 92.2014.8–15 12–13 92.2014.11 13 92.2016 43, 48 94.2221+ 94 94.2401 89, 96 94.2518 63 VAS 21, number 21 VAT 18066 149

149