From Single Sign to Pseudo-Script An Ancient Egyptian System of Workmen’s Identity Marks 9789004357532, 9789004357549

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From Single Sign to Pseudo-Script

Culture and History of the Ancient Near East Founding Editor M.H.E. Weippert

Editor-in-Chief Jonathan Stökl

Editors Eckart Frahm W. Randall Garr B. Halpern Theo P.J. van den Hout Leslie Anne Warden Irene J. Winter

volume 93

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/chan

From Single Sign to Pseudo-Script An Ancient Egyptian System of Workmen’s Identity Marks

By

Ben Haring

leiden | boston

This book is a result of the research project ‘Symbolizing Identity. Identity marks and their relation to writing in New Kingdom Egypt’, which was supported by the Netherlands Organisation for Scientific Research (nwo). Cover Illustration: Ostracon Turin cg 57523, with images of furniture, and groups of marks in hieratic ductus, reign of Ramesses iv or v. From López 1984: pl. 171a. The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Haring, B. J. J., author. Title: From single sign to pseudo-script : an ancient Egyptian system of workmen's identity marks / by Ben Haring. Other titles: Culture and history of the ancient Near East ; v. 93. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, 2018. | Series: Culture and history of the ancient Near East ; volume 93 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: lccn 2017056704 (print) | lccn 2017048041 (ebook) | isbn 9789004357532 (hardback : alk. paper) | isbn 9789004357549 (ebook) | isbn 9789004357549 (e-book) Subjects: lcsh: Signs and symbols–Egypt–History. | Writing–Egypt–History. | Paleography, Egyptian. | Inscriptions, Egyptian. | Egyptian language–Writing, Hieroglyphic. Classification: lcc pj1089 .h37 2018 (ebook) | lcc pj1089 (print) | ddc 493/.111–dc23 lc record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017056704 Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 1566-2055 isbn 978-90-04-35753-2 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-35754-9 (e-book) Copyright 2018 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill nv provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, ma 01923, usa. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents Preface ix List of Figures xiii List of Tables xvi Prologue 1

part 1 Ancient Egyptian Identity Marks in Theoretical and Comparative Perspective 1 Making Sense of Funny Signs 5 1.1 An Ancient Text from Berlin 5 1.2 Documentary Texts, Hieratic and Otherwise 11 1.3 The Research History of the Necropolis Workmen’s Marks 1.4 A Quick Lesson in Hieroglyphs 23 1.5 Marks and Hieroglyphs 31 1.6 The Aim of the Present Book 34

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2 Identity Marks, Egyptian and Other 39 2.1 A Unique Document 39 2.2 Ancient Egyptian Pot Marks 42 2.3 Builders’ Marks, from Teams to Individuals 48 2.4 Marking Systems Worldwide 57 2.5 Masons’ Marks in Europe, Medieval and Later 60 2.6 The Morphology of Masons’ Marks 63 2.7 Why Were Masons’ Marks Applied? 69 2.8 Masons and Masters 73 2.9 Masons’ Marks in Families and Workshops 77 2.10 General Characteristics of Marking Systems 80 3 Writing and Other Sign Systems 83 3.1 Theories of the Sign 83 3.2 The Sign in Structuralism: Paradigm and Syntagma, Signifier and Signified 85 3.3 The Sign according to Peirce: Referentiality and Semiosis 93 3.4 Visual and Material Communication: To Write or Not to Write? 97

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3.5 Writing and Other Graphic Systems, Independently and Together 103 3.6 Literacy: Mastering Writing … and Much More 109

part 2 The Deir el-Medina Marking System 4 The Setting: The Workmen of the Royal Tomb and Their Textual Legacy 121 4.1 An Exceptional Village 121 4.2 The Early History of the Royal Necropolis and Its Workmen 123 4.3 Great Changes for Egypt and for the Royal Necropolis 131 4.4 Ramesside Necropolis Administration and Administrators 136 4.5 The End of the Royal Necropolis 143 4.6 Hieratic Necropolis Records … by the Thousands 145 4.7 The Nature of the Documentary Texts 150 4.8 Local Knowledge and Output, Textual and Visual 155 5 The Use of the Workmen’s Marks: Historical Overview 158 5.1 The Earliest Marks of the Royal Necropolis Workmen 158 5.2 The Origin of the Marking System 164 5.3 A Break in the History of the Marking System? 168 5.4 Nineteenth-Dynasty Ostraca with Marks 169 5.5 Marks and Families 174 5.6 The Function of the Nineteenth-Dynasty Marks 176 5.7 The Twentieth-Dynasty Duty Rosters 184 5.8 Other Types of Record from the Twentieth Dynasty 194 5.9 The Late Twentieth Dynasty 202 6 How the Men Came by Their Marks, and Vice Versa 207 6.1 Marks and Their Users 207 6.2 Long- and Short-Lived Marks: Pomegranate, Lotus and Jackal 209 6.3 Long-Lived Marks and Their Graphic Variety: The Families of Qaha and Sennedjem 212 6.4 Short-Lived Marks: Name, Reputation and Status 216 6.5 Mark, Family and Position 217 6.6 Morphology: Distinctive Forms versus Allomorphs 221 6.7 Sign Categories and Fuzzy Borders 227 6.8 The Role of Writing and Literacy 231

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6.9 Morphology and Semiosis: Anything Goes? 236 6.10 Historical and Functional Context: Graphic Communication and Literacy 240 Epilogue: The Alphabet Bibliographical Essay

244 247

References 251 Timetable: Kings and Dynasties of the Egyptian New Kingdom Index of Subjects 277 Index of Individuals 281 Index of Ostraca 284 Index of Papyri 286 Index of Theban Graffiti 287 Index of Theban Tombs, Royal and Private 288 Index of Deir el-Medina Marks 289

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Preface The present book is a synthesis of the research project ‘Symbolizing Identity. Identity marks and their relation to writing in New Kingdom Egypt’, which was carried out at Leiden University under the author’s supervision from 2011 to 2015, and supported by the Netherlands Organisation for Scientific Research (nwo). The project built on preliminary research done, and material collected by the author since 2000. The fifteen years thus covered present a fascinating story of decipherment. The identity marks used by the royal necropolis workmen of New Kingdom Egypt, and the system these marks were part of, were utterly obscure to Egyptologists and the wider scholarly world until a couple of decades ago. Since then, much of the system has become clear, most of the thousands of objects inscribed with the marks can be dated, and many of the marks can now be ascribed to individual workmen and their families. As a result, a richly represented system of identity marks has revealed much of its nature and dynamics, and can be reconstructed for a period of over three centuries. This is a unique result in the worldwide study of historical marking systems, most of which lack the necessary background information, especially for periods of time exceeding one or two generations. Between 2011 and 2015 most of the research was done by two brilliant PhD students: Kyra van der Moezel and Daniel Soliman. Much of this book is based on their work and the resulting PhD theses, both defended at Leiden University in September 2016 (Moezel 2016; Soliman 2016). Moreover, several publications and ancient sources would not have come to my attention without Kyra’s and Daniel’s alertness. I feel very grateful for having been able to work with them as a team. The team also included Olaf Kaper as co-supervisor, Rob Demarée, Alex de Voogt and Dirk de Vries as advisors, and student assistants Suzanne Knauff and Rikst Ponjee, who helped process the ocean of relevant images and data. This was done in a tailor-made database created for the project by Hans van den Berg. A special font reflecting the individual signs of the marking system investigated, and also used in this book, was created mainly by Kyra, Rikst and Hans. In spite of being a synthesis of scholarly teamwork, this book remains the personal product of its author. That author is an Egyptologist. For methodology, this means that the points of departure are not specific theories or debates, but a particular phenomenon (a system of identity marks), and a vast corpus of ancient source material (including ostraca, graffiti, and objects of various sorts inscribed with marks) that needs to be read and understood. In order to address these issues, an interpretative framework is indispensable. The book therefore

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discusses theoretical approaches to the research of visual communication, including writing, and tests some of these for their usefulness for explaining what marking systems are about. It has greatly benefited from the research and advice of non-Egyptologists, including specialists in other ancient cultures and languages, linguists, archaeologists and art historians. It has also benefited from cooperation with Egyptological colleagues working on related topics, mainly those of the Humboldt University, Berlin, and Warsaw University, who from 2011 to 2014 were working together in the project called ‘Non-Textual Marking Systems in Ancient Egypt’. In all, this work is based on pioneering research that combines the decipherment of an ancient graphic code with modern scholarship on visual communication. Its relevance exceeds the context of Egyptology by far, and it seeks to appeal to scholars in different fields. For this reason, the book was written with the non-Egyptological reader in mind. One of the consequences of this way of presenting the results is that aspects of Ancient Egyptian history, culture and writing systems must be explained to the non-specialist, and the same is true for Egyptological scholarly practice. Egyptologists are therefore asked to show tolerance for the sections explaining what hieroglyphs, hieratic and Deir elMedina are all about. At the same time, linguists and other cognitive scientists must have patience when reading through sections dealing with semiotic and grammatological basics. For the benefit of non-Egyptologists, the bibliographical references are given in the social sciences format (name, year) instead of abbreviated titles, and there is a brief bibliographical essay that facilitates the retrieval of more background information for anyone who wishes to do so. Whenever Egyptian hieroglyphic and documentary hieratic texts are discussed, references are given to modern translations if these are available. The primary source material (mainly ostraca inscribed with marks) is referred to throughout the book, especially in chapters 1, 5 and 6. Much of this material sadly remains unpublished. The publication of hundreds of relevant ostraca was not feasible within the framework of the project in view of the amount of work it would involve, and even more so because of the embargos on many unpublished pieces recently excavated or kept by museums and institutes, pending their publication by the staff responsible. For the same reason, the database compiled for the project cannot at this point be made widely accessible online. Having said this, I should express here my thanks to all the institutions, expeditions and colleagues who have made the material under their care accessible to the research team: Ägyptisches Museum (Leipzig); Amarna Royal Tombs Project (artp): Nicholas Reeves; Ashmolean Museum (Oxford); Bibliothèque Nationale et Universitaire de Strasbourg; Deir el Medine online, Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München:

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Günter Burkard, Maren Goecke-Bauer; Deutsches Archäologisches Institut (Cairo) excavations at Dra Abu el-Naga: Daniel Polz, Günter Burkard and Susanne Michels; Egyptian Museum (Cairo): Wafaa El Sadik, Lotfy Abd El Hamid and Mahmoud Ibrahim; Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale (ifao, Cairo): Laurent Bavay and Nadine Cherpion; Medelhavsmuseet (Stockholm): Sofia Häggman; Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York): Niv Allon; Museo Egizio (Florence): Maria Guidotti; Museo Egizio (Turin): Christian Greco, Enrico Ferraris and Paolo Del Vesco; Naprstek Museum (Prague): Pavel Onderka; Oriental Institute Museum of the University of Chicago; Petrie Museum (London): Stephen Quirke; Rijksmuseum van Oudheden (Leiden): Maarten Raven; Royal Ontario Museum (Toronto) Royal Sarcophagi Project: Edwin Brock; University of Basel Kings’ Valley Project: Susanne Bickel; University of Basel Mission Siptah-Ramses x.: Debora Cilli and Andreas Dorn; University of Memphis Amenmesse Project: Otto Schaden†; Workmen’s Huts in the Theban Mountains Project of the Finnish Egyptological Society: Jaana Toivari-Viitala†. Some colleagues kindly let us use the manuscripts of their forthcoming publications or theses: David Aston (ms of Aston 2014), Günter Burkard (ms of Burkard forthcoming), Andreas Dorn (ms of Dorn 2011a), Kathrin Gabler (Gabler 2015), Gregor Neunert (ma thesis on the Carter-Carnarvon ostraca, University of Munich, 2004). Jiro Kondo kindly sent a copy of the report of the Japanese expedition in the West Valley of the Kings (Yoshimura 2011). I wish to thank the members of the project team ‘Symbolizing Identity’, especially Kyra and Daniel, for their diligence and help, Olaf Kaper for his willingness to take on the project with me and to act as promotor for the PhDs, and Rob Demarée whose vast knowledge about Deir el-Medina is, as always, indispensable. I thank the Netherlands Organization for Scientific Research (nwo) for the substantial grant that made it possible to appoint the PhD students and student assistants, and which also included the teaching replacement that gave me the opportunity to write this book. The Leiden University Institute for Area Studies (lias), under the directorship of Maghiel van Crevel, has proved to be a very stimulating and supportive environment for the project and its team. I thank Brill Publishers for considering publication of the book in their series Culture and History of the Ancient Near East. Koen Donker van Heel and Joachim Quack have kindly read the entire manuscript, and suggested corrections where necessary. Preliminary versions of chapters 1 and 4 were read by Alex de Voogt, sections 2.5–2.9 by Dirk de Vries, chapter 3 by Kyra van der Moezel, chapter 4 by Rob Demarée, chapters 5 and 6 by Daniel Soliman. They must all be thanked here for their helpful comments and corrections. Helen Richardson Hewitt has checked my English and corrected where necessary, kindly and patiently as ever.

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Finally, I must express my gratitude to three persons outside the groves of Academe: Iris, who has become such an important part of my life, and my two bright girls Sara and Lotte. Without the love and joy I share with them, it would have been very difficult for me to write this book.

List of Figures 1.1

Ostracon Berlin p 12625 (right) + ifao onl 300 (left), reverse. Photo by Maren Goeck-Bauer and Kyra van der Moezel, published with kind permission of Deir el Medine online and the Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale (ifao). See also chapter 5, table 5.4 6 1.2 Facsimile and transcription of O. uc 32054; oath by Penrennut, with a colophon by the chief workman Nekhemmut (bottom line). From Černý and Gardiner 1957: pl. xx and xxa 12 1.3 Ostracon Cairo cg 24105 with marks, dots and strokes. From Daressy 1902: pl. xviii 13 1.4 Ostraca Cairo cg 25270 (left) and uc 45733 (right). From Daressy 1901: pl. lv; Petrie 1915: 136 15 1.5 Turin ostracon no. 66837. From Leibovitch 1940: pl. xix, no. 50 19 1.6 sḏm ‘to hear’ in hieroglyphs, in Ramesside hieratic and in Roman demotic. Hieratic sample from Möller 1927a: 1, line 10; demotic sample from Erichsen 1954: 478 25 1.7 sḏm ‘to hear’ and msḏr ‘ear’ in hieroglyphs 27 2.1 Papyrus Varzy. Photo Musée Auguste Grasset—Varzy, by kind permission of Jean-Michel Roudier 40 2.2 Cattle brand Munich äs 5520 from El-Amarna (fourteenth century bce), showing I nefer and I ankh. From Müller 1987: 75, fig. 25a 41 2.3 Dish, jar and jar stand, all marked with I. From Aston 2014: 123, 166–167, nos. 220, 567, 573; reproduced here with kind permission of David Aston and Hanna Jenni 46 2.4 Left: Crew ‘Drunks of Menkaure’, phyle imi-weret, team mark lower left: ibis? Right: Same crew and phyle, team mark geometric. From Reisner 1931: plan xi, nos. v and xxiv 50 2.5 Left: Blocks with marks in the temple of Thutmose iii, Deir el-Bahri. Right: Marks on the causeway of the same temple, Asasif. Left: From Lipińska 1977: 23 fig. 11. Right: From Budka 2009b: 184, fig. 7 55 2.6 The marks of Benito Rodríguez Castro and his descendants, at A Guarda. From Evans Pim 2013: 113, fig. 9 58 2.7 Reindeer marks of the Norwegian Lapps. From Delaporte 1987: 22, fig. 2 59 2.8 Masons’ marks in the crypt of the cathedral of Trier (left) and in the cathedral of Geneva (right). From Janse and de Vries 1991: 50, fig. 32; 51, fig. 34 62 2.9 Typology of masons’ marks. Adapted from van Belle 2014: 39 64 2.10 Bell tower of Viviers cathedral. From Esquieu 1992: 127, fig. 1 65 2.11 Masons’ marks of the 14th century, towers of La Rochelle. From Janse and de Vries 1991: 53, fig. 44 68

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2.12 Marks at Saint-Benoît-sur-Loire: leg(?), shield and capital S. Photos Iris Borup 72 2.13 Sammelstein in Neumarkt. From Janse and de Vries 1991: 62, fig. 71 75 2.14 Contract for deliveries of stone at Hampton Court, 1536, with the mark of the stonemason Martyn Wastelle at the bottom. From Salzman 1952: pl. 11 77 2.15 The marks of Willem and Gijsbert van Boelre in the cathedral of Utrecht. From Janse and de Vries 1991: 56, fig. 54 78 3.1 Elck (or Nemo non), engraving by Pieter van der Heyden after a drawing by Pieter Brueghel the Elder; published by Hieronymus Cock, Antwerp, 1550–1556. Photo public domain 84 3.2 Syntagmatic and paradigmatic axes. From van der Moezel 2016: 154, fig. ii2–30 86 3.3 Narmer palette, appr. 3000bce. King Narmer, with Upper Egyptian crown, defeats a northern enemy. The falcon figure (top right) represents the same king. From Gardiner 1957: 7 87 3.4 The Peircean model of the sign. From van der Moezel 2016: 175, fig. ii2–41 93 3.5 Venn diagrams of visual communication. From Elkins 1999: 85 107 4.1 Map of Thebes and its necropolis. From Bierbrier 1982: 16 122 4.2 Stela Turin cg 50004, dedicated to King Thutmose iii and to the ‘King’s Scribe in the Great Place’, Amenemope, by his son, the ‘draftsman of Amun’, Tener. The name Amun has been erased at some point in the reign of Akhenaten, in Tener’s title in the third column from the right, and in the name Amenemope in the bottom line. From Roccati and Tosi 1972: 263 128 4.3 Ostracon Cairo cg 25216 from the tomb of Sennedjem (tt 1), Deir el-Medina, bearing part of the Story of Sinuhe. The ostracon is broken in two fragments; its total length is 106cm. From Daressy 1901: pl. xli 156 4.4 Examples of figured ostraca, Berlin p 3311 (left) and 21443 (right). From Brunner-Traut 1956: pl. vi and xxxiii 157 5.1 Eighteenth Dynasty pottery from the workmen’s settlement at Deir el-Medina featuring marks, including that of Kha. From Bruyère 1953: pl. xxi 164 5.2 Schematic rendering of O. Schaden 1. After Soliman forthcoming. 177 5.3 Ostraca ifao onl 6313 and 6263. From Bruyère 1937b: 62 (no. 7); Bruyère 1953: pl. xviii 179 5.4 Hathor temple pavement, Deir el-Medina. From Bruyère 1952: pl. ix 182 5.5 Ostracon Glasgow d.1925.80, possibly dating to the reign of Ramesses v. The obverse (left) records days 1–25 of an unknown month; the reverse (right) continues with days 26–30 and days 1–5 of the following month. From McDowell 1993: pl. xx and xxi. Reproduced with kind permission of the Griffith Institute 189 5.6 Ostracon Leiden f.2000/1.5. Photo by Kyra van der Moezel; line drawing by

list of figures

5.7 6.1 6.2 6.3 6.4

6.5 6.6

6.7 6.8

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Daniel Soliman. Published with kind permission of the National Museum of Antiquities 191 Ostracon Turin cg 57523, with images of furniture, and groups of marks in hieratic ductus, reign of Ramesses iv or v. From López 1984: pl. 171a 201 Amennakht (xii) ‘The Jackal’ and his ancestors. 210 Qenna (i), Harmose (ii) and their ancestors. 213 Sennedjem and his descendants. 215 Ostracon Strasbourg h 13, late reign of Ramesses iii, with marks I  I I from top to bottom. The mark I belongs to Neferhotep (xi) or his son Meryre (vi). From Koenig 1997: pl. 6; reproduced here with kind permission of the author and the ifao 218 Meryre (v) and his descendants. 219 Level and plummet from the Middle Kingdom necropolis of Lisht, from Gautier and Jéquier 1902: 60, fig. 71 and 73;  as rendered on ostraca ifao onl 6536 (left) and 6351 (right). Facsimiles Kyra van der Moezel, published with kind permission of the ifao 223 Forms of I and I, from left to right: O. Berlin p 14231, O. DeM 264, O. Fitzwilliam Museum ega 6120.1943, O. Ashmolean Museum ho 1094. 224 Marks of the written, concrete (pictorial) and abstract domains. 231

List of Tables 1.1 5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5

The roster of day duties in regnal years 24 and 31 of Ramesses iii, and the marks on O. Berlin p 12625 9 Marks on ostraca associated with the tombs of Thutmose iii, Amenhotep ii and iii 162 Marks on ostraca from the reign of Amenhotep iii and from the early Nineteenth Dynasty 170 Names of workmen on O. bm ea 5634 and marks on ostraca from the early Nineteenth Dynasty 172 Dates and marks on O. Berlin p 12625 + ifao onl 300 with corresponding names from hieratic sources. 186 The first four marks on ostraca bm ea 50716, Prague nm p 3836 and Turin cg 57534 195

Prologue In 2011, the Starbucks company decided to restyle the logo of the siren that had been their trademark for forty years. As one announcement of the restyling had it: ‘Our new evolution liberates the Siren from the outer ring, making her the true, welcoming face of Starbucks.’1 The disappearance of the ring surrounding the siren also meant the disappearance of the text ‘Starbucks Coffee’ from the logo, leaving a non-textual device, the icon of the double-tailed mermaid. Since then, the non-textual logo has indeed been widely adopted on Starbucks signboards, cups and merchandise. Non-textual trademarks were not new at the time Starbucks restyled; Apple and Nike, for instance, already relied on the power of simple visual design without any text, as did many automobile brands.2 It would seem that all these logos aim for a similar effect: that of simple but highly characteristic images imposing themselves on the minds of prospective buyers. Their ways of referring to the companies represented, however, are different. The Apple logo is an iconic reference to the company’s English name (the brand is indeed a ‘spoken’ as much as a visual one). The reference thus appears to be linguistic as much as it is iconic, but its origin is different. The first Apple logo (1976) depicted an apple tree with Sir Isaac Newton sitting under it, the reference being to innovative thinking rather than apples. To an observer familiar with this origin, the reference may be historical and contiguous (historical person > recognised quality of that person > professed quality of the company), but most observers will not reach any further association than the link between icon and company name. The reference elicited by the Nike ‘swoosh’ is more abstract. As an icon it is supposed to suggest movement, and is not connected with the company name (which in fact appeared later than the logo), or with the Greek goddess of victory. Even so, the name ‘Nike’ is the unquestioning response of its observer. The Starbucks’ mermaid or siren, also, is not a direct reference to the company name, nor to its products: there is nothing that immediately connects the mermaid to coffee, or to the name ‘Starbucks’. The image is from a sixteenth-century Norwegian engraving; the name ‘Starbucks’ was inspired by the name of Captain Ahab’s chief mate in Herman Melville’s Moby Dick. What 1 http://www.starbucks.com/blog/so-who-is-the-siren. This Prologue was partly inspired by an article by B. Kist, ‘Starbucks verandert logo: de meermin blijft’, nrc Handelsblad, January 17th, 2011. 2 For commercial logos, see Depauw 2009b: 208; Kammerzell 2009: 281–283; Perrin 2013: 149– 159.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi: 10.1163/9789004357549_002

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the mermaid and the company name do share, therefore, is maritime nostalgia. This, indeed, seems to have been the reference intended by the company, which started in Seattle as a shop selling coffee, tea and spices as traditional overseas products in 1971. These differences notwithstanding, almost everyone would recognise the trademarks as company brands, and be able to tell what they stand for. To put it differently: very different processes of signification are at work in very similar sorts of signs. These signs do not belong to one coherent system. Every company is free to create and use its own trademark, the single restriction being that it does not resemble the trademarks of other companies too much. Despite this freedom, the resulting signs have very similar uses and objectives, and share important morphological and functional characteristics. One of these characteristics is that they can be combined with text, but can as easily operate without it. With or without the text ‘Starbucks Coffee’, the siren logo directly appeals to observers, and reminds them of a certain product and quality. The same is true for the apple, and for the Nike swoosh. One potential advantage of the non-dependence of the trademarks on writing is the appeal to users of different languages, and even to less literate observers: (…) nonlinguistic signs are ideally suited to projecting a relatively uniform identity and an associated value or values across demographic categories and language barriers in diverse global markets.3 The marks to be discussed in this book share the characteristics of the commercial logos outlined above. They are of very different graphic shapes, and the ways they refer to identities (in this case not of companies, but of individual persons) are equally diverse: iconic, linguistic, and otherwise. In contrast to company logos, however, they belong to coherent sign systems, which were or are used within local communities. The marking system that is of central importance in the book was used for almost four centuries by one specific community of Ancient Egyptian craftsmen and their families. The nature and use of their marks are as intriguing as those of modern commercial logos, and their interaction with writing is fascinating. 3 Perrin 2013: 129.

part 1 Ancient Egyptian Identity Marks in Theoretical and Comparative Perspective

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chapter 1

Making Sense of Funny Signs A moment later there lay on the table before him a couple of weatherworn plaques of grey stone (…) on which he saw markings of a curious character that might have been the mere tracings of natural forces through the ages, or, equally well, the half-obliterated hieroglyphics cut upon their surface in past centuries by the more or less untutored hand of a common scribe. algernon blackwood, ‘The Man who Found Out’.1

∵ 1.1

An Ancient Text from Berlin

The quest for the meaning and function of Ancient Egyptian workmen’s marks, the results of which are set out in this book, started sixteen years ago. Early in the year 2000, my colleague Petra Andrássy of the Humboldt University sent me an image of an inscribed potsherd, ostracon Berlin p 12625 (Fig. 1.1).2 At the time, she was working on ostraca from the Egyptian Middle Kingdom (ca. 2000–1650 bce) kept in the Egyptian Museum in Berlin, but in the course of her research hit upon a specimen from a later period. This ostracon (numbered Berlin p 12625) was recognised by her as belonging to the archives of the workforce responsible for the construction of the tombs of the New Kingdom pharaohs (ca. 1550–1070bce). It was inscribed with a selection of the marks that form the subject of this book, in combination with numbers written in hieratic, the common cursive script of the time. This type of record was not unknown to Egyptologists; a few other examples had already been published and discussed, as well as several dozen ostraca bearing marks only. The same 1 First published in 1909. Reference for the passage as quoted here: Algernon Blackwood, Ancient Sorceries and Other Strange Tales, (ed. by S.T. Joshi). New York etc.: Penguin Books, 2002: 140. 2 The ostracon was later published in Deir el Medine online [http://dem-online.gwi.uni -muenchen.de], and is presently known to belong to an unpublished fragment kept in the French Archaeological Institute in Cairo (ifao), there numbered O. ifao onl 300.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi: 10.1163/9789004357549_003

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figure 1.1 Ostracon Berlin p 12625 (right) + ifao onl 300 (left), reverse photo by maren goeck-bauer and kyra van der moezel, published with kind permission of deir el medine online and the institut français d’ archéologie orientale (ifao). see also chapter 5, table 5.4.

signs were known as pot marks and graffiti. Their nature and meaning were still obscure: did they represent writing, or some other type of notation system that existed alongside hieratic and monumental hieroglyphs? The marks’ resistance to decipherment, and the question as to whether they were writing or not, induced Egyptologists to call them ‘funny signs’. Looking carefully at the marks and numbers on the Berlin ostracon, I realised that it was a potential key for the understanding of the marks and the system underlying their use. Research into documentary ostraca and papyri produced by the New Kingdom necropolis scribes had, at the time, already been a focus of Egyptological research at Leiden University for decades. Many thousands of such texts have survived, and together they enable us to follow, for a period of over two centuries, the lives and activities of the workmen who constructed and decorated the royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings and the Valley of the Queens. The large decorated rock tombs in these valleys, perhaps the most famous of all archaeological sites, were made by expert draftsmen, sculptors and painters. These men, together with their families, lived in a settlement built in a small valley

making sense of funny signs

7

between The Great Field, as the Valley of the Kings was called by the Ancient Egyptians, and The Place of Beauty, as the Valley of the Queens was known at the time. The workmen’s settlement was simply called The Village by its inhabitants; its site is at the present time known by the name Deir el-Medina.3 The men were supervised by chief workmen and by scribes. The latter also kept track of the work progress and supplies. In the course of time, the scribes also increasingly paid attention to the private lives, transactions and legal disputes of the workmen and their families. All this was written down in hieratic, with black and red ink, on papyrus but mainly on fragments of pottery and limestone (called ‘ostraca’ by Egyptologists). Excavations of the royal tombs and the workmen’s settlement have yielded thousands of such administrative (or: documentary) ostraca, together with several hundred papyri. Literary and religious ostraca and papyri have survived from the same workmen’s community, in equally impressive numbers. More on these texts and their historical background will be said in chapter 4 (especially in sections 4.6–4.8). Ostraca inscribed with marks, such as the Berlin piece, would appear to be related to the documentary texts. The importance of ostracon Berlin p 12625 lay in the fact that it showed a substantial series of workmen’s marks in combination with calendar dates. Together, the marks and dates were likely to reflect the so-called duty roster, a system in which every individual day was connected with the name of a particular workman, in a fixed order. This system was already well-known from hieratic texts of the late New Kingdom, and even its appearance on ostraca inscribed with marks had already been recognised. In 1993, the Egyptologist Andrea McDowell published a number of hieratic ostraca from the collection of the Hunterian Museum in Glasgow. Among these were two pieces inscribed with marks in combination with hieratic calendar dates. One of these, ostracon Glasgow d.1925.67, even preserves double entries for the same days, some fully in hieratic and others in a different style, with marks.4 This piece was therefore already a key for the identification of the marks, but at the time McDowell still felt insecure about the identification suggested by the Glasgow ostraca, although she was convinced that they reflected the duty roster.5 3 Literally ‘Monastery of the Town’: the place was so called because of a monastery or church located there in Christian and early Islamic times. The ‘Town’ referred to is nearby Medinet Habu (‘Town of Habu’), the site of the memorial temple of King Ramesses iii, and of an important town on the west bank of the Nile from the Greco-Roman Period onwards. 4 McDowell 1993: 4–5, pl. ii–iii. 5 See her comments on O. Glasgow d.1925.80 (McDowell 1993: 19), criticised quite unjustly by M. Megally (1998).

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McDowell was able to connect two of these marks to the names of necropolis workmen, namely Mose and Kasa, although given the fact that the ancient Egyptian scripts omit vowels, more appropriate transcriptions of their names would be Ms and Ks.6 According to hieratic sources, the positions of these two workmen in the duty roster were five days apart during the last years of the reign of Ramesses iii and the early years of his successor, Ramesses iv. The same seems to be the case on another ostracon in Glasgow (d.1925.80),7 and also on ostracon Berlin p 12625. On the latter, the sign I appears in combination with a ‘day 5’ (obverse, left column, bottom) and a ‘day 24’ (obverse, red perpendicular line over left column). These dates are nineteen days apart, and we know from hieratic texts that the duty roster was indeed a nineteen-day cycle. The sign itself resembles an Egyptian hieroglyph with the phonetic value ms. The workman referred to by this sign may well have been Mose/Ms, whose name in hieratic sources also begins with I. Five days earlier, there was a workman on duty who is indicated with I, phonetic k, on ostraca Berlin p 12625 and Glasgow d.1925.80. Hieratic ostraca tell us that this position was held by a workman named Kasa/Ks whose name begins with a sign similar to I. These identifications having been made, it appeared possible to connect several other marks resembling hieroglyphs to workmen’s names: a bird I to Hori/Ḥr (a name inspired by the falcon god Horus), I (phonetic mr)8 to Meryre/Mry-Rʿ, and I (phonetic wsr) to Userhat/Wsr-ḥɜ.t. The relative positions of these three marks in the series indeed correspond to the positions in the duty roster held by the workmen bearing these names in the late reign of Ramesses iii and the early years of his successor (table 1.1).9 Proceeding from the likelihood that the series of marks on the Berlin and Glasgow ostraca reflect the duty roster of the necropolis workmen, and from the mere assumption that the marks highlighted above refer to Mose, Kasa, Hori, Meryre and Userhat, the next steps to take were (1) to identify the remaining

6 The pseudo-vocalisation of Ancient Egyptian words and names by Egyptologists and others partly has its basis in Greek and Babylonian transcriptions, and in the use of so-called weak consonants (or semi-vowels) by the Egyptian scribes. They are always highly artificial and speculative, and serve no other purpose than to make the names pronounceable. The vocalisation of most Egyptian proper names in this book follows Davies 1999. 7 McDowell 1993: 19–20, pl. xx–xxi. See also chapter 5, section 5.7 and fig. 5.5. 8 Although apparently a mere cross on O. Berlin p 12625, parallels on other ostraca show that I is meant (Haring 2009b: 127; cf. Cilli 2015: 1309). See chapter 6, fig. 6.7. 9 The criticism of Haring 2000 by Debora Cilli (2015: 1308–1309, 1311) has been superseded by the extensive research of ostraca with marks during the past years. The author appears to have missed my 2009 papers (Haring 2009a and 2009b).

making sense of funny signs table 1.1

9

The roster of day duties in regnal years 24 and 31 of Ramesses iii, and the marks on O. Berlin p 12625

Day Mark Year 24

Year 31

5 6 [7]

I I

Mose Mose Menna Hori Nekhemmut Userhat

18 19

I I

Meryre Kasa

24 25 26

I I I

Mose Mose Menna Hori Nekhemmut Userhat

Neferhotep Penanuqet

marks with other workmen known from the duty roster in hieratic sources, and (2) to establish the dates of the Berlin and Glasgow ostraca as precisely as possible. These steps could not be taken independently of each other, because identification depended on dating, and vice versa. The hieratic ostraca with duty rosters show that there were changes in the group of nineteen workmen: men could change places, one workman could stand in for another for a brief period of time, and workmen who retired or died were replaced by others, very often by their sons. This means that even in a short period of time the roster, although basically maintaining a fixed order, was subject to change. This circumstance made it necessary to date a text to the year, even to the month precisely. However, the ostraca inscribed with marks do not always specify the years or months they were written in, so that precise dating depends on the one type of clear information they present: the duty roster with its supposed identifications of workmen. One further problem soon made its appearance: according to the hieratic texts there was no single month in which all five workmen were on duty. Mose, Kasa and Meryre were on duty on the dates recorded on ostracon Berlin p 12625 in a certain month in year 24 of Ramesses iii, but the positions of Kasa and Meryre were later taken by other workmen. Hori and Userhat, on the other hand, did not serve on the dates indicated by the Berlin ostracon before year 31, when Mose was still in the roster, but Kasa and Meryre were not (table 1.1). Choosing either of these years would therefore carry the same disadvantage:

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two marks would lose their apparent identification. Yet the later date turned out to be the most likely option. After year 24, the positions of Kasa and Meryre on the calendar dates of the Berlin ostracon were held by workmen called Penanuqet and Neferhotep respectively. Prosopographical research indicates that these two workmen were probably the sons of Kasa and Meryre, and would thus have continued to use the marks of their fathers. Although the possibility of taking over a name-related mark by a workman with a different name was a potential threat to the other identifications, the date now arrived at for ostracon Berlin p 12625 seemed to be the best possible one indeed: the third and fourth months of the peret season in regnal year 31 of Ramesses iii (December of 1157 and January of 1156bce according to current chronological standards).10 Meanwhile, it has been discovered that the Berlin ostracon joins an unpublished fragment kept in the French Archaeological Institute (ifao) in Cairo, and the information preserved on that fragment has confirmed the interpretation and dating given above.11 Ostracon Glasgow d.1925.67 is dated precisely by its hieratic text, six years earlier, to the second month of the peret season, year 25. The other Glasgow ostracon, d.1925.80, still defies precise dating, but it is most likely that it was made during the reign of Ramesses v (see chapter 5, section 5.7). The dating of the Berlin ostracon to a particular regnal year (and within this year, to particular calendar dates) made it possible to compare almost the full series of 19 marks with the names of workmen in the duty roster as recorded by hieratic ostraca of that time (see chapter 5, table 5.4). To the Egyptological mind, it seemed at this point that the majority of the marks (that is, the whole set except for the five discussed so far) did not bear any relation to the names of the corresponding workmen. Of course, it was possible that these marks, or some of them, could be connected to the names of the workmen’s predecessors or ancestors. That would be something to find out by extending the period covered by ostraca with marks, that is, to assign precise dates to more of such documents. The Berlin and Glasgow ostraca could serve as anchor points for this venture, that would slowly be expanded to extend to the three centuries covered by the ostraca preserved, and to reveal the workings of this fascinating marking system. The outcome of this venture, including an analysis of the

10

11

Haring 2000. For the chronology, see Hornung, Krauss, and Warburton 2006: 493. The Egyptian calendar had three seasons: akhet, peret and shemu, each season having four months of 30 days. For the conversion to Julian months, see Demarée and Janssen 1982: [xiii]. Haring and Soliman 2014: 81–82.

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relevant Egyptian material and context, but also comparable material from other cultures and periods, as well as a theoretical basis for research, will be outlined in the chapters which follow.

1.2

Documentary Texts, Hieratic and Otherwise

Hieratic texts from the New Kingdom royal necropolis have long been the objects of Egyptological research. They are, in fact, the main textual sources for the study of Ancient Egyptian society and daily life in the time preceding the Greco-Roman Period (which started with Alexander’s conquest of Egypt in 332bce) with its vast papyrus archives. Hieratic writing was mostly done on papyrus, and on writing boards of wood. Even in the desert climate of Egypt, these materials have largely disappeared. Many pharaonic papyri have, in fact, survived, but these are spread over almost three thousand years, and over many different sites. Most of the surviving documents are of a religious or funerary nature. Their archaeological provenance is tombs and temples, which are often situated in dry desert areas, where conditions are relatively favourable to the preservation of such fragile materials as papyrus and wood. Administrative texts, on the contrary, were kept in the archives of towns and residences, which were located on or near the moist clay of the Nile Valley. Due to exceptional circumstances (see chapter 4), the mountainous desert west of Luxor, ancient Thebes, is the source of an exceptional number of papyri. What is more, the work in these mountains produced chips of fine, white limestone in unlimited numbers, which became popular local writing material together with potsherds. For many Egyptologists, editing and analysing hieratic texts is standard procedure. The publication of such ancient documents in books, articles and (increasingly) on line, consists of transcriptions of the cursive lines into hieroglyphs, together with translations and discussions. Hieratic ostraca and papyri represent a particular type of artefact that finds its way into a particular type of professional publication: the ostraca and papyri kept in museums or found during excavations are very often published in separate catalogues, the typical appearance of which includes photographs and/or facsimiles (hand-made or digital copies), transcriptions, translations and discussion (Fig. 1.2). Hieratic is by no means the only type of graphic recording and communication left by the necropolis workmen’s community. Apart from hieratic we find hieroglyphs, in the royal tombs but also in the workmen’s private tombs and on other monuments, as well as on ostraca. Yet other ostraca are of the ‘figured’ type, that is, with drawings or paintings. Figured ostraca may be of a religious

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figure 1.2 Facsimile and transcription of O. uc 32054; oath by Penrennut, with a colophon by the chief workman Nekhemmut (bottom line) from černý and gardiner 1957: pl. xx and xxa12

nature (and as such, objects of religious practice), they may be satirical, or mere sketches for monumental decorations, exercise or amusement. Hieratic, hieroglyphic and figured ostraca, each genre being represented by hundreds or thousands of specimens, are often found in the same catalogues, but they can also be published separately. But even this is not the end of it. Catalogues sometimes include, among the types of written and figured ostraca described above, pottery and stone fragments showing peculiar signs that are not necessarily characters of a writing system, although they often resemble hieroglyphs or hieratic characters. These signs, now better known as workmen’s marks, may be accompanied by dots or strokes in varying numbers, and there are even ostraca that bear nothing but series of dots or strokes (Fig. 1.3). The marks have baffled Egyptologists for a long time. They could not be read like hieroglyphs or hieratic; probably they do not even represent a writing system. At the same time, their partial hieroglyphic appearance had its appeal to the Egyptological mind, and kept provoking efforts to read and to classify them. The resulting frustration gave rise to such labels as ‘non-standard’, ‘nonhieroglyphic’, ‘enigmatic’, ‘cryptic’, even ‘cabalistic’.13 The signs have been, and are still referred to by some as ‘funny signs’ (usually with quotation marks), 12 13

Transcription in Kitchen 1983b: 143; translation in Kitchen 2012: 118. McDowell 1993: 19; cf. Megally 1998: 280; Yoshimura and Kondo 1995: 18; Gasse 2000: 7; Yoshimura and Kondo 2004: 209.

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figure 1.3 Ostracon Cairo cg 24105 with marks, dots and strokes from daressy 1902: pl. xviii

an expression suggesting marginal importance.14 Remarkably, when scripts and other notation systems keep resisting decipherment, scholars seem to lose interest. This is the case with, for instance, the so-called ‘Indus script’ (which is probably not a script), and the ‘pseudo-hieroglyphic’ script of Byblos (which probably is).15 Thus, the funny signs ostraca went the same way as other unsolved, ‘cold’ cases, and were sometimes duly presented in catalogues along with readable ostraca, but more often left out of publications, and out of consideration altogether. The same is true for yet other types of graphic recording: there are ostraca bearing signs that are not hieroglyphs, not hieratic characters, and not distinguishable marks, either. There are hybrid inscriptions that are partly hieratic, partly non-hieratic, perhaps even partly non-writing. There are supposed cases of pseudo-script that, on the whole, are neither hieroglyphic nor hieratic. Some ostraca show groups of furniture and clothing (the latter type being labelled ‘pictorial clothing lists’: see chapter 5, section 5.6). Some documents belonging to these categories include marks, others do not. The pile of ‘unreadable’ ostraca in museums and archaeological storerooms becomes smaller, but has far from disappeared. Scholars pull out of the pile what they think they recognise; the rest is barely mentioned, or not mentioned at all, in Egyptological literature. Until recently, this was also the fate of ostraca bearing necropolis workmen’s marks, in spite of a substantial body of material available: the Leiden research 14 15

E.g. Parkinson 1999: 93 and 96; Haring 2000: 45; Aston 2009: 49; Rzepka 2015: 159. The question ‘script or not?’ is obviously controversial as long as a notation system is not properly understood. Statistical methods for answering this question are equally controversial; see Sproat 2014. The pseudo-hieroglyphs of Byblos, usually dated to the Middle Bronze Age (i.e. roughly contemporary with the Egyptian Middle Kingdom), are supposed by many to represent a syllabic writing system, but none of the attempts at decipherment has led to broad consensus so far (see Daniels and Bright 1996: 29–30).

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project ‘Symbolizing Identity’ has identified over a thousand ostraca bearing these funny signs, or marks as they may be called more properly. And ostraca are by no means the only objects inscribed with marks of this nature. The same signs are attested on objects from the workmen’s settlement and tombs, especially pottery vessels, and in hundreds of graffiti in the Theban mountains. This brings the number of source ‘documents’ to several thousand, the sheer number suggesting that the system of marks was widespread and important, and therefore that they issue an urgent call for decipherment and interpretation. That is, insofar as the marks themselves are not already fascinating enough as representatives of a systematic graphic code that is not writing, yet seems to share some of its characteristics.

1.3

The Research History of the Necropolis Workmen’s Marks

Objects inscribed with workmen’s identity marks are among some of the earliest publications of ostraca and other finds from the Theban necropolis. Among the hieratic and demotic ostraca in the British Museum published by Samuel Birch in 1868, there are some ostraca bearing marks. Unfamiliar with this type of notation, Birch called them ‘hieroglyphs’, or ‘coarse hieratic writing’.16 In 1901 and 1902, Georges Daressy published a number of ostraca from the Valley of the Kings, including some pieces with marks. A group of four large limestone ostraca found near the tomb of King Amenhotep ii from the early New Kingdom, now in the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, shows series of marks in combination with dots and strokes (fig. 1.3).17 Daressy called the marks ‘signes de fantaisie’, but already suspected that every individual sign represented a particular workman, and that the strokes or dots stood for days of presence at work. On a later ostracon, published by Daressy in a catalogue of the hieratic ostraca in the Cairo Museum, four marks are found together with a hieratic text about the workmen going to the Valley of the Kings, presumably in order to work at the king’s tomb (fig. 1.4). The marks were taken by Daressy to refer to stones worked by the men,18 which is rather unlikely. Marks on other ostraca in the same catalogue were interpreted by him as referring to stones or to workmen.19

16 17 18 19

Birch 1868: 5, pl. vi–vii (O. bm ea 5642 and 5861). Daressy 1902: 64–65, pl. xviii (nos. 24105–24108). Daressy 1901: 69, pl. lv (no. 25270), an interpretation still followed by Helck 2002: 391. Daressy 1901: 82, nos. 25317–25321 (‘marques de pierres’); 83, nos. 25325–25326 (‘signes d’ ouvriers’).

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figure 1.4 Ostraca Cairo cg 25270 (left) and uc 45733 (right) from daressy 1901: pl. lv; petrie 1915: 136

Somewhat similar to Daressy’s interpretation is one given by Sir William Matthew Flinders Petrie in 1915, in the discussion of an ostracon kept at University College, London (fig. 1.4).20 The ostracon is inscribed with signs which can now be recognised as necropolis workmen’s marks, but Petrie saw in them the designations of boats transporting stone blocks, the numbers of which he thought were indicated by series of strokes to the right of the marks. Petrie’s explanation of this ostracon is remarkable, since he had a fundamentally different opinion of the same marks as they occurred on other ostraca and on pottery vessels (see below). The connection between marks and blocks of stone by both Petrie and Daressy may well have been inspired by the Ancient Egyptian tradition of builders’ marks (see chapter 2, section 2.3), or by the medieval and later European masons’ marks (sections 2.5–9). A rather peculiar early interpretation is that of one particular mark, the socalled ‘t-shaped sign’  (with alternative forms  and ). Howard Carter suggested in 1917 that such a sign, when scratched on a rock surface, indicated the location of a tomb.21 Although this interpretation is still given credit in some recent discussions,22 it ought to be dismissed since it fails to recognise the fact that the sign is merely one in a system that includes many different marks. The mark is frequent throughout the New Kingdom in graffiti and on pottery, as well as in clusters of identity marks on ostraca. Similar marks were found on objects from the workmen’s settlement and tombs at Deir el-Medina.23 The principal excavator of the site, Bernard Bruyère,

20 21 22 23

Petrie 1915: 136–137. Carter 1917: 111. Peden 2001: 140; Häggmann 2002: 225–227. For the latter’s interpretation of the Egyptian word ḥy as ‘inspection mark’ in the same context, see Haring 2007: 144. E.g. Bruyère 1925: pl. xxv, nos. 11–12; Bruyère 1926: 59 with pl. v, 106; Bruyère 1927: 60.

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saw them on pottery and stone objects, and suggested that they were either the marks of individual workmen, or belonged to the workshops that had produced the items marked.24 Their use as pot marks appears to have been especially popular at this site. As such, they were applied after firing on ceramics (painted, or scratched), and are usually different in shape and function from pre-fired marks. Whereas the latter tend to be associated with the production and distribution of pottery, post-fired marks are often thought to express ownership of pottery vessels, or rather of their contents. Marks are rare on pottery from New Kingdom sites, with the notable exception of the Theban necropolis, and it is tempting to connect their exceptional popularity there with the occurrences of similar marks on ostraca, which reflect an equally exceptional practice. The use and morphology of pot marks will be discussed more fully in chapter 2, section 2.2. One particular Deir el-Medina mark could be linked to a person known by name already in the early twentieth century, that of Kha, who was supervisor of work at the royal tomb under Amenhotep ii and his successors. The tomb of Kha and his wife Merit was found intact by Ernesto Schiaparelli, and its rich funerary deposits included objects marked with what must have been Kha’s personal sign: . The objects included a bronze bowl and vase, and much linen clothing on which the mark had been painted or embroidered.25 The same mark is found on pottery and ostraca found at Deir el-Medina by Bruyère.26 A totally different view of the workmen’s marks on pottery and on ostraca was expressed, also in the early twentieth century, by Petrie. On numerous Middle Kingdom pottery vessels from El-Lahun and Gurob in the Fayum Oasis, as well as on tiles from the palace of Ramesses iii at Tell el-Yahudiya in the Nile Delta, Petrie saw marks which he interpreted, not merely as producers’ or owners’ marks, but as signs of writing, and products of an early ‘LibyoGreek civilisation of the Aegean and Italy’,27 which passed on ‘in unbroken sequence into the Mediterranean alphabets’.28 In his rather idiosyncratic book The Formation of the Alphabet, published in 1912, Petrie presented the same marks, along with those on Theban necropolis ostraca, many more Egyptian

24 25

26 27 28

Bruyère 1925: 89–90. Schiaparelli 1928: 92–94 (fig. 62–64), 99 (fig. 71), 106 (fig. 80), 136 (fig. 119), 138 (fig. 121), 140 (fig. 123), 143 (fig. 126). The decorated tomb chapel, the mummies of Kha and Merit and the objects from the burial chamber are now all in the Egyptian Museum in Turin. See chapter 5, section 5.1 and fig. 5.1. Petrie 1891: 11. Petrie 1932: 101. For examples of the marks on tiles from Tell el-Yahudiya, see Śliwa 1974: 235–236 (and pl. 30–31 for the tiles themselves); Ditze 2007: 277–278.

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marks from earlier and later periods, as well as marks and alphabetic characters from the Levant, Asia Minor, Greece, Italy, and even Nordic runes. He regarded all of these signs as representations of related or parallel developments, in which linear marks lay at the basis of the earliest alphabetic scripts.29 By doing this, Petrie turned against what had already become the mainstream view in the study of the early alphabet, and which saw the Levantine (especially Phoenician) monoconsonantal scripts as the basis of the Greek alphabet. His theory was not picked up in the mainstream discussion of the time, nor at any later point for that matter. Petrie regarded this as ‘a stubborn disregard (…) by philo-Semites’.30 He felt strengthened in his view that linear alphabetic writing was known in Egypt in the late Middle Kingdom (eighteenth century bce) because of an inscription on a wooden heddle-jack (a weaving implement) he had found at El-Lahun. The inscription is indeed very possibly in linear alphabetic characters, but its date and meaning are far from certain.31 Ironically, it was Petrie himself who had discovered a much more important link in the alphabetic chain, without fully recognising it. In the winter of 1905– 1906, on an expedition in the Sinai desert, he found inscriptions composed with signs that partly appeared to be crude forms of Egyptian hieroglyphs, and partly linear signs unrelated to hieroglyphs. On the basis of Egyptian objects found near the inscriptions, he dated the script at about 1500 bce,32 and was ‘disposed to see in this one of the many alphabets which were in use in the Mediterranean lands long before the fixed alphabet was selected by the Phoenicians.’33 Petrie’s phrase ‘many alphabets’ reflects the view also expressed in The Formation of the Alphabet. The Sinai inscriptions were thus seen by him as part of the multistranded alphabetic history, but by no means as a very important part. Petrie

29

30 31 32 33

Petrie 1912: pl. i (= frontispiece) and ii–vii. The ostraca will be further discussed below. A view somewhat similar to Petrie’s is that of Wolfgang Helck with respect to pot marks of proto-historic Egypt as representing a predynastic writing system which he called butische Schrift (after Buto, the most important excavated centre of North Egyptian prehistoric culture: Helck 1985). The system, which according to Helck already used the rebus principle for phonetic writing, would have been adopted and further modified by conquerors from the south who made Egypt one united kingdom, and ultimately led to the hieroglyphic writing system. This view, however, never found general acceptance, and is nowadays considered obsolete (see Ditze 2007: 278; Engel 2015a: 56, note 2). Petrie 1932: 109. Petrie 1890: pl. ix (no. 12) and xxvii (no. 85); Petrie 1932: 109; see now Gallorini 2009: 119, fig. 4. A date not uncommon in modern discussions of the Sinai alphabetic inscriptions. Petrie 1906: 131.

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argued that, far from being a ‘precursor of the Phoenician’ they were ‘merely a local barbarism’, and a ‘jumble of signs acquired by the local workmen (…) and used for writing’.34 The script of the Sinai texts is nowadays known by scholars as Proto-Sinaitic, and is felt by many to be the oldest known representative of alphabetic writing in the Middle East and the Mediterranean World. Together with two similar inscriptions discovered in southern Egypt in the 1990s (among the Wadi el-Hol graffiti), it is usually dated by Egyptologists to the early second millennium bce, although later dates have also been proposed. It was also an Egyptologist who convincingly argued that the Sinai inscriptions were monoconsonantal, and related to the later Canaanite alphabets. Sir Alan Gardiner was able to decipher, as early as in 1916, a recurrent word in many of the inscriptions, which is bʿlt ‘mistress’; the mistress being the goddess who according to local Egyptian hieroglyphic inscriptions was Hathor, ‘Mistress of Turquoise’. Turquoise and copper were the natural resources of the southern Sinai desert in which the Egyptians were interested, and at the site presently known as Serabit el-Khadim they built a temple for Hathor, where the mining expeditions left numerous hieroglyphic inscriptions. It was here that the Proto-Sinaitic texts were also found. Gardiner demonstrated that (1) the form of many Proto-Sinaitic signs were inspired by Egyptian hieroglyphs; (2) that each of these signs represented the first consonant of a Semitic word for the object represented, e.g. an ox head for the glottal stop /Ɂ/ (called ʾaleph by Semitists and Egyptologists; cf. Bibilical Hebrew ʾeleph ‘ox’), a house plan for /b/ (cf. Hebrew bayit ‘house’).35 The objects represented appeared to correspond to the names of alphabetic characters in Biblical Hebrew tradition, and some of the signs are similar to those of the later Canaanite alphabets, including the Phoenician script. Gardiner’s interpretation is still adhered to by Egyptologists and Semitists,36 and the communis opinio on the history of the alphabetic scripts is essentially monogenetic and evolutionistic, with Egypt and/or the adjoining SyrianPalestine region as the place of origin.37 It was this view that Petrie apparently resented, but his own findings would prove to be of marginal value. Examples do exist of marks developing into alphabetic characters, in modern times and

34 35 36 37

Petrie 1932: 195–196. See also the Epilogue of the present book. Gardiner 1916. See also Parkinson 1999: 181–184. Which does not mean that the Proto-Sinaitic writing system as a whole is well-understood; see Daniels and Bright 1996: 29, 90. See e.g. Sass 1988: 161; Morenz 2011: 49.

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figure 1.5 Turin ostracon no. 66837 from leibovitch 1940: pl. xix, no. 50

under the influence of widespread alphabetic writing.38 The Ancient Egyptian workmen’s and owners’ marks are, in fact, not entirely irrelevant to the study of the early alphabet, and the reverse is equally true. For this reason, the alphabet will return very briefly in the Epilogue. The alphabetic interpretation of the necropolis workmen’s marks did have some more followers than Petrie alone. In a letter of 1908, the archaeologist Edward Ayrton very probably referred to ostraca with workmen’s marks from the Valley of the Kings, which he called ‘Mediterranean’ ostraca.39 The qualification ‘Mediterranean’ betrays a view possibly very similar to Petrie’s, or else reflects the widespread idea, in the early twentieth century, of the Mediterranean or Anatolian origin of the Semitic alphabets.40 A potsherd from the Valley of the Queens in the Egyptian Museum of Turin, which bears two lines of peculiar signs, was regarded as Proto-Sinaïtic by Joseph Leibovitch in an article of 1940 (fig. 1.5).41 Some of the signs are indeed strongly reminiscent of the Sinai and Wadi el-Hol inscriptions, and none of them are likely to be hieratic characters or necropolis workmen’s marks.42 To

38 39 40 41

42

E.g. the Beria ‘camel alphabet’ in Sudan; see Rovenchak and Glavy 2011. Quoted in Reeves 1990: 337. Gardiner 1916: 2 ‘(…) there is now a tendency to seek the solution farther westward, in Asia Minor, in Cyprus or in Crete.’ See also Weidmüller 1978: 204. Leibovitch 1940: 119–120, pl. xix, no. 50; Giveon 1982: 1158, note 14; the latter also refers to O. Cairo cg 25326 ‘signes de fantaisie’ (sic; presumably meaning cg 25327 bis: Daressy 1901: 83). Contra Sass 1988: 104 (with photo of the ostracon: fig. 286). Although the ductus appears to

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be quite frank, the ostracon remains something of a riddle, and it is certainly not the only one.43 Leibovitch did, in fact, connect the piece with the marks by mentioning another ostracon discovered together with it and showing the mark I. This reminded him of ‘the protosinaitic stones bearing a single sign’. Petrie, in his book The Formation of the Alphabet, saw the signs on several New Kingdom ostraca from the Theban necropolis as early alphabetic.44 Three of these ostraca are in fact inscribed with Egyptian workmen’s marks of the Eighteenth Dynasty,45 but the signs on others seem to be different, and it cannot be excluded that they do have some relevance to the early history of the alphabet.46 The idea of Mediterranean or Semitic influence in the deep south of Egypt is not at all a strange one. New Kingdom Egypt was one of the great powers of the Middle East and Eastern Mediterranean during the Late Bronze Age, and thus far from isolated. During the same period, Thebes with its temples and cults of Amun-Re was the religious capital of Egypt, and therefore also the burial ground of the New Kingdom pharaohs. All this brought bustling activity to Thebes, notwithstanding the fact that the most important political and military centres of Egypt at the time were in the north. At the very least,

43

44

45

46

be hieratic, none of the signs themselves are. The cow’s head (not current in New Kingdom hieratic), the vertical zigzag and the cross are strongly suggestive of (hypothetical) ProtoSinaitic aleph, mem and tau; vertical mem is known from Wadi el-Hol. The remaining signs do not quite match with Proto-Sinaitic characters. Such partial correspondence with Proto-Sinaitic is also found on the Eighteenth-Dynasty alphabetic ostracon discussed in Haring 2015b. Among the still undeciphered New Kingdom ostraca from the Theban necropolis, there are several inscribed with characters reminiscent of early alphabetic scripts. For an ostracon with hieratic characters but possibly rendering a foreign (Semitic?) language, see Shisha-Halevy 1978: 145–162 (O. Cairo cg 25759). For writing foreign languages in Egyptian script see Quack 2010b; cg 25759 is discussed there on p. 317. Petrie 1912: pl. 1. All kept in the Petrie Museum of the University College, London; images can be retrieved in the museum’s online catalogue: http://petriecat.museums.ucl.ac.uk/ search.aspx. From left to right, and top to bottom: O. uc 45683, 45716, 45682, 31988, 45705, 45708. Petrie 1912: pl. 1, top left (uc 45683), middle right (uc 31988), bottom right (uc 45708). Brian Colless regards uc 45683 as ‘(logo-)syllabic’ (1997: 48–50 and 1998: 31–33—both with depiction of the ostracon; 2014: 90, note 57), but its signs are in fact Eighteenth-Dynasty workmen’s marks with their typical variable orientation:    I   I(?) I  I … (?). Cf. chapter 5, table 5.1, for the sign repertoire of the period. Two are seen by Colless as ‘inventories of the protoalphabetic letters, not in any particular order’ (Colless 2014: 76, note 13).

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the numerous Theban temples, and the royal and private necropoleis brought many priests, officials and craftsmen to Thebes. It is also important to realise that Egypt was open to foreign tradesmen and their products. Pottery from the Levant and the Mediterranean world has been found on many sites in Egypt, including Deir el-Medina. Excavations at this site have unearthed numerous fragments of Canaanite, Mycenean, Minoan and Cypriote pottery. Mycenean pottery vessels, or rather their contents (notably perfumed oil) appear to have been very popular in New Kingdom Egypt. They frequently show post-fired marks of more or less complex linear forms.47 One might therefore hypothesise that they stimulated the development of local pot marks and workmen’s marks. However, marked Mycenean sherds turn out to be exceedingly rare at Deir elMedina, and the bulk of the pottery found is from the later New Kingdom.48 Minoan and Cypriote pottery are also frequently found in Eighteenth Dynasty as well as earlier contexts. Cypriote pottery has also been found in Deir elMedina tombs,49 but the rare marks on this pottery seem to be of the simple, pre-fired type.50 Canaanite pottery is abundantly attested at Deir el-Medina, and much of it bears painted marks. Egyptian dockets and seal impressions on the vessels and their lids, however, indicate dates at the end of the Eighteenth Dynasty and in the Ramesside Period.51 It seems unlikely, in sum, that the origin of the marking system and its popularity in the Theban necropolis administration are to be explained by the influence of foreign pottery. No new ideas on the necropolis workmen’s marks were presented for decades after Leibovitch’ article of 1940, and Egyptologists were happy to leave the marks in their supposedly marginal, cryptic niche.52 It was only with the publication of new discoveries in the 1990s and 2000s that serious interest was

47 48

49 50 51

52

See e.g. Stubbings 1951: 45–52. I.e. xixth Dynasty. For Mycenean pottery at Deir el-Medina see Bell 1982. Laurent Bavay, who has been working on the Mycenean pottery from Deir el-Medina, has kindly informed me that none of the 274 sherds recorded by him shows marks of the types shown in Stubbings 1951; in fact, only one fragment shows a damaged sign scratched after firing (personal communication, 19 December, 2006). Kemp and Merrillees 1980; Merrillees 1968 (see pp. 121–124 for Deir el-Medina). E.g. Merrillees 1968: pl. xxi. Personal communication by Laurent Bavay, 22 April 2016. For Canaanite jars at Deir elMedina see Tallet 2003: 260–262; Bavay 2015. A marked vessel is depicted in Bavay 2015: 128, fig. 1a–b. Being confronted with hieratic signs used as abbreviations in the so-called Ramesseum Onomasticon of the Middle Kingdom, Gardiner (1947: 11) referred to the ostraca with marks published by Petrie, Daressy and Černý as displaying ‘similar cryptic symbols’.

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again taken in the marks, and finally some progress was made. Some of these discoveries were philological: Andrea McDowell’s publication and discussion of the Glasgow ostraca with marks, and my own findings based on the Glasgow and Berlin ostraca; both discoveries have been discussed earlier in this chapter. Other discoveries were archaeological. Japanese excavations and conservation work at the tomb of King Amenhotep iii (1390–1353 bce) in the west branch of the Valley of the Kings brought to light eleven ostraca inscribed with workmen’s marks.53 The ostraca are clearly related to the construction of this tomb, and therefore precisely datable. The repertoire of marks is very similar to that of the ostraca found near the tomb of Amenhotep ii discussed earlier (fig. 1.3), and so the two groups of ostraca support each other’s dating. Later Japanese research in a limestone quarry at Qurna, also on the west bank of the Nile near Luxor, revealed similar marks, presumably also from the reign of Amenhotep iii.54 Meanwhile, Swiss excavations of the remains of necropolis workmen’s huts in the Valley of the Kings had yielded hundreds of ostraca, among which there were 56 inscribed with marks. The huts appeared to date from the reigns of Ramesses iv–vii (middle to late twelfth century bce), which means that for the first time, there was now also a datable corpus of ostraca with marks from the late New Kingdom. This find is all the more important because abundant hieratic documentation from the same period informs us about virtually all members of the necropolis workmen’s community, their tasks, and their family relations. The marks and the hieratic texts, as well as other categories of objects found during the Swiss excavations, have meticulously been discussed by Andreas Dorn.55 However, notwithstanding the facts that (1) numerous hieratic ostraca were discovered in the same huts as the marks, and that (2) the archaeological context can be dated to a relatively short timespan, it proved very difficult to ascribe marks to individual workmen. As has been made clear already, ostraca with marks can rarely be dated to a precise generation. Also, different marks were often found in the same hut. It was the firmly datable groups of ostraca from the early New Kingdom (reigns of Amenhotep ii and iii), and the late New Kingdom (Ramesses iii–vii) that provided the basis for further research at Leiden University, which started in 2000,56 and resulted in the present book. Cooperation with colleagues from the universities of Berlin (Humboldt) and Warsaw connected current research

53 54 55 56

Kondo 1995: 32; Yoshimura and Kondo 1995: 18; Yoshimura and Kondo 2004: 209. Nishimoto, Yoshimura and Kondo 2002. See also chapter 2, section 2.3. Dorn 2011a: 369–382 (marks), 383–446 (documentary hieratic texts). Haring 2000.

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of different marking systems that were used in Ancient Egypt as well as in other cultures. A series of conferences (Leiden 2006 and 2013, Berlin 2007 and 2012, Warsaw 2011) laid particular emphasis on comparative and theoretical study of what came to be dubbed as ‘non-textual identity marks’ (ntms). Contact was also established with other specialists of marks who are organised in the International Society for Mark Studies (signum). Research into the connection between marks and writing was supported by contacts with scholars participating in the annual international symposium ‘The Idea of Writing’.57 All this contributed significantly to the understanding of the necropolis workmen’s marking system, and to the results set out in the following chapters.

1.4

A Quick Lesson in Hieroglyphs

It is impossible to understand Ancient Egyptian visual culture and communication without some knowledge of the hieroglyphic script. This alone is reason enough for a brief introduction to hieroglyphs, but there is an even more important reason. A basic idea of the principals of the hieroglyphic and related cursive scripts should help the reader to distinguish between the Ancient Egyptian marking system discussed in this book and actual writing as it had been developed by the same civilisation. The repertoire of necropolis workmen’s marks, and of most Ancient Egyptian marking systems, includes many signs inspired by hieroglyphs. One might even say that some of them are hieroglyphs in the sense that they refer to the same objects, notions or sounds, but the use of these hieroglyphs as marks was different from the role of the same signs in writing. The Egyptian hieroglyphic script has been used to inscribe monuments and objects for over 3,500 years. The latest datable hieroglyphic inscription is from 394ce, and by that time there were only a few Egyptian priests who more or less understood what it said.58 Roman and later authors speculated that Egyptian hieroglyphs were symbols, or allegories, rather than a linguistic (i.e. phonetic) code,59 and this theory was still adhered to by late medieval and

57

58 59

The first symposia were held in Leiden; the venue is different every year. In 2014 the symposium was again held in Leiden, and concentrated on non-linguistic aspects of writing. See the Bibliographical essay for publications ensuing from ntms, Signum and The Idea of Writing conferences. The hieroglyphic text is accompanied by an explanation in cursive (demotic) script, which also mentions the date (see e.g. Parkinson 1999: 178–179). Notably the Hieroglyphika from the fifth century bce, allegedly written by an Egyptian priest named Horapollo; see Iversen 1993: 38–56; Parkinson 1999: 15–16.

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early modern European scholars. It was effectively laid to rest only by the early nineteenth-century decipherers Antoine Isaac Sylvestre de Sacy, Johan David Åkerblad, Thomas Young, and Jean-François Champollion.60 The script is a complex mixture of ideographic and phonetic writing, the principles of which are not unlike, for instance, Chinese characters or Mayan hieroglyphs. It was developed and continuously adjusted for the rendering of the Ancient Egyptian language in its various stages: Old, Middle and Late Egyptian. These stages very roughly correspond with the main division of pharaonic history into Old, Middle and New Kingdom, which together cover the period between ca. 2700 and 1070bce. Ever since the early Middle Kingdom (ca. 2000 bce), Middle Egyptian was regarded as the classical stage of the language, and the Middle Egyptian sign repertoire and orthography as the standard form of the hieroglyphic script. This system was adapted for the writing of Late Egyptian in the New Kingdom, but hieroglyphs were still mainly reserved for the writing of classical, i.e. Middle Egyptian.61 Inscriptions of the Ptolemaic and Roman Periods show that the script had been adapted once more, this time not for the notation of the spoken language (which was demotic), but for the encrypting of sacred texts in Middle Egyptian on the temple walls. The sign repertoire had been dramatically extended: whereas a set of several hundred signs had been a sufficient basis for writing in the Middle and New Kingdom, the temple texts of the Greco-Roman Period used several thousand.62 In addition to the extended graphic repertoire, the individual signs themselves acquired more different meanings than they had had previously. It seems ironic now that de Sacy, Åkerblad, Young and Champollion started their struggle with Egyptian hieroglyphs by studying these late and cryptic Middle Egyptian inscriptions, such as the hieroglyphic section of the Rosetta Stone.

60 61

62

Although Horapollo’s Hieroglyphika (see the previous note) was still very influential in their work; see Engsheden 2013. Middle Egyptian texts of the New Kingdom and later periods often show the influence of later stages of the language. Occasionally one finds Late Egyptian and demotic texts written in hieroglyphs or hieratic; see e.g. Quack 2010c. The basic sign list used by Egyptologists when reading Middle Egyptian of the earlier periods is Gardiner 1957: 438–548. This list includes 758 types, some of which were of restricted use. In fact, many more rare signs existed (Quack 2010a: 240). More than 7,000 types of the Greco-Roman Period are listed in Cauville, Devauchelle and Grenier 1983. Not all details of these types are distinctive, however, so that the number of different signs is actually smaller; see e.g. Kurth 2010; Quack 2010a: 240.

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figure 1.6 sḏm ‘to hear’ in hieroglyphs, in Ramesside hieratic and in Roman demotic hieratic sample from möller 1927a: 1, line 10; demotic sample from erichsen 1954: 478; hieroglyphic types here and throughout the book: jsesh (https://jsesh.qenherkhopeshef.org).

The same scholars had also already turned to the study of cursive pharaonic scripts, especially demotic (fig. 1.6).63 ‘Demotic’ is the name for the Egyptian language and cursive script used from the seventh century bce onward. Its last recorded use is in the middle of the fifth century ce. By then, the Greek alphabet had been adapted for the writing of native Egyptian; the newly created alphabet as well as the language expressed by it are known as Coptic.64 Coptic is now no longer a spoken language, but it is still used for liturgical purposes by the Coptic Christian minority in Egypt. Since Coptic grammar and vocabulary are very much similar to demotic, it is no wonder that the early decipherers of Ancient Egyptian turned to demotic as much as to hieroglyphs. Whereas the latter script encoded texts in centuries-old Middle Egyptian (the grammar of which remains hypothetical to a considerable extent even today), demotic turned out to resemble a language that was still known in modern times. Mastering Coptic was therefore an important asset in the decipherment of demotic, and even of older Egyptian, and Champollion’s command of the language was superb. But it was not just the similarity of language that gave demotic its prominent role in decipherment. By being a very cursive script with virtually no apparent iconicity, it had not suffered from the tradition of allegoric interpretation that had dominated the study of Egyptian hieroglyphs since late antiquity, and was looked upon with far less prejudice. Demotic was in all probability derived from an older cursive script: hieratic (fig. 1.6).65 It is not quite clear how old precisely the latter script is. As matters stand now, it is most likely that it started out as a cursive variant of the older hieroglyphic script. The oldest examples of specific hieratic forms of signs are thought to date from the Second Dynasty (ca. 2730–2590 bce).66 63 64

65 66

Quack 2010a: 244–249. Most characters of the Coptic alphabet follow Greek examples, but some that express sounds not present in Greek are based on demotic characters. See e.g. Parkinson 1999: 102–103. See Vleeming 1981 for a reconstruction of this process. Regulski 2009; years according to Hornung, Krauss and Warburton 2006.

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The oldest preserved roll of papyrus, the favourite medium for hieratic writing, is not much older.67 The most prominent feature that sets hieratic apart from hieroglyphs is ligature, the graphic connection between characters that made it possible to write without lifting the pen (or rather the brush) from the papyrus, and this became common a few centuries later. In the course of time, the distance between hieratic and hieroglyphic grew, the forms and uses of their individual characters following separate traditions. Transcribing hieratic into hieroglyphs, which Egyptologists usually do to explain what they read, does not result in correct ancient hieroglyphic orthography, but in an artificial scholarly code. Hieratic was still used in the Greco-Roman Period, but almost exclusively for religious texts; hence its name, from Greek hieratikos ‘priestly’, as distinct from demotika (grammata) ‘popular (script)’: demotic was the universal script used for administration, but also for literary and religious texts, and even for inscriptions on stelae and temple walls. The true monumental script on the same stelae and walls, however, were the hieroglyphs, from hieroglyphika (grammata), lit. ‘sacred carved (script)’. For the purpose of this book it is not necessary to elaborate further on the hieroglyphic and demotic scripts of the later pharaonic and Hellenistic Periods of Egyptian history. Most important for us are hieroglyphic and hieratic as used for writing Middle and Late Egyptian during the New Kingdom. As the principles of hieroglyphic and hieratic orthography are similar, it suffices to give some examples of hieroglyphic writings of a few Middle Egyptian words (fig. 1.7). The figure beneath shows two ways of writing the Egyptian word sḏm (sedjem) ‘to hear’, popular as an exemplary verb in modern grammars of Middle Egyptian. Two important things should be made clear at the outset: (1) hieroglyphs can be written and read from left to right (as here) and from right to left, the latter actually being the preferred direction, and even the single one for hieratic and demotic; (2) the Ancient Egyptian scripts (hieroglyphic, hieratic, demotic) only write consonants, no vowels.68 It is therefore extremely difficult to establish how Egyptian was pronounced. Even the transliteration of consonants is approximate, as the characters remained the same for thousands of years, and orthography hardly reflects the phonological changes that took place in the course of this exceedingly long time.

67

68

Found in a wooden box in the tomb of Hemaka at Saqqara, from the reign King Den of the First Dynasty, around 2800 bce. The roll was said by its finder Walter B. Emery to be without text; see Leach and Tait 2000: 227. See e.g. Quack 2010a: 237–239.

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sḏm ‘to hear/listen’ (1) (Coptic sôtem) (idem)

s + ḏ + m + [ear] (2) sḏm + m + [writing/abstract]

msḏr ‘ear’

(3) msḏr/[ear] + [iconic]

(idem)

(4) ms + ḏ + r + [ear]

figure 1.7 sḏm ‘to hear’ and msḏr ‘ear’ in hieroglyphs

The first three signs in example (1) represent a folded cloth, a cobra and an owl respectively. The phonetic values of these signs are thought to have been s (voiceless), ḏ (palatal /dj/) and m in Old and Middle Egyptian. Together, they represent the root (‘stem’)69 sḏm ‘to hear’, ‘to listen’. Egyptologists pronounce it ‘sedjem’; the insertion -e- serves no other purpose than to enable scholars to talk about what they read. The root survived in Coptic; its infinitive was written ⲥⲱⲧⲙ in the Coptic alphabet (which included vowels like the Greek alphabet), and pronounced sôtem. Coptic is extremely helpful in reconstructing ancient Egyptian vocalisation, but obviously it cannot tell us how precisely words were pronounced one or two thousand years earlier. The precise vocalisation of sḏm around, let us say, 2000bce would have depended on its grammatical form (e.g. infinitive, participle, or some finite verb form with or without affixes). Hence the absence of vocalisation in the script is a major obstacle for us in assessing precise grammatical forms. The first three signs in (1) are called ‘phonograms’ because they have a purely phonetic function in this particular context: the word sḏm has nothing to do with cloth, snakes or birds. Phonetic values of individual signs came about 69

Just as in Semitic languages (for many of which vowel-less writing is common), words in Ancient Egyptian are often derived from a verbal root (radix), i.e. a set of consonants (‘radicals’). Flexion and derivation took place by inserting vowels and adding pre- and suffixes; cf. Biblical Hebrew qatôl ‘to kill’ (infinitive), qatal ‘he (has) killed’ (perfect iii sg. m.), qatalti ‘I (have) killed’ (perfect I sg.), qatul ‘killed’ (passive participle), yiqtôl ‘he shall kill’ (imperfect), etc. As hieroglyphic writings of roots remain the same with different inflections and derivations (hence with different hypothetical vocalisations), it is clear that the writing is consonantal, and not syllabic as is sometimes assumed by nonEgyptologists. A writing system that does not indicate the presence, absence or quality of vowels cannot be called syllabic.

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through the rebus principle, although it is not always clear why a particular sign was selected to express a particular sound. We do not know why the folded cloth represents s, or why the owl stands for m. The Ancient Egyptian word for cobra is ḏ.t (djet), in which .t is a suffix expressing feminine gender. In a very early stage of the language, the feminine ending .t universally disappeared when not ‘protected’ by specific phonetic circumstances (such as further suffixes, or direct genitive). The word ‘cobra’ was thus reduced to ḏ (dj) in Egyptian vowel-less writing, and by the rebus principle, the sign for cobra could now be used to write ḏ in basically any word containing that consonant. So much for phonetics. The fourth sign in (1) represents the ear of a bovid, and its meaning is not phonetic, but it stands for ‘ear’, or for any concept related to ears, such as hearing or listening. When referring to an ear (of a bovid), we might think of the sign as iconic; when referring to notions related to ears, it would be called ‘metonymic’ in semiotic terms.70 A sign with iconic or metonymic reference is called an ‘ideogram’. In example (1), its function is even more specific: the addition of an ear after the phonetic but vowel-less string sḏm clarifies that this is a word related to ears. The combination of this information and the preceding consonants is enough for a reader acquainted with the hieroglyphic script to realise that this is the word sḏm ‘to hear’, or a specific form of, or derivation from that word. The ear at the end of the word is called a classifier, or determinative. Apart from ‘classifying’ or ‘determining’ the word and its meaning, it also signals the end of the word, so that the reader of a text is not confronted with an uninterrupted sequence of consonants—the Ancient Egyptian scripts do not normally use spaces or punctuation. From a modern perspective, one might perhaps say that the combination of phonetic and ideographic writing makes up a bit for the absence of vowels, spaces and other helps in interpreting a written text correctly. Having clarified the hieroglyphic spelling in example (1), we are confronted with a complication when trying to make sense of the spelling in (2), which is used for the same word sḏm ‘to hear’. This spelling does not end, but starts with the ear, and in this position, its function is ideographic as much as phonetic. It expresses the verb sḏm ‘to hear’ metonymically and phonetically. When signs have this combined function they are called ‘logograms’ or word-signs. They are often considered one particular type of ideogram; the other type being the determinative. Their phonetic aspect may be clarified by surrounding

70

Chandler 2007: 129–132; in some cases, the word ‘synecdoche’ would also be applicable: ibid., 132–134. For these words and other semiotic terminology, see chapter 3, sections 3.1– 3.

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phonograms, such as the owl in this example, which is simply for m, just as in example (1). Theoretically, s (cloth) and ḏ (cobra) could have been used here as well, but in this type of spelling (with a logogram as the centre) it is not necessary to include separate signs for all consonants of the word. The ‘extra’ sign for m is merely there to make clear that the ear should be read phonetically as sḏm, and not otherwise; as a logogram, it may stand for other things, such as ‘ear’. A common word for ‘ear’ is msḏr (mesdjer) in Egyptian, and that is what the logogram of the bovid ear is used for in example (3). Phonograms clarifying the interpretation are absent here. Instead, the ear is followed by a vertical stroke. This highly abstract sign is used as a determinative indicating that the preceding sign is iconic, i.e. means what it graphically represents, more or less precisely: an ear.71 The sealed papyrus scroll at the end in (2) is also a determinative, this one referring to things connected to writing and to abstract notions. ‘Hearing’ is apparently within the semantic reach of this determinative. In (2) as well as in (3), the use of the ear as the core of the spelling of sḏm ‘to hear’ and msḏr ‘ear’ invites the scribe to use another sign at the end of the word as a determinative. Another possible determinative with (2) would have been (a sitting man with one hand at his mouth), which indicates oral and mental activity. Theoretically, one or more phonograms could have been present in (3) just as in (2), and even a complete phonetic spelling of msḏr followed by the ear as the determinative is possible. This can be seen in example (4), where the ear is again reduced to a mere determinative following the phonetic spelling of msḏr. The reader will recognise the cobra for ḏ; beneath it is a mouth for r (derived, by the rebus principle, from a word r + vowel ‘mouth’). The preceding sign represents more than one consonant; it is biconsonantal and stands for ms. This, also, is a rebus: it represents an object (presumably an apron) made of foxes’ skins tied together; the Egyptian word for such an apron is ms.t (meset). With the feminine ending .t dissolved (as in ḏ.t ‘cobra’), the remaining ms could be used to write that pair of consonants in any word in which they occur, such as msḏr ‘ear’. Its most frequent use was for the various forms of the verb msj ‘to give birth’ (with the second sign, the folded cloth, confirming the consonant s, and the third as a determinative: a woman giving birth). This again illustrates how the omission of vowels in writing on the one hand, and phonetic reduction in speech (here of feminine .t) on the other, made the application of the rebus principle relatively easy. 71

This can perhaps be explained by the use of same vertical stroke for the number ‘1’; see, for instance, Collombert 2010: 172 (§ 342.b). It can also follow other determinatives, and in the course of time it was increasingly used with signs that were to be read phonetically (Gardiner 1957: 534–535, no. z 1).

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Together, the examples (1)–(4) show the strategies employed in hieroglyphic orthography, and effectively indicate that this orthography is variable. In fact, there are more possible spellings of sḏm and msḏr: with more complementary phonograms or without. Spellings (1) and (4) were usual in Old Egyptian, for instance in the funerary spells on the walls of the burial chambers in royal pyramids of the Fifth and Sixth Dynasties (24th–22nd centuries bce). At this early stage, hieroglyphic texts favoured full phonetic orthography, with frequent use of monoconsonantal signs. Middle Egyptian, the classical language and script from ca. 2000bce onwards, preferred spellings such as example (2). Indeed, this spelling was the standard one in Middle and Late Egyptian, and it is in this spelling that we find it also in New Kingdom hieratic, and even in demotic. See fig. 1.6, in which the reading direction is reversed with respect to the previous figure, in accordance with the rules of the cursive scripts. The hieratic sample also shows a ligature of the owl (which resembles a ‘3’) and the papyrus scroll (reduced to a tiny scribble). The hieroglyphic writing shown in fig. 1.6 can be regarded as a transcription of its hieratic and demotic equivalents, but is also itself a frequent spelling in hieroglyphic texts. Hieroglyphic texts also allowed, even encouraged alternative writings of the same word, whereas the orthography of the cursive scripts was much less variable. This is quite understandable: the reduced iconicity made the individual signs more difficult to interpret and remember. Reading and memorising hieratic and demotic therefore depended more on characteristic sign groups, and less on individual signs. When the hieroglyphic temple texts of the Greco-Roman Period, with their preference for graphic and associative play, brought the number of alternative writings of the same old words to extremes, demotic texts of the same period stuck to much more limited orthographies, which often originated from ancient classical spellings but now appeared in more recent, cursive forms. From its earliest stage through the Roman Period, the demotic writing of sḏm retained the ear and the sealed papyrus, and occasionally added . Here ends our brief introduction to the principles of the hieroglyphic script and its cursive counterparts. Hieroglyphs were also an important source of inspiration for the development of other scripts, such as the characters employed in the alphabetic inscriptions of Sinai and Wadi el-Hol (see the previous section) in the early second millennium bce. Some later scripts also had their characters based on hieroglyphs: the syllabic script of the Meroitic kingdom in Nubia (more or less contemporary with Greco-Roman Egypt), and a GrecoEgyptian script on silver plaques of the Ptolemaic Period.72 72

Morenz 2009: 205–209.

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Marks and Hieroglyphs

Hieroglyphs were also the basis for many signs in Ancient Egyptian marking systems. Among the workmen’s marks on ostracon Berlin p 12625 (see section 1.1, and fig. 1.1, left column, second line from bottom) is I, the form of which has obviously been inspired by the hieroglyph . In the previous section we explained that this sign originally represented an apron made of foxes’ skins; ms.t in Egyptian. That word and the object it refers to were not frequently used in Ancient Egypt; in fact, the word is only known from Middle Kingdom coffins, where it accompanies depictions of aprons among other burial gifts that supported the deceased’s transition to, and existence in the afterlife. It may therefore be no more (and in Egyptian eyes, no less) than an archaic ritual object.73 Hence it is unlikely that the sign was chosen or created as identity mark for its iconic value; the more probable reason is its phonetic value ms. It is attested in the Theban necropolis for a period of at least three centuries, and must therefore have been used consecutively by many different people. In the late reign of Ramesses iii, it was held by a workman named Ms (‘Mose’), a name derived from the verb msj ‘to give birth’. Another example is I, a jackal. It was applied as a pictural graffito in the Theban mountains by a workman called Amennakht.74 The sign is also known as a hieroglyph: ,75 but for several reasons it is unlikely that the hieroglyph was the inspiration for the mark. The hieroglyph has the phonetic values sɜb (‘sab’), which apart from ‘jackal’ is also a juridical title often translated as ‘judge’,76 and wnš (‘wenesh’) ‘jackal’. A phonetic connection with the name Amennakht, as in the case of Mose/Ms, is therefore unlikely. The figure may, as a hieroglyph or in religious iconography, also stand for a deity, Anubis or Wepwawet, but here again, the connection with Amennakht escapes us. We know, however, that Amennakht had the nickname Pawenesh (Pɜ-wnš) ‘The Jackal’. His father, the deputy Hay, called himself a ‘lustful jackal’ (wnš dd) in a hymn to

73

74 75 76

Gardiner 1957: 465, no. f 31 (with notes 1 and 2); Erman and Grapow 1926–1931 ii: 137, 2–3. The latter refer to a Twentieth-Dynasty papyrus recording the delivery of 33 ms of leather to the necropolis workforce, but it is very doubtful if this is the old word ms.t. The precise reference is P. Turin Cat. 1881+ recto vi 7, year 8 of Ramesses ix; see The Deir el-Medina Database, http://dmd.wepwawet.nl. As was first made clear by Fronczak and Rzepka 2009: 166–167, 177. Gardiner 1957: 460, no. e 17. The transliteration character ɜ is for ʾaleph, or glottal stop. The precise meaning of sɜb, an ancient honorific title, is unknown.

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Amun. The animal figure must therefore be, first and foremost, an iconic reference to Amennakht’s nickname, which he possibly inherited from his father.77 As a hieroglyph, the sign could of course have iconic as well as phonetic reference, but we may well ask if a hieroglyphic background is necessary at all, given the fact that jackals roamed the Theban mountains and were seen by locals. As a hieroglyph, on the contrary, the sign would have been exceedingly rare, if not entirely absent, in local inscriptions.78 The word wnš ‘jackal’ does turn up in local hieratic texts (as part of Amennakht’s nickname or otherwise), but is there never written with the jackal itself as a logogram or a determinative. Being a cursive script, hieratic favours simple, generic determinatives; for this word it normally uses the cursive equivalent of the hide-and-tail hieroglyph , expressing the notion ‘animal’.79 What the mark I in graffiti confronts us with is the strong possibility of a ‘concrete’ sign or referent, which happens to be similar to a known hieroglyph, but does not have to be a hieroglyph.80 The iconic nature of the hieroglyphic script itself is, of course, a major complication when trying to decide between hieroglyph and concrete, non-scriptural referent. Another complication is that the hieroglyphic repertoire was, to some extent, an ‘open’ system: although most of the signs are standardised components of this system, with fixed graphic forms, new signs could occasionally be introduced, especially determinatives. One important criterion for the distinction between hieroglyphic and concrete is the frequency, or rarity, of the hieroglyph in the given local cultural or social context. A very popular mark is the headrest I, which is also known as a hieroglyph (wrs ‘headrest’).81 As such it is rarely found, if at all, in hieroglyphic inscriptions from Deir el-Medina and related sites,82 but it was very well known as an actual object, a piece of domestic or funerary furniture. It is mentioned in local hieratic texts such as sale accounts or inventories, but here again hieratic favours a more generic determinative, in this case the branch , a metonymic reference to wood and woodwork. All this means that the mark I was probably inspired by the actual object, and not by a hieroglyphic or hieratic sign.

77 78 79 80 81 82

See chapter 6, section 6.2, and Dorn 2011a: 190–191, note f. Stelae from Deir el-Medina, usually the most lavishly represented, do not figure in Moje 2007: cd-rom tables e 15–17 (hieroglyphic signs representing jackals). For this determinative and its semantic categorisation, see Goldwasser 2002: 57–89. The word ‘concrete’ was used for some of the Proto-Sinaitic characters by Goldwasser (2006: 140–141); also ‘ “real life” object referent’ (ibid.: 146). Gardiner 1957: 500, no. q 4. It does not figure anywhere in Moje 2007.

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More examples of concrete marks will be discussed in chapter 6 (sections 6.6 and 6.7). This category of signs frequently occurs in marking systems worldwide (see chapter 2, section 2.10), and they were definitely among the necropolis workmen’s marks. They take us away from writing as a source for the creation of identity marks. Indeed, writing was just one source, albeit a very important one in a (semi-)literate community. A third important category is that of abstract (or geometric) signs, such as strokes, curves, crosses, t-shaped signs, circles, which are part of the same marking system. They may be simple or complex, but they all appear to be meaningless as icons. One has to be cautious here as with the concrete signs. Marks that appear to represent nothing concrete or hieroglyphic may, on closer consideration, be a simplified rendering of an object or hieroglyph after all. A marvellous example is , a very frequent mark on Eighteenth-Dynasty ostraca. Resembling nothing concrete or hieroglyphic at first sight, it was classified as ‘geometric’ at the beginning of the Leiden research project. Further research taught us that it is very probably , a gold necklace, the logogram for nbw ‘gold’, and a detera variant of minative for precious metals. A mark very much resembling this hieroglyph (I) is also found on Eighteenth-Dynasty ostraca, sometimes accompanied by marks that are elsewhere shown together with . In the later New Kingdom, the ‘geometric’ variant seems to have disappeared, the ‘hieroglyphic’ variant I now being used exclusively. Both variants are, of course, of hieroglyphic origin, but have different degrees of iconicity, or accuracy: as we will see, the Eighteenth-Dynasty marks ostraca were often made by persons whose familiarity with hieroglyphs (or writing in general) was very restricted; during the Nineteenth and Twentieth Dynasties, this was far less often the case. Throughout the New Kingdom, abstract or geometric marks remained part of the marking system used by the necropolis workforce. Good examples are    . Since they appear to lack any iconic or metonymic meaning, and have no basis in writing, the relation between these marks and the names or personalities of the individuals using them is arbitrary, hence far from obvious to us, and only sufficient contextual information makes it possible to identify their users. The combination of the three categories writing, concrete and abstract/geometric appears to be a universal phenomenon of marking systems in many different cultural and historical contexts. This intriguing phenomenon will be further explored in the next chapter.

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The Aim of the Present Book

This book presents the results of research, mainly conducted by Egyptologists at Leiden University, into the marking system that was used by the royal necropolis workmen during the Egyptian New Kingdom. Its purposes are not merely to outline the graphic repertoire and the development and use of a particular marking system in a particular social and cultural context. Rather, it aims to present a description and an explanation of this exceedingly well-documented marking system in such a way that it can be of help in the understanding of systems of identity marks in other periods and cultures. The community of royal tomb constructors of the Egyptian New Kingdom is perhaps the best documented village community of pre-modern history. On the site of their settlement, presently known as Deir el-Medina, it is still possible to walk through streets and houses of the thirteenth century bce. Much remains of their houses, chapels and tombs; some of the tombs are even among the finest decorated pharaonic monuments. In the nearby Valley of the Kings and Valley of the Queens, the deep royal rock tombs made by these workmen, with their exquisitely painted walls, can still be visited. Decades of excavations at these sites have yielded numerous objects in daily use belonging to the same workmen and their families, their own votive and funerary monuments, and thousands of written documents. All this makes it possible to follow, archaeologically and historically, a community of forty to seventy private households for a period of five centuries. Documents of the Ramesside Period (ca. 1300– 1070bce) even enable us to track individuals and families for periods of up to eight generations. This means we know which individuals were behind the marks, what was their business, and what were their family relationships, and this not just for one particular point in time, but for as much as two centuries. Scholars who specialise in the material left by this community therefore have the possibility, if not the obligation, using that material to the advantage of colleagues who are less fortunate with their archaeological and historical source material.83 Marking systems very similar to that of the Deir el-Medina workmen were used by the stonemasons of the European Middle Ages. Walls of churches and monasteries and (to a lesser extent) castles and town halls are covered with alphabetic letters, stars, depictions of animals, human body parts and tools, as well as geometric linear marks once used to identify the masons

83

Despite the fact that Deir el-Medina is not quite representative of village communities in pharaonic Egypt; see chapter 4, section 4.1.

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who built these monuments.84 Only in rare cases, however, is there archival material to back the marks up historically. Incidentally preserved documentation enables art historians to identify the mark of a particular stonemason, and perhaps that of his father, but that is as far as it goes. As a consequence, much is still obscure about the development and purpose of medieval stonemasons’ marks. Preliminary explanations range from the strictly practical (quality control, payment by the block) to the religious (votive inscriptions). Perhaps the marks were both, and even more, as at Deir el-Medina. This is just one example, although it is a particularly striking parallel in view of the appearance and context of the marks (monumental building). Builders’ marks, pot marks, house marks, trademarks: all these systems seem to have important characteristics in common with the Ancient Egyptian marking system outlined in this book. Particular attention to comparative and theoretically universal aspects of marking systems will be given in chapter 2. It is not suggested here that the Deir el-Medina model explains all other marking systems. Every marking system is conditioned by its own historical and cultural parameters, such as the absence or presence of writing, the type of writing, and the degree of literacy of the users; by practical circumstances, such as the materials and tools available; by the particular psychological motives of individuals and authorities for having things marked in certain ways. The aim of this book is therefore nothing more (nor less) than to open up the subject of identity marks in Ancient Egypt to Egyptologists and non-Egyptologists alike. Following this chapter are two that deal with comparative research of marking systems and with theories of visual communication (chapters 2 and 3). These will be an important basis for understanding the nature of the particular marking system discussed in this book and its place among other sign systems. Chapter 4 provides an historical background of the Deir el-Medina marking system, after which chapters 5 and 6 fully concentrate on the system itself, its individual signs, and its functioning through time. In the two final sections of chapter 6 I will summarise the most important findings with respect to the Deir el-Medina marks, for graphics and meaning on the one hand, and for function and historical development on the other. These findings provide answers to the research questions that lay at the basis of the Leiden research project, and which may be formulated here as follows. Questions with respect to the graphic shapes of the individual marks, the meaning conveyed by them and by the system as a whole, are concerned with

84

See chapter 2, sections 2.5–2.9.

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the very nature of the marking system. How did the marks come into existence, and how were they understood? As we have seen in the previous section, marks were of different types. Many were inspired by hieroglyphic writing, but others seem to have had concrete, real-life objects and beings for models, and yet others were abstract geometric devices. We will see in the next chapter that such a typology is quite universal with marking systems worldwide. An indepth research of the morphology of the Deir el-Medina marking system is therefore likely to shed light, not only on its own graphic repertoire, but also on that of similar systems used elsewhere. An important consideration here is that different types of signs entail different processes of understanding. What was the association, or link, between a mark and its owner? Different graphic forms imply different associations, possibly even different processes in the human brain. Which were the decisive semiotic steps? Were there other factors involved than graphic form? Morphological classification of the marks, like all sorts of classification, inevitably confronts us with uncertainties. The lines between hieroglyphic, concrete and abstract are often difficult to draw; in some cases the distinction may not even have been of importance to the ancient users. All three classes of signs were, however, unquestionably present among the Deir el-Medina marks, and they all belonged to the same system. This also calls for a theoretical model that accommodates the different sorts of marks, and explains the choice of any of them. Another important question is where the marks came from. We will see that many marks were newly created in the course of the history of the community of royal necropolis workmen, but others were there from the moment the marking system is first attested, and many of its graphic forms had already been part of much older similar systems. Were workmen or their administrators entirely free to develop new types, or was that freedom restricted by rules? What role did writing have here exactly? Was it merely one source of inspiration among others, or did it impose itself more strongly, not only determining the shapes of individual marks, but also the system as a whole? Studying one particular cultural code as incorporating elements of older or contemporary source codes (a mechanism indicated as bricolage by the anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss) is highly useful for the study of visual communication in general, including that of writing. Newly created writing systems are usually inspired by existing ones. The earliest stages of writing known to us from Egypt, Mesopotamia, China and Mexico must have had other sorts of graphic code as sources of inspiration. The earliest known alphabetic sign repertoire seems to have been very much inspired by Egyptian hieroglyphs, but possibly also included concrete and abstract signs.

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Much of the research consisted of dating the occurrences of the marks, and identifying their users. This made it possible to outline the history of the system, and the rules and reasons for using it. The Deir el-Medina marking system appears to have been used for almost four centuries (ca. 1450–1070 bce). Except for a possible break in the late Eighteenth Dynasty, it seems to have been there continuously, and some of its individual marks can be shown to have survived for at least six generations. Others, however, were quite short-lived. What determined the continuation, or discontinuation of a mark? Who or what decided which marks were used by whom, and how did the marks change owners? Is family or administrative organisation decisive here, or both? What does the use of marks of specific graphic classes (writing, concrete, abstract) say about the position and knowledge of their owners? In addition to the owners of the marks, who used them for marking their property and their presence, there were the producers of ostraca on which the same marks were used to create administrative records. What was the status and knowledge of these persons? The different styles of the ostraca indicate that they possessed different writing skills; probably they ranged from fully literate scribes to hardly literate workmen. This circumstance, together with the information recorded on the ostraca themselves, and its connections with data from hieratic texts, provides us with indications for the purpose of ostraca inscribed with marks. The questions about the persons producing ostraca with marks and about the purpose of these ostraca bring us to the role of local literacy. Literacy at Ramesside Deir el-Medina has been the topic of some research,85 which concentrated on the role of writing and the number of persons who might have been able to produce texts. It is important, however, to look at different degrees and sorts of literacy. As Kathryn Piquette observed with respect to Deir el-Medina specifically: (…) the extension of inquiry across the social spectrum, and to those indirectly affected by writing, remains an important lead to follow in achieving more nuanced accounts of literacy.86 The visual output of the necropolis workmen’s community was immense, and of many different types, ranging from monumental tomb decorations and hieroglyphic stelae to sketches and cursive texts on ostraca. Thebes and its

85 86

See chapter 3, section 3.6, and chapter 4, section 4.7. Piquette 2009: 297.

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necropoleis were full of temples, and votive and funerary monuments, all covered with hieroglyphs. During the Ramesside Period, there was much administrative, religious and literary writing on both sides of the Nile. It would have been difficult to live and work in the Theban necropolis in this period and to be entirely illiterate, but there must have been widely different sorts and degrees of literacy. The morphology and use of the marking system are bound to reflect such differences.

chapter 2

Identity Marks, Egyptian and Other He took the palette in his hand, and he made a with a inside it […] ‘What you have branded is all my small livestock, with this brand that says !’ Papyrus Varzy (12th century bce), lines 1–2

∵ 2.1

A Unique Document

The Musée Auguste Grasset in Varzy, France, houses a papyrus fragment (18 ×31cm) with the remains of three lines of hieratic characters.1 The text is thought to date from the reign of Ramesses iii (1187–1157 bce), and appears to be part of a complaint filed by an unknown plaintiff about the branding of his livestock by an equally unknown defendant. The complaint was probably made orally at the start of a court session, but put down in writing afterwards. In the course of his statement, the plaintiff used scribal equipment (‘the palette’) to produce a copy of the brand found on his livestock, and the text on Papyrus Varzy explains what this brand looked like. It was composed of two signs, probably hieroglyphic: a bowstring (Egyptian rwḏ or rudj) with a pillar (i͗wn, iun) inside it, presumably within the loop of the bowstring. The two components are kept separate where integrated in the hieratic text, but the integral mark was copied onto P. Varzy in a blank space between the second and third line, where its left part can still be seen (fig. 2.1). The graphic composition could possibly be read as rudj Iunu ‘Heliopolis is strong’, Heliopolis or Iunu being the main religious centre of the sun god Re. Perhaps the mark was even a temple brand. Brands incorporating hieroglyphs have actually been preserved (fig. 2.2).

1 Inv. no. va 122: Gardiner 1948: xviii–xix, 59–60; Loffet and Matoïan 1996. Gardiner and other Egyptologists have connected the papyrus with those related to the conspiracy against Ramesses iii (for which see chapter 5, section 5.7), but this connection remains uncertain (Loffet and Matoïan 1996: 33–34, but cf. Koenig 2001: 312, note k; Giewekemeyer 2008: 22– 23—ref. brought to my attention by Joachim Quack).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi: 10.1163/9789004357549_004

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figure 2.1 Papyrus Varzy photo musée auguste grasset—varzy, by kind permission of jean-michel roudier

The distinction between marks, hieroglyphs and hieratic signs, as discussed in the previous chapter, is of the highest importance here. What the Varzy papyrus presents is a graphic allusion within a text recording events and speech. That text is in hieratic, the individual signs of which have only a remote resemblance to their hieroglyphic equivalents. However the pillar sign (i͗wn) as rendered on the papyrus is clearly hieroglyphic,2 and as such it is probably a direct rendering of what the brand actually looked like. The style of the bowstring is rather hieratic, but this is probably because the hieroglyphic and hieratic signs for rwḏ are very similar—to put it differently: the hieratic sign for rwḏ has not lost its iconicity, and is very reminiscent of its ancient hieroglyphic origin.3 It is the hieroglyphic appearance of the pillar that makes clear that the reference made in the text is graphic, rather than linguistic. Hence, the translation of the text above includes the hieroglyphic signs for rwḏ and i͗wn, and not their possible translations. The copy of the composite brand-mark beneath line 2, which was not as such a current hieroglyph, confirms that the precise form of the brand was of crucial importance in the lawsuit recorded. Thus, Papyrus Varzy is a unique document in which three graphic codes (hieratic, hieroglyphic, marks) have been used to preserve legal evidence as precisely as possible.

2 For the hieratic equivalent, see chapter 5, fig. 5.7 (O. Turin cg 57523), bottom middle. 3 See Möller 1927b: 39, no. 438.

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figure 2.2 Cattle brand Munich äs 5520 from El-Amarna ( fourteenth century bce), showing I nefer and I ankh from müller 1987: 75, fig. 25a4

Mostly, the hieroglyphic and hieratic scripts, and the marks, were used independently of each other. Hieroglyphs were the domain of specialist craftsmen involved in the painting and carving of monumental inscriptions, hieratic was the domain of scribes. The range of people and professions employing marks, however, was considerably wider. As far as we can see now professional users included potters, painters, sculptors, builders, quarrymen, transporters and administrators (who were often, but not necessarily scribes). The private uses of identity marks include ‘ownership’ marks, votive inscriptions and graffiti. Theoretically, everyone in Ancient Egypt could be the user of a personal mark, or could be confronted with marks representing other people, groups or institutions. The use of identity marks was basically independent of the ability, or inability to write. Marks were there when writing in the strict sense (i.e. as a linguistic code) emerged, and co-existed with it for thousands of years. When developed and handled by literates, they were bound to be influenced by writing, but in contexts untouched by writing and literacy they would stick to simple, linear forms. In the following two sections, two particular domains of marking systems will be discussed: those of pot marks and of marks used in monumental building. These two applications have left large numbers of marked artefacts, and therefore enjoy a relatively substantial amount of research interest and publication, but there have been others whose traces are less substantial, and

4 There together with two other brands now in the British Museum. Two more ancient Egyptian cattle brands with hieroglyphs are in the Myers Museum, Eton: nos. ecm 1770 and 1771; image on http://www.egiptomania.com/asade/imagenes/expo_azules_agipcios005.jpg.

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are dealt with only marginally in Egyptological literature. These applications include the cattle brands already referred to, as well as markings of individuals and institutions on cloth, on furniture, on tools and other sorts of objects.5 When used for practical applications, it is not always easy to distinguish identity marks from other marks with a very similar morphology, and used for production, transport and assembly.6 This is particularly problematic with pot marks, which are the subject of the following section.

2.2

Ancient Egyptian Pot Marks

From some point in the fourth millennium bce onwards, Egyptian and Near Eastern potters made marks on their products before these went into the kiln (‘pre-fired’ marks).7 Although their earliest occurrences predate the oldest known writing (the latter currently dated to ca. 3400–3100 bce), it is probably 5 The following random examples have come to my attention. Cloth: Middle Kingdom mummy bandages from Deir el-Bahri (Winlock 1942: 123, pl. 21; Winlock 1945: 25–32, pl. xiii–xv—refs. brought to my attention by Daniel Soliman; on the context and date see Vogel 2003—ref. brought to my attention by Joachim Quack), linen from the tomb of Kha at Deir el-Medina (see chapter 1, section 1.3), and from the Eighteenth-Dynasty embalmers’ caches kv 54 and kv 63 (Winlock 2010: 32–34; Ertman, Wilson and Schaden 2006: 25—images of the marks on pillows from kv 63 were kindly shown to me by Elise van Rooij). Furniture: limestone stool and pedestal from Deir el-Medina (Bruyère 1925: 89–90, pl. xxv; Bruyère 1937a: 144, fig. 68), headrests of wood and limestone (Bruyère 1937b: 171, no. 1; Andreu 2002: 80, no. 10 c, among many others). Toiletry: wooden comb (Bruyère 1953: 65 and 83, fig. 15 bottom right). Tools: see refs for Old and Middle Kingdom in Andrássy 2009b: 120, notes 18–19; Roth 1991: 122–124; additionally: Middle Kingdom chisel from Deir el-Bahri, Winlock 1942:123, pl. 21—ref. brought to my attention by Daniel Soliman, a wooden bat from Deir el-Medina (Bruyère 1939: 246, no. 10, fig. 124), wooden handle of an engraver’s tool (Bruyère 1953: 98). Mushroom-shaped wooden objects with marks from Deir el-Medina (Bruyère 1928: 26–27) perhaps belong to the same category. 6 Which are not the subject of this book. Some prominent Ancient Egyptian examples are the marks on faience tiles of the Djoser pyramid complex and from other sites (Kuraszkiewicz 2015; Parkinson 1999: 93) and on tiles from the reign of Ramesses iii (Parkinson 1999: 108– 109; for the tiles of Tell el-Yahudiya, see the previous chapter, section 1.3), and the hieroglyphic marks on ram sphinxes of the Karnak temple complex (Cabrol 1995: 21–23). 7 In Egypt, pre-fired marks first appear on Naqada i pottery (Shaw 2012: 29) and become more numerous towards the end of Naqada ii (e.g. on bread moulds at Adaïma, about 3400–3300 bce; Bréand 2015: 188); pot marks at Tell Brak (Syria) date to the middle of 4th millennium (Middle Uruk Period: Oates and Oates 1997: 291—ref. brought to my attention by Bleda Düring).

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not quite correct to regard the marks as forerunners of writing.8 The two systems rather seem to have had their own functional domains, and their morphology does not substantially overlap. It would perhaps be better to say that writing and marks reflect similar, or the same cognitive developments in early complex societies.9 Most often pre-fired pot marks would be mere finger holes or grooves, or scratches made with a pointed tool, which were straight or curved, but occasionally they had pictorial forms, such as hands, arms, animals, plants.10 In Egypt they could adopt the forms of hieroglyphs from the moment these started to develop.11 One would expect, perhaps, that hieroglyphic forms became dominant in the course of Egyptian history. With pre-fired pot marks, however, this does not seem to be the case. At this point it must be said that the research of pot marks, like that of marking systems in general, is still very much in its beginning stages. Among the extensive corpuses of pottery published (themselves actually a fraction of what archaeologists find), there is usually some attention paid to the marks. As a consequence, much material is available for study, but as the underlying systems are poorly understood, publications dealing with the material are basically descriptive, and the attempts to explain it highly speculative. As David Aston put it: ‘never in the field of Egyptology has so much been written about so little by so many.’12 What is true for the medieval European masons’ marks (for which see sections 2.5–2.9 below) is also true for pot marks: in the absence of textual evidence, we are basically ignorant of the conditions and organisation of the producers, that is, the masons or the potters. Pottery production in Ancient Egypt could be institutional, that is, conditioned by the royal administration, the temples, or the households of wealthy individuals, but 8

9

10 11 12

As is done by Gelb 1952: 190–194 (the ‘identifying-mnemonic device’), and Morenz 2004: 29 and 33. For the earliest writing in Mesopotamia and Egypt, see e.g. Cooper 2004 and Baines 2004—see the latter’s pages 159–160 on the typological and stylistic differences between Egyptian pot marks and the earliest possible writing. So Bréand 2015: 188; Shaw 2012: 29–31; Piquette 2013: 215. Cf. Paola Sconzo on parallels between third millennium Syrian pot marks and Uruk iii/iv writing: ‘They might however imply a common original semiotic system, a common understanding of certain ideographic ideas, a common system of representing key ideas in conceptual terms, which developed in different ways in different areas and in different contexts.’ (Sconzo 2013: 289—ref. brought to my attention by Jesper Eidem). See e.g. the corpus of marks on Syrian pottery of the third millennium bce (Sconzo 2013: 223–320). See Engel 2015. For an inventory of forms of the proto-historic period (Early Dynastic), see The International Potmark Workshop: http://www.potmark-egypt.com. Aston 2009: 49.

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pottery could equally be produced by peasant households or local workshops.13 In the latter context, the absence of a morphology that is influenced by writing is to be expected. As matters stand now, however, pre-fired marks on pottery seem to be mainly or exclusively associated with large-scale or institutional production,14 and even there they show a minimum of hieroglyphic, or pictorial forms. The marks on storage vessels from the Twelfth Dynasty (20th–18th century bce) found in situ near the gneiss quarries of Gebel el-Asr predominantly show strokes, which may be numerical, and perhaps include the hieratic sign for ‘10’ (∧). In addition, some more complex geometric shapes appear, such as the cross and  (the ‘hourglass’), but no signs betraying hieroglyphic inspiration. Ian Shaw suspected that the pottery served desert expeditions, and that the purpose of these marks was administrative and logistic.15 Although private and small-scale exploitation of desert resources cannot be excluded,16 large scale quarrying and long-distance desert expeditions are usually seen as royal enterprises by Egyptologists, so the Gebel el-Asr pottery and its marks should be seen as products of institutional economy. The excavation of the pyramid town of El-Lahun, from the same period, yielded tons of pottery, with hundreds of fragments bearing marks. This settlement, like Deir el-Medina, had been founded by the government, but it had a population mainly consisting of priests, administrators and workmen serving the mortuary cult of King Senusret ii in his nearby pyramid temple. Yet even here pre-fired pot marks are usually strokes and simple geometric devices, perhaps partly numerical, with rare occurrences of more complex designs and hieroglyphs.17 Post-fired marks from the same site are usually more complex and include a considerably higher number of hieroglyphic forms.18 A papyrus document of the Fourth Dynasty from Gebelein in Southern Egypt contains an account of pottery ‘inspected’ by a person called Khuy. Beneath the first line of hieratic text, which mentions a date and the inspection, is an isolated sign: the hieratic form of the hoe hieroglyph I (phonetic mr).19 This was probably the mark applied by Khuy on the items he had seen. Why this particular mark was used is obscure; it does not seem to be related to the 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

See e.g. Köhler 1997. Bréand 2015: 210; Engel 2015b: 224. Shaw 2009. As argued for travertine and gypsum quarries by Kemp 2006: 317–318. Gallorini 2009: 107–142, with an extensive corpus of pre-fired marks. Ibid., 115. Discussion by Andrássy 2015.

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inspector’s name. What follows is a list of seven types of vessels, with a number of inspected vessels for each type. This text is somewhat like P. Varzy in its combination of hieratic text with a mark. According to Petra Andrássy the hoe was a pre-fired mark made by Khuy on clay vessels that were yet to be baked.20 Post-fired pot marks are usually associated, not with pottery production, but with control, distribution and ownership of the baked vessels or their contents. These associations are at best hypotheses, since so little is known about the contexts of production and use of the vessels. Accurate documentation of the precise find circumstances is of considerable help in this, but is totally lacking for much pottery from nineteenth and early twentieth century excavations, such as the Lahun corpus. Even so, pottery ensembles from the same sites are valuable sources for the investigation of the frequency and typology of pot marks. It has already been stated that the post-fired marks from El-Lahun are usually more complex, and show more hieroglyphic forms, than pre-fired marks from the same site. This seems to be the case also in other local contexts, and in other periods, such as the New Kingdom. Aston noted that marks on New Kingdom pottery, pre- or post-fired, are ‘exceedingly rare’, even at the best documented sites of settlements and cemeteries.21 Less than three hundred of the approximately one million pottery sherds from Qantir (ancient Piramesse, the delta residence of the Ramesside pharaohs) have marks.22 The pottery found here covers the entire New Kingdom, a period of over five centuries. Most of the material, however, is from the Nineteenth Dynasty, and more specifically from the reign of Ramesses ii (1279–1213 bce). The repertoire of Qantir pot marks, pre- and post-fired, can be classified according to the familiar categories: signs of writing (hieroglyphic), concrete (or pictorial) signs, and geometric signs. The most frequent types belong to the latter category, and include simple strokes, curves and wavy lines, but also more complex devices including e.g.  ‘hourglass’ and I ‘pentagram’. A smaller number can be labelled as concrete or hieroglyphic. Clear examples of hieroglyphic signs are I (phonetic nefer; logogram for ‘good’) and I (phonetic ankh; logogram for ‘life’, ‘to live’).23 Significantly, concrete and hieroglyphic marks are predominantly post-fired, whereas most of the geometric types are pre-fired marks.24 Among the hieroglyphic marks which are attested more than once, only one was exclusively made prior to firing: I (nefer). 20 21 22 23 24

Andrássy 2015: 251–252. Aston 2009: 52. Ditze 2007: 273. Ibid., 287–288. Ibid., 489, table 07.

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figure 2.3 Dish, jar and jar stand, all marked with I from aston 2014: 123, 166–167, nos. 220, 567, 573; reproduced here with kind permission of david aston and hanna jenni25

There appears to be no correlation between the types of marks and the types of vessels,26 the clay used for their manufacture, or their surface treatment. The division of types between pre- and post-fired marks, however, seems to be relevant, and so does their position on the pottery. The majority of the marks is pre-fired, therefore of simple types, and found on the middle or bottom sections of the vessels. This means that they were mainly relevant for the producers, and less for the later users and owners, since they were not prominently visible. The often more complex, post-fired marks have different positions, including the middle and upper parts of jars, and the inside of bowls. Among the hieroglyphic marks the notable exception is again the pre-fired mark I (nefer), which is typically found near the bottom. The distribution of mark types for pre- and post-fired application, and for different positions on the pottery, indicates that different marks reflect different purposes, rather than different persons. The Qantir pot marks may therefore not belong to the category of personal identity marks, such as those of the Deir el-Medina workmen. Much more research on pharaonic pot marks will need be done in order to decide whether this idea is correct or not; for the time being, the admirable analysis of the Qantir pottery by Barbara Ditze stands as a welldocumented but isolated case study of New Kingdom pot marks. Some of the pottery from the same period that was found in and around tombs in the Valley of the Kings has also been marked, pre- and post-fired. A local characteristic here is that the post-fired marks include those belonging to the workmen who constructed and decorated the tombs, and who were the owners of the vessels. The pottery bearing these particular marks comes from the workmen’s huts near the royal tombs. The pottery items themselves are

25

26

The three items shown here together are not presented as such by Aston; it being uncertain whether they date to precisely the same time, it is equally uncertain whether they all belonged to the same person. With one exception: the wavy lines, that appear to be reserved for large storage vessels: Ditze 2007: 483 (‘group d’).

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dishes, bowls, and various types of jars.27 Since the same workman’s mark may occur on different types of pottery, it is sometimes possible to reconstruct the sets belonging to individual workmen. The typical set included at least one dish or bowl, a jar, and a jar stand (i.e. a ring on which to put a jar with a round bottom), together presumably serving the storage and drinking of water (fig. 2.3).28 It is the use of the workmen’s personal identity marks that makes New Kingdom pottery from the Theban royal necropolis exceptional in its quantity and repertoire of pot marks. Another case of exceptionally frequent markings of pottery is presented by the jar fragments found at Malkata and Karnak, dating from the reigns of Amenhotep iii and iv (Akhenaten). The jars are made of well-known luxury blue-painted pottery (so-called ‘palace ware’), and the repertoire includes many pictorial and hieroglyphic marks, among which even painted pre-fired ones. Colin Hope suggested that the jars represent batches specifically made for the royal jubilee festivals celebrated at these locations, and insists, probably correctly, that special purposes would be required for there to be such substantial quantities of marked pottery vessels.29 It is necessary to put the marks on pottery, as possible references to production, distribution and ownership, into perspective by mentioning other ways of marking vessels: written dockets and seal impressions. New Kingdom pottery jars, especially those containing wine or oil, were frequently inscribed with short, highly standardised texts in hieratic, featuring dates, products and their quality (such as nefer ‘good’ and nefer-nefer ‘very good’), the places of production (such as vineyards), and the persons responsible (e.g. vintners or chief vintners).30 This type of written administrative information belongs to specific administrative branches, such as royal and temple vineyards. In these contexts, non-textual pot marks were apparently not enough. Jar dockets have a long history, reaching back to the short texts written on Early Dynastic vessels, and possibly even to the large pictorial signs (mainly animals and plants, individually or in pairs) on oil jars from the late fourth millennium tomb U-j in Abydos. The same tomb contained small labels of bone and ivory with the same or similar signs and sign combinations; larger labels of this kind with more elaborate written information are known from the Early Dynastic Period. The signs on

27 28 29 30

Dorn 2011a: 169–172; Aston 2014: 68. Aston 2009: 54 and 58; Aston 2014: 69. Hope 1999: 139. For New Kingdom jar dockets see Tallet 1998; Bouvier 2003; for Deir el-Medina in particular see Tallet 2003.

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both labels and jars from tomb U-j are thought, with good reason, to be the earliest known (proto-)hieroglyphs.31 Therefore it seems best to regard the signs on U-j pottery as dockets in (proto-)writing rather than pot marks. More generally speaking, jar dockets probably represent a textual genre, as opposed to single pot marks, throughout Egyptian history.32 What were more universal than hieratic dockets were seal impressions made on wet clay jar stoppers as well as on the jars themselves, which are known throughout the entire pharaonic period of history. Seal impressions in clay have been attested in the Middle East since the seventh millennium bce, and stamps possibly used for sealing are even older.33 In Ancient Egypt, their use was not restricted to pottery, but extended to everything that could be sealed, including closed chests and doors, and papyrus documents. The sealing instruments themselves were made of stone and had cylindrical and other threedimensional forms (the scarab beetle being particulary popular), hence they also functioned as amulets and jewellery.34 Administrative seal impressions may mention products, persons and institutions in hieroglyphs, but they are not necessarily textual. Very often, use is made of pictorial devices, more or less complex in nature, and sometimes including pseudo-hieroglyphic groups of signs. Like marks, pictorial seal motives were not made obsolete by the appearance of writing, but co-existed with hieroglyphic seals throughout antiquity.

2.3

Builders’ Marks, from Teams to Individuals

Another important tradition of marking systems in Ancient Egypt is that of quarry and builders’ marks, which were used in the quarrying, transport, dressing and positioning of stone blocks for monumental temples and tombs, including the huge pyramids of the Old Kingdom pharaohs. The appropriate term for these marks, in any case for the older periods of Ancient Egyptian history, is ‘team marks’. As far as we can make out, the marks on stone blocks from the Old and Middle Kingdom represent teams, rather than individual workmen. The

31 32

33 34

Principal publication Dreyer 1998: 47–91; see also Baines 2004: 152–165; Morenz 2004: 69– 100. Although the distinction is not always easy to make, especially on early dynastic pottery; see Engel 2015. Amphorae from Hellenistic Egypt that have Greek dockets sometimes include single ‘marks’, i.e. monograms for personal names (see e.g. Fournet 2012: 250, fig. 1—ref. due to Willy Clarysse). See e.g. Duistermaat 2012. See e.g. Dubiel 2008.

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organisation of these teams in large units and subdivisions reflects the system of workforce mobilisation that is known as the ‘phyle system’. It was a national system that played an important role, not only in groups of workmen, but in the very structure of society. Functionaries representing the central administration down to the local level of settlements and royal domains were responsible for procuring materials and workforce for government projects, such as the building of huge monuments. From all over Egypt came teams of workmen, each from their own locality, and were united in greater sections called ‘phyles’ by Egyptologists. ‘Phyle’ is the Greek equivalent of Egyptian sa, and represents one shift in a rotation system. Several phyles/sau together constituted a ‘gang’ or ‘crew’ ( aperu). The smaller units in the phyles, the teams of different tjeset (plural tjesut) ‘what is joined’. local origins, were called All these units, from aperu down to tjesut, had their own names. Gang names were typically composed with the names of the ruling pharaohs, e.g. ‘Companions of Khufu (= Kheops)’, or ‘Drunks of Menkaure (= Mycerinos)’. From the late Old Kingdom onwards, gang names are no longer used; the king’s ‘drunks’ and ‘companions’ disappeared (at least from the written record), to be replaced with the names of their supervisors. The phyle names remained. These names correspond with nautical terms, such as ‘starboard’, ‘port’, ‘bow’ and ‘quarter’, which could mean that the ways of organising building workforce and ships’ crews were related.35 They could be abbreviated to single hieroglyphic signs, e.g. (swallow, wer) for imi-weret ‘starboard’.36 The phyle names and abbreviations constituted a standardised and very limited set, and remained constant throughout the Old and Middle Kingdoms. The crew and phyle names and their abbreviations are mainly found in graffiti or check notes on building blocks of pyramids and other monuments, together with lines, grids, positioning marks, numbers and dates, and sometimes more elaborate notes in hieratic. On the same blocks we find indications of the teams (tjesut), whose names are never fully written but indicated by single signs, and these are many and diverse. Old and Middle Kingdom sources have left us approximately two hundred different team marks. Seventy-five per cent of these are considered hieroglyphic and hieratic by Petra Andrássy, although these include signs not belonging to the standard repertoire of these scripts.37 It is likely that some

35 36

37

See the discussion by Roth 1991: 41–59. These individual signs could also be used for subsections between the phyles and the tjesetteams. The brief presentation of the phyle system in this chapter is rather simplified; for more nuanced accounts see Roth 1991; Andrássy 2009a. Andrássy 2009a: 17.

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figure 2.4 Left: Crew ‘Drunks of Menkaure’, phyle imi-weret, team mark lower left: ibis? Right: Same crew and phyle, team mark geometric. from reisner 1931: plan xi, nos. v and xxiv

of these supposed hieroglyphs are merely pictorial or ‘concrete’, and show us human figures, animals and objects that are not necessarily hieroglyphs.38 The remaining twenty-five per cent are geometric: strokes and more complex devices. These categories are familiar ones, which we have also come across in the discussions of the pot marks and the Theban necropolis workmen’s marks. Indeed, the set of team marks as collected by Andrássy is very much reminiscent of the New Kingdom repertoire of necropolis workmen’s marks, and many signs are, in fact, the same morphologically—which is of course no surprise as far as the truly hieroglyphic forms are concerned (fig. 2.4). We may well compare the preserved set of team marks with the entire set of New Kingdom workmen’s marks, but we should be aware that at any point in time the set of current signs was considerably smaller, since it reflected the number of teams or workmen active. The New Kingdom necropolis marks belonged to individual workmen of one specific institution (that of the royal tomb), who were settled permanently at one specific spot (Deir el-Medina), and worked at one specific locality (the Theban royal necropolis). The older team marks each belonged to a specific group of workmen from a specific place, and such a group could be put to work at different building projects. Hence, the same team marks can be found on blocks of monuments far removed from each other. However the number of teams working on one particular monument at a certain time (as reflected by the number of different team marks attested on that monument) could be small.39 Obviously the most important difference between the team marks and the New Kingdom workmen’s marks is that the latter were individual, whereas the former were collective. A marking system reminiscent of the team marks is found in a Middle Kingdom papyrus document, P. Reisner ii. The papyrus presents a series of accounts

38 39

See chapter 1, section 1.5. Andrássy 2009a: 18.

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of the royal dockyard at This, in Middle Egypt, from the reign of Senusret i (about 1900bce). Some of these accounts are about copper tools, which are mentioned together with functionaries (including overseers of tjesut ‘teams’) and accompanied by marks in a style similar to the hieratic text of the accounts. Some of these marks are real hieratic signs (and can therefore be transcribed as hieroglyphs, e.g. the hoe I). Copper tools with marks on them have actually survived.40 It is not quite clear what the precise connections between the tools, the functionaries and the marks are, but the marks themselves seem to refer to places, just like many of the team marks.41 Their function may therefore be similar to that of the team marks found on stone blocks, although the repertoire of forms is not identical save for some of the ‘hieroglyphic’ (or rather hieratic) types. The habit of rendering towns by means of single hieroglyphic or hieratic signs is also known from another Middle Kingdom papyrus: a lexical list known as the Ramesseum Onomasticon. In one particular section of this list, hieratic and hieroglyphic signs follow after fully written town names, of which they are abbreviations, as characteristic visual components or phonetically. These abbreviations are not necessarily the first sounds or signs for the names. Thus we find, for instance, three place names starting with Iun- (hence with the pillar sign ): Iunyt ‘Esna’, Iuny ‘Armant’, and Iunet ‘Dendera’. Their (iun + n), (n).42 Obviously, the signs respective abbreviations are (iun), representing these three highly similar toponyms had to be different, but the choice of signs used in their full writings was very limited. A similar phenomenon is encountered in some texts on the El-Lahun papyri, which mention teams from different places or institutions, and these are specified by names and marks, the latter clearly being abbreviations of the former. It is difficult to decide if this is also true for the team marks on blocks and for the tool marks in P. Reisner ii, or even for some of them. It is clear, however, that during the Twelfth Dynasty (the date of all papyri discussed here) there existed a system, or several very similar systems, of abbreviating the names of localities to single signs, which could be used as marks referring to teams of workmen and/or their tools. As opposed to pot marks of the same periods, the phyle and team marks of the Old and Middle Kingdom building projects may with confidence be considered identity marks, although not of individual persons but of groups

40 41 42

See note 5 above. Andrássy 2009b. Gardiner 1947 i: 11–13, with pl. ii. For these particular town names see vol. ii, 10*–12* (no. 32), 22*–24* (nos. 332–333), 30* (no. 343).

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and their home towns.43 The New Kingdom presents us with a change. The necropolis workmen in the Valley of the Kings at Thebes left their individual marks in the mountains, on their possessions and on ostraca, notwithstanding the fact they they, too, worked in teams. And this was not only done in the particular context of royal tomb construction. The marks left on temple blocks from the reigns of Akhenaten and later kings are also very probably those of individuals, rather than teams. Blocks of temples built at El-Amarna (Akhet-Aten, the residence of King Akhenaten, 1353–1336bce)44 were incised with large hieroglyphic, pictorial and geometric signs. The morphological repertoire is similar to that of the team marks of the Old and Middle Kingdom, and that of the Deir el-Medina workmen’s marks. Few of these blocks have survived at El-Amarna itself; many had been reused after Akhenaten’s reign for temples in the town of Hermopolis, not far to the north of Akhet-Aten. What remained at El-Amarna, apart from some blocks, are the numerous impressions of the signs in the layer of gypsum on which the blocks had rested.45 Approximately one-third of the impressions left by blocks in the main gate to the small Aten temple bear marks. If we assume that these were the blocks deposited with the incised surface facing downwards, and that others lay with the marks facing upwards, it follows that most of the blocks were marked. The total number of mark impressions at this particular spot is eighty-eight; the number of different marks is twelve to fourteen. The numerous blocks re-used at Hermopolis show eighty-five different signs.46 There are two reasons for the assumption that the marks at El-Amarna and Hermopolis belong to individual masons, rather than teams. One is the high number of different marks attested in one particular part of a building, i.e. the small Aten temple at El-Amarna. The other, stronger reason is that the blocks used for the Aten temples are relatively small. Egyptologists call them talatat, from Arabic talata ‘three’: the stones are three hand breadths in width and one cubit in length (i.e. approximately 25 by 50cm). Stones of this size are typical of the Amarna monuments, and an innovation of the time. As opposed to the (much) larger blocks used in earlier periods, the talatat could be made and

43

44 45 46

In a few cases the use of personal workmen’s marks is possible but highly uncertain, and the interpretation that they are team marks suits these cases equally well: Andrássy 2009a: 22–25. See chapter 4, section 4.3. Mallinson 1989: 128, fig. 6.12; 138–142. Roeder 1969: 6–8, pl. 219.

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carried by individuals. It is therefore likely—though not absolutely certain— that the marks on the blocks are those of the individual masons. Similar marks have been found on foundation blocks of the temple built at Medinet Habu (i.e. Western Thebes) by the last two kings of the Eighteenth Dynasty, Ay and Haremhab (1323–1292bce).47 On some of the blocks are notes in hieratic saying that they are ‘the work of workman so-and-so’, again pointing to the blocks as the work of individual masons.48 This presents a contrast to the notes on Old and Middle Kingdom blocks, which consistently refer to teams and their supervisors. It seems that the carving of individual masons’ marks on temple blocks was current in the late Eighteenth Dynasty. It is difficult to determine whether this practice was an innovation of the Amarna Period, just like the talatat blocks bearing the marks, or whether it is older. The earliest datable individual marks of the Deir el-Medina workmen are from the reigns of Thutmose iii and Hatshepsut (1479–1425bce), that is, over a century earlier. However it is not quite certain if these workmen, who were cutting out and decorating royal rock tombs in the Theban mountains, represent the same tradition of craftsmanship as the masons and quarrymen who produced stone blocks for the New Kingdom temples (pyramids were no longer built). It is indeed possible that they do. The organisation of the royal necropolis workmen in the preAmarna period is still very unclear, and one of the main questions here is whether they were already the closed and specialised community they would become in the later Ramesside Period. On the one hand, the workmen and their supervisors had titles that specifically connected them with the ‘Great Place’, that is, the royal necropolis, and they were presumably housed in a settlement specifically built for this purpose, the remains of which can still be seen at Deir el-Medina. On the other hand, we cannot be certain whether all necropolis workmen lived there, or whether they were living there permanently,49 and we cannot rule out the possibility that the same workmen were also involved in other construction projects. There are, in fact, indications for their involvement elsewhere; these indications include the appearance of their personal marks in places other than Deir el-Medina, the Valley of the Kings and the Valley of the Queens. In a limestone quarry in the hills of Qurna, north of the Valley of the Kings, an expedition from Waseda University discovered a painted figure of Anubis, one of the Egyptian 47 48 49

Drawings of some of these marks by Anthes 1939; another one (hieroglyphic ) is referred to by Budka 2009: 80, note 90. Anthes 1939. It is not clear whether the notes are on the same blocks as the marks. See chapter 4, section 4.2.

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necropolis deities, accompanied by a series of marks.50 The same expedition had been working for years on the excavation and conservation of the tomb of King Amenhotep iii (kv 22) in the west branch of the Valley of the Kings, and had found there ostraca inscribed with similar marks. There can be little doubt that these marks indeed belonged to the royal necropolis workmen of the pre-Amarna period, but quarried stone blocks were not required for the construction of the king’s rock tomb. It has been established that the Qurna quarry in question was used for the construction of the memorial temple of Amenhotep iii nearby, at the edge of the desert. It is possible, therefore, that the men who worked at the king’s tomb were also involved in the quarrying of blocks for his temple. This was not necessarily exceptional. Among the much later papyri left by the royal necropolis administration is a beautiful coloured map of Wadi Hammamat, with captions in hieratic mentioning important landmarks and local geological resources: greywacke stone and gold.51 One of the captions informs us that a greywacke statue of the king was brought from the Wadi Hammamat quarries to the ‘Place of Truth’, i.e. the Theban necropolis, and that it was left unfinished near the temple of King Ramesses ii there (the Ramesseum), ‘at the Enclosure of the Tomb’. The document is associated by Egyptologists with the expeditions sent to Wadi Hammamat by Ramesses iv of the Twentieth Dynasty. Inscriptions carved in the wadi and a stela erected in nearby Coptos tell us that their purpose was to quarry greywacke for the ‘Place of Truth’.52 There is no reference, in the inscriptions or on the papyrus, to the involvement of the necropolis workforce, but the caption on the papyrus mentions the Enclosure of The Tomb, which is thought to be an administrative centre and the storage place for the workmen’s settlement at Deir el-Medina. Moreover the fact that the map was found among the administrative papyri of the necropolis possibly means that it was relevant for the necropolis administrators. On the verso of the papyrus are texts from the reign of Ramesses vi, featuring the necropolis scribe Amennakht, who is also thought to have been the maker of the map on the recto.53 Thus there are indications, from the early and late New Kingdom, that the Deir el-Medina workmen were also employed at locations other than the royal tombs. It is the lack of written sources for the Eighteenth Dynasty that makes 50 51 52 53

Nishimoto, Yoshimura and Kondo 2002: 21 and 26, fig. 6. P. Turin Cat. 1879 and adjoining fragments; overview by Harrell and Brown 1992; translations of the captions ibid.: 87. Hieroglyphic texts in Kitchen 1983b: 9–16; translation in Kitchen 2012: 9–18. Harrell and Brown 1992: 100–104; Janssen 1994: 96, note 31. See chapter 4, sections 4.4–4.6, for necropolis scribes and papyri.

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figure 2.5 Left: Blocks with marks in the temple of Thutmose iii, Deir el-Bahri. Right: Marks on the causeway of the same temple, Asasif. left: from lipińska 1977: 23 fig. 11. right: from budka 2009b: 184, fig. 7

it difficult to assess how common or exceptional this was in that early period. What was the precise nature of the community of necropolis workmen, and how ‘closed’ or ‘open’ was it with respect to work elsewhere? One particular question concerns the possible relation between the royal necropolis workforce and the workmen building the temples of Hatshepsut and Thutmose iii, and the tomb of Hatshepsut’s steward and trusted man Senmut, in nearby Deir el-Bahri. The temple workmen have left us hundreds of hieratic ostraca, many of which are accounts of materials and workmen present.54 Together with the graffiti and dipinti on the temple blocks,55 these ostraca inform us about the building process, which seems to have been organised in a way similar to the building projects of the Old and Middle Kingdoms, i.e. with a workforce divided into a number of teams, under different superiors, and of different geographical provenance.56 The matter is of importance because the graffiti and dipinti on blocks of the Deir el-Bahri temples include numerous marks, which are very similar to the team marks of the Old and Middle Kingdom, as well as to the personal marks of the Deir el-Medina workmen (fig. 2.5). Even apart from the question of whether Deir el-Medina workmen were involved in work at the Deir el-Bahri temples (or, vice versa, whether temple workmen were active in the construction of the king’s tomb), the appearance of similar marks in these two different contexts at precisely the same moment is highly intriguing. Although 54

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Approximately 600 ostraca have been found; they include hieratic administrative texts but also literary texts and figured ostraca. A publication and discussion is currently being prepared by Malte Römer. Small groups of ostraca have been published by Hayes (1942, 1960). For which see Budka 2009a and 2009b; Wieczorek 2015. Andrássy 2007: 151–160. For the organisation and social status of the workers see also Römer 2017.

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the marks themselves are morphologically similar (e.g. I I I I), the use of the marks seems to be different in these contexts. At Deir el-Bahri they appear, just like the team marks of earlier periods, on blocks, and often in combination with lines, grids, and notes in hieroglyphs and hieratic. Analysis of the marks together with the written information from Deir el-Bahri led Julia Budka to conclude that they are identity or property marks, not of individual workmen but of ‘the estates, towns, teams and officials that contributed to the work’.57 She suggests that different marks reflect different groups working at different parts of the buildings.58 At Deir el-Medina and in the Valley of the Kings the marks appear isolated on pottery vessels, probably as personal ownership marks, and in groups or rows on ostraca, presumably for administrative purposes. The use of marks on ostraca is not known for Eighteenth-Dynasty Deir el-Bahri. Could it be that the same or similar marks were used by workmen active at two locations separated by a distance of approximately one kilometre, in two fundamentally different ways? At Deir el-Bahri, they would have been team marks and have reflected a type of organisation in building projects that was many centuries old. At Deir el-Medina, at the same time, they reflected a new system in which marks stood for individual workmen, and perhaps for their families. It seems possible, however, that their morphology was inspired by the Deir el-Bahri marks. The team marks found on stone blocks are usually associated with the transport and with the work at the building site. In some cases, they may have been made already in the quarries, and therefore reflect (teams of) quarrymen or the extraction processes, but this not always easy to substantiate. A strong case has been made for the marks on sandstone blocks of the Khnum temple terrace at Elephantine (near Aswan), of the early Roman Period, which are also attested in the sandstone quarries of Gebel el-Silsila.59 Among these marks are Greek alphabetic characters, Egyptian hieroglyphs, other pictorial signs, and geometric devices. For marks in other Egyptian temples the relevance to quarrying is less clear.60 The Eighteenth-Dynasty Deir el-Bahri marks are not thought to be quarry marks as the same marks occur on limestone and sandstone blocks, which come from different quarries separated by a great geographical distance.61 If the same teams were responsible for the blocks

57 58 59 60 61

Budka 2009b: 196. Budka 2009b: 199. Jaritz 1980: 42–44, 85–94. E.g. for temples in the Aswan region, other than Elephantine: Dijkstra 2012: 34. Lipińska 1977: 25; Budka 2009b: 195–196; Andrássy 2009c: 11.

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from quarry to building,62 this is perhaps not a problem; in that case the distinction between mason’s marks and quarry marks would be unnecessary. Little research has yet been done on the marks and graffiti in Ancient Egyptian quarries themselves. Analyses of marks left by quarrying activity from the New Kingdom through the Greco-Roman Period at Gebel el-Silsila and Deir elBersha has not made it clear yet whether they represent individual workmen or teams of them.63 Some marks may have had no practical meaning at all, but were possibly left for religious or apotropaic purposes.64 The same may have been true for the Anubis figure with marks in the Qurna quarry mentioned earlier in this section.

2.4

Marking Systems Worldwide

We have seen that systems in which individuals, groups or organisations are represented by single graphic signs existed very early in antiquity. In case the pot marks from the middle of the fourth millennium bce also served to identify persons individually or collectively, systems of identity marks are at least as old as history. From their earliest appearance onwards, they have retained their importance until today, despite the growing use of writing, even in modern industrial societies. What is more, they can be used by groups of people who are only a little familiar, or even entirely unfamiliar, with writing, but wherever marking systems and writing occur together in one and the same society, the former is bound to suffer the influence of the latter. Thus, modern logos of institutions and companies often use writing in addition to pictorial or abstract graphic devices, although there may be tendencies to strip logos of writing, as we saw in the Prologue. Native populations in Brazil, in precolonial times, used systems of linear signs that expressed clan identity, and which were used for branding cattle and for marking other property, as well as for tattoos on the human body. These marking systems changed under the influence of the alphabet after colonisation by Portugal and (in the area of the Brazilian-Argentinian border) Spain.65 This meant that traditional marks were increasingly replaced, in the

62 63 64 65

As appears to have been the case in Ptolemaic times: Depauw 2009a: 97–98; Dijkstra 2012: 33. Nilsson 2015: 89–90, 102; Depauw 2009a: 98. Nilsson 2015: 93–103. Evans Pim 2010.

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figure 2.6 The marks of Benito Rodríguez Castro and his descendants, at A Guarda from evans pim 2013: 113, fig. 9

course of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, by alphabetic characters and monograms. It also meant that government administration attempted to regulate the marking systems by registering the marks and their users, and by issuing regulations for the use and creation of marks. The disappearance of traditional, non-alphabetic marks also caused the disappearance of their systems of derivation. Traditionally, the linear marks consisted of a basic shape (matriz), e.g. circle, diamond, v-shape, or s-curve, and were adapted for family members by adding extra elements (diferenças) in the form of strokes, curves, or more complex forms. In the long run, the use of letters or groups of letters made this derivation system lose its relevance. Something similar happened in Northern Portugal and Gallaecia, where fishermen’s communities also used non-textual linear signs for marking their boats, nets, tools and other property. Fieldwork by Joám Evans Pim has shown that these marks, too, were passed on within families, whereby descendants modified their parents’ marks by adding extra strokes; see the example of the family of Benito Rodríguez Castro from the late nineteenth to late twentieth century (fig. 2.6). In generation iii, a son named Tito discarded this tradition and took on a ‘mark’ that spelled his name alphabetically. Members of the same generation, and even more of generation iv, no longer bothered to use marks.66 The Brazilian, Portuguese and Spanish examples given in the above paragraphs testify to a gradual modification or replacement of a marking system by writing. The reverse development, characters of writing and monograms developing into seemingly abstract geometric signs, is illustrated by the reindeer marks presently current with the Lapps in the extreme north of Norway.

66

Evans Pim 2013: 112–115.

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figure 2.7 Reindeer marks of the Norwegian Lapps from delaporte 1987: 22, fig. 2





The marks are made in the reindeer’s fur by shaving. On one side of the animal there is a string of two, three or four characters expressing the name and filiation of the owner. On the other side, one or more of these characters may be repeated, but they may also be united there into a monogram that looks highly abstract at first sight, but can be decoded as a textual message, a string of initials (fig. 2.7).67 The first example (j) is the mark of mikkel, son of Hendrik Buljo ( is for m).68 Both m and h have been turned ninety degrees and united in a monogram. The second example (k) shows three times the letter a, for Anders-Aslak, son of Anders Bongo. The second a has a special form in order to distinguish it from the initials and monograms of other individuals whose names begin with a, and the same is true for the mark that is the equivalent of the initials. The final example (l) is that of Johan, son of Klemet Buljo, whose monogram unites j and k ( is for j). It would be difficult if not impossible to interpret this and many other monograms without having some knowledge of the system and the letter forms. At the same time, the letters themselves do not fully explain the particular shape of the monogram, since different individuals with the same initials create different monograms in order to distinguish their marks: the precise shapes of the marks are partly the result of graphic but nonlinguistic play. More similar to the Ancient Egyptian marking systems are the signs used on Anatolian seals, in combination with Lydian text, in the sixth to fourth centuries bce. A collection of the signs by John Boardman suggests this particular marking system to be a combination of characters (presumably of Aramaic if not Greek origin), geometric and pictorial signs. Examples of the latter are perhaps to be identified as flower, drill, and bow with arrow respectively.69 Similar marks can be seen on Lydian pottery, masonry, as well as in quarries. Many of them also occur on the Persian monuments of Pasargadae, which is

67 68 69

Delaporte 1987; see also Landais 2010: 82–83, fig. 1. For this and the following identifications see Delaporte 1987: 22. Boardman 2010: 154, fig. 1; 158.

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possibly to be explained by the fact that Darius employed Lydian stonemasons.70 Masons’ marks on Hellenistic monuments in Anatolia are often Greek alphabetical characters, but apparently include abstract geometric devices as well.71 Unsurprisingly, the repertoire of masons’ marks on Roman architecture also partly consists of alphabetic characters.72 This brief section has given a select number of examples of marking systems from different places and different points in history. By so doing so, we aimed to show that such systems have existed, and still exist independently of each other in different cultures, and even within one culture or society are used for a variety of purposes, such as the branding of livestock, markings of other sorts of property, seals, and masons’ and quarry marks. We have also seen that the repertoires of marks include characters used in writing whenever writing is present in the societies in question. Writing may contribute individual characters and even longer linguistic messages to marking systems. As the reindeer markings of the Norwegian Lapps demonstrate, writing can even be the sole source of the morphology of the marks. Here as in other cases, however, characters of writing become part of a system that as a whole is visual, graphic, but not necessarily linguistic.

2.5

Masons’ Marks in Europe, Medieval and Later

When discussing a number of very different marking systems within a brief section like the previous one, we run the risk of isolating only those aspects of the systems that are most similar to the Egyptian workmen’s marks, while ignoring other aspects, and cultural and historical parameters that might explain similarities and differences. We run the risk, in short, of being superficial. The author of the present book can never claim to be familiar with the ins and outs of any marking system outside the Ancient Egyptian context. Nonetheless, an attempt will be made on the pages which follow to discuss more fully and appropriately one particular example: the marks found in European monumental architecture of the Middle Ages and of the early modern period. The discussion is mainly based on a selection of recent expert literature.73 Its aim

70 71 72 73

Boardman 2010: 164. Bachmann 2009: 217, fig. 3. Bachmann 2009: 217, with ref. to Otto Richter. I wish to thank Dirk de Vries for reading a preliminary version of sections 2.5–2.9, and for referring me to some of the literature mentioned in these sections.

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is not to advocate one particular explanation of the marks, to solve any of the numerous problems connected with them, or to present any personal speculations. Rather, this section gives an overview of the material available and of explanations suggested by specialists. It will become clear that the repertoires of European masons’ marks share important principles with the Ancient Egyptian ones, and that the problems in reconstructing their functional background are very similar as well. There are three reasons for selecting the European masons’ marks for this purpose. First, there is a relatively large corpus of scholarly documentation on the topic, reflecting extensive collections of material as well as a variety of different views. Second, the three familiar categories of writing, concrete and geometric marks are particularly well-represented in the repertoires of European masons’ and quarry marks. Third, the functional context of the marks—the organisation of monumental building projects—makes it particularly attractive to compare them with the marks used in the building of Ancient Egyptian monuments. It is important to mention at the start that we must not regard the practice of marking stone blocks in medieval European architecture as one single system.74 The practice was widespread in Europe from the twelfth century to the seventeenth. In the seventeenth century they disappeared as masons’ marks, but similar marks were still used in quarries in the nineteenth century. They were also used outside the world of monumental building, by craftsmen and merchants organised in guilds from the late Middle Ages onwards. Because of its geographic, chronological and functional distribution, the practice of marking stone blocks and commodities with very similar signs does not necessarily represent one coherent marking system. Indeed, even within the history of medieval monumental building changes can be observed, the most important perhaps occurring in the transition from Romanesque to Gothic architecture. Gothic architecture involved stylistic changes as well as new techniques, and it also brought new marks of abstract linear appearance. Even apart from this fundamental change, there were regional and chronological differences. Building was done by different organisations and individuals. This means, for instance, that a fish, a pentagram or a capital A in the crypt of the twelfth-century cathedral of Trier do not necessarily convey the same message, perhaps not even the same type of information, as similarly shaped signs do in the twelfth- to thirteenth-century cathedral of Geneva (fig. 2.8).75

74 75

Esquieu 1992: 125. The contrary may be asserted by esoteric approaches, some of which go back to an eighteenth-century notion of timeless and secret builders’ knowledge, or to nineteenth-

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figure 2.8 Masons’ marks in the crypt of the cathedral of Trier (left) and in the cathedral of Geneva (right) from janse and de vries 1991: 50, fig. 32; 51, fig. 34

As we will see in the next chapter, if two signs of practically identical shape do not have precisely the same meaning, they are not the same signs. We will also see there that in a structuralist view of semiotics, referring to a mark as a ‘sign’ means seeing it, not as a spontaneous creation, but as part of a sign system, there being no meaning without that system. This has in fact been pointed out concerning the medieval marks by Jean-Luc van Belle in his pioneering research of masons’ and quarry marks, called signes lapidaires by him. Having established this, we should immediately acknowledge that the meaning of the supposed signs is, in most cases, unknown. Indeed, it is not even clear in many cases whether the marks express identity, of groups or individuals, or something else. It is clear that marks in medieval architecture can express identity, but also organisation and technique: apart from identity marks, there are construction (or assembly) marks, and these two kinds of marks are not always easy to distinguish.76 The paragraphs which follow this concentrate on the marks that possibly reflect the identity of individuals taking part in the construction of stone monuments. After exploring the morphology of the marks and reviewing their supposed purposes, we will discuss the way they refer, demonstrably or supposedly, to individual craftsmen or groups of them.

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and early twentieth-century research and its speculative results (by e.g. Franz von Ržiha and Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc). For references, see Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 116 with notes 92–95. Van Belle 2014: 6 (fig. 1) and passim, distinguishes between marques d’identité and marques utilitaires. Reveyron 2003: 163ff., distinguishes between construction marks, accounting marks (including quarry marks), and identity marks.

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The Morphology of Masons’ Marks

As has already been mentioned, and as can readily be seen from the examples of Trier and Geneva in (fig. 2.8), the morphology of masons’ marks can be one of three basic categories. Many signs represent objects or beings, such as pots, bows and arrows, animals, or parts of the human body. Perhaps we may count religious icons, such as the cross, among these, and refer to the category as ‘iconic’ or ‘pictorial’. Pictorial marks often lack standardised graphic forms. The fish, for instance, may be depicted in different ways, the actual sign (or more precisely, signifier) being the fish, and not its precise graphic form.77 We will see that the same is true for the pictorial marks at Deir el-Medina. Others are clearly characters of writing, that is, alphabetic letters. The third category might be said to include everything that cannot be accommodated in the first two categories, and calls for labels such as ‘abstract’ or ‘geometric’, e.g. spiral, triangle, ‘diamond’ or ‘hourglass’. Whereas some signs are easy to classify in this way, others are more difficult, and may even indicate fuzzy borders in what remains a provisional classification. Is the ‘hourglass’  really a geometric sign, is it actually an hourglass, or something else? Is the pentagram I a symbolic notion, the depiction of a star, or both? Medieval religious symbolism is bound to play a very important role here. The fish, for instance, may be have been a popular sign because it was a symbol for Christ, just like the cross.78 In that case, the mark represents a fish, but also Christ, and (presumably) a particular stonemason. As we will see in the next chapter, marks convey their meaning in different ways, and may even mean different things to different people and at different moments in time. Despite indistinct borders, and despite possible medieval connotations that are now lost to us, letters (and numbers), geometric signs and pictorial signs are usually acknowledged as basic groups in morphological typologies, whatever their degree of refinement.79 Perhaps the most refined typology is presented by van Belle, who distinguishes six basic categories (letters, numbers, geometric forms, strokes, curves, and ideograms), most of which are subdivided further (fig. 2.9). In a cross-cultural perspective, one might subsume these six categories within a threefold division: writing (letters, numbers), geometric (geometric forms, strokes, curves), pictorial/concrete (‘ideograms’).

77 78 79

Janse and de Vries 1991: 51. Janse and de Vries 1991: 51. E.g. Pringle 1981: 178 (mentioning letters and geometrical motives); Fuchs, S. 2009: 3, fig. 3 (geometric, letters, numbers, pictorial—the cross being made a category of its own).

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1. letters 2. numerals 3. geometric forms

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2.1. Arabic 2.2. Roman 3.1. circles 3.2 triangles

3.3. squares 3.4. rectangles 3.5. diamonds

4. strokes

3.6. polygonals 4.1. arrows

4.2. forks 4.3. crosses 4.4. crossbars 5. curves 6. ideograms

6.1. tools 6.2. shields 6.3. stars 6.4. other

figure 2.9 Typology of masons’ marks adapted from van belle 2014: 39

3.2.1. simple 3.2.2. elongated 3.2.3. linked 3.2.4. double 3.2.5. hourglass 3.2.6. multiple 3.3.1. general 3.3.2. on bars 3.5.1. simple 3.5.2. clamped 3.5.3. elongated 3.5.4. “hourglass” 3.5.5. double 3.5.6. other 4.1.1. pointed 4.1.2. clamped 4.1.3. crossed

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figure 2.10

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Bell tower of Viviers cathedral from esquieu 1992: 127, fig. 1

Although many systems of masons’ marks appear to be mixed in the sense that they include all the above categories (e.g. fig. 2.8), certain regions and periods show clear preferences for some categories, at the expense of others. The builders of Romanesque churches and monasteries in Southern France, in the eleventh to thirteenth centuries, had a clear preference for Latin characters (fig. 2.10). Geometric and pictorial signs were exceedingly small in number, even rare.80 What is more, we also find strings of characters, and even whole names (e.g. salar(d) for ‘Salardus’ in fig. 2.10). This might be taken as the first indication that individual characters, and shorter sequences of them, are abbreviations of proper names (e.g. berna for ‘Bernardus’, ioh for ‘Johannes’), quite possibly the names of the masons. This possibility will be further

80

Esquieu 1992: 117, 122; Morel 2007: 2; Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 116.

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discussed below. As different authors point out, the appearance of letters, letter sequences and names should not be taken as an indication of a high degree of literacy on the part of the masons.81 One does not need to be fully literate to write or abbreviate one’s name. The textual nature of characters and names as marks does not seem to have been particularly important, given the fact that their orientation varies considerably. They are frequently turned at 90 or 180 degrees,82 and this is not due to the positioning of the blocks, which include parts of arches, vaults and columns, the orientation of which was clear when the marks were incised. On the analogy of Ancient Egyptian and other parallels, we may hypothesise that alphabetic characters were frequent as marks because writing did play an important role in the masons’ daily work and surroundings. Indeed, the buildings they made were important ecclesiastic monuments, and their patrons were bishops and abbots. Did contact with high clergy make the Latin script pervade the daily work of stonemasons? And, if so, was Latin administration the source of this, or biblical tradition? A possible indication for the latter is the appearance of complete Latin abecedaries on medieval church walls. These abecedaries do not seem to be marks, but may be religious messages. David Morel sees in them a reference to biblical texts, in the context of the consecration of churches, but offers an alternative explanation, that they are an expression of salvation; the Greek omega is sometimes added at the end of the sequence, apparently as an eschatological message.83 Alternatively, one may consider the fact that building in stone in the Middle Ages was essentially picking up a tradition of Roman antiquity, and that the terminology used for it was Latin.84 However, seeing this or the previous suggestions as an explanation for the preponderance of Latin script in the masons’ marks is problematic, since the same would have to apply to the builders of churches in Northern Europe or in later periods, whose marking systems show far less influence by writing. Why would the almost exclusive role of writing have been confined to Romanesque churches in the south? A strong case can,

81 82 83

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Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 114. Tyson 1994: 7; Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 103; de Vries 2009: 212. Morel (2007: 5). Reveyron (2003: 168, note 4) and Hartmann-Virnich (2007: 116) see the alphabets as didactic tools, even for teaching parish children how to read. This explanation is problematic, however, in the case of an abecedary with omega high up the wall at Chauvigny (Morel 2007: 11, fig. 9). The alphabets are not to be confused with group presentations (Sammelsteine) of marks, for which see below. De Vries 2009: 211, pointing out the contrast to wood construction, the terminology of which was of Germanic origin.

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in fact, be made for Roman antiquity, or rather its remains, as a major source of inspiration in this region.85 In Southern Europe, Roman monuments had survived in far greater numbers, and in better condition, than in the north. Roman monuments and inscriptions were prominent landmarks. In cities whose histories reached back to Roman times, they could even be omnipresent, and were used by architects and masons as examples and … as quarries. Latin inscriptions, complete or fragmentary, were part of the landscape, especially as experienced by architects and stonemasons. Perhaps even the Ancient Roman masons’ marks (see the previous section) were a source of inspiration. According to van Belle, alphabets have always been an important source of inspiration for marking systems,86 and as far as societies with alphabetic writing are concerned, one cannot but agree. What remains to be explained, then, is the inclusion, in the repertoire of masons’ marks, of signs other than alphabetic characters. Medieval architecture of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in Northern European regions shows that the role of writing there was much more limited. Alphabetic characters even seem to form a minority in the examples from Trier and Geneva (fig. 2.8). They are more prominent in the twelfth-century church of the Cistercian monastery of Maulbronn, in Southern Germany. More than half of the repertoire is here made up of letters, but geometric and pictorial signs are present in substantial numbers as well.87 The markings in these churches, whatever their precise background and meaning, appear to be morphologically more mixed than their southern counterparts— the Cistercian monastery of Senanque, Provence, also from the twelfth century, has letters only. The predominantly alphabetic marks of the south, and the more mixed repertoires of the north, were superseded by linear marks from the thirteenth century onwards (fig. 2.11). These marks are thought of as abstract and geometric,88 or as imitating Gothic characters (Fraktur).89 Hans Janse and Dirk de

85 86

87 88 89

Van Belle 2014: 32–33. Van Belle 2014: 26–28. The tables presented by van Belle include ancient alphabets such as the Phoenician and Greek, the relevance of which is disputable in the context of medieval marks. In this sense they are an unwelcome reminder of Petrie’s ideas on marks and early alphabetic writing (see chapter 1, section 1.3). Fuchs, S. 2009: 3. Fuchs, F. 2009: 236: ‘filigrane geometrische Figurationen’; Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 107 and 121; Morel 2007: 2–3. Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 107; van Belle 2014: 30—the latter also tentatively suggesting a resemblance to runes.

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figure 2.11

Masons’ marks of the 14th century, towers of La Rochelle from janse and de vries 1991: 53, fig. 44

Vries, in their discussion of masons’ marks in the Netherlands, suggest that such marks originally belonged to Northern Europe, and found their origin in building in wood, as against the tradition of building in stone in Southern Europe.90 Authors agree that the linear marks came with Gothic architecture, starting in Île de France and spreading throughout Europe. Not only are Gothic script and architectural style considered important for the new linear forms of masons’ marks, but also the tools used: the straight chisels used in Gothic building made straight marks, whereas the earlier pointed tools made it easier to cut curves and more complex signs.91 As early as in the thirteenth century, Gothic architecture reached Southern France, where the geometric marks on later work in churches contrast with the letters on their earlier masonry. Blocks of the Lawrence Tower added to the papal palace in Avignon in the fourteenth century were inscribed with the new geometric marks.92

90 91 92

Janse and de Vries 1991: 55. Janse and de Vries 1991: 53. Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 125–129.

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Why Were Masons’ Marks Applied?

Having discussed the morphological development of medieval masons’ marks and its possible background, we may turn to the more difficult question of why they were placed. One important thing to observe in this respect is where the marks are found, and where not. David Morel, in his essay on the masons’ marks in the diocese of Clermont (eleventh to thirteenth centuries), notes that the marks are exclusively found in ecclesiastical buildings, especially in very prestigious churches where the relics of saints and bishops were kept.93 Andreas Hartmann-Virnich, on the other hand, notes that the type of stone is of prime importance. In Romanesque architecture in Provence, marks only occur on fine, soft limestone, and are absent on other types of stone.94 A similar observation was made by Janse and de Vries, who state that stones from several quarries in the Southern Netherlands (presently Belgium) were not marked by masons, but by the owners of the quarries, and this only from the fifteenth century onwards.95 The connection with the type of stone raises the question of whether the marks were associated with quarries, rather than with the work on the construction site. The application of the marks in quarries would also explain why the same marks are found in different monuments from the same period. Yet Hartmann-Virnich prefers to leave the question unanswered for Southern France.96 The reason for the geographical spread of the same marks could also be that the same expert masons worked on different monuments. Friedrich Fuchs sees the occurrence of the same marks in Regensburg cathedral and in a network of churches surrounding it, as far as Prague and Passau, as evidence for the mobility of the medieval masons.97 A possible connection between masons’ marks and specific masons or workshops is also indicated by the fact that even within the same monuments, marks were not continuously applied, but restricted to specific periods, hence possibly to the presence of specific individuals or groups.98 Ever since the earliest scholarly research into medieval masons’ marks, in the nineteenth century, a practical explanation has been preferred for their occurrence. French scholarship has coined the term marques de tâcheron, which expresses the hypothesis that masons worked, and were paid by the piece 93 94 95 96 97 98

Morel 2007: 2. Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 104–105. Janse and de Vries 1991: 61. Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 112. Fuchs, F. 2009: 244–248. Esquieu 1992: 118; Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 105.

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rather than by the day. The marks would thus be their signature, allowing their work to be recognised for the purpose of payment, and perhaps also for quality control. As many modern authors point out, this remains a hypothesis. It is considered a viable explanation for a number of cases in medieval Europe,99 as well as for crusader masonry in Palestine,100 and for instance for seventeenthcentury manors in England.101 Yet it should not be unduly generalised, as the so-called marques de tâcheron are also attested for masons whom we know to have been paid by the day.102 Other motives for the application of masons’ marks present themselves, and some observations prevent us from considering the marks to be purely practical. One of these observations is that very many were carefully made, and of monumental size. They were cut only after the blocks had received a smooth or even a decorated surface, and many were prominently visible when the blocks had been put into position. All this is true for marks in twelfthcentury Provence and Clermont, and also for seventeenth-century England.103 Clearly there was an important aesthetic motive involved. Hartmann-Virnich argues that entirely plastered walls were unusual in medieval Provence. The decorative finish of the blocks, and the monumental appearance of the marks (alphabetic characters) strongly suggests the stone masonry was meant to be seen. Together with the Romanesque style of the buildings, it evoked the architecture and inscriptions of Roman antiquity.104 This desired visibility, however, does not seem to have been a general rule in medieval Europe. As Janse and de Vries observed with respect to some monuments in Belgium and the Netherlands, marks are also found on surfaces hidden from view after the blocks were put into position. But if the masons’ marks were meant to be seen, even to be admired, and if they were indeed the marks of individual craftsmen, was the spectator supposed to recognise them as the signatures of individuals? The answer to this question is an explicit yes in Yves Esquieu’s discussion of French medieval masons’ marks, in the survey of monumentally carved sixteenth century marks by Janse and de Vries, as well as in the analysis of the seventeenth-century

99 100 101 102 103 104

‘Indeed correct payment was probably the most important use of marks.’ (Tyson 1994: 4). For quality control: de Vries 2014: 28. Pringle 1981: 176. Alexander and Morrison 2007: 65. Janse and de Vries 1991: 49–50; de Vries 2014: 27. Morel 2007: 3; Alexander and Morrison 2007: 65. The decoration of the marked surfaces is particularly striking in Provence: Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 103, 112. Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 114–115, 129.

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masons’ marks in Apethorpe Hall (Northamptonshire, England) by Jennifer Alexander and Kathryn Morrison.105 What the marks convey, according to these scholars, is authorship. This is even clearer for the marks of master craftsmen in the late Middle Ages (Meisterzeichen, for which see below). That individual alphabetic characters, and pictorial and geometric signs were meant to make individual persons identifiable is also suggested by the parallel occurrence, often on the same walls, of complete and abbreviated names, as has already been mentioned. In medieval Provence, alphabetic characters may even be accompanied by human figures,106 and on thirteenth-century walls in the cathedral of Lyons we find profiles of human heads, which are considered by Nicolas Reveyron to be portraits of individual masons.107 Authorship could even be expressed by more elaborate Latin inscriptions. A tympanon in the portal of Saint Lazare in Autun (12th century) is inscribed with the phrase gislebertus hoc fecit (‘Gislebertus made this’).108 A clearly visible text on a capital in the portal of the abbey church of Saint-Benoît-sur-Loire (11th–12th centuries) says unbertus me fecit (‘Unbertus made me’).109 The blocks of pillars in the nave of the same church are inscribed with marks belonging to a mixed system typically found in North European monumental architecture of the eleventh to the end of the thirteenth century. They include a cross, a star (pentagram), an arrow, a shield, and a capital s with serifs (fig. 2.12). Although apparently inspired by writing, the latter mark is perhaps not to be read as such: it is not always correctly oriented, but may also be mirrored and turned approximately forty-five degrees.110 The appearance of an explicit inscription about authorship and marks within the same building presents a remarkable parallel to similar combinations in Ancient Egyptian architecture.111 Who were meant to see such marks, texts and portraits? In those cases where they could be seen and read from the ground, one might think that they attracted the attention of visitors to churches, town halls and castles. But they also occur in places where they cannot be seen by human eyes, high up walls and towers, or in parts where the light is insufficient for recognising wall decorations. This has led some authors to consider the possibility that they

105 106 107 108 109 110 111

Esquieu 1992: 124; Janse and de Vries 1991: 56–57; Alexander and Morrison 2007: 71. Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 113–114. Reveyron 2003: 166–167. De Vries 2014: 35–36, fig. 41. Photos on http://www.art-roman.net/stbenoit/stbenoit4.htm. Personal observations at Saint-Benoît-sur-Loire, August 2015. See the case of the temple of Ay and Haremhab at Medinet Habu mentioned in section 2.3.

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figure 2.12

Marks at Saint-Benoît-sur-Loire: leg(?), shield and capital S photos iris borup

were meant to be seen, not by humans, but by God. We have already come across Morel’s suggestion that abecedaries ending with omega on medieval church walls expressed salvation. This is also his suggestion for the masons’ marks on the walls of medieval churches in the Clermont diocese in general: (…) il semble que les inscriptions soient principalement liées à la quête du Salut, et que l’apposition d’un nom ou de quelque autre marque distinctive, puisse remplacer la presence réelle de l’ individu dans l’ espace ecclesial, rendant son identification immediate inutile, si ce n’est par Dieu lui-même.112 The marks on church walls are, in other words, votive inscriptions, through which masons recommended themselves by presenting their work to God.113 This theory receives support from another remarkable observation: the writing of names upside down. We have already seen that individual marks could be turned 90 or 180 degrees, and concluded from this that the use of marks was

112 113

Morel 2007: 6. In this sense Esquieu 1992: 124.

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not necessarily an expression of literacy. In the monastery of Maulbronn there is a conscious practice of engraving the name ‘Hermann’ upside down on the church walls. According to Stefanie Fuchs this could mean that the name was meant to be read from above, that is, by God.114 A similar observation has been made for the capital A carved upside down on arches in the Sainte Foy Abbey of Conques.115 Could the same be true for some of the names on the bell tower of Viviers cathedral (fig. 2.10)? Even if applicable to ecclesiastic monuments of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, this explanation is a partial one at best for the phenomenon of masons’ marks at large. It does not explain the presence of similarly invisible or unreadable marks in secular buildings, such as castles, town halls, and manors.116 It seems that a universal theory on the purpose of masons’ marks is lacking so far, and perhaps no explanation can or should be given that is valid for the entire period and region in which they are found.

2.8

Masons and Masters

Having addressed the difficult question of the purpose of the marks, it is now time to deal with what is perhaps the most vexing problem, that is, whether they reflect the identity of individual masons. The assumption that they do is implied by the idea that the marks were important for the payment of craftsmen, as marques de tâcheron. But it has also been suggested that teams of craftsmen may be referred to. In Maulbronn, Stefanie Fuchs found the same mark on blocks whose finish betray the hands of different masons.117 Hartmann-Virnich, on the other hand, points out that the interpretation of the marks in the papal palace of Avignon as those of individual masons is difficult to maintain, given the excessive volumes of stone that would have to have been produced by these masons in a short span of time.118 Yet the letters and letter combinations in Romanesque churches, which include complete and abbreviated names, do seem to refer to individuals. And Denys Pringle observed that on crusader masonry in Palestine, incised mason’s marks occur together with Arabic names painted in red, and concluded that together they refer to workforces consisting of Greek- and Arabicspeaking masons. Friedrich Fuchs regards pictorial signs found in the cathedral 114 115 116 117 118

Fuchs, S. 2009: 10, with ref. to Esquieu; see also de Vries forthcoming. De Vries 2014: 31. De Vries 2014: 31; de Vries forthcoming. Fuchs, S. 2009: 7–8, 10. Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 128.

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of Regensburg (depicting tools and other objects) as sprechende Zeichen, being references to the professions and names of craftsmen.119 How to reconcile such references to individuals with the observations by Stefanie Fuchs and Andreas Hartmann-Virnich that the same marks occur on blocks made by different masons, or on more blocks than could have been produced by one person? One possible way out is the assumption that a mark refers to the supervisor of a team, or even to a patron.120 Esquieu observed that the letters b, g, p and r, very frequent as medieval masons’ marks, correspond with the most popular French proper names of the period: Bernard or Bertrand, Guillaume, Pierre or Pons, and Raymond. The very frequent capital a, by contrast, cannot be explained in this way, and Esquieu suggested that this letter, the first one of the alphabet, designates the foreman.121 Hartmann-Virnich points in a different direction for the apparently excessive volumes of blocks with the same marks in the papal palace of Avignon, and suggests that they refer to different phases in the supply of stone—though not to individual suppliers.122 Discussing the marks in the earlier Romanesque churches of Provence, Hartmann-Virnich observes that higher concentrations of them are found on higher parts of the walls, and there especially on more complex pieces of sculpture, such as arches and pendentives. It is therefore possible that only the more accomplished masons, who were capable of producing such pieces, left their marks. Indeed, medieval Latin building terminology distinguishes between vulgaribus saxis and quadris nobilibus, and thus implies higher appreciation of the latter type of work.123 As Morel points out, the increasing quality of stoneworking from the eleventh century onwards caused the appearance of more specialised craftsmen who were responsible for intricate types of masonry, a veritable sculpture savante.124 The marks developed into signatures of master masons, and were called Ehrenzeichen and Meisterzeichen in German-speaking countries in the late Middle Ages.125 In the same German areas we find groups of different masons’ marks on one and the same stone, sometimes within a cartouche. Such stones are called Sammelsteine, and thought to be self-presentations of groups of masons working at the same time. Within such a group of marks, one may be highlighted by the outline of a shield, 119 120 121 122 123 124 125

Fuchs, F. 2009: 249–251. Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 116–117, questioned by Fuchs, S. 2009: 10. Esquieu 1992: 122–123. See also Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 115; de Vries forthcoming. Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 128. Hartmann-Virnich 2007: 118 and 129. Morel 2007: 2. Van Belle 2014: 44; Fuchs, F. 2009: 237; Reveyron 2003: 166–167.

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figure 2.13

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Sammelstein in Neumarkt from janse and de vries 1991: 62, fig. 71

thus suggesting a coat of arms (fig. 2.13). Such highlighted marks are probably those of master masons, whose mates have added their marks on the same stone.126 Late medieval master masons were also portrayed in manuscripts, and even in sculpture in the churches where they worked. Identification of these Meister was possible through their marks.127 By the fifteenth century, they were not the only persons to use their marks in portraits, or as would-be coats of arms. Master craftsmen in building and other professions, as well as merchants, applied similar, linear marks on their products, on signet rings, on the facades of their houses, and on their tombstones.128 In this way, they emulated the coats of arms of noble families, which they as citizens were not allowed to have. They also used their marks to sign official documents.129 126 127 128 129

Fuchs, F. 2009: 248–249; Janse and de Vries 1991: 61–62; de Vries forthcoming. Examples: van Belle 2014: 44; Fuchs, F. 2009: 237; Janse and de Vries 1991: 62–63; de Vries 2014: 17, 19, 25–27. See de Vries 2009: 212 and fig. 12; van Belle 2014: 45–47. See also chapter 3, fig. 3.1. Janse and de Vries 1991: 48; see also the references below to masons’ marks in written documents.

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The fifteenth and sixteenth centuries have left us a relative wealth of written evidence on masons’ marks and their use. The surviving administrative records include the regulations of building workshops, decisions of city and church councils, and contracts between builders and their clients. The often-quoted Rochlitzer Ordnung of 1462 stipulates, among other things, that marks are to be assigned to masters and mates by the supervisor of the workshop (Bauhütte), and that mates have to apply their marks on blocks before these are put into position and inspected.130 In the late fifteenth century, the cathedral chapter of Lyons allowed a mason to sign blocks that had already been produced by others, but were to be fitted by him.131 Workshop regulations of Gent, in 1528, stipulated that marks should be on the masons’ chisels, and on the first finished surfaces of stone blocks.132 In 1538 a contract was drawn up between the wardens of Our Lady’s Church in Zwolle (the Netherlands) and a group of masons, about the state of the tower lantern. The document was signed by all the masons involved, some writing their names and others drawing their marks because they could not write. Some of these marks are actually attested on stone blocks of the lantern itself.133 One of them is also attested in a contract of 1536 for deliveries of stone at Hampton Court Palace, England; very probably, the same mason (called Martyn Wastelle) was involved (fig. 2.14).134 In 1551, the Löwenberg city council intervened in a conflict between two masons, and stipulated that henceforth masons had to sign each block they produced, so that the makers could be recognised immediately.135 Needless to say, these and similar data from the late Middle Ages and the early modern period have strongly influenced the explanation of masons’ marks, notably the assumptions of individual identification, payment and quality control. But inferences from these late documents are not necessarily valid for earlier periods, as some authors have duly pointed out.136 On the basis of the Rochlitzer Ordnung, it has been assumed that marks were assigned to individual masons only temporarily, for the duration of their stay at one particular workshop. But indications exist, from earlier periods, for marks

130 131 132 133 134 135 136

Van Belle 2014: 80–81. The same source is referred to by Esquieu 1992: 121–122. Reveyron 2003: 165. Janse and de Vries 1991: 60; de Vries 2014: 34. Janse and de Vries 1991: 62–63; de Vries 2009: 212–213, 217, fig. 13. Janse and de Vries 1991: 63; Salzman 1952: 121–122, pl. 11. Van Belle 2014: 15. Esquieu 1992: 121–122; Morel 2007: 1. De Vries (2014: 27) notes that the marks are never referred to in financial accounts of late medieval building projects.

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Contract for deliveries of stone at Hampton Court, 1536, with the mark of the stonemason Martyn Wastelle at the bottom from salzman 1952: pl. 11

being owned permanently by masons, and even for them being the masons’ individual choice or creation.137 Denys Pringle, observing the pluriformity of marks on crusader masonry, writes: The fact, however, that within groups of marks, recorded from individual buildings, there is almost always a variety of classes of types represented (one rarely finds, for example, only letters or only geometrical motifs) does give support to the view that the marks were the individual creation of the masons and were not simply allotted for a given piece of work by the clerk of works.138

2.9

Masons’ Marks in Families and Workshops

Were masons free to create their own marks? The Rochlitz stipulation that marks were assigned by the workshop supervisor is not necessarily valid for earlier periods, but one cannot help thinking that total freedom would have

137 138

Esquieu 1992: 121; Reveyron 2003: 165; van Belle 2014: 74. Pringle 1981: 178.

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figure 2.15

The marks of Willem and Gijsbert van Boelre in the cathedral of Utrecht from janse and de vries 1991: 56, fig. 54

been a source of confusion, for instance if different masons ended up having the same marks. There are, in fact, indications that marks were family-related. It is possible that sons took over the marks of their fathers, with minor alterations. Janse and de Vries mention a possible case of such an alteration in the cathedral of Utrecht, from the late fourteenth to early fifteenth century.139 One mark there probably represents a mason called Willem van Boelre, who is attested in cathedral accounts from 1395 to 1414, from 1400 even as master of the workshop. Sections of the cathedral finished in the same decades show a mark that may well be his (fig. 2.15). His son Gijsbert later succeeded him as master, until 1471. A mark very similar to that of his father appears in sections finished during that time. It is basically the same mark, with the addition of one crossbar at the top. Janse and de Vries suggest that such a practice was quite common. Van Belle gives the example of a German family, Böblinger, showing the same or very similar mark for four generations.140 He suggests that families could stick to certain basic shapes (Mutterfiguren), and adapt these for its successive members. We have seen earlier in this chapter that the passing on of marks to children with minor additions is a characteristic of linear marking systems in some cultures (the examples discussed were those of Gallaecia, and of pre- and post-conquest Brazil). The linear systems of masons’ marks in Gothic medieval architecture, also, would seem to invite such a practice. However, alterations of this sort could also have other backgrounds. Blake Tyson mentions the addition of an extra line to a mark by a mason called Robert Lynsted, working at Sandgate Castle in Kent. Being in charge of a group of masons, he signed the building accounts with his mark in 1539 and 1540.

139 140

Janse and de Vries 1991: 55–56. Van Belle 2014: 35, fig. 9.

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Upon becoming a master mason in September 1539, he changed his mark by adding an extra line.141 Friedrich Fuchs regards marks that are identical with the exception of one additional stroke as mutually related within the context of the same workshop.142 He also considers the owners of marks that are each other’s mirror images to be related in a genealogical or administrative sense.143 In fact, however, such variant marks may well represent the same persons. Janse and de Vries show examples of mirrored and partially mirrored signs from the fourteenth to the end of the sixteenth century, which turn out to be graphic variants of the same marks, belonging to the same masons.144 Marks could also remain in the same family for generations, without alterations. This is noted for the masons of Apethorpe Hall in the seventeenth century,145 as well as for the owners of Belgian quarries in the eighteenth.146 Thus they became Hausmarken or family logos, even company logos, not only referring to the owner of a quarry, but also to his personnel.147 The Belgian quarry marks were still used in the nineteenth century, whereas the use of similar marks by masons on construction sites came to an end in the seventeenth century. Reasons for their disappearance are thought to be the increasing literacy of craftsmen,148 and the concentration of stone supplies in the hands of a limited number of traders, instead of many individual masons as in earlier times.149 If the brief survey of medieval and early modern masons’ marks in this and previous sections makes anything clear, it is the difficulties encountered in searching for general rules for their morphological repertoire, use and transmission. Perhaps we should not even be looking for rules that are generally applicable, given the fact that the masons’ marks discussed here cover, chronologically, a period of at least six centuries, and geographically, the entire area of Western Europe, and even regions further to the east. What we did find is indications of different practices that may have been widely used, but some of which seem to have been restricted to certain areas and periods.

141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149

Tyson 1994: 6. If this is the correct interpretation of ‘hüttenorganisatorische Verwandtschaftsbeziehungen’: Fuchs, F. 2009: 249. Fuchs, F. 2009: 247, note 16. Janse and de Vries 191: 58–59. For non-distinctive mirroring of Ancient Egyptian marks, see chapter 5, section 5.2. Alexander and Morrison 2007: 80–81. Van Belle 2014: 34–35. Van Belle 2014: 43. De Vries 2009: 213. Janse and de Vries 1991: 63.

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In spite of representing a European tradition that still persisted in early modern times, masons’ marks had to be re-deciphered when scholars started taking an interest in them in the early nineteenth century. In this sense, the place of the masons’ marks in the history of humanities scholarship is very similar to that of Ancient Egyptian marking systems, and even to that of Egyptian hieroglyphs. In fact, one of the early French pioneers of scholarly research on masons’ marks, Adolphe Didron (1806–1867), liked to think of himself as a second Champollion. His Portuguese contemporary Joaquim da Silva (1806–1896) was congratulated on his decipherment of masons’ marks by no less an author than Victor Hugo, and regarded by the latter as ‘le Champollion de ces hieroglyphes.’150

2.10

General Characteristics of Marking Systems

The purpose of the comparative overview of Ancient Egyptian and other marking systems in this chapter is not to argue that these systems are similar in all respects, or even in most important respects. Marks look different, and they are used differently, in different societies and cultures. The morphology of marks, and of any visual sign system, is determined by the visual and material culture of the people producing them. The use of marks depends on specific personal and collective needs within a given society. Even so, some characteristics of marking systems do seem to be universal, or at least they recur in many such systems. As far as the use is concerned, one feature that can be observed in different systems is that the same marks are applied for different purposes, while remaining the same expressions of identity. Marking property or the product of work, drawing the attention of deities or passers-by, expressing agreement in written contracts, are among the more important functions of marks in different systems. Very often, marks are used for different purposes by the same people: the Deir el-Medina marks are attested as property marks on pottery and other objects, in graffiti and votive inscriptions, and on documentary ostraca. Late medieval marks were used in building and other professions, but were also house or family marks, and as such appeared on the facades of houses and on gravestones, very much like coats of arms. Function is not the same as meaning, although the two are closely connected. Even when a specific mark is used, at a specific point in time, for one

150

For both Didron and Da Silva, see van Belle 2014: 11–12.

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functional purpose, it may still convey different messages to different people. A fish depicted on the wall of the medieval cathedral of Trier possibly referred to a specific stonemason working at that cathedral at some point in the twelfth or thirteenth century. As such, it expressed his identity to contemporary people who knew the marks of the local masons, to God (who knows all), or both. Apart from this expression of identity, however, the mark would convey a religious message: it reminded people of Christ. The latter meaning would still be conveyed when knowledge about the mason and his mark was lost, although the same meaning had possibly been a reason for the mason to choose the mark in the first place, or for the master to assign it to him. If only the religious message remained, the sign was, of course, no longer an identity mark. It was a mark only as long as it was used and understood by people who knew the system that had produced it. As a sign in the structuralist sense of the word, it had to be part of a sign system. As a religious message (a reference to Christ through Greek ichthus ‘fish’), it was part of a different sign system, one of religious iconography as the expression of Christian doctrine. We see that a mark retains something of its meaning, or acquires new meaning, when its intended function is no longer there—and when it is therefore, strictly speaking, no longer a mark. Thus it is possible to attach meaning to a given sign, while its original purpose remains obscure in the absence of documentary backup. Passing from function and meaning to the morphology of marks, we can observe many general phenomena in the shapes of individual marks, in classes of shapes, and in graphic developments, such as appearance and disappearance of forms, and shifts in the morphological repertoire. First of all, marking systems of historical times almost invariably include three classes of signs: signs inspired by writing, pictorial (or iconic, concrete) signs, and abstract or geometric signs. Marks inspired by writing are usually individual characters— hieroglyphs in the case of Ancient Egyptian systems, alphabetic characters in European systems. To a lesser extent, but certainly not rarely, marks inspired by writing may be groups of characters, even complete names. Classification, of whatever kind, inevitably causes difficulties when we try to assign every object to one of the classes created—in the end, modern typologies are nothing but modern typologies. The existence of the three morphological classes distinguished here, however, cannot be denied. It makes every marking system a mixed system, and studying the different components of the mix, their proportions, and the shifts in these proportions, potentially reveals much about the functional and cultural background of a marking system. Wherever writing is present in the same context as marks, the former is bound to have much influence on the latter. The Latin alphabet had a great influence on marking systems in medieval Europe, especially in Southern Europe, where it was

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almost the exclusive source of the morphology of the marks. It was really the exclusive source for the modern reindeer marks of the Lapps in Norway. In the case of growing literacy or under pressure of government administration, writing could even make a marking system obsolete. The abstract linear family marks of Gallaecia were replaced by initials by one particular descendant; one or two generations later, the entire marking system was no longer used. The history of medieval masons’ marks in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries seems to present an interesting counter-example: the replacement of marking systems that included letters by new systems consisting of abstract linear signs. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, however, these marks became largely obsolete due to the increasing use of writing in the organisation of monumental building. Some marking systems, such as the Gallaecian and native Brazilian ones, show graphic modification of signs within families. Children could take over the marks of their parents with the addition of extra strokes or other details. A basic form that was used and adapted by all members of one family could be the core of such a system. Other marking systems only present tantalising hints at such practices, for instance the masons’ marks of father and son Boelre in medieval Utrecht. The English mason Robert Lynsted, in the early sixteenth century, adapted his mark to his new status as master mason, thus showing that graphic adjustment could have backgrounds other than family relations. Such modifications seem to be a characteristic mainly of linear marks. However, we will see some possible examples also in the mixed system of Deir elMedina. The fact that marking systems may allow, or even require, morphological adjustment of marks by their users, means that the very morphology reflects something of the social or administrative background. The same background is important for the extent to which writing influences a marking system. It has been argued that ‘when considered as a functioning social signification system their [i.e. the marks’] particular formal derivation plays no necessary role.’151 It would seem from the data discussed in this chapter that this argument is not quite to the point. 151

Perrin 2010: 28.

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Writing and Other Sign Systems ‘Ah, sinner that I am!’ said Don Quixote, ‘how bad it looks in governors not to know how to read or write … It is a great defect that thou labourest under, and therefore I would have thee learn at any rate to sign thy name.’ ‘I can sign my name well enough,’ said Sancho, ‘for when I was steward of the brotherhood in my village I learned to make certain letters, like the marks on bales of goods, which they told me made out my name.’ miguel de cervantes y saavedra, El ingenioso hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha, vol. ii, 1615.1

∵ 3.1

Theories of the Sign

In the previous chapters, writing and marks of different sorts were introduced, and it was made clear that both types of sign systems (or notations) could be used by the same groups of people, even by the same persons. We have also seen that writing influenced marking systems, such as pot marks and masons’ marks, and the workmen’s marks of Deir el-Medina. Repertoires of Ancient Egyptian marking systems usually included hieroglyphic characters, together with signs depicting concrete objects or beings, and abstract or geometric signs. Similarly, the medieval European masons’ marks included alphabetic characters along with concrete and geometric signs. The above quote from Cervantes’ Don Quixote suggests that in early modern Europe the distinction between writing and marks was not rigid either, at least to the mind of the semi-literate Sancho. The signs on bales and crates shown in the slightly earlier engraving Elck by Pieter van der Heyden (fig. 3.1) may well be the sort of ‘marks’ Sancho referred to.

1 English translation by John Ormsby: Don Quixote Complete, by Miguel de Cervantes [Saavedra], vol. ii, chapter 43; free online publication by Project Gutenberg (http://www.gutenberg .org/cache/epub/996/pg996.html).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi: 10.1163/9789004357549_005

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figure 3.1 Elck (or Nemo non), engraving by Pieter van der Heyden after a drawing by Pieter Brueghel the Elder; published by Hieronymus Cock, Antwerp, 1550–15562 photo public domain

If we want to be able to explain such apparently universal phenomena, it is necessary for us to understand what the nature of the relevant notation systems is. This understanding, in turn, has to be partly built on general theories of signs and sign systems, which brings us to the field of semiotics. Once equipped with some basic semiotic tools, we will turn to the question of what role, or roles, are played by different notation systems in society. In the course of this exploration, it will become clear that we are surrounded, or rather imbued by signs and sign systems, that visual and material signs are subgroups among them, and that writing is merely one of these subgroups. Given the facts that the world surrounding us is full of signs and sign systems and that everything can be interpreted as a sign, it will come as no surprise that the field of semiotics (the scholarly study of signs) is vast, and its limits difficult to draw. Indeed, one may even say that semiotics is effectively limitless in the sense that human cognition (and hence, human consciousness) is not based on

2 [https://www.rijksmuseum.nl/nl/collectie/RP-P-1883-A-7225].

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any objective reality, but on perception. If semiotics is concerned with all the efforts of the human mind to make sense of the world as perceived, pretty much everything falls within its scope. According to one often-quoted definition: A sign … is something which stands to somebody for something in some respect or capacity.3 Whereas the limits of the field of semiotics are difficult to draw, and its overlap with other areas of scholarly interest is huge (perhaps especially with philosophy and psychology), semiotics does have its own priorities and methods. These are obviously many, and widely different, but there are two basic streams, or ‘schools’, which have developed specific methods and theories.

3.2

The Sign in Structuralism: Paradigm and Syntagma, Signifier and Signified4

One of these schools started with the work of Ferdinand de Saussure (1857– 1913), and was further developed by such influential thinkers as Louis Hjelmslev, Roland Barthes, and Roman Jakobson. Their work is essentially structuralist; for semiotics this means that the function or meaning of a sign very much depends on the system (or structure) it is part of. The meaning of, for instance, a word, a sound or a character is determined by the semantic functions distributed among all words, sounds or characters. Although aiming at a general theory of signs, De Saussure was first and foremost concerned with human language, and thus became the founding father of general linguistics as well. This also means that structuralist semiotic theory (preferably called ‘semiology’, from the French sémiologie) is very much based on language, and its extension to other sign systems is not always successful, as we will see below. According to structuralist theory, the use and combination of elements in a sign system are organised in two ways, or dimensions: paradigmatic and syntagmatic (fig. 3.2). ‘Paradigm’ refers to the selection of a sign from a set of mutually exchangeable signs. In fig. 3.2, ‘the king’ can theoretically be exchanged for expressions with the same or approximately the same meaning, such as ‘the pharaoh’, or ‘the sovereign’. It can also be replaced with a word that has an 3 Charles Sanders Peirce, as quoted by Chandler 2007: 29. 4 Sections 3.2–3.3 are mainly inspired by, and build on van der Moezel 2016. I wish to thank Kyra van der Moezel for reading a preliminary version of this chapter and for her suggestions for improvement.

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figure 3.2 Syntagmatic and paradigmatic axes from van der moezel 2016: 154, fig. ii2–30

entirely different meaning, but is capable of taking the same syntactic position (that of grammatical subject), for instance ‘the enemy’—obviously, the latter option drastically changes the meaning of the entire clause. Likewise, the other words in the horizontal line can be replaced with alternatives that have similar or different meanings, but share the same syntactic qualities: that of a verb in a third person conjugation (‘is’, ‘behaves’) and that of an adjective (‘victorious’, ‘successful’). The vertical axis of selection and replacement is called a ‘paradigm’; the horizontal axis of combination is called ‘syntagma’. It is by these two axes that the sign system (here the English language) is constrained: there are rules that determine which elements can be selected for a certain position, and how the selected elements can be combined. Other sign systems (e.g. road signs, artistic painting, dress) may be similarly constrained. The alternative expressions within the paradigm form an ad hoc collection. To continue with linguistic examples: what can be used to replace a given word depends on the information to be communicated by the string of words formed on the syntagmatic axis. The choice of paradigmatic options is made easier and

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figure 3.3 Narmer palette, appr. 3000 bce. King Narmer, with Upper Egyptian crown, defeats a northern enemy. The falcon figure (top right) represents the same king. from gardiner 1957: 7

more effective by the metaphorical use of words. Metaphor frees us from being dependent on the literal meaning of words when searching for ways to express ourselves. It also makes it possible to add more, or different meanings to a sign, or to a string of signs. The pharaoh, for instance, is often referred to as a falcon in Egyptian texts and imagery. The metaphor ‘falcon’ for the Egyptian king evokes the image of a sharp-eyed bird of prey hovering over the landscape, effective and merciless when attacking other animals. In a religious sense, it evokes the falcon deity Horus, son of Osiris and god of the sky, of whom the king is

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the earthly manifestation. This explains, for instance, the depiction of a falcon in the top right corner of the so-called Narmer palette (fig. 3.3). The same king is represented twice here; as a human figure defeating an enemy, and as a falcon with a human arm leading the same enemy captive.5 The falcon metaphor also explains the following announcement to the workmen of Deir el-Medina of the death of King Seti ii and the accession of his son: ‘The Falcon Seti has flown to heaven! Another one stands in his place!’6 This message says more things, and different things, than would have been conveyed simply by ‘the king has died, his son has succeeded him’. It exemplifies the conscious use of metaphor, here in line with Egyptian royal ideology, but metaphor is actually inherent in all language, and in human thinking, consciously and unconsciously. Another important mechanism that extends the possible choice of alternatives from a paradigm is metonymy. Unlike metaphor, which is based on similarity, metonymy is based on inherent relations between elements, such as part and whole (pars pro toto), effect and cause, product and producer. An example of the latter is ‘Mercedes Benz’ as a reference to a certain type of car. To return to Egyptian examples: the royal palace could be referred to as pr ʿɜ ‘Great House’. In the fifteenth century bce, this expression had become a reference to the person of the king himself. In Biblical Hebrew, it was transcribed as pharʿō, which is the origin of the English word ‘pharaoh’. Its use from the fifteenth century bce onwards is explained by a metonymic relation between institution (palace) and person, or building and inhabitant. Metaphor and metonymy also play an important role in the structure of the sign itself, that is, in the way something stands for something else. That structure essentially consists of two layers, that of signifier (or referent) and signified (the concept referred to). Take for instance, the English word ‘tree’, or the drawing of a tree, for the concept [tree]. The concept arises in the mind of a speaker, to be encoded there as word, and is phonetically expressed to one or more hearers, who decode the phonetics back to the concept. This is a symmetric model of communication: what happens at the receiving end is a mirror image of the process of emission. In order for the hearer to understand what the speaker says, the sign (the combination of signifier and signified) 5 The group with the human-armed falcon is discussed as an example of semasiography by Elkins (1999: 170–173). Cf. human arms added to hieroglyphs as ‘emblematic personification’, discussed by Baines (2004: 167 and 173 with fig. 6.7—there with the name of Narmer). 6 Hieratic ostracon Cairo cg 25515 obv. ii 25–28 (transcription Kitchen 1982: 327; translation McDowell 1999: 206).

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must be based on convention, on rules known by both parties. De Saussure insisted that the connection between signifier and signified is unmotivated or ‘arbitrary’: there is no particular reason why the concept of [tree] should be referred to by the word ‘tree’ in English (or arbre in French, Baum in German), and not by a different string of sounds—except, perhaps, the fact that other strings of sounds in the same language are reserved for other concepts. Actually, not all signs within a linguistic system are unmotivated. Onomatopoeia, for instance, is clearly determined by the sound it imitates. ‘Arbitrary’ is in fact not the most appropriate of terms indicating the relation between signifier and signified. Historically speaking, there is always a reason why a particular signified is expressed by a particular signifier. The anthropologist Claude LéviStrauss and the philosopher Roland Barthes, both working on a structuralist basis, argued that signs, once part of a system, cannot be changed at will by individual users, hence they cannot be called arbitrary.7 De Saussure had, in fact, also acknowledged that signs are conventional, and this could not have been otherwise, since structuralism insists that signs are part of a system.8 Instead of arbitrariness, Barthes saw different sorts of semiotic motivation. Like linguistic signs, visual signs are not quite unmotivated or arbitrary. Alphabetic characters appear to be arbitrary in synchronous analysis, since there is no intrinsic relation between the character b and the sound /b/. Historically, however, there may be a relation, since the modern Latin character for /b/ is supposed to go back, via Greek, Phoenician and possibly older Canaanite scripts, to an image of a house (bayit/bēt in Biblical Hebrew), which by the principle of acrophony acquired the phonetic value /b/.9 And the relation between iconic signs and their signifieds cannot be denied, as for instance between the image of a falcon as signifier, and the notion of ‘falcon’ as signified. Here, as with words, metaphor and metonymy come into play. An Egyptian image of a falcon , as a hieroglyph or otherwise, iconically refers to the notion of ‘falcon’, but someone familiar with Ancient Egyptian culture would also understand the falcon image as a metaphor for the king. In that case, the sign actually consists of more than two layers, in this case falcon image—[falcon]—[king]. Such imagery may also use metonymic processes. To the image of a falcon can be added a human arm, as a reference to the king as a person (fig. 3.3): arm for

7 For Lévi-Strauss see Chandler 2007: 27. 8 De Saussure already softened the radical notion of arbitrariness by stating that signs could be ‘motivated to a certain extent’, and be ‘relatively arbitrary’ (Chandler 2007: 26). 9 This is the case in the early alphabetic inscriptions of Sinai and Wadi el-Hol; see chapter 1, section 1.3, and Epilogue.

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person, or pars pro toto, is one type of metonymy. These mechanisms actually create multiple layers within a sign; this will be further illustrated below. An important point in structuralist semiotics is that the signified is a concept, a mental image, and not a real-world object. Any particular tree in a forest represents the notion of [tree] to the human mind, and may therefore be called a sign. But none of the individual trees, nor any collection of them, is itself the signified of the word ‘tree’. To denote a particular tree, a sign system may use additional means, such as the demonstrative pronoun ‘that’ in ‘that tree’, or pointing a finger towards the tree in question. And these means only work if the actual tree is present, physically or visually. The lack of real-world referentiality in the sign is felt by some as a weak point in structural semiotics.10 Referentiality has, in fact, been a moot point in western philosophy ever since Plato gave his thoughts on the subject. One could argue that the entire sign is a mental image. Indeed, not only the sign component ‘signified’ is an abstraction, but the same is true for the component ‘signifier’: the word ‘tree’ actually sounds differently every time it is pronounced by different speakers, or even by the same speaker. There is a difference between the sign (being one specific notion) and the individual occurrences of that sign (showing endless variety). These occurrences are also called specimens or ‘sign vehicles’. For Egyptian hieroglyphs as well as identity marks, this book uses font types, for instance for the falcon hieroglyph, and I for its equivalent among the marks. Font types are convenient when referring to hieroglyphs and marks in a printed text, but they are also very important as graphic definitions of the signs themselves. They are abstractions based on multitudes of individual occurrences, none of which are exactly the same. They have the disadvantage of obscuring the actual shapes of the sign as made by different persons and at different moments—a disadvantage made up for, to some extent, by illustrations showing some of the actual forms. But by being graphic definitions of the signs (actually of the signifiers), they help identify these signs wherever they occur. Signified and signifier are the two levels of the individual sign in structuralist theory, but sign systems may have even more levels. In language, words consist of sounds, and the latter are meaningless in themselves according to structuralist theory. ‘Meaningless’ is to be taken as a manner of speaking: sounds have meaning, or they would not be signs. But in language they are merely low-level

10

Remedied to some extent by Hjelmslev, who distinguished between ‘form’ and ‘substance’ in content (signified) as well as in expression (signifier). Real-world reference is better represented in the sign model of Peirce; see below.

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units, and are given meaning only when they are part of morphemes and words. The same is true for writing, or at least for alphabetic writing systems, the characters of which do not mean so much in isolation, but acquire their full value as parts of larger units. This principle is called double articulation, the first articulation being the level of ‘meaningless’ units, the second articulation being the level (or syntagma) of meaningful units composed of the lower-level ones. These lower-level units form a closed set: in a language, there is a fixed number of defined sounds that can make a difference in meaning (phonemes). Likewise, the number and meanings of characters in alphabetic writing are fixed— indeed, ideally speaking, they are reflections of the sounds mentioned previously. Alphabetic writing is therefore considered a closed system, as opposed to open systems, like some sign systems with important iconic aspects. Egyptian hieroglyphs are a case in point.11 Although a set of several hundred signs was basically sufficient for writing for almost three millennia, there was always room for the introduction of new ones, mainly for use as determinatives (classifiers), and the makers of hieroglyphic texts used that room to their advantage. Moreover, the set of several hundred became a set of several thousand in the Greco-Roman Period. It was apparently no problem to substantially expand the set of signs, and keep to the same principles of orthography. An even stronger example is presented by marking systems, such as the workmen’s marks of Deir el-Medina. Over a period of several generations, new marks were introduced, and some old ones disappeared, while others remained for centuries. The system as such, however, probably remained the same. Incidentally, the use of hieroglyphs as marks shows that isolated hieroglyphs, even monoconsonantal phonetic signs, were far from meaningless, and the same can be said for alphabetic characters used in medieval European marking systems. This, of course, does not invalidate the principle of double articulation: when used as marks, the characters are part of a system that is basically different from writing, although the two systems partially overlap in their repertoires of signs, and even in the ways meaning is conveyed by their individual signs.12 The sign I (inspired by the hieroglyph for ms) could be used by a workman called Mose (Ms), and the alphabetic character b was possibly used used by medieval stonemasons called Bernard or Bertrand.13 What is important, however, is that open sign systems have no double articulation, which makes it relatively easy to add or remove signs. For such systems, it

11 12 13

See chapter 1, section 1.4. For single articulation as a characteristic of marking systems see Depauw 2009b: 207–208. See chapter 2, section 2.8.

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is difficult to maintain that the meaning of signs depends on their combination with others. To some extent, this structuralist principle does apply to the marking system that is central to this book: on the assumption that the number of marks used in the system reflects the number of active workmen (for instance, forty in Deir el-Medina under Ramesses ii), one might say that one particular mark refers to the one person who is not referred to by all other marks. Because of its reference to a limited group of persons, the particular marking system of the time was not entirely ‘open’. The reverse argument is true for alphabetic writing: although basically different from marking systems in that it has double articulation, it is never absolutely closed. Borrowing from a different language, for instance, may lead to the introduction of new characters, e.g. ç in ‘façade’, an English word of French origin. If we consider writing to be a way to encode language (which is what De Saussure did, and Aristotle long before him), we add another level of meaning: what is written represents what is (or can be) said, which in turn represents a mental concept. To put it differently: the signified concept is expressed by a linguistic composition, the signifier. But on a different level, that linguistic composition may become the signified of a written one, which then becomes the signifier. More generally speaking, what is signifier and what is signified depends on the level of analysis.14 The Egyptian hieroglyph , for instance, evoked the sound jnj (as signified), which in turn (as signifier) evoked the verb jnj ‘to bring’, in the mind of the Egyptian native speaker, and it still does in the mind of the Egyptologist. The same hieroglyph was also the source of inspiration for a mark used by Deir el-Medina workmen. It was held by at least one person called Anhurkhawy ( Jnj-ḥr-ḫʿ.w). In hieroglyphic and hieratic writing, this workman’s name started with the same sign. In this particular case, there is no problem in assuming a chain of signifiers and signified on different levels, from sign to sound, to name, to person. But were all these levels significant to the contemporary users of the mark? Moreover, the mark was also held, at different times, by persons with different names, among them a workman called Qenna, whose father was called Anhurkhawy. Was the phonetic (and therefore linguistic) level still relevant? Or was the meaning of the sign conveyed in a different way? We will return to this question in the next section.

14

So Chandler 2007: 140. This idea has been elaborated for Egyptian hieroglyphic writing by Goldwasser (1995).

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figure 3.4 The Peircean model of the sign from van der moezel 2016: 175, fig. ii2–41

3.3

The Sign according to Peirce: Referentiality and Semiosis

The definition of the sign quoted earlier in this chapter (‘A sign … is something which stands to somebody for something in some respect or capacity’) was formulated by Charles Sanders Peirce (1839–1914), another ‘founding father’ of semiotics. Following this definition, a sign is everything that is interpreted as such, whether man-made (e.g. spoken or written, painted or sculpted) or not (e.g. natural landmarks, astronomical observations, sounds made, and traces left by animals). A sign can be part of a communication process and, as such, consciously made, but the focus of Peircean semiotics would appear to be on interpretation; on the receiving, rather than on any emitting party. The process of interpretation is here called semiosis, and its principles are made clear in a model of the sign (fig. 3.4). In this model, the perceived thing or phenomenon that is considered a ‘sign’ is called the ‘representamen’, and this sign leads to the creation of another sign in the mind of the observer, which is called the ‘interpretant’. This interpretant is very much reminiscent of De Saussure’s signified in the sense that it is a notion, a mental image, while the representamen can be compared to the Saussurean signifier. Whereas the representamen and the interpretant are matters of perception and interpretation respectively, the ‘object’ is what the sign as a whole refers to, and this is potentially material, for instance, a concrete

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object or being. But the reference may as well be to notions that are abstract or imaginary. In view of the fact that everything in the human mind is based on perception, some semioticians are wary of what they call the ‘referential fallacy’. This debate with respect to referentiality has already been mentioned above. In addition to the object being ‘real’ or not, the relation between the object and the representamen may be direct or indirect (as is indicated by the broken line between them in fig. 3.4); in the latter case, the connection is via the interpretant. The Peircean sign model thus consists of three components, and may therefore be called triple, or triadic. The presence of the potentially material, real-world referent is an important difference with respect to the dual sign model in the structuralist school of thought. It makes the Peircean model a potentially effective tool for the understanding of the type of sign system analysed here, in which marks as signifiers have persons for signifieds or objects. The process of semiosis involves all three components of the sign, and there are different ways, or semiotic modes, in which the representamen leads to the interpretant and the object. These modes are also essentially three, according to Peirce, and the dominant mode determines the nature of the sign, that is, the nature of its reference, or signification: The iconic representamen resembles or imitates the object, or shares some of its characteristics. The iconic mode is dominant in some types of visual signs, for instance in portraits and photographs; another example is the falcon image discussed earlier. But ‘iconic’ is not just to be taken in the visual sense. In language, for instance, onomatopoeic words (‘boo’, ‘cuckoo’) can be qualified as icons. The notion of icon is closely related to metaphor, since both operate on the basis of similarity. The indexical mode is an indirect reference to the object. Examples of visual signs would be: a signature as a reference to the presence of a person at a transaction, and his or her consent; graffiti left by Deir el-Medina workmen in the Theban mountains, traces left by animals. Outside the visual, physical symptoms are indexes for disease, and the smell of smoke is an index for the presence of fire. Since indexes operate on the basis of inherent relation (or: contiguity), they may also be called metonyms. The symbolic mode is unmotivated, that is, purely based on convention; there is no intrinsic relation with the object. Most words in a language qualify as symbols, as we have already seen by the example ‘tree’ in the previous section. The same is true for alphabetic characters if we disregard their historical roots. Many Egyptian hieroglyphs (such as the falcon) can be considered icons, but others are symbols. There is no intrinsic relation between the sign (a pot with legs) and the verb jnj ‘to bring’. Nor can any hieroglyph that is used purely for phonetic purposes be considered an icon or an index, as for instance for ms

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in msj ‘to give birth’ or msḏr ‘ear’. As with alphabetic characters, we can think of historical reasons why is for ms (this is probably the skirt called ms.t; see chapter 1, section 1.4), and why is for jnj,15 but the average reader in twelfth century bce Deir el-Medina may not have bothered. To him, in a written text was just phonetic ms, and was jnj ‘to bring’, both being mere symbols. The process of signification or semiosis of these two signs was probably not the same exactly. The meaning of both was conventional, but in the case of this was purely phonetic, whereas was logographic, that is, ideographic as much as phonetic.16 The notion ‘to bring’ may have been transmitted to the Egyptian mind phonetically through jnj, but perhaps also through the walking legs, which suggest movement. Indeed, one may say that the addition of the legs is metonymic (cf. the human arm of the falcon on the Narmer palette), and perhaps the same is true for the pot, which may be or contain something that is brought. This means that there is a metonymic or indexical element in what is otherwise a conventional sign, a symbol. More generally speaking, Peirce’s modes of semiosis are not mutually exclusive: signs may convey meaning in more than one way, and are often a combination of two or three of the modes icon, index and symbol, although one of these modes may be dominant in a sign to the point of marginalising the other(s). Alternatively (or additionally), one may envisage the process of semiosis as taking place in steps, forming a chain of signs or modes. This agrees with the structuralist notion that signification takes place on different levels, as we have seen in the previous section, by the same example of . There, a chain of semiosis was suggested that started with the graphic sign as the signifier of jnj, the phonetic signified. ‘Signifier’ and ‘signified’ may now alternatively be called ‘representamen’ and ‘interpretant’, the difference between ‘signified’ and ‘interpretant’ being that the latter is still a sign instead of a notion or object referred to. To an Egyptian observer, the phonetic interpretant jnj was also the sign (representamen) for a name composed with jnj, that is Jnj-ḥr-ḫʿ.w ‘Anhurkhawy’, which thus had become the new interpretant. It was borne by several workmen in the course of time. If we select one, and demonstrate that the graphic sign at some point belonged to this particular person as an identity mark, that person can be considered the object—in this case, a real-world object, a unique person. Equipped with Peirce’s modes of semiosis, we can now label these levels,

15

16

This may be based on the phonetic value jn of the pot (Gardiner 1957: 530, no. w 24) on the one hand, and the combination with legs on the other. Perhaps the combination suggested to the creators of this sign the idea of a pot ‘bringing’ itself. For ideograms and logograms, see chapter 1, section 1.4.

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or steps, as (predominant) semiotic modes. The graphic sign as representamen of phonetic jnj was (mainly) symbolic (i.e. arbitrary or conventional). The sound jnj as representamen of the name Anhurkhawy ( Jnj-ḥr-ḫʿ.w) was (mainly) iconic: its basis was similarity in sound. In both cases we have to add ‘mainly’ because other factors were at play here as well. The verb jnj ‘to bring’ was phonetically, graphically and metonymically suggested by the pot and the human legs. The same verb is actually part of the workman’s name Anhurkhawy. This name is theophoric and means ‘Onuris has appeared’, and the name of the deity Onuris ( Jnj-ḥr) in its turn means ‘He who brings the distant one’. It is, of course, rather doubtful whether a contemporary hearer or reader of the name would have realised all this, just as it is doubtful whether people seeing and realised what were the origins of these signs as hieroglyphs. The point is, however, that we can never be entirely certain of what hearers or readers in Ramesside Deir el-Medina knew or realised when seeing graphs, and hearing sounds and names. No less important is the point that there were differences in literacy and cultural knowledge between the individual members of the workmen’s community. It is therefore to be expected that there were differences in semiotic modes, or processes, between the individual users of the marks (‘users’ here meaning creators, holders and observers). The processes would also have depended on the context in which the marks were used, for instance the point of time: exactly which person was the object of a sign differed in the course of generations. As far as we know, the mark I was used by the chief workmen Anhurkhawy (i) and (ii), and by the latter’s son Qenna.17 The use of the mark by a person whose name did not include jnj would seem to add another step in the process of semiosis. That step might be called indexical, or metonymic: ‘father for son’. But would a contemporary of Qenna, consciously or unconsciously, have gone through all the different semiotic steps, symbolic, iconic, and indexical? Or was the connection made more directly? It may well be that the precise semiotic process depended on how familiar this contemporary was with Qenna, with Qenna’s family, with hieroglyphs, and with the Deir el-Medina marking system. The process may have included more, fewer or different steps when compared to the use of I for Anhurkhawy. A mark like this one must also have meant different things to a person who was familiar with the hieroglyphic writing system than to someone

17

For these men see chapter 6, section 6.3. Numbers (i), (ii) etc. are used in Egyptological literature to distinguish homonymous members of the Deir el-Medina community, contemporaneous or not, and regardless of their chronological order.

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who had no clue. What an icon or index was to one beholder, may have been an unmotivated symbol to another. These observations lead us to consider the possibility that the marks, although referring to the same persons as the ultimate objects, may have ‘meant’ different things to different people. More precisely speaking, the processes of semiosis may have been different from person to person, even within the necropolis workmen’s community. It possibly depended on literacy and cultural knowledge, on personal acquaintance with the objects, on familiarity with the necropolis organisation, with its marking system, or with similar marking systems, to name just the things that most readily come to mind.

3.4

Visual and Material Communication: To Write or Not to Write?

The points made in the previous sections were mainly illustrated by examples from language, writing and marks. There is, of course, an infinite number of different sign systems, material and immaterial, from which further examples could be drawn, but the concern of this book is with a particular sign system, one that is visual, and somehow connected with the phenomenon of writing. At the beginning of this chapter, it was stated that writing is merely one among many other types of material and visual sign systems.18 The present section, paradoxically, will discuss writing as different from those other sign systems, but at the same time it will show that writing is not an isolated phenomenon. Sign systems, such as language and writing, reduce communication—and indeed, reality—to a restricted set of signs that can be used repeatedly, alone or in combination. In language and in alphabetic writing, the reduction is mainly to phonetic elements: sounds (or phonemes) or characters that are ‘meaningless’ themselves, but which in combination can be used to convey numerous sorts of information, according to the principle of double articulation. Reduction also takes place in systems with a high degree of iconicity, such as marking systems, or Egyptian hieroglyphs—the latter being ‘writing’ in the strictest sense of the word, as we have seen in chapter 1. In order to arrive at a certain set of signs for common use by a group of people, a selection has to be made of what must be depicted. The resulting system may comprise dozens, hundreds, or even thousands of different signs, and may be ‘open’ to the

18

Writing can be visual, material, or both. The point of braille writing is that it is material but not visual (that is, to those who are supposed to read it). An E-mail message, on the contrary, is visual, but hardly material.

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introduction of new signs to some extent, but it essentially remains a selection, the selected iconic signs being prototypes for whole classes of objects. The hieroglyph depicting the sitting man (numbered a 1 in Gardiner’s classification) can be used to represent many designations for (male) human beings, including personal names and titles, mainly as a determinative. The bull (e 1) is used to express the notion of ‘cattle’, but also features in words for specific types of cattle, and in references to individual animals. Both hieroglyphs show us how one very specific icon (depicting a man in a specific pose and with specific dress, or one specific type of bull) may stand for a whole class of beings. In chapter 1, section 1.5 we have even come across a determinative that goes much further: the skin-and-tail (f 27). Despite the fact that it suggests a mammal’s skin (presumably a cow’s), it can be used to refer to all sorts of animals, including reptiles, invertebrates and insects. Investigating Egyptian determinatives as representatives of word—and world—classification is truly fascinating.19 It also warns us against what might be called the ‘linguistic fallacy’, that is, the idea that ‘encoding of human language’ is a sufficient definition of writing. We find this idea, in different degrees of exclusiveness, in the works of De Saussure and many other important thinkers on language and writing. It is usually traced back to Aristotle’s work On Interpretation, where sounds of the human voice are said to be tokens (symbola) of mental impressions, and writing a token of spoken words.20 The impressions (pathemata tes psyches) are caused by objects or events, and correspond with the structuralist ‘signified’. The important thing here is that writing is a token of speech, not of impressions or objects. If this view is acceptable at all, it can only be true for purely ‘phonetic’ (i.e. alphabetic or syllabic) writing. Egyptian hieroglyphs, by contrast, are actually capable of rendering the signified directly, bypassing speech. Orly Goldwasser’s work suggests that Egyptian determinatives represent categories that were not expressed in language at the time they were used, that is, the concepts were there, but not the words. in hieroglyphic writing meant ‘cattle’ withThe determinative of the bull out there being an Egyptian word for cattle in general. The skin-and-tail refers to all sorts of animals, but we do not know an Ancient Egyptian word for the notion ‘animal’ in its general sense.21 This means that writing is capable of expressing things that are not in the linguistic message it is supposed to render. And this is not only true for the repertoire and use of characters, but also for 19 20 21

See e.g. Goldwasser 2002; Lincke 2011. See Harris 2000: 21–38, for the pertinent passage, the Greek notions it includes, and their interpretation. Goldwasser 2002: 82–85.

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other visual or material aspects, for instance: font (Times New Roman, Gothic, Roman versus italic), size, graphic configuration (column, table), support or surface (paper, papyrus, clay, a temple wall). The effect of a text as written in hieratic on papyrus is different from that of the same text as a monumental hieroglyphic inscription. On the other hand, writing and human language overlap to a considerable degree. There are many current definitions of writing, long and short, but the capacity to render messages that are language-specific is nearly always among the essential criteria. Roy Harris, in his seminal work Signs of Writing, distinguished between notation and writing.22 Examples of notation are numerals (‘1’, ‘2’, ‘43’), which are not language-specific, since they stand for different words in different languages (‘forty-three’ in English, ‘quarante-trois’ in French, etc.). Even the alphabet as a general phenomenon is merely a notation system, and becomes writing only when applied to a specific language and subjected to its orthographic rules, including adapted characters (e.g. ç in the French alphabet, and ø in Danish). According to some, true writing is phonetic, since this makes it possible to imitate spoken language, and to express notions of a complexity that is similar to that of spoken words. For others, it is sufficient that writing is grammatically specific, without necessarily being phonetic. This point may be illustrated by the hieroglyph , which apart from referring to human beings is also used in the writings of grammatical suffixes expressing the first person singular in the inflexion of some verb forms (‘I’) and possession (‘my …’). The most frequent of these suffixes is phonetically read . j (hence, sḏm.j ‘I hear’, pr.j ‘my house’). However, one type of verbal inflexion (called ‘stative’, or ‘old perfective’), has .kw for I sg. suffix, but the graphic expression of this suffix includes . By this, it becomes clear that the sitting man is itself not a phonetic sign (since it can be used with j as well as kw), but again a determinative.23 Even clearer is the case of its female counterpart: . This sign, also, is used for j and kw as suffixes I sg., but only when the ‘speaker’ is a woman. This means that the same phonetic suffixes can be rendered with a masculine or feminine sign: here as in case of the ‘cattle’ and ‘animal’ determinatives above, hieroglyphs give more information than spoken Egyptian! However, the same sign is used for the suffix t expressing the second person singular feminine: ‘you [feminine]’. In both cases, hieroglyphic orthography often uses the sitting woman only (i.e. without complementary phonetic signs), which means that the spellings of i and ii

22 23

Harris 1995: 102. So e.g. Allen 2014: 228.

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sg. feminine suffix pronouns are not phonetically specific. Here we see that the orthography drops a distinction that was made in spoken Egyptian. The latter observation illustrates that writing is not always more than a visual or material encoding of language: in some respects it is less. Writing can never fully capture speech. It can imitate some qualities of sound, but not all; writing systems fail to reflect a speaker’s individual voice; more generally they often fail to reflect volume, pitch, and—perhaps most dramatically—time. They also fail to include facial expressions, gestures, the presence or absence of hearers, and many other circumstances of speech. Writing can do more than speech, and it cannot do as much at the same time. It seems better to say that writing as a sign system works differently from language, although some of their functions overlap. And it is in these different things that writing resembles other sign systems, visual or material, but hardly, or not, linguistic. Some of these systems can capture aspects of human sound that writing cannot; musical notation, for instance, is capable of reflecting pitch and time. The visual recording of a song on paper is preferably done by means of a combination of musical notation and linguistic writing— with the former graphically on top. Yet other visual sign systems do not bother with language at all, and may even consciously step away from it: road signs, and signs in public buildings use pictograms to convey messages without having recourse to writing. The same signs, however, may be used in combination with writing: a red disc with a white bar within tells you that traffic is not allowed into a street from the point where this sign is attached, but in the Netherlands a written sign beneath it may make an exception for cyclists. Shape, colour and writing may even be combined in one road sign, for instance a white ‘p’ on a blue rectangular plate meaning that you can park your car near the place where it is attached. Writing, it seems, is ‘merely’ one among many material and visual sign systems. It is different from others, but co-exists or overlaps with them, is combined or integrated with some, and is similar to others in some respects. Yet it usually receives more attention, and definitely more appreciation, than all the others.24 Modern culture and education focus on writing at the expense of other visual systems. Writing represents the norm, and pictograms, such as the signs along roads and in public buildings, tend to be singled out as the marked case. In Harris’s words:

24

Archaeological finds are sometimes considered to be more prestigious when they bear writing, or signs suggestive of writing, as is pointed out, with an eloquent example, by Frank Kammerzell (2009: 277–278).

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… the flag as a visual sign will belong to a form of communication now implicitly defined by contrast with writing. This is the inevitable fate of the emblem once writing becomes institutionalised as a cultural practice with its own norms, conventions and metalanguage.25 It is probably true that writing is one of the most fundamental contributions to human technology. It is omnipresent in modern societies, where a literacy rate of a hundred per cent is the norm, although never reality. We will deal with the topic of literacy more extensively later in this chapter, but we may note already at this point that due appreciation of other sign systems potentially changes the whole notion of literacy, or its relevance. To put it differently, the way literacy is spoken of in society, and even in scholarly discussions, raises the importance of writing to the point of excluding other sign systems altogether. This attitude is now being challenged with reference to ‘new literacies’, such as familiarity with television and Internet imagery,26 but it needs to be challenged also for pre-modern societies and the related notions of restricted literacy and semi-literacy. Indeed, apart from the precise mediums employed (television, Internet), the ‘new literacies’ are hardly new. The expression ‘iconic literacy’ may be applied to these new mediums as well as, for instance, to imagery on metal vessels (situlae) and related objects from protohistoric times. These often feature sequences of complex images, which together reflect a code that was mastered and used to express status in elite festivities and burials, together with writing but also in its absence.27 One way chosen by scholars to combat the dichotomy of writing versus not writing is to extend the definition of writing itself, that is, disconnect it from its specifically linguistic basis. In this way, very many conventional sign systems become ‘writing’.28 This, however, does not seem to be very useful, since linguistic writing is a specific type of sign system, and a highly important one at that. A somewhat similar approach may appear to be the ‘integrative semiology’ proposed by Roy Harris,29 but in fact, Harris does distinguish between writing (linguistic, or ‘glottic’) and other sign systems; we have already come

25 26 27 28

29

Harris 1986: 131. Chandler 2007: 224. See also Quirke 2004: 37–38, on ‘computer literacy’. See the case of situla art in pre-Roman Veneto (Italy) as presented by Perego 2013, using the term ‘iconic literacy’. A similar notion is ‘visual literacy’ (Elkins 1999: 23 and 212). Such a very broad definition of writing is discussed and rejected in e.g. Sproat 2014: 474– 475. See also James Elkins, who makes clear that in highly iconic calligraphic writing ‘Picture and writing are very close, but worlds apart.’ (Elkins 1999: 103 and 114–120). Harris 1986; 1995; 2000.

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across his distinction between writing and notation. Integrative semiology is the recognition of the fact that communication processes, even when including language or writing, involve more activities than these alone. Opposing De Saussure’s symmetric model of communication (see section 3.1), Harris argued that communication is asymmetric in the sense that the parties involved do not share the same identities: how a message is constructed and conveyed by the sender is one thing; how it is interpreted and reacted to by the receiver is quite another. Both sides use different sorts of signs, even different sign systems, at the same time, so that signification is never restricted to the encoding of language.30 Harris does extend the use of the word ‘writing’ so as to include writing of ‘non-glottic’ types, such as musical notation and mathematical formulae, but remains careful in the distinction glottic/non-glottic.31 In other words, the theoretical framework proposed by him is broad and integrative, but within it, different principles can be distinguished; apart from the distinction between writing and notation, there is recognition of tokens and emblems, which more or less correspond to signs of double and single articulation respectively. The workmen’s marks investigated in this book clearly fall under Harris’s category of ‘emblems’.32 Along with Harris, the way we should deal with writing and marking systems is to recognise them as being bound up with one another and possibly with yet other sign systems, filling the niches they leave open, and interacting with some of them. An attempt to classify visual sign systems was made by Frank Kammerzell. ‘Systems of graphic information processing’, as he labels them, include non-textual marking systems, pictographic systems (e.g. road signs, laundry symbols), graphic memory aids (e.g. native American pictorial narratives, medieval European pictorial bibles), comics and graphic novels, numerical information storage systems (e.g. Ancient Near Eastern tokens, medieval European tally sticks, the Peruvian khipu), and writing systems. We will take a closer look at some of these systems in the following section.

30 31

32

Harris 1995: 84. Hence I do not entirely agree with the objection raised by Perrin, Evans Pim and Yatsenko against Harris’s theory of writing (Perrin, Evans Pim and Yatsenko 2010: 14). The authors nonetheless see Harris’s work as the best theoretical basis available for the study of marking systems. See also the above quote from Harris (1986: 131), using the flag as a typical example of an emblem. Actually, flags and other heraldic devices may be considered systems of double articulation, with colours and graphic constellations (e.g. quartering) as low-level units, and syntactic rules for their combination (e.g. ‘colours’ and ‘metals’).

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Writing and Other Graphic Systems, Independently and Together

When writing emerged in Egypt and Mesopotamia, in the late fourth millennium bce, it was used in combination with other types of visual and material communication, which ranged from monumental artistic display (mainly in Egypt) to administrative notation systems (in Mesopotamia). It is a moot point whether and to what extent writing originated from these graphic modes, and we will return to this point briefly at the end of this section. Another point to be noted is that the introduction of writing, although culturally appreciated by many at the expense of other graphic systems, never led to the disappearance of those other systems. Marking systems present one particularly persistent category of graphic, non-linguistic sign system. Another typical example is the category labelled ‘graphic memory aids’ by Frank Kammerzell. The characteristics of this type of visual recording are that they ‘use to be employed for a more long-term storage of information, may be highly complex and are commonly employed to represent narratives.’33 A very illustrative case for this category has been made by Elizabeth Hill Boone about pictorial documents in post-conquest Mexico.34 Despite the introduction of alphabetic writing by the Spanish conquerors, native (Nahua) tradition continued to use pictorial records, which often took the form of codices, and were sometimes beautifully painted.35 These books contain histories, genealogies and legal accounts, but do this without being linguistic in the sense of representing a set text, a sequence of words. What they did provide, however, was a help in remembering and reproducing narratives, arrangements and lists in a uniform and generally accepted format. In fact, this practice of pictorial recording was so popular that Spanish clergy created similar books in order to spread the Christian religion among the native population, but these included fixed text rendered phonetically by means of the rebus principle. According to Hill Boone, this was not successful because phonetic writing was absent from the native records, hence not a category recognised by the Nahua.36 Their own pictorial tradition, meanwhile, was so persistent that its records were accepted in Spanish colonial courts, where alphabetically written Nahua and Spanish texts were added on the pages in order to explain the images, but the images themselves constituted the actual evidence. In the words of Hill Boone: 33 34 35 36

Kammerzell 2009: 287. Hill Boone 1998. ‘Nahua’ is a term for various pre-Columbian population groups of Mesoamerica and their language. Hill Boone 1998: 162.

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The Spaniards had little choice but to accept the painted world of the Nahuas if they were to administer the land and its people effectively.37 Very similar observations have been made with respect to Inca cord notation (khipu), a highly complex but probably non-linguistic material sign system. Spanish colonial administration and courts of the sixteenth century heavily depended on khipu documentation, and on the knowledge of native khipu masters.38 It was important to maintain the traditional forms of native records because these guaranteed authenticity and veracity, hence they represented the correct documentary form, which is the essential requirement of a document for it to be legally acceptable. It would seem that, at least in their particular use in colonial administration, the Nahua ‘graphic memory aids’ were more than just that. The Spanish missionaries’ attempts to produce pictorial records may not just have been inspired by native Mesoamerican traditions. In medieval and Renaissance Europe, in societies with an increasingly literate culture, the art of memory was supported by pictorial narratives, well-known examples of which are pictorial bibles. The ars memorativa was a legacy of Classical Antiquity, and its aim was to remember and reproduce long texts in their precise wordings. This was, of course, essential in transferring a text that was considered to be the Word of God, the precise formulation of which mattered as much as its spirit. Among the examples preserved we find purely pictorial ones without any text, but also combinations of images with selected words, names, and whole lines of text. The latter can be regarded as representing a mixed system, very much like the Nahua pictorial records annotated in Spanish colonial courts. We should note that the pictorial bibles were the products and tools of intellectuals, rather than instruments for teaching catechism to illiterates. What mattered was the remembering of information, even precise text, without having it at hand fully written out. Something similar is of course true for images, painted and sculpted, in Roman Catholic churches. Rather than explaining things biblical and liturgical to an illiterate audience, they remind both clergy and laity of religious principles, and of biblical text, which is read to the community on a weekly basis, during mass. To return to the quote at the beginning of this chapter: did Sancho refer to letters or pictorial signs as marks, or to actual writing? Or did he mix these up? We see now that Don Quixote and Sancho (or, at any rate, their creator

37 38

Hill Boone 1998: 192. Salomon 2013: 23–24.

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Cervantes) were living in a culture in which writing and image were very much bound up with each other, even for intellectuals and administrators. For the interpretation of pictorial systems, no less than for understanding writing, one must know the code, and anticipate something of the message encoded. Yet, for all the possible ways in which writing and image can be combined, it remains possible and even desirable to define different visual and material sign systems, and to distinguish between them. Scholarly discussions, however refined, usually maintain notions like ‘writing’ (in whatever definition) on the one hand, and ‘image’ (icon, pictogram) on the other, and use these notions contrastingly or complementarily as the case may be. But even if phonograms and logograms are processed separately in the brain because of their different semiotic modes,39 and even if there is a fundamental cognitive difference between sequential linguistic systems on the one hand and spatial visual systems on the other, the fact remains that most semiotic systems are combinations of such different principles. Writing, however linguistic, and as such ‘sequential’, relies on spatial arrangements such as reading order (left to right or right to left, top to bottom, boustrophedon) and page layout (including lists, tabular format, boxes). Marking systems provide an even clearer case of mixed modes. Within the defined sign systems belonging to the category of non-textual marks we find signs of very different graphic natures and origins, as has been noted repeatedly in the previous chapters. Many such systems show characters of writing, together with images of concrete objects or beings, and with abstract geometric signs. At least in the case of characters of writing it is often clear that the signs were borrowed from already existing writing systems. This seems to be the case also with the Egyptian marking systems, which include hieroglyphs of very specific forms, and even combinations of them (e.g. I and I), which can be clearly distinguished from the concrete and geometric signs in the same systems.40 Moreover, hieroglyphic (and hieratic) writing not only contributed individual characters to the marking system, but also layout: lines and columns, and reading sequences from right to left and from top to bottom. More generally, new codes tend to evolve from related existing codes. This mechanism, through which new paradigms are created with the fragments of older ones (in structuralist terms), may be called bricolage, a term coined by the structural anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss.41 39 40 41

As argued, for instance, by Harris (1986: 91), for Japanese writing. In some cases it is difficult to decide between hieroglyphic and concrete; see chapter 1, section 1.5; chapter 6, section 6.7. In his discussion of mythical thought: Lévi-Strauss 1966: 16–22, 35–36, 150 (note). The

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[The bricoleur] interrogates all the heterogeneous objects of which his treasury is composed to discover what each of them could “signify” and so contribute to the definition of a set which has yet to materialize but which will ultimately differ from the instrumental set only in the internal disposition of its parts.42 Bricolage is ‘to construct a system of paradigms with the fragments of syntagmatic chains’.43 It takes into account the meaning signs had in the system they were originally part of; it is a dialogue with materials and means.44 The Deir el-Medina marking system is clearly related to writing, but the system as a whole includes signs with different sources of inspiration. What is more, the tripartite division into writing, concrete and abstract is a universal phenomenon with marking systems, in Ancient Egypt and also elsewhere. A theoretical model capable of accommodating exactly these three components has been developed by the art historian James Elkins.45 On the basis of the observation that all systems of visual communication are mixed systems, Elkins proposes a model that consists of three domains: writing, picture and notation. The model is visualised by him as a Venn diagram, showing the individual domains as well as their possible intersections, the borders of which may be defined or left open (fig. 3.5). ‘Writing’ is here to be understood in its conventional, linguistic sense, ‘picture’ includes all things iconic, ranging from images resembling the objects denoted to visual variations in writing (such as font type, calligraphy). ‘Notation’ applies to formalised visual arrangements that are not linguistic or iconic, for instance tables or diagrams. The tripartite model is reminiscent of Peirce’s three semiotic modes, not in the sense that his icon, index and symbol correspond to Elkins’ writing, picture and notation, but in the sense that in the end, semiosis takes place by a combination of modes. What Elkins’ model adds to the insights we have gained so far in this chapter is that not only individual signs, but also entire sign systems represent mixed processes of signification. What is more, every individual visual sign system, be it writing, marks, or other, presents its own specific mix, in which one or two domains are usually dominant. Any sign system may thus

42 43 44 45

French word is maintained in English literature for want of a precise English equivalent. See also Chandler 2007: 205–206. Lévi-Strauss 1966: 18. Ibid., 150 (note). Ibid., 29. Set out in Elkins 1999: 82–91.

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figure 3.5 Venn diagrams of visual communication from elkins 1999: 8546

be described in terms of proportional representation of the written, pictorial and notational domains; this can be visualised in Elkins’ diagram as a ‘cloud’ overlapping one or more domains and/or their intersections. Printed books without pictorial illustrations would be classified as a mix of (predominantly) writing, some notation (page layout, the tabular format of the table of contents etc.), and picture (e.g. font). In prehistoric rock paintings, on the other hand, the domains of picture and notation (i.e. spatial arrangement) are present, but writing is not. If we use the model to describe the Deir el-Medina marking system, and adapt it by accommodating the abstract or geometric marks in the domain of notation, the result is a visual representation of a sign system that basically covers all three domains and their intersections. Although at first sight this does not seem to bring us beyond our current state of knowledge, namely, that the marking system includes signs of three different types, it does help us to visualise historical changes in the mix (i.e. changes in the proportions of written, pictorial and abstract signs), and to detect a pattern in the shifts of dominance among the three domains. We will therefore return to this model in chapter 6. Obviously, the model itself will not explain why certain domains of the system are dominant, and others less, just as Peirce’s model of the sign does not explain why certain semiotic modes are more important than others in 46

Elkins proposes to have Egyptian hieroglyphs as an iconic writing system in the intersection of writing and picture. Actually hieroglyphs also include the domain of notation: hieroglyphic texts have layout (lines, columns, tables), and their individual signs include highly abstract ones, such as crosses and strokes.

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particular signs and their meanings. One very important question is whether the Deir el-Medina marking system as a whole came about by the combination of three previously existing types of signs, in whatever proportions, or whether one (let us say writing) was the actual source of inspiration for a system that also allowed signs of different types to creep in. In other words, were three already existing sign systems the source codes for bricolage, or only one? If writing was in fact that one source code, we are actually dealing with a pseudoscript from the start. An alternative option is that signs from different visual systems grew organically into one system that over time came to resemble writing more and more, possibly under the influence of actual writing in the same community. And these are just two possible theoretical scenarios. There is a widespread idea in semiotic studies that visual communication tends to shift, in the course of centuries or even millennia, from the iconic to the linguistic. Peirce himself considered a universal historical development from the iconic and indexical to the symbolic, and Daniel Chandler also allows for the existence of such a tendency.47 Indexical signs especially are considered by some to be precursors of linguistic writing. The ‘reading’ of animal tracks by hunters, it is argued, led to the construction of narrative sequences, which in the course of millennia stimulated the development of writing.48 This view is already found in the Chinese story of Cang Jie, who supposedly invented writing at the time of the legendary Emperor Huangdi (the ‘Yellow Emperor’, situated by tradition near the middle of the third millennium bce), and was inspired in this by animal tracks and by markings on the animals themselves.49 A similar idea is found in discussions of the historical development of writing. Ignace Gelb’s book A Study of Writing (1952) is an often-quoted work in these discussions. Gelb, Assyriologist and historian, reconstructed a universal historical process in which writing developed from ‘primitive semasiography’ to full linguistic writing. Early forms of the latter, he argued, are Egyptian hieroglyphs and Chinese characters. Although phonetic, they still represent a logographic and syllabic stage, in which writing had yet to reach its ultimate phonetic form, that is, the alphabet. In Gelb’s view this historical development took millennia, but was linear and irreversible.50 This view is proved to be incorrect by many observations in the multi-stranded history of writing systems. 47 48 49 50

Chandler 2007: 46–47. See Evans Pim 2013: 90–96, mentioning i.a. Carlo Ginzburg, Michael Haberlandt, and Oliver Perrin. Evans Pim 2013: 91. Gelb 1952: 201. Such a view is commonly referred to as ‘logocentric’; cf. i.a. Elkins 1999: 123 ff.

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For instance, marking systems and graphic memory aids continue to exist, and are even newly developed, long after the introduction of phonetic writing. Nahua pictorial writing continued in its non-linguistic form despite the fact that the Spanish conquerors introduced alphabetic writing, and used it to annotate native pictorial records. Nor is the alphabet to be seen as the ultimate form or final stage of phonetic writing: there are several examples of syllabaries having been developed out of alphabetic systems, for instance the Ethiopic syllabary (going back to an Ancient Arabian alphabet), and that of the Caroline Islands (based on the English alphabet).51 Egyptian and Chinese logographic writing continued, despite acquaintance with alphabetic writing, and the same is true for Mesopotamian cuneiform writing, which is syllabic, and even partly ideographic. The impression of a linear and irreversible development from iconic and indexical signs to linguistic writing, and of various evolutionary stages within the latter, seems to be based mainly on too hasty observations of the development of writing in antiquity. It is encountered also in discussions concerining the relation between marking systems and writing. Marks have been considered the precursors of writing, even its possible origin. We have seen in chapter 2, section 2.2 that this is unlikely in the case of Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia, where marks appeared about the same time as the earliest writing, in the middle of the fourth millennium bce. I have suggested that, instead of the one system being the precursor of the other, they represent similar or the same cognitive developments. The same suggestion has been made with respect to the relation between early writing and accounting.52 In any case, the reconstruction of an historical development from marks to writing appears to be a ‘counter-productive retrospective assumption’,53 of which there are so many with respect to writing and other visual sign systems.

3.6

Literacy: Mastering Writing … and Much More

The previous sections have made it sufficiently clear that writing is one visual and material code among many. This observation inevitably nuances the scholarly discussion of the topic of literacy, which traditionally focuses on the mastering of writing by individuals, and the presence of writing in society. Such

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Ethiopic: Haile 1996; Caroline script: De Voogt 2010. Perrin, Evans Pim and Yatsenko 2010: 13. Perrin 2010: 36.

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priorities may lead to one-sided questions about the integration and proliferation of writing in society,54 however useful and necessary in themselves, and sometimes take a purely quantitative turn in order to answer these questions. In Egyptological literature, the topic of literacy is rarely addressed, but some substantial discussions include estimates of literacy rates in Ancient Egypt as a whole in different periods, and especially of Ramesside Deir el-Medina. Throughout pharaonic history, the number of people capable of reading and writing to whatever extent is thought to have been approximately one per cent of the population at most. This is the estimate by John Baines and Christopher Eyre, which is essentially based on the supposed extent of the Egyptian elite (in its turn inspired by the number of elite tombs constructed during the Old Kingdom),55 and the demographic data proposed by Karl Butzer.56 One per cent would mean sixteen thousand out of an estimated population of 1.6 million in the Old Kingdom, and twenty-nine thousand out of 2.9 million in the New Kingdom. The estimate by John Ray, discussing literacy in the Late Period (664–332bce), is a range of approximately six to seven per cent ‘who can be described as having something to do with the process of writing’,57 that is, a group including full literates but also those who, like Sancho in the quote from Don Quixote, can barely draw or recognise a few characters. People ‘fully conversant with the script and the writing of literature’ would have amounted to no more than 0.25 per cent of the population at this time.58 This was a period characterised by increasing written formality, which is particularly well-illustrated by the appearance and increasing uniformity of written contracts signed by parties and witnesses. According to Baines and Eyre, the formalisation of texts led to a more restricted number of people qualified to produce official documents.59 The following Ptolemaic Period is thought to have seen an increasing rate of literacy, mainly Greek literacy, due to the extension of administrative control down to the smallest rural communities.60

54

55 56 57 58 59 60

English does not seem to have an equivalent for Dutch ‘verschriftelijking’ (German ‘Verschriftlichung’), which stands for the increasing use of writing as a supplement, or even replacement, of other means of expression and communication. Originally Baines and Eyre 1983, revised and published as chapter 3 in Baines 2007: 63–94 (with update ibid., 172–174). Butzer 1976: 81–98. Ray 1994: 64–65, note 31. Ibid. Baines 2007: 78. Thompson 1994.

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The Ramesside community of necropolis workmen at Deir el-Medina is regarded as exceptional when compared to the literacy rates for pharaonic Egypt in general, and rightly so. Baines and Eyre suggested that approximately twenty-five per cent of the male adult population was literate.61 Jac. Janssen argued that this percentage should be raised to forty if the supporting staff (the semdet living outside the workmen’s village) is excluded.62 These percentages apply to the late Ramesside Period (Twentieth Dynasty) only, and proceed from the observation that assistants and family members of scribes, draftsmen, chief workmen and their deputies (the principal literates in the community), including women, were also able to read and write. The above rates of literacy have been established by retraceable data and methods, but they are rough indications at best. This is partly due to a sore lack of demographic data for pre-Hellenistic Egypt. Egyptologists mostly use the population estimates of Karl Butzer, which are based on geological and ecological data (including the extent of fertile land at different points in time, landscape, climate and its changes), information on agrarian technology (crops, methods), and additional archaeological and historical data (mortality rates, disease, famine, wars), but they remain very rough estimates. The basic problem, however, is the very notion of literacy, which may imply any degree of mastering writing, from full to almost none, and is mostly about writing in the strictly linguistic sense only. To be sure, the authors quoted above have taken care to specify what they mean by ‘literate’, and have published, separately and together, much more research on writing and literacy than the quantitative indications rendered here might suggest. John Baines approaches writing within a broad cultural, visual and artistic framework,63 and Chris Eyre’s research has elucidated much on the rather limited role of writing and texts in Ancient Egyptian society.64 As early as in their 1983 article, the two authors showed themselves aware of the varying degrees of literacy, also within the workmen’s community of Deir el-Medina.65 Yet more research on degrees and types of literacy remains a desideratum.66 Comparative and theoretical studies of literacy in different

61 62 63 64 65 66

Baines 2007: 93–94. Janssen 1992a: 82. Some relevant work has been collected in Baines 2007. In addition, see e.g. Baines 2004; Baines 2012. See e.g. Eyre 2009; Eyre 2013. Baines and Eyre 1983: 89–90. See the quote by Kathryn Piquette (2009: 297) in chapter 1, section 1.6. See also Quirke

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societies and cultures, such as the work by David Olson and Brian Street, also emphasise the view that literacy requires a diversified approach, and should not be seen as a single homogeneous phenomenon.67 Even if it were just that, and even if sufficient demographic data were available, establishing the importance of writing in society entails much more than assessing the number of literates within a population. This point was already raised in the 1970s by the anthropologist Jack Goody. One of his many pertinent observations in this respect was that reading aloud written messages to an audience makes the use of writing potentially relevant to large groups of illiterates.68 What we see here is that written and oral practice are intricately connected. In fact, reading aloud written texts was common practice in Ancient Egypt. The Egyptian word usually translated as ‘to read’, ash (ʿš), also means ‘to call’ or ‘to shout’. Letters were often, if not always read aloud to their addressees by scribes, sometimes in the presence of many more people, and senders dictated the letters to their scribes. In Old Kingdom epistolary style, the sender typically refers to himself as ‘my scribe’, and to the addressee as ‘your scribe’. An additional problem, for ancient societies in particular, is to establish how much writing was actually going on. The main complication here is the perishable nature of supports. In Ancient Egypt, and in Mediterranean antiquity at large, papyrus was a very important material for writing, both documentary (administration, correspondence, business) and literary or religious. Outside Egypt, hardly any papyrus has survived from antiquity, and even the many thousands of papyri from Egypt only represent a tiny part of what has been produced. Wood has been another exceedingly important material for writing. Wooden writing boards from Ancient Egypt have survived in substantial numbers, but these also form a tiny remnant of the writing boards once used. Wooden writing boards may also have been very popular in Hittite Anatolia: they are referred to in cuneiform texts on clay tablets, but none of the boards themselves have survived.69 Ancient Roman wax tablets (wooden tablets or codices covered with a layer of wax and inscribed with a metal stilus) have survived only incidentally. The chance find of texts written with ink and a reed pen on thin slices of wood, among the remains of the Roman fortress of Vindolanda

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2004: 37–38, who suggests a potentially higher proportion of the population being literate when different types of literacy are taken into account. Street 1984: 13; Olson 1994: 43. Goody 1977: 180. See Waal 2011.

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and at other sites near Hadrian’s Wall, demonstrate that there was even more writing on wood apart from the wax tablets.70 In Egypt, we would seem to be more fortunate, not only in the huge number of papyrus documents and wooden writing boards preserved in the desert, but also in the presence of much more durable supports of stone and ceramics. Monumental writing on stone, by its sheer quantity and its often impressive scale, very much dominates modern perceptions of Ancient Egyptian culture and the role of writing in it—notwithstanding the fact that it is ‘merely’ one aspect of the application of writing. But stone was also important in another way. The white limestone available in Middle and Southern Egypt was not only used for buildings and statues, but small chips of it (often the by-product of quarrying and chiselling) were popular as writing material in several places and periods, especially in the Theban necropolis during the New Kingdom. Pottery shards, abundantly available in and near settlements, were even more commonly used for this purpose, and Egyptologists refer to both categories as ‘ostraca’. For Ramesside Deir el-Medina, it has even been suggested that the presence of numerous limestone chips, resulting from the ongoing cutting out and decoration of rock tombs, was itself an important stimulus for the use of writing.71 We are indeed fortunate that so much writing was done here on ostraca, which have better chances of survival than papyrus, but only so in dry desert areas, such as the valleys where the producers lived and worked. The Deir el-Medina documentation is exceptional in more than one way, as will become clearer in the next chapter. The presence of writing skills and written material, whatever their degree or quantity, is not sufficient for establishing the impact of writing on a society. To put it differently, the presence of writing does not make a culture a written culture. Literacy is always restricted, and very much so in pre-modern societies. The notion of restricted literacy not only implies a restricted number of people capable of, or dealing with writing, but also a restricted number of domains in which it is used, for instance administration, religion, or the monumental display of rulership. It means that the impact of writing on society is limited. When trying to establish this impact, one should be asking two things. One is: what did people do with writing, and with texts? The other is: what did people do without them? The first question is about the function, the intrinsic value, and the accessibility of writing; the second question is about oral practice and culture.

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This writing material was actually common in the Roman world; see Bowman 2003: 8–10. Eyre 1980: 9–10. Recently a case has been made for limestone flakes having been prepared for the purpose of writing at Deir el-Medina: Pelegrin, Andreu-Lanoë and Pariselle 2015.

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The functions of writing may be many, and include such diverse things as personal aides-mémoire, legally binding contracts, messages read far from where they were written (and long afterwards), and monumental discourses not primarily intended for a human (i.e. mortal) readership. What these uses have in common is an important intrinsic quality of writing and other material sign systems, which is the capability of representing the writer or his message in his or her absence. Writing is capable of separating information from the persons who supplied it, and preserving that information, which is then ‘decontextualised’. This quality can be put to different uses, as has been discovered and rediscovered throughout the history of human technology. It may, for instance, help an individual to remember information, which in turn may help him to collect more information than he could have stored without writing it down, and to engage in further activities. It may also help to prevent someone from turning back on an agreement. This requires that the parties of the agreement, and possibly other parties (such as witnesses, authorities) recognise the validity of the written document. For a text to play such a role, writing must be sufficiently internalised by individuals and by the community; this is generally thought to occur as the result of the spread and formalisation of writing. Finally, writing may help to create a reality different from the natural one. This does not only happen in literary and religious texts, but also in administration, as Barry Kemp effectively illustrates for Ancient Egypt: Bureaucracy is an attitude of mind, an aptitude that we encounter with almost immediacy in original documents. It can easily appear to be a cosy self-contained world of order, particularly as the documents tend to be studied in isolation by experts in ancient language working in quiet studies or libraries and equipped with dictionaries and manuals of grammar. For the ancient scribe, however, the order belonged to his inner mental world. When he rested his pen and looked up from his sheet of papyrus the scenes that met his eyes may well have been a good deal less orderly. Indeed, the essence of the act of writing (and of drawing) is to reduce a complex and often chaotic reality to a comprehensible order.72 This separate reality is not only created by the scribe, but by all people who work with texts systematically and formally. Written information can be stored, then be retrieved and put to use, time and again. Retrieval can be facilitated by format: tabular layout, rubrics, glosses or tags, alphabetic ordering etc. Ancient

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Egyptian administration developed such tools at a very early date. The reduction of administrative information to series of dated entries, which we call logs or journals, was common in administrative texts on papyri and ostraca—the style was indeed so common that the Deir el-Medina ostraca inscribed with marks copied it. This was one way in which texts proved themselves capable of doing things that were more difficult, or less appreciated in oral culture, i.e. arranging data spatially and expressing fixed points in time.73 Notwithstanding such standardised practice, the systematic working with, and retrieval of texts was limited in Ancient Egypt, and the same was true, for instance, in medieval northern Europe before ca. 1200ad.74 It is clear that mastering writing is not the same as being used to it, or relying on it. One may know, for instance, the characters of the Latin alphabet, but that does not mean that one can understand or produce a text. Reading is not only about recognising letters, but requires additional knowledge,75 beginning with orthography, which may be transparent in the sense that it closely follows the phonetics of the spoken language (as in e.g. Dutch, German, Italian, Spanish), but may also considerably deviate from it, due to historical developments (as is the case with e.g. English and French). In the case of Ancient Egyptian, this deviation became dramatic in the course of the centuries, the hieroglyphic and hieratic scripts having been developed for rendering Old and Middle Egyptian, and the ‘mismatch’ with the spoken language increasing from ca. 2000 bce onwards. Being familiar with individual hieroglyphic or hieratic signs, and even with rules for their combination, would have been hopelessly insufficient for a prospective reader in, let us say, ca. 1300bce. Earlier in this chapter, it was observed that in order to understand writing as well as other visual codes, one must know the system, and anticipate some of the information encoded. Producing and interpreting text of any kind require familiarity with the genre. In short, recognising letters and words is not enough. It is also doubtful whether an alphabetic script is easier to master than other types of writing. We have already seen that in the long and diverse history of writing, alphabets have been extended to syllabaries (e.g. the scripts of Ethiopia and the Caroline Islands). Apparently, what appears to be a very efficient reduction of scripts to some, is considered unsatisfactory by others. The assumption that the use of the alphabet in Classical Greece led to a greater number of people who could read and write (thought by some to have been

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See e.g. Shaw 2012: 25–26. Eyre 2009; Clanchy 1993: 169 and 172. E.g. Olson 1994: 12 and 41.

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an important basis for rational thought and democracy) has been called into doubt.76 To give an example of a different type of script: the simplification of Chinese characters by the government of the People’s Republic in the 1950s and 1960s, which resulted in the current form of the script, was done with the aim of bringing about mass literacy. Although the impact of this operation was never officially measured, it is very doubtful if it ever had the desired effect. The simplification of the individual characters did little to reduce the complexity of the system as a whole. Literacy did rise in the People’s Republic in later decades, but it also did in Hong Kong and Taiwan, where no such reform had been effected.77 So much for the (supposed) accessibility of writing systems, and the function and appreciation of texts in society. In a society with very restricted literacy such as pharaonic Egypt, much activity, even of a highly formal kind, took place without the intervention of writing. Prior to the Late Period, contracts were mainly oral (there are many written land leases and marriage contracts from the first millennium bce, but none from the third and second), and even for cases in which the agreement was recorded in writing, it is doubtful whether the text itself had intrinsic, binding power. It is to be assumed, at least for the older periods, that there was hardly any literacy, if any at all, at the level of rural villages. Writing was very much restricted to government administration and to the world of the temples, and wherever representatives of these institutions appeared, communities may have been confronted with writing in one way or another, but the effect of this was probably very limited. At some point, however, the exposure to writing may have led to its increasing use within a mainly ‘oral’ community or society. Such a development seems to have taken place in Deir el-Medina. In the course of the Ramesside Period, slightly more than two centuries, the written output of local administrators and of a growing

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Thomas 1992: 16–17 (reflecting on the work by Jack Goody), 54–56 (on the views of Ian Watts and Eric Havelock). Note that the alphabet had been present in the Middle East from the second millennium bce onward (chapter 1, section 1.3), apparently without the specific rationalist and democratic effects hailed by Eurocentric scholarship. Handel 2013: 48–49, based on previous psycholinguistic research (ibid.: 22). The article is partly based on a paper presented at the interdisciplinary conference ‘The Idea of Writing. Rationalizing Script: the simplification of characters and of writing systems’ (Ca’ Foscari University, Venice, 12–13 September, 2011), the proceedings of which have not been published. The findings at the conference were, generally, that scripts do not get simpler by themselves, and attempts by governments and intellectuals to make them simpler rarely have the desired effect.

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number of other inhabitants increased, especially the number of texts dealing with private business and jurisdiction. Together with the rising quantity came a higher degree of uniformity in written administrative and legal phraseology. The relevant texts also show us, however, that private business and jurisdiction were first and foremost oral affairs. The essential agreements, statements etc. were made orally, with no less formal phraseology than that of the written notes compiled after their conclusion, which sometimes reflect the oral formulae. More about this topic will be said in chapter 4, section 4.7. What we see here is that writing may extend to domains previously characterised by oral procedure. Exactly when and why this happens is difficult to say, but such a development may require a certain ‘critical mass’ in the sense that writing must be sufficiently present in society for it to have this influence.78 Government pressure, or the prestige of the cultural and social elite, even if it is only a small group of people (say one per cent of the population), may bring this about.79 If the above paragraphs have demonstrated one thing, it is that the notions of writing and literacy dominate the discussion of communication from the moment they appear. Even the words illiteracy and semi-literacy bring writing to the centre of attention. We have seen in an earlier section that something similar happens with pictograms and emblems, which are ‘implicitly defined by contrast with writing’ in the words of Roy Harris. What is true for the broad range of visual communication, is also true for the spectrum of oral and written modes: they are always mixed.80 The proportional representation of the different modes (oral and written, visual and material) changes in the course of time, causing shifts in the mix. The modes overlap and complement each other, which means that sometimes they do the same, or similar things. The applications of writing referred to in this section (aide-mémoire, binding force, alternative realities, fixing space and time) assume specific forms that exploit the unique qualities of writing, but oral, visual and material modes may be similarly applied, assuming their own specific forms. The above quote by Barry Kemp significantly mentions drawing together with writing as capable of reducing complex reality to comprehensible order. To conclude this chapter, we may say that in analysing the Deir el-Medina marking system, our question should not just be: ‘Writing or not?’, but also:

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Haring 2003: 258. Te Velde 1986: 254. Street 1984: 4 and 8.

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‘What code, or codes are used, and how are they used?’, and: ‘Is the same code used by everyone in the same way?’. As Harris observed, communication processes are often asymmetric, and signs may mean different things to different users. This would appear to be true for marks and for writing as much as for any other mode of communication.

part 2 The Deir el-Medina Marking System

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chapter 4

The Setting: The Workmen of the Royal Tomb and Their Textual Legacy Jones Barnaby

This village is weird. Jones, they are all weird. Midsomer Murders1

∵ 4.1

An Exceptional Village

The community of workmen of the royal necropolis, in New Kingdom Egypt, has already been briefly described in chapter 1, section 1.1. This chapter provides a fuller historical outline of the workmen’s community, its organisation, and its archaeological and textual remains, which will serve as the setting for the analysis of the local marking system in the following chapters. As such, it is essentially descriptive, but it is impossible to avoid a more analytical approach at some points, where the state of our current knowledge needs explanation. We will ask, at these points, whether and how the specific nature of the surviving documentation reflects particular historical situations and changes. The historical background is a very specific if not an atypical one when compared with Ancient Egyptian society at large. The craftsmen who were responsible for cutting out and decorating the rock tombs of the New Kingdom pharaohs lived near their work places, mainly the Valley of the Kings and the Valley of the Queens, west of the river Nile, opposite Thebes, modern Luxor (fig. 4.1). Their settlement was thus located in the Theban mountains, in a small valley nowadays called Deir el-Medina, and not in the Nile floodplain like most Ancient Egyptian towns and settlements. This fact alone makes Deir el-Medina atypical, but it does not quite stop there. Unlike the average Egyptian rural village, which essentially consisted of self-supporting peasant

1 Season 13, episode 1: ‘The Made-to-Measure Murders’, 2006. Script by A. Payne, based on the books by Caroline Graham. My transcript and italics.

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figure 4.1 Map of Thebes and its necropolis from bierbrier 1982: 16

households, this settlement was founded by the government in order to house specialised craftsmen, who received food rations and other requirements from state departments. The necropolis administrators were constantly in touch with Theban and government authorities, who often came to inspect the workmen’s progress. This, as well as the decoration work including the painting and chiseling of hieroglyphic texts, explains the presence of local literati, who were probably absent in Ancient Egyptian peasant communities. These literati (and semi-literati) are responsible for the wealth of written information— monumental inscriptions, rock graffiti, ostraca and papyri—found by archaeologists at the places where the workmen had lived and worked. This again makes Deir el-Medina exceptional: there is no other pharaonic (i.e. pre-Hellenistic) Egyptian settlement from which so many texts have survived. Of course there must have been other settlements with some degree of local literacy (not to mention towns with their administrative centres), but their textual output, supposedly on papyrus and (ceramic) ostraca, has not survived in the wet flood plain.2 Apart from these vital particulars, Deir el-Medina was probably a typical 2 Many Egyptian settlements from the Hellenistic Period have left extensive papyrus archives;

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Ancient Egyptian settlement inhabited by local families with common domestic practices, social interconnections, and quarrels. This impression is created by the wealth of local texts on ostraca and papyri, which mainly date from the later New Kingdom (Ramesside Period, ca. 1300–1070 bce), more about which will be said later in this chapter.

4.2

The Early History of the Royal Necropolis and Its Workmen

The settlement was founded early in the New Kingdom; mud bricks in the exterior walls are stamped with the cartouche of the third pharaoh of the Eighteenth Dynasty, Thutmose i, whose reign (in the early fifteenth century bce) is therefore the terminus ante quem. The New Kingdom started approximately in 1550 bce, and its earliest pharaohs were warrior kings who, after dispelling competitors of presumably Levantine origin (the Hyksos), organised military campaigns into the Levant as far as Syria. Thutmose i reached the Euphrates with his army, a remarkable feat repeated later by King Thutmose iii. The latter’s reign (1479–1425bce) brought Egypt to the peak of its international importance. In the Levant, a range of city-states reaching as far north as Kadesh at the Orontes in Syria, were loyal to Egypt. They wrote letters to the Egyptian court, paid taxes, and safeguarded the passage of soldiers and traders from and to Egypt. In the south, Egypt had even colonised hundreds of kilometres of the Nile Valley beyond its traditional border at the first cataract (near modern Aswan), in northern Nubia. Its dominance of foreign territories brought taxes and tribute to Egypt, as supplements to its own vast agricultural produce. Part of the revenues was used to pay the soldiers, and to present lavish gifts to the rulers of other important nations (Assyria, Babylonia, Cyprus, Hatti, Mitanni—Egypt was a member of this Club of Great Powers, though sometimes at war with one of them). Military and diplomacy aside, much wealth was bestowed on the temples of the gods, which started to grow, both architecturally and economically, from the midEighteenth Dynasty onwards. Depictions and hieroglyphic inscriptions on the temple walls celebrated the kings’ military campaigns, the revenues of which supplemented the income from the temples’ estates. We know very little of the these settlements were also located in the desert, though originally near the wet, cultivated area (this is particularly true of the Fayyum Oasis, see Thompson 1994: 71). The only other settlement site of pharaonic times that has left substantial documentation (in this case entirely on papyrus) is the pyramid town of El-Lahun, dating from the nineteenth century bce (Kemp 2006: 211–221; Petrie 1891).

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splendour at the royal court, which must have been another important government expense—not much remains of the royal palaces and their precious equipment—but more is known about the funerary arrangements of the New Kingdom pharaohs and their families. The tomb treasures of Tutankhamen, which form the single set of royal burial equipment that survived the New Kingdom more or less unharmed, give an impression of the many kilos of gold and other expensive materials,3 as well as the superb craftsmanship invested in the burials of kings. As opposed to earlier periods (the Old and Middle Kingdom), the kings were no longer buried in mortuary complexes featuring huge pyramids, but in rock tombs with little or no exterior marking or embellishment. This, at least, was the practice from the reign of Queen Hatshepsut onwards. Hatshepsut acted as regent for the young King Thutmose iii. She was a daughter of King Thutmose i, and had been the chief consort of Thutmose ii. This king apparently had no son with her, Thutmose iii being his son by a different wife. After some time she crowned herself king, and reigned as pharaoh for some twenty years, counting her regnal years from the accession of Thutmose iii.4 When the latter finally assumed sole power, he obliterated the names and depictions of Hatshepsut, and continued counting the regnal years as his own—which they had been all along—until he died in his fifty-fourth year. Thus, monuments explicitly attributed to Thutmose iii alone may be from the earliest years of his reign, when Hatshepsut was still regent, or from his later years as sole ruler. As queen to Thutmose ii and regent for his successor, Hatshepsut may have had one or two tombs constructed in the Valley of the Queens or elsewhere in the Theban mountains.5 As ruling pharaoh, she ordered a deep rock tomb to be cut out in the majestic valley now known as the Valley of the Kings (the tomb has been numbered kv 20 by Egyptologists). At the other side of the mountain range, precisely opposite the tomb, in the valley of Deir el-Bahri, a beautiful temple was constructed for the female pharaoh. This temple faced that of her divine father Amun-Re located at Karnak, on the east bank of the Nile, which Hatshepsut enlarged significantly. Her building projects at Thebes thus represent a grand architectural scheme, also followed by other New Kingdom 3 The inner coffin of Tutankhamen alone is made of 110 kilos of pure gold. 4 Which took place in 1479bce. This precise year is the result of synchronisms in the Ancient Near East in combination with lunar dating (Krauss 2006: 420–422), and potentially ‘the earliest defined year in human history’ (Wiener 2006: 319). Like any chronology, it is by no means absolute truth, but merely the best result obtained from the documentation currently available. 5 Romer 1974; Aston 2014: 85; Haring 2014: 90–91.

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pharaohs, in which temples on the east and west banks, as well as the royal tomb, were in the same geographical axis. But this was also a scheme in which the royal tomb and the pharaoh’s personal temple (called her ‘mortuary’ or ‘memorial’ temple by Egyptologists) were physically separated, unlike the Old and Middle Kingdom pyramids, which had the royal mortuary temples at their feet. Exactly when this new architectural practice took shape is hard to say. The history of royal tomb construction in the early Eighteenth Dynasty is shrouded in mysteries. Consensus long had it that King Amenhotep i, the second king of the dynasty, was the first to separate tomb and mortuary temple. This assumption, so often repeated in Egyptological literature, in fact rested on the very uncertain identification of a mortuary temple, and the even less certain identification of a tomb at Dra Abu el-Naga as structures originally belonging to Amenhotep i.6 Dra Abu el-Naga (directly northeast of Deir elBahri, not in fig. 4.1) may very well have been the royal necropolis of the early Eighteenth Dynasty, and it was certainly the necropolis of the Seventeenth, at the end of what is called the Second Intermediate Period. A set of two adjoining tombs in this necropolis have been identified more recently by Daniel Polz as those originally made for Amenhotep i and his mother, Ahmose-Nefertari. They are located precisely on the axis of the nearby temple dedicated to the king and his mother (the mortuary temple mentioned previously in this paragraph), but it is uncertain whether that temple was already built in Amenhotep’s reign, or (much) later. A complicating factor here is that the king and his mother both posthumously became patron deities of the Theban necropolis; the temple in question may therefore have been built later for their cult. The tombs at Dra Abu el-Naga mentioned here do not have decoration or inscriptions, so that any attribution remains speculative.7 What they did have was a monumental superstructure, which included a mortuary chapel, which means that there was no physical separation between tomb and mortuary cult. The situation is even worse with the other early kings of the Eighteenth Dynasty: Ahmose (the first king of this period, predecessor of Amenhotep i), and Thutmose i and ii. No tomb has convincingly been identified as that of Ahmose. The king’s mummy was among those reburied by the Amun priesthood in Deir el-Bahri at the end of the New Kingdom;8 an original resting place 6 Identifications made by Howard Carter (Carter 1916). At that time, a different tomb had already been ascribed to Amenhotep i (kv 39), but nothing supports that identification (Aston 2014: 85–86). 7 For this discussion, and for the royal necropolis of Dra Abu el-Naga, see Polz 2007: 115–229. 8 See section 4.5 below.

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in the Theban necropolis is therefore to be expected. The king did build a huge mortuary complex much further north, in Abydos, but this may in fact have been a cenotaph, instead of his actual place of burial.9 If Ahmose was buried in Thebes, Dra Abu el-Naga is a likely location.10 The tombs of Thutmose i and ii have actually been identified in the Valley of the Kings, but it is far from certain whether they were their original places of burial. Tomb kv 38 contained a sarcophagus of Thutmose i, but another sarcophagus inscribed for this king was found in the tomb of Hatshepsut (kv 20). The latter sarcophagus originally belonged to Hatshepsut, who may thus have reburied Thutmose i in her own tomb. The stylistic similarity of kv 38 and its sarcophagus to those of Thutmose iii has led Egyptologists to assume that the burial of Thutmose i in kv 38 was also secondary. The tomb that is believed by some to be that of Thutmose ii (kv 42) is uninscribed, as is its sarcophagus. The identification is therefore highly uncertain.11 Both Thutmose i and ii may have been buried originally outside the Valley of the Kings, possibly at Dra Abu el-Naga.12 The consequence of the problematic identification and dating of these early royal tombs is that we do not know whether the workmen housed in the village of Deir el-Medina at the beginning of the Eighteenth Dynasty were already active in the Valley of the Kings. That the village did house the royal necropolis workforce later in that period seems likely, given the presence there of tombs and other monuments belonging to workmen and administrators of the ‘Great Place’ (Set Aat). This was the name by which the royal necropolis was referred to at the time. The earliest datable local monument that mentions the Great Place is the tomb of the necropolis supervisor Kha, who is thought to have lived under Amenhotep ii and his successors, Thutmose iv and Amenhotep iii. The tomb with its intact burial equipment was discovered in 1906 by Ernesto

9

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A funerary cult was still maintained here long after the king’s death (Harvey 2004). The complex seems to have been inspired by the much older structures of King Senusret iii nearby, for which a similar controversy exists, since this king also had a pyramid at Dahshur. See Wegner 2009. For the tomb/cenotaph discussion see also Dorn 2013: 30–32. Possibly all kings of the late Seventeenth and early Eighteenth Dynasty were originally buried there: Polz 2007: 211; Aston 2014: 86. Haring 2014: 90–91. Aston 2014: 86. The Valley of the Queens is considered an alternative possibility by Dorn 2013: 35. Due to its location and architecture, kv 38 is considered to be the original tomb of Thutmose i, and the earliest tomb in the Valley of the Kings, by Catherine Roehrig (2016: 183–188, 190). However, none of the evidence discussed by her or in previous literature is compelling.

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Schiaparelli, Director of the Egyptian Museum in Turin, where the funerary equipment of Kha and his wife Merit can be admired to this day.13 Kha’s titles included ‘overseer of construction in the Great Place’ and ‘superior of the Great Place’. The same titles were held by contemporaries, or near-contemporaries of Kha: Neferhebef (who was also ‘overseer of construction in the King’s rock tomb’) and Khaemwaset. Objects bearing their names and titles have been found among Kha’s funerary equipment, and Neferhebef is also depicted on a wall in the tomb chapel. Another ‘superior of the Great Place’ was Harmose, whose tomb at Deir el-Medina is dated to the Eighteenth Dynasty. Thus Kha and his colleagues Neferhebef, Khaemwaset and Harmose seem to have been specialists in the supervision of work in the royal necropolis, and the fact that the objects inscribed with their names and titles were found at Deir el-Medina suggests that they were connected with that location. It is very uncertain whether these persons held their titles at the same time, or if they succeeded each other.14 Other objects inscribed with titles composed with the expression ‘Great Place’ that were found at Deir el-Medina are: a stela of ‘the King’s Scribe in the Great Place’, Amenemope (fig. 4.2),15 and a scribal palette of the ‘Scribe of the Great Place’, Pay, as well as tombs, a coffin and some stelae belonging to ‘Servants of the Great Place’. This title refers to the necropolis workmen themselves, and is an early version of the title ‘Servant in the Place of Truth’ that came to be used in the later Eighteenth Dynasty, and which would be the normal title of the royal necropolis workmen during the Ramesside Period. Neferhebef, it may be recalled, was ‘overseer of construction in the King’s rock tomb’. The king’s rock tomb (heret) is also mentioned in even earlier inscriptions of the Eighteenth Dynasty. The mayor of Thebes, Ineni, was responsible for the construction of the tomb of Thutmose i according to an autobiographical inscription in his own tomb:

13 14

15

Schiaparelli 1928. Russo 2012: 73–74, assumes that there were two ‘superiors of the Great Place’ at the same time, on the analogy of the two chief workmen of the Ramesside Period, but this assumption is unwarranted; see Soliman 2014: 123. The combination of ‘superior’ and ‘overseer’ attested for Kha and Neferhebef may reflect stages in their careers, as is suggested by Russo. Dated to the reign of Thutmose iii by Roccati and Tosi (1972: 35) and Schlögl (2001: 432). According to Schlögl, the stela expresses the loyalty of Amenemope’s family to the the king as sole ruler, which seems perfectly possible.

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figure 4.2 Stela Turin cg 50004, dedicated to King Thutmose iii and to the ‘King’s Scribe in the Great Place’, Amenemope, by his son, the ‘draftsman of Amun’, Tener. The name Amun has been erased at some point in the reign of Akhenaten, in Tener’s title in the third column from the right, and in the name Amenemope in the bottom line. from roccati and tosi 1972: 263

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I supervised the cutting out (or: digging) of the rock tomb of His Majesty, alone, without anyone seeing, without anyone hearing.16 This remarkable passage suggests that Thutmose i had his tomb constructed somewhere in the Theban mountains, at a remote and secret spot. Unfortunately we do not know if this was in the Valley of the Kings, or elsewhere in the vast Theban necropolis. The high priest of Amun Hapuseneb supervised the work at the rock tomb of Thutmose ii according to the inscription on a statue of his which, like the text of Ineni, is not clear about the precise location.17 A salient detail is that the inscription of Hapuseneb has been altered: the name of Thutmose ii has been carved over the original one, which was Hatshepsut. The monuments left by Hatshepsut suffered from the damnatio memoriae by Thutmose iii and later pharaohs. In the case of Hapuseneb’s statue, as well as in numerous others, this was done by reinterpreting monuments of Hatshepsut as those of her predecessors, Thutmose i and ii. Given the renewed importance of these kings, the hypothesis that new tombs were constructed for them in the Valley of the Kings is attractive, and royal tomb construction in the valley may have begun not earlier than the reigns of Thutmose iii and Hatshepsut. In the preceding paragraphs it is clear that the supervision of the royal tomb construction was in the hands of different high officials over the course of time: the mayor Ineni under Thutmose i and the high priest Hapuseneb under Hatshepsut; Neferhebef was an ‘overseer of foreign countries’, i.e. an envoy with diplomatic and military missions abroad. This suggests that royal tomb construction was not the fixed organisation it would become in the later New Kingdom, when it was the permanent responsibility of the vizier (the highest government official). Moreover, in the Ramesside Period the workmen were supervised locally by chief workmen and their deputies; their comings and goings, as well as their supplies were checked by necropolis guards, and there was a supporting staff including fishermen, woodcutters and water carriers, with its own administrators. None of this appears in inscriptions of the Eighteenth Dynasty, but there seem to have been scribes specifically working for the royal necropolis such as Amenemope and Pay, and there were overseers such as Kha—although the latter also held the more general title ‘overseer of construction of Pharaoh’, with the possible implication that he supervised

16 17

Haring 2014: 92. Ibid.

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different royal building projects. This, and his title ‘King’s Scribe’, indicate that Kha held a high position in the government hierarchy.18 ‘King’s Scribe’ was also the title held by the necropolis scribe Amenemope, and the Ramesside necropolis scribes would bear it as well. Another circumstance supporting the idea that the administration of the necropolis workmen was not yet a fixed, specialised branch of government bureaucracy is the near absence of local administrative documents. Basically, the absence of administrative papyri or ostraca at an Ancient Egyptian site does not prove anything, since such absence seems to be the rule rather than the exception, and absence of evidence can in itself never be evidence of absence. What is significant in this case is the contrast with the later New Kingdom, from which we have a substantial number of documentary papyri, and thousands of documentary ostraca, all produced by local necropolis administrators.19 Local documentary material of the Eighteenth Dynasty is not entirely absent. Among the papyrus archives of the Egyptian Museum in Turin is a fragmentary letter about necropolis supplies by an overseer of the royal treasury called Djehutinefer.20 The papyrus was found in the Valley of the Queens in the early twentieth century, very probably by Ernesto Schiaparelli. The find suggests that the letter was received and discarded by a local administrator of the Great Place, perhaps Kha, Neferhebef, Khaemwaset or Harmose, or the scribe Amenemope. The documentation of building work at Deir el-Bahri by numerous hieratic ostraca makes the absence of such documentation with respect to the king’s tomb even more remarkable. It is difficult to believe that work at the royal tomb in the Eighteenth Dynasty, being the responsibility of high government and temple officials, was not recorded in administrative texts. Indeed, the fragmentary letter from the Valley of the Queens indicates that it actually was. How, then, is the absence of similar locally discarded hieratic documents to be explained? Could the secrecy hinted at in Ineni’s inscription (‘without anyone seeing, without anyone hearing’) have anything to do with this? Were administrative documents about the tombs of Thutmose i and his successors carefully

18 19 20

Russo 2012: 70. See section 4.6. The letter (prov. no. 3581) was rediscovered in the museum in 2014 by Rob Demarée, who kindly showed me a photograph and discussed the text with me. There may have been two treasury overseers with the name Djehutinefer; one was tentatively dated under Thutmose iii and the other under Amenhotep ii by Helck 1958: 402 and 510 (nos. 5 and 6).

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guarded, or even destroyed after completion of the tombs themselves? This does not seem very likely. Although the Eighteenth-Dynasty tombs in the Valley of the Kings were probably hidden from view after the kings’ interments, the slow process of construction and decoration of a king’s tomb cannot have been much of a secret to locals. It is possible, of course, that the officials responsible took measures against the presence or interference by those not directly involved in the construction work, be it for reasons of security, or for religious reasons. It is also possible, however, that the explanation for the absence of administrative texts is to be sought in the nature of the royal necropolis administration in this early period. We have seen that the supervision of the necropolis workforce in the Eighteenth Dynasty was not a fixed hierarchy, and supreme responsibility rested with different high, non-specialist functionaries in the course of time. Perhaps the relevant administrative documents were kept in the offices and archives of these functionaries, so that there was no permanent administrative staff or archive of the royal necropolis. It was only with the later establishment of a permanent scribal staff at Deir el-Medina and at the tombs under construction, that locally produced hieratic documents rose in number, and were often deposited where they had been produced or read. Actually, information of an administrative nature had been locally produced and discarded in the preceding period. Approximately one hundred Eighteenth-Dynasty ostraca have been found among the remains of the workmen’s settlement and in the Valley of the Kings. The ostraca do not bear hieratic texts. In fact, the signs on them cannot even be classified as writing, but they are personal or family marks of the workmen themselves, arranged in rows or scattered over the surfaces of the ostraca, and sometimes accompanied by groups of dots or strokes. These marks, the administrative use of which would even increase after the appearance of local hieratic ostraca, are the subject of this book.

4.3

Great Changes for Egypt and for the Royal Necropolis

Two centuries after the beginning of the Eighteenth Dynasty, Egypt was shaken by a revolution caused by … a king. In 1353 Amenhotep iv acceded to the throne, and during his seventeen-year reign he brought about dramatic changes in religious concepts and practices, with important political consequences. In his sixth year, the king and his queen Nefertiti left the traditional residences of Memphis and Thebes for an uninhabited spot in Middle Egypt, where they founded a new town called ‘Horizon of Aten’ (Akhet-Aten, at the place nowadays called El-Amarna). The king changed his name from Amenhotep (‘Amun

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is at Peace’) to Akhenaten (‘Beneficial for Aten’). This name and that of the new residential town contain the name of Aten, the Egyptian word for the sun disc, which in Akhenaten’s early reign became the main deity, and later even the single one. As a manifestation of the sun god, Aten was a traditional concept in Egyptian religion. Thus we read, for instance, in the well-known story of Sinuhe, that King Amenemhat i (20th century bce) after his death went up to heaven, ‘being united with Aten, the divine body merged with its Maker’. Under Akhenaten’s predecessors Thutmose iv and Amenhotep iii, Aten’s prominence had increased significantly. In one characteristic manifestation of his self-deification, Amenhotep iii had called himself ‘Dazzling Aten’, and is therefore often called the Sun King in Egyptological literature. The sun god had, in fact, been the demiurge and supreme deity of the Egyptian pantheon for ages, be it under a different name: Re. This deity merged with others in the course of time, the most important syncretistic unions being Re-Horakhty (Re, Horus of the Horizon) and Amun-Re (the syncretistic union of Re with the Theban god Amun). Amun-Re had become the main deity in the early New Kingdom. His principal place of worship was the temple complex of Ipet-sut (Elect of Places), presently known as Karnak, which was the national shrine par excellence, its importance even surpassing that of the ancient cult centre of Re(-Horakhty) at On (Heliopolis). Early in his reign, Amenhotep iv started building new temples for Re-Horakhty at Karnak, thereby giving even more prominence to the sun god, but not to its manifestation as Amun-Re. Re-Horakhty was depicted in these temples in his traditional metaphorical form as a falcon-headed human, with the sun disc on his head. This form of the deity was soon replaced, however, with the sun disc alone (Aten), in a new form with projecting rays that ended as human hands presenting the hieroglyph for ‘life’ (ankh). Depictions and names of traditional deities, especially Amun, were destroyed on royal and private monuments, including for instance the abovementioned stela of the necropolis scribe Amenemope at Deir el-Medina (fig. 4.2). Unlike traditional Egyptian temples, the new temples at Akhet-Aten had no shrines containing statues of the deity, and had no roofs, either: the object of worship was visible in the sky every day, and had to be able to shine in its temple, and on its worshippers. This new cultic practice must have been a shock to many Egyptians, and perhaps not to them alone. In a letter addressed to Akhenaten, the Assyrian king expressed his dismay because his representatives in Egypt were out in the open sun for so long: As for the ambassadors, why are they continually standing outside so that they will die outside? If their standing outside is profitable to the king,

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then let them stand outside. Outside, let them die! Profit for the king or not, why should they die outside?21 Akhenaten’s new religion was abstract, and excluded traditional deities and the practices associated with these. In this sense, it came close to modern monotheistic religions, and one might perhaps say that Akhenaten was (far) ahead of his time. It is difficult to say how his reforms were received by Egyptian society at large, since we have no explicit messages on this by either its elite or non-elite members. Some high Egyptian functionaries came to AkhetAten with their king, and some were newly appointed. Their tombs and monuments were made in a new style, dominated by the Aten religion. At the same time, images and amulets expressing traditional religious ideas were present in domestic contexts in the town and in the nearby workmen’s village.22 This workmen’s village is of some importance to us, since it was located at the entrance to the valley with the rock tombs of the king and his family, and therefore probably housed the workmen responsible for their construction and decoration. Akhet-Aten had its own new necropolis, royal and private: apart from the royal tomb, there were rock tombs of the Amarna elite in the cliffs that enclosed the town at its east side. The workmen’s village of El-Amarna, like that of Deir el-Medina, was a planned settlement, though with a different ground plan, and considerably larger than Deir el-Medina had been so far.23 It had seventy-two houses, and just like the settlement of the Theban necropolis workmen it was surrounded by tombs and chapels. In view of these similarities, and given the fact that the royal tomb was now constructed at Akhet-Aten, it is tempting to think that the Theban workmen or at least some of them moved to the new workmen’s village of El-Amarna.24 However, no administrative documents of the workmen’s

21

22 23 24

From letter ea 16, as translated by Rainey 2015: 133. The idea that this passage refers to ceremonies at Akhet-Aten has been voiced by Redford (1984: 235). Rainey (2015: 1348) suspects that the letter reflects a hesitant or disrespectful attitude toward Assyrian messengers on the part of the Egyptians. See Kemp 2012: 231–263 for an overview and references. For the workman’s village at El-Amarna, see Kemp 2012: 191–194. For comparison with the workmen’s village at Deir el-Medina, see Müller 2014. As is often suggested, or even asserted; e.g. Valbelle 1985: 25; Kemp 2012: 191. The mention of a ‘Servant in the Place ⟨…⟩ Nehemmaatiu(?)’ on a wooden pedestal found in one of the tomb chapels near the workmen’s village at El-Amarna (Peet and Woolley 1923: 101, fig. 15) does not necessarily indicate a Theban connection (cf. Kemp 2012: 191 with note 20).

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community at the latter location have survived, and of the few finds made at the Amarna village none can be linked to the workmen of the Great Place with certainty. Possible indications exist for workmen in the Theban necropolis coming from El-Amarna. Funerary statues (shabtis) of the ‘servant in the Place of Truth Setau’ found in a Deir el-Medina tomb mention offerings ‘coming from the altar before Aten’, and the coffin of a woman called Ta-aat from the same tomb mentions Akhet-Aten.25 These objects could theoretically have been brought from Amarna by their owners when moving to Thebes after Akhenaten’s reign. They may also refer, however, to the temples built by Akhenaten at Thebes. This seems to be the case with an inscription on a chair of the ‘Servant in the Place of Truth Nakhy’, allegedly from Thebes, specifying that the ‘Place of Truth’ was west of the Horizon of Aten (Akhet-en-Aten).26 The variant writing Akhet-enAten suggests that allusion is made here to a Theban temple known from other inscriptions as ‘Rejoicing in the Horizon of Aten’. The expression ‘Place of Truth’ (Set-Maat) is not known from Theban inscriptions predating the Amarna Period. One single occurrence allegedly from an earlier period is at Saqqara, the necropolis of the ancient capital Memphis. In 1996, Alain Zivie discovered there the tomb of chief draftsman Thutmose.27 Actually, two families of necropolis draftsmen, possibly interrelated, are represented in the scenes on the tomb walls: that of Thutmose, son of Amenemwia, and that of his colleague Qenamun (also called Qenna), son of Kasa. A son of Qenamun was also called Kasa, and both he and his father were ‘chief draftsmen in the Place of Truth’. The names of many family members contain the name Amun, and are mostly attested in Theban inscriptions of the New Kingdom. By the fact that the names of Amenemwia and Qenamun as inscribed on the walls were later changed to Reemwia and Qenaten, i.e. the element Amun was replaced by Re and Aten respectively, it is evident that decoration of the tomb had started before the Amarna Period, and that the tomb was still open when the persecution of the name Amun had begun. The texts containing the phrase ‘in the Place of Truth’ were made later still.28

25 26 27 28

Černý 1973: 50–52. Černý (1973: 51) thought that the inscription refers to El-Amarna, but see now Angenot 2008: 11–13; Laboury 2010: 151. The present whereabouts of the chair is unknown. Zivie 2013. As was kindly pointed out to me by Dimitri Laboury (personal communication, February 2015). Contrary to what is suggested by Zivie (2013: 107–108), the phrase is only attested with Qenamun and his son Kasa.

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Like Černý before him, Zivie suggests that prior to the Amarna Period, the ‘Place of Truth’ was a Theban institution. In his view, Thutmose and his family and colleagues were Theban craftsmen working in Saqqara.29 This hypothesis would explain the presence of a Theban family tomb in Saqqara. The assumption that Thutmose and his family decorated their own tomb (as the specialists they were) is attractive, and the reason to do this in Saqqara might have been their staying there for years for whatever work they had been asked to perform. But the Place of Truth need not have been an exclusively Theban institution, and the group of draftsmen and chief draftsmen depicted in the tomb of Thutmose cannot be connected with the royal necropolis at Thebes with certainty.30 As highly skilled specialists of painted wall decoration, they need not even have been permanently tied to any necropolis, or location whatsoever. With these uncertainties we must leave the pre-Amarna period for now. The new religion did not survive Akhenaten’s reign for long. At some point after his death, Akhet-Aten was abandoned, and the temples built by the king there as well as in Karnak were dismantled. Akhenaten’s successors Tutankhamen (initially still called Tutankhaten!) and Horemheb have left us inscriptions on their restoration activities, including the rebuilding of the temples of the Egyptian gods, which according to them had become ruins and ‘public pathways’. The neglect of the traditional cults, they argued, had caused Egypt considerable misfortune. Like Hatshepsut, Akhenaten was erased from collective memory and left out of traditional king lists. In the reign of Ramesses ii (which started in 1279bce) Akhenaten was referred to, not by name, but as ‘the Enemy from Akhet-Aten’. The restoration decree by Tutankhamen was issued from Memphis, where the young king, son of Akhenaten, had taken up residence. Its text is known from a huge stela erected at Karnak, usurped by the later king Horemheb. Other monuments of Tutankhamen, including much work in the Karnak and Luxor temples, were also stripped of his names so that he, like his father, became a forgotten king. But it was under his reign that royal burials in the Valley of the Kings were resumed, and Tutankhamen’s own tomb (kv 62), discovered practically intact by Howard Carter in 1922, is a splendid witness to his return to the traditional royal burial ground. There is also another tomb in the Valley of the Kings that is connected with the Amarna Period. The discoverers of kv 55 in 1907 found several items of tomb equipment in the typical Amarna style, some of which were inscribed with the name of Queen Teye, the wife of Amenhotep

29 30

Zivie 2013: 107–110. Haring 2017.

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iii. Therefore the tomb (itself undecorated and uninscribed) was considered that of Teye, but among the objects was a coffin with erased cartouches and the mummified remains, heavily damaged, of a man perhaps in his thirties, very possibly Akhenaten himself.31 At the very least there has been a reburial of a member of the Amarna royal family, and objects associated with this family, in the Valley of the Kings. We do not know who prepared kv 55 and 62 for burial, that is, who belonged to the group of workmen active in the Valley of the Kings under Tutankhamen (among them may have been the workmen Setau and Nakhy, mentioned previously), and how this group was organised. The first historically documented activities with respect to the royal necropolis of Thebes took place in the seventh and eighth regnal years of Horemheb. From year eight there is a hieratic inscription in the tomb of King Thutmose iv (kv 43) that commemorates the reburial of this king by the overseer of the royal treasury, Maya.32 Maya, who was also ‘overseer of construction in the Place of Eternity’ (another name for the Theban necropolis), was assisted in this by the steward of Thebes, Thutmose. The same steward is mentioned in a legal statement on a hieratic ostracon written over a century later. The anonymous speaker in this text tells us that an ancestor of his ‘entered’ (i.e. was appointed to work in) the necropolis in regnal year seven of King Horemheb, and that private tombs (or ‘places’ for their construction) were assigned to the necropolis workmen at that same time by the steward of Thebes, Thutmose.33 All this is likely to reflect a reorganisation of the royal necropolis in Thebes, and the appointment of new workers, as part of Horemheb’s professed post-Amarna restoration.34

4.4

Ramesside Necropolis Administration and Administrators

The first group of hieratic ostraca that can be connected with the royal necropolis workforce, and dated precisely, is from the reign of Seti i, second king of the Nineteenth Dynasty (which lasted from 1292 to 1191 bce). It is a homogeneous

31 32 33 34

Laboury 2010: 350–351; Hawass and Saleem 2016: 84–86. Carter and Newberry 1904: xxxiii–xxxiv. For Maya see van Dijk 2012. O. bm ea 5624 obv. 1–3, late reign of Ramesses iii (translation: McDowell 1999: 68–69). One other ostracon (O. Toronto a.11) possibly reflects the same reorganisation. In this model letter, dated to the reign of Ramesses ii, the chief of police Mininwy recalls that his career started in year 7 of Horemheb. His appointment as ‘chief of police of the West of Thebes’ (line 21) may, however, have been later. For this text and O. bm ea 5624 see Häggmann 2002: 60–61.

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group of approximately thirty ostraca, on pottery and limestone, and mostly concerned with deliveries of pottery vessels, firewood and dung (as fuel) to the gang of workmen.35 Many bear dates in the king’s third regnal year, and so the ostraca probably represent one specific dossier, maybe produced by one scribe. We happen to know the name of a necropolis scribe who possibly worked under Seti i, and certainly in the early years of his successor, Ramesses ii: the ‘King’s Scribe in the Place of Truth’ Amenemope—a later namesake of the ‘King’s Scribe in the Great Place’ known from the pre-Amarna period. He was the first of a seemingly uninterrupted series of necropolis scribes until the end of the dynasty: Amenemope, Ramose, Qenhirkhopshef, and perhaps Bay. These men were what Egyptologists call ‘senior scribes’ of the necropolis: ‘senior’ meaning the principal scribe in charge, who was also one of the ‘captains’ of the workmen; the other ‘captains’ being the foremen (chief workmen) of the right and left sides. These expressions require some explanation. It is assumed that during the Ramesside Period there was normally one scribe who was responsible for royal necropolis affairs towards higher authorities, i.e. the vizier and the king. In accounts of the distribution of food rations among the workforce, this scribe is often mentioned first, together with two foremen. Other such accounts simply mention ‘the three captains’. The senior scribe had the title ‘Scribe of The Tomb’, but he was not the only one in the workmen’s community to use that title. Others could call themselves scribes of The Tomb too, such as the sons of the senior scribe who acted as his assistants, or scribes who were responsible for only part of the necropolis administration. Such men, and also the senior scribe himself, were often simply called ‘scribes’. The late Ramesside Period saw an increasing production of written documents (which will be discussed below), and everyone who mastered writing to some degree, and produced texts on whatever occasion, could call himself ‘scribe’ (sš/sesh). A ‘scribe’ could thus be (…) a true ‘scribe’, a ‘draftsman’, or simply a workman who could write his own name and who employed the title sš to indicate this skill.36 This practice sometimes makes it difficult for Egyptologists to decide, on the basis of the documents preserved, who was the principal scribe in charge, or ‘senior scribe’. At times there may even have been two ‘senior scribes’. It is important to bear in mind that the designation ‘senior scribe’ is not the

35 36

Dorn 2011b. Davies 1999: 142.

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translation of any ancient Egyptian title, but the creation of Egyptologists. The full titles of the senior scribe in texts on papyri and ostraca normally include ‘Scribe of The Tomb’ (or a longer version of this title, e.g. ‘Scribe of the Great and August Tomb of Millions of Years of Pharaoh, life, prosperity, health’); in monumental hieroglyphic inscriptions he is called ‘King’s Scribe’ and ‘Scribe in the Place of Truth’. However, other local scribes occasionally call themselves ‘Scribe of The Tomb’ or ‘Scribe in the Place of Truth’ as well. The case of the foremen (or ‘chief workmen’) is much clearer. There were two at any time, since the gang of workmen was divided in two ‘sides’, right and left. This principle of the organisation of the workforce followed a very long-standing tradition. The pyramid-builders of the Old Kingdom (ca. 2700– 2200bce) had been organised in shifts (‘phyles’), which were divided into smaller teams. The builders of pyramids and temples of the Middle Kingdom were organised similarly.37 It is uncertain whether the ‘sides’ of the New Kingdom necropolis workforce also worked in shifts, but there are indications for their separate functioning in the construction process. Even competition between the sides is suggested by the following passage from a letter by the draftsman Hormin to his father, the chief draftsman Hori: (…) and you shall write to the captains, so that they promote the servant of yours, and he shall give me a hand in the painting work. I am alone, since my brother is ill. The right side have taken on one chamber more than the left side.38 An indication for the sides being physically separated is the distribution of huts at the work spot in the Valley of the Kings. These small huts were each just big enough for a few persons (often father and son) to sit and lie down in, and were thus probably used by the workmen to rest during breaks, or sometimes also to spend the night in. Recent excavations of such huts near the tomb of Ramesses x made it possible to identify some of their users, and demonstrated that one particular cluster was used by men of the right side exclusively; huts belonging to the left side were located at a distance.39 The total number of workmen, equally divided over the two sides, varied between forty and seventy; numbers close to forty or sixty would be typical.40 37 38 39 40

See chapter 2, section 2.3. P. Ashmolean 1958.112 (translation: McDowell 1999: 213–215). Dorn 2011a: 71–72. Valbelle 1985: 101–105. The number of workmen was extended to 120 for a brief period under Ramesses iv and v; see chapter 5, section 5.7.

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Presumably they were all accommodated in the settlement at Deir el-Medina; its layout as preserved is basically that of the early Nineteenth Dynasty. The workmen were given food rations and clothing for themselves and their families, and were supplied with the tools and materials necessary for their work by government institutions, such as the royal treasury and granary. The gang also had a local supporting staff called semdet, which included water carriers (the settlement and workplace being located in the desert), fishermen, woodcutters, laundrymen, potters and gypsum makers. This semdet was also divided into a right and a left side. The administration of supplies is a regular topic in hieratic texts on papyri and ostraca: receipt, distribution and arrears were duly noted by scribes with different positions in the necropolis hierarchy. Some scribes seem to have been specifically responsible for the semdet and their production. These are called ‘semdet scribe (of the right/left side)’ by Egyptologists, but such a title is exceedingly rare in Egyptian texts, and may not refer to a permanent office.41 Mention has also been made, in the previous paragraphs, of draftsmen. ‘Draftsman’ is the translation of the Egyptian title sesh-qed (sš-qd); literally ‘scribe of outline’: draftsmen were to make line drawings on the walls of the royal tomb, which were then worked out by others by means of chiseling and painting. Actually, the verb sesh that is used in the titles of scribes and draftsmen can be translated as ‘writing’ as well as ‘drawing’ or ‘painting’. Egyptian terminology does not distinguish between these activities; after all, writing hieroglyphs was in fact making drawings, and hieroglyphs and iconography supplement each other on the monuments. Writing cursive texts was hardly different from painting, since the Egyptian scribe’s tool was a brush, not a pen. Expert draftsmen were indispensable in elite tomb decoration, and the community of royal necropolis workmen included a team of them, headed by one or more ‘chief draftsmen’. These also appear as ‘captains’ in necropolis records, but only in the late Twentieth Dynasty. The previous pages may suggest to the reader that the organisation of the royal necropolis in the Ramesside Period was a clearly documented and almost unchanging institutional structure. Nothing, however, could be further from the truth, and this is best illustrated here by the history of the senior scribes. In Ancient Egypt, as in so many traditional societies, it was normal and desirable that the (eldest) son should take over the position of his father. This practice can also be seen clearly in the institution of the royal necropolis. Scribes and

41

E.g. Davies 1999: 123–142. The Deir el-Medina semdet is the subject of a PhD thesis by Kathrin Gabler, one chapter in which deals with the problem of semdet scribes (Gabler 2015: 441–468).

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foremen (and indeed the workmen themselves) were often succeeded by their sons, who would already have assisted their fathers before taking over. The foremen even had their official ‘deputies’, who would usually be their sons and successors. Sometimes, of course, things went differently, for instance when a functionary did not have a son, and was succeeded by another member of the family, or by someone from a different family altogether. Theoretically, the appointment of someone in a branch of royal administration—such as the necropolis—was the decision of the king or his highest representative, the vizier. These often seem to have consented in the succession from father to son, but they intervened on some occasions. The Scribe in the Place of Truth, Amenemope, must have been appointed by the king in the early Nineteenth Dynasty, if not at the end of the Eighteenth. His father had been a priest of Amun in Kush, that is, in Nubia, and so Amenemope appears to have been new in Thebes when made senior scribe of the royal necropolis. Inscriptions on a statue of Amenemope and his wife Hunero indicate that his role was more significant than that of a mere scribe: he is also called ‘overseer of construction’, ‘overseer of the gang’, even ‘the eyes of the King in the Place of Truth’.42 Clearly, the scribe Amenemope was the supreme supervisor of the necropolis workforce, and as such the king’s trusted man. Indeed, he is even called ‘trusted one of the King in the secret place’.43 We do not know if there had already been a necropolis scribe before Amenemope was appointed, or if he was the first to have this position after the Amarna Period. His depiction as ‘King’s Scribe in the Place of Truth’ in a tomb relief is to be dated to year one or two of Ramesses ii.44 We know that in the fifth year of that king, a new necropolis scribe was appointed: Ramose, who also came from outside. Previously, he had been a scribe attached to the memorial temple of Thutmose iv nearby.45 Judging from the texts that mention this necropolis scribe, and even more from the number and quality of the local monuments left by him, he was unmistakably what we call the ‘senior’ necropolis scribe. But his predecessor Amenemope had a son called Minmose, who was also ‘Scribe in the Place of Truth’. Did he, in fact, succeed his father before year five of Ramesses ii, to be succeeded or replaced after a very short time by 42 43 44 45

Statue Berlin 6910 (transcription in Kitchen 1975: 386–388; translation in Kitchen 1993: 316–319). Kitchen 1975: 386–387. Relief Cairo je 43591: transcription in Kitchen 1975: 403 (royal names corrected in Kitchen 1989: 431); translation in Kitchen 1993: 333. Hieroglyphic and hieratic ostracon Cairo cg 25671: transcription in Kitchen 1980: 636; translation in Kitchen 2000: 434–435.

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Ramose? Or did he not succeed Amenemope, and was he actually a colleague or assistant of his father and/or Ramose? To complicate matters, there was also a scribe Huy, who lived and worked contemporarily with both Amenemope and Ramose. In a tomb inscription, Ramose and his wife are called ‘son’ and ‘daughter’ of Huy and his wife Nofretkhau, although we know for a fact that Ramose was not Huy’s son, and this has been taken to mean that Huy ‘adopted’ Ramose and his wife when these made their appearance in the workmen’s community.46 Whatever the precise chronological overlap between Amenemope, Minmose, Huy and Ramose may have been, the latter was just like Amenemope an ‘outsider’ appointed as necropolis scribe. Moreover, upon his death in the late reign of Ramesses ii, he was not succeeded by his own offspring, because he had none. The later necropolis scribe Qenhirkhopshef, who may originally have been one of the necropolis workmen, is called Ramose’s ‘son’ on a stone seat from one of the huts between Deir el-Medina and the Valley of the Kings. Thus ‘adopted’, Qenhirkhopshef succeeded Ramose, and held the position of senior scribe for over forty years, but seems to have remained childless as well.47 A ‘Scribe in the Place of Truth’ called Bay, whose parentage is unknown, may very well have been his successor, after having been Qenhirkhopshef’s assistant and apprentice. Amenemope, Ramose, Qenhirkhopshef and Bay are all considered ‘senior scribes’ by Egyptologists (although the preceding prosopographical data show that this is problematic enough), and this means that at least three times in the Nineteenth Dynasty, a senior scribe was appointed who did not himself come from a family of necropolis scribes. Amenemope and Ramose did not even originate from the necropolis workmen’s community. The following period, the Twentieth Dynasty (1199–1077bce), presents an essentially different picture. As in the preceding period, there was more than one necropolis scribe active at any time, but many of those considered ‘senior’ scribes by Egyptologists came from one family, starting with a man called Amennakht. Prior to his appointment, Amennakht had been a draftsman in the gang of workmen, and he was a son of the foreman Ipuy, so that he was already firmly rooted in the workmen’s community. His promotion to the function of necropolis scribe was effected by the vizier Ta in the sixteenth regnal year of Ramesses iii.48 46 47 48

Černý 1973: 215–216, 317–327; Davies 1999: 77–83, 86–90. Černý 1973: 329–337; Davies 1999: 84–86; Štubňová 2016. Theban graffiti 1111 and 1143: Černý 1973: 340; transcription in Kitchen 1983a: 379; translation in Kitchen 2008: 313–314.

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Like his predecessors Ramose and Qenhirkhopshef, Amennakht rose to considerable prominence, leaving us a wealth of documents. Among these is a day-by-day report of the earliest documented workmen’s strikes in world history. In year 29 of Ramesses iii, the gang left their workplace and village, and set out to the nearby royal memorial temples. The reason for this ‘demonstration’ was the intolerable delay of the month’s food rations and other supplies for the workmen’s community, as Amennakht’s compilation, the so-called Turin Strike Papyrus informs us: Regnal year 29, second month of peret, day 10. This day: passing the five guard-posts of The Tomb by the gang, saying: ‘We are hungry, and sixteen days of the month have already passed!’ They sat down at the back of the Temple of Menkheperre [i.e. Thutmose iii]. Arrival of the Scribe of the Secluded Tomb, the two foremen, the two deputies, and the two officers. They called upon them, saying: ‘Let us go inside!’.49 The word ‘inside’ does not refer to the temple where the workmen were sitting at this moment, but to the geographical confines of the royal necropolis, ‘The Tomb’ or the ‘Place of Truth’ as an institution. These limits were marked by what is called earlier in the document ‘the five guard-posts’. Words like ‘guardposts’, ‘passing’, ‘inside’ and ‘secluded’ have suggested to some Egyptologists that the workmen were confined to a geographically defined and guarded area, and even that they were prohibited from venturing outside. There are so many references in the necropolis ostraca and papyri to communication and traffic by the workmen in the greater Theban area, that this is hard to believe. Even so, the spontaneous movement by the whole gang outside their usual and defined habitat must have been an alarming event. The arrears, meanwhile, indicate that the government faced difficulties in supplying its workmen. These difficulties may, in their turn, be connected with a broader economic crisis: a scarcity of agricultural produce, including grain. Such scarcity is perhaps reflected in the steep rise of grain prices: in the course of the reign of Ramesses iii, the prices of barley and emmer wheat had doubled, and they would rise even more dramatically in the following reigns.50 These prices, it has to be said, are only known from the ostraca and papyri of the Theban necropolis. The possibility arises, then, that they reflect nothing but

49 50

P. Turin Cat. 1880 recto i 1–4 (transcription in Gardiner 1948: 52–53; translation in Frandsen 1990: 168–170). See Janssen 1975: 130–132 (table), 551–552.

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the local or institutional economic traffic, which was affected by the stagnating supplies. There are, on the other hand, geological indications for a marked drought in this period (the twelfth century bce) in East and West Africa;51 this may well have caused scarcity, which in its turn led to high prices on the one hand, and difficulties with institutional supplies on the other.52 This problem of economic analysis, as well as the question of the confinement of the necropolis workmen, illustrate a central problem with respect to the documents from the Theban necropolis: this exceptionally well-documented community may be representative, in many respects, of nothing but itself. Amennakht was often referred to as the progenitor in the inscriptions of a long line of descendants who were also his successors to the office of senior necropolis scribe. In other words, he was the founder of a true dynasty of local necropolis administrators. This was an important difference with respect to the previous period, the Nineteenth Dynasty, with its repeated appointment of necropolis scribes without mutual family relationships.

4.5

The End of the Royal Necropolis

At the end of the Ramesside Period, and even some time beyond, Amennakht’s descendants were still active as scribes. The Scribe of The Tomb Thutmose and his son Butehamun, who represent the third and fourth generations after Amennakht, witnessed the end of the dynasty, and with it the abandonment of the Theban mountains as the royal burial ground. The last kings of the Twentieth Dynasty, Ramesses x and xi were perhaps not even buried there.53 Ramesses x reigned for three years, and his tomb (kv 18) merely consists of three short corridors, the third of which has not even been cut out completely. There is no real burial chamber, and only the first corridor has been decorated. The tomb of his successor, who reigned at least 28 years (kv 4), has the usual corridors, pillared hall and burial chamber, but was not decorated beyond the entrance. The mummies of these two kings have not been found, unlike those of most other New Kingdom pharaohs, who were reburied in the eleventh century 51 52

53

Butzer 1976: 33. The principal basis of government and temple economy in New Kingdom Egypt was the revenues of institutional domains. As far as we can see, the government would not have had to buy grain on the market in order to provide for its personnel. The reverse is actually documented: the trading of institutional production surplus for precious materials, such as metals and oil. See Dodson 2016: 225–227 for the tombs of these two kings.

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bce by order of the high priests of Amun. The reburial operations must have included the confiscation of what remained of the royal burial equipments: the reburials followed a period of looting in royal and private tombs, details of which are known through elaborate records of tomb robbers’ trials on papyri from the necropolis. The mummies were put in wooden coffins, in many cases reused ones, and notes were made on these coffins in hieratic, which give us dates, and the names of the responsible authorities. But although the Theban royal necropolis had actually ceased to exist, the necropolis administration did not lose its usefulness: it was the necropolis scribes who assisted in the reburial operations. They were doing this for the high priests Paiankh and Herihor, who also happened to be army generals. Paiankh is well known from a large collection of papyrus letters he exchanged with necropolis administrators, and which form part of the corpus known to Egyptologists as the Late Ramesside Letters. The historical background that shines through these texts is a military campaign by Paiankh (who is usually called ‘the General’) in the far south, in Nubia.54 For this campaign, he was in constant need of resources, which the necropolis personnel were to procure: food, weapons, precious metals and objects (for making payments?), and cloth: You shall have some textiles and loose rags brought to me (…) and they shall be made into bandages for wrapping up men.55 This is an order from the general to the scribe Thutmose. From a letter written by the latter’s son Butehamun it becomes clear where these goods had to come from, and why the necropolis administration was instrumental in providing for Paiankh’s campaign: ‘Open a tomb among the foremost tombs, and preserve its seal until I shall have come’, so he said, our lord [i.e. Paiankh]. We are obeying orders. We shall see to it that you find it in place.56 Butehamun is also mentioned at the head of a list of men engaged in ‘bringing royal linen’, in a hieratic graffito near the tomb of the Nineteenth-Dynasty

54 55 56

For which see e.g. Barwik 2011: 225–256. P. Bibliothèque Nationale 197, v recto 3–verso 2. Transcription in Černý 1939: 35; translation in Wente 1967: 52. P. bm ea 10375 verso 10–11. Transcription in Černý 1939: 47; translation in Wente 1967: 61; Demarée 2003: 249.

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pharaoh Siptah. On one day, the team retrieved twenty items of linen (garments and bundles) and, fourteen days later, another fifty.57 A corpus of approximately one hundred ostraca from different sites gives further information about these men and their activities at the close of the New Kingdom.58 At the time the Scribe of The Tomb, Butehamun, and his men were emptying the tombs, a new dynasty, the Twenty-first, had replaced the Ramessides in the north. Their residence Tanis had its own Amun temple complex, and within this complex were the royal tombs. During their excavation by Pierre Montet in 1939, a number of royal burials of the Twenty-first and Twenty-second Dynasties were found with much of their precious equipment still in place, including the gold mask and silver coffin of King Psusennes i. The coffin was inside a set of two granite sarcophagi, the inner one mummiform and of black granite; the outer one rectangular and of pink granite. The latter had originally belonged to King Merenptah of the Nineteenth Dynasty, and must have been brought to Tanis from the latter’s tomb in the Valley of the Kings.59 This observation throws an interesting light on the silver and gold found in the Tanite tombs: was it, too, brought from the royal tombs at Thebes, and had it passed through the hands of Thutmose, Butehamun and their men?

4.6

Hieratic Necropolis Records … by the Thousands

The first group of hieratic ostraca from the reign of Seti i, mentioned at the beginning of the previous section, was followed by a steadily increasing number in the course of the Nineteenth Dynasty. Hieratic administrative records of the necropolis mostly have the form of limestone and ceramic ostraca, or papyri. More than ten thousand documentary ostraca have been preserved that date to the Ramesside Period, and which are related to the royal necropolis, and more are being discovered every year.60 The ostraca are supplemented by papyri, which mainly date to the late Twentieth Dynasty. The scribes did not

57 58 59 60

Theban graffito 1282: Černý 1973: 15; facsimile and transcription in Černý 1956: pl. 45 and 45a. The findspots are in Deir el-Medina, Deir el-Bahri, and the Valley of the Kings. Demarée 2003: 245–248; see also Barwik 2011: 257–286. Le Guilloux 2010: 209–214, 357–360 (ref. brought to my attention by Joachim Quack). Over 8,000 are kept in the French Archaeological Institute in Cairo (ifao); approximately 1,300 of these have been published to date. The remaining 3,000+ are spread over many different collections; the largest concentrations (including numerous unpublished pieces) are in the Egyptian Museum, Cairo, and the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford.

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just produce administrative records: the documentary texts are supplemented by literary and religious ones in equally impressive numbers, which says much about the local scribal culture (see below). Just like the papyri, the documentary ostraca are not evenly distributed over the Ramesside Period. Datable ostraca from the Nineteenth Dynasty are mainly from the second half of that period. The first half of the Twentieth Dynasty has left us even more, especially the decades shortly before the middle of the dynasty (i.e. in the later years of Ramesses iii, and the short reigns of his successors). From the published ostraca that can be dated to specific reigns,61 approximately 600 are dated to Ramesses iii—mostly to the end of his 31-year reign, and almost 500 to the reigns of Ramesses iv–viii (together 26 years). Ramesses ii, of the Nineteenth Dynasty, had ruled for 66 years, but not even 300 ostraca can be assigned to his reign. From the second half of the Twentieth Dynasty (Ramesses ix–xi), only a remarkably small number of hieratic ostraca have come down to us: little more than 50 datable pieces have been published.62 From the same period comes the bulk of the documentary papyri.63 These circumstances have struck Egyptologists as being far from coincidental: apparently, papyrus came to be used more than ostraca as writing material in this period. It has been suggested that these changing proportions reflect changes in administrative practice, which in turn were the consequence of the resettlement of the workmen, in the late Twentieth Dynasty, to the nearby memorial temple of Ramesses iii. Indirect evidence for this resettlement has been seen in the marked reduction of the gang of workmen, in the decrease of graffiti made by workmen and their superiors, and in the absence of water carriers, of the duty roster and of the workmen’s own administrative centre (the khetem) in the documents surviving from the reign of Ramesses xi.64 References in several late Twentieth Dynasty

61

62

63

64

About 60 % of the published ostraca have been assigned dates, but the datings are often not more specific than ‘(early/late) Nineteenth/Twentieth Dynasty’ or ‘Ramesside’. Less than 60 % of the dated material has been attributed to specific reigns. See The Deir elMedina Database: http://dmd.wepwawet.nl. These do not include one separate group of ostraca from the late Twentieth or rather early Twenty-first Dynasty, with e.g. the lists of workmen working under Butehamun (see the previous section). Eyre 2013: 249. The Deir el-Medina Database currently includes the data of 156 documentary papyri (omitting duplicate entries: composite catalogue numbers, and different texts on the recto and verso sides). Of these, 38 are dated to Ramesses ix, 72 to Ramesses x or xi; another 18 are merely labelled ‘late Twentieth Dynasty’. Černý 1973: 190; Eyre 1980: 44–47; Valbelle 1985: 123–125; Peden 2000; Eyre 2013: 248–249.

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papyri would seem to support the idea that Medinet Habu was the base for the necropolis workforce. In one of the Late Ramesside Letters, the necropolis scribe Thutmose writes to a deputy of the Karnak temple: Now we are living here in The Temple [i.e. Medinet Habu], and you know our way of living here, inside as well as outside. But the children of The Tomb [i.e. the necropolis workmen] have come. They are living in Thebes, while I am living here alone with the army scribe Pentahutnakht. Please have the men of The Tomb collected there, in Thebes, and have them brought to me, to this side. List of them: [there follows a list of seven men]. Put them under the scribe Butehamun. Have them brought in haste; do not let them delay for any reason, together with [the names of two more men], total: nine.65 The men mentioned in Thutmose’s letter are indeed also listed among the men working under Butehamun on ostraca from the late Twentieth or early Twentyfirst Dynasty. At Medinet Habu, stone doorjambs and columns have been found that must have belonged to buildings of Thutmose and Butehamun.66 All this does not prove that the necropolis workmen also lived here, but the fact that Thutmose and his son lived and worked at Medinet Habu makes this site a possible alternative as the provenance of the Late Ramesside Letters. And there are more texts that seemingly point in this direction. Among the necropolis journals on papyrus there is one that refers to Medinet Habu as the place of food distribution to the gang of necropolis workmen;67 another is an account of grain collected by necropolis authorities and stored in temple granaries.68 A papyrus from the end of the Twentieth Dynasty, now actually divided between Turin and Geneva, records the arrangement made by a Theban priest for the division of his property between his second wife and his children from a

65 66 67 68

The duty roster is no longer mentioned in hieratic texts after the reign of Ramesses x (Haring 2015a: 136–137). P. Berlin p 10494 recto 6–verso 2. Transcription in Černý 1939: 23–24; translation in Wente 1967: 44; McDowell 1999: 239–240. Hieroglyphic texts in Kitchen 1983b: 876–877; Kitchen 1989: 401–403; translation of Thutmose’s inscriptions in Kitchen 2012: 596–597. P. Turin Cat. 1888 + 2085 (years 17 and 18 of Ramesses xi). Transcription in Gardiner 1948: 64–68. P. Turin Cat. 1895 + 2006, the ‘Turin Taxation Papyrus’ (years 12 and 14 of Ramesses xi). Transcription in Gardiner 1948: 35–44.

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previous marriage.69 He made his plans known in a court session in the temple of Medinet Habu, which was presided over by no less a person than the vizier, who approved, and ordered the arrangement to be written down and filed in the temple. A duplicate was to be made for the ‘Great Court of Thebes’. It is most likely that the papyrus preserved is the temple copy: one would expect the Great Court to have been based in Thebes on the east bank, where no papyri have survived. An additional indication for western Thebes as the provenance is the fact that on the verso was later glued a papyrus strip with the beginning of a letter by General Paiankh, which connects the document with the corpus of Late Ramesside Letters—and gives an indication of its date. Finally, several administrative necropolis texts were written on reused papyri apparently from a temple archive. A very clear case is P. Turin Cat. 1900, an account of jasper and myrrh collected from places including the royal funerary temples, and entered into the ‘northern treasury of the House of Amun’, that is, the Karnak temple treasury.70 On the blank verso of the papyrus, but also between the columns of original text on recto, there are necropolis accounts and notes dated to a regnal year 9, probably of Ramesses ix. Necropolis scribes thus may have been using discarded temple accounts. Another example is a necropolis journal from the thirteenth regnal year of Ramesses ix, written on the verso of a long account of materials including woodwork and ropes of ships, which is apparently unrelated to necropolis matters.71 The reuse of temple documents suggests that necropolis administrators had access to a temple archive, and thus apparently supports the idea that they lived or worked in a temple. But the reign of Ramesses ix is too early for the supposed change of living quarters. In fact, there is no compelling evidence for the necropolis workforce having moved from Deir el-Medina to Medinet Habu. Even if necropolis scribes were based there, and necropolis supplies also stored there at some point at the very end of the Twentieth Dynasty, that does not necessarily mean that the workmen were living there as well. One observation even argues against it: as we will see in the next chapter, ostraca with workmen’s marks were produced and discarded at Deir el-Medina as late as year 20 of Ramesses xi.72

69 70 71 72

P. Geneva d 409 + Turin Cat. 2021. Transcription in Kitchen 1983b: 738–742; translation in Kitchen 2012: 526–528. P. Turin Cat. 1900 etc. Transcription in Kitchen 1983b: 619–624; translation in Kitchen 2012: 446–449. P. Turin Cat. 1999+ 2009. Transcription in Kitchen 1983b: 560–566; translation in Kitchen 2012: 416–420. Chapter 5, section 5.9.

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Resettlement or not, do the surviving papyri of the late Twentieth Dynasty come from Medinet Habu or from Deir el-Medina? Archaeologically speaking, the latter location seems preferable. As opposed to Medinet Habu, which has never been reported as the site of papyrus finds, Deir el-Medina is actually known as such a site.73 In addition to thousands of ostraca, many papyrus fragments were retrieved by Bernard Bruyère in the course of his excavations. These are now kept in the French Archaeological Institute in Cairo (ifao).74 Deir el-Medina is also the findspot of the so-called Chester Beatty Papyri and related documents, a substantial papyrus archive formed in the late Nineteenth and Twentieth Dynasties, which includes several papyri now kept in the ifao.75 Among the papyrus fragments mentioned in Bernard Bruyère’s excavation reports, some have been recognised as belonging to papyri in the Museo Egizio in Turin.76 As for the Late Ramesside Letters, their first editor Jaroslav Černý felt that Deir el-Medina would be the most likely provenance, since the Turin museum (where some of the letters are kept) houses so many objects from that site, and because the years in which some of the relevant papyri were purchased by museums or antiquities collectors coincided with the earliest excavations at Deir el-Medina.77 Of course, this does not necessarily mean that all documentary papyri left by the royal necropolis administration come from that site, but some of them certainly did. Then why are there so many more from the late Twentieth Dynasty than from the previous period? Here we have to bear in mind that papyrus is fragile, and much of it has disappeared. Theoretically, therefore, there may have been more papyri produced in earlier years, which are now lost. In addition, papyrus was often reused as writing material. As far as can be established with the data available, approximately forty percent of the documentary papyri known to have been produced by the necropolis scribes are palimpsests. This means that what we have are merely the final stages of a (possibly long) process of use and reuse, and that we actually do have older papyrus documents but can no longer read them because they have been re-inscribed. The question that remains, then, is why there was a decrease in the production of ostraca in the second half of the Twentieth Dynasty. For now, only speculative answers can be given to that question. 73 74 75 76 77

See also Haring forthcoming. Some of these have been edited: Černý 1978; Černý 1986. See Pestman 1982. The first known creator of the archive is the necropolis scribe Qenhirkhopshef; see chapter 6, section 6.5. E.g. Bruyère 1937a: 79–80 (fragments belonging to P. Turin Cat. 1885, featuring i.a. a plan of the tomb of Ramesses iv). Černý 1939: xv–xvii.

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The Nature of the Documentary Texts

Documentary texts from the royal necropolis cover two different fields: private and collective administration. The latter includes records of presence or absence of workmen, accounts of supplies, distributions and work progress.78 These and many other sorts of information are often organised by calendar dates, and hence take the form of logs or journals. Large ostraca may thus present long series of dated entries, and even longer ones are preserved on papyri. It has therefore been assumed that ostraca were merely used for preliminary notes, which served as the basis for the compilation of longer journals on papyri. We cannot exclude the possibility that this was actually done in practice (although only a very few duplicate texts on ostraca and papyri are available to support the idea), but for many local purposes, ostraca were probably the final and only documents produced, so that ‘much of the bookkeeping at Deir el-Medina was ostracon-keeping’.79 Duplicate entries tend to be found in sets of ostraca, rather than on ostraca and papyri.80 One reason for researchers to expect the final documents to be papyri was the supposed audit of necropolis administration by higher functionaries. The underlying assumptions are, first, that there was such an audit practice and, second, that auditing officials could not be confronted with mere notes on ostraca. As for the first assumption, the vizier and other high government officials indeed came to the necropolis at times. The reasons for visits by the vizier and royal butlers is sometimes stated to have been ‘receiving the work’, and this is taken to mean the inspection of the work in progress. The mention of such visits may be accompanied by measurements of the spaces cut out in the rock. The officials were, it would seem, in a position to see the progress for themselves, so that they would not necessarily have depended on written records. Information reached the vizier in written form when he was not physically present. One passage in a late Ramesside papyrus informs us that bringing written reports to the vizier was usual practice: Now, whenever he [i.e. the vizier] was in the northern region, the policemen and attendants of His Majesty—life, prosperity, health—of The Tomb travelled downstream to where the vizier was, with their memoranda.81 78 79 80 81

See Eyre 2013: 233–252 on collective administration in general. Haring 2003: 265; see also Allam 1968. For examples see Donker van Heel and Haring 2003: 1–82. P. Abbott recto vi 22–23, year 16 of Ramesses ix. Transcription in Kitchen 1983b: 468–481;

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This passage is part of a complaint about necropolis scribes reporting to the mayor of Thebes, instead of the vizier as they should have done. We do not know what precise form the memoranda had. The vizier is the addressee of many a letter written by necropolis scribes, drafts or copies of which—on ostraca and papyrus—remained in the necropolis. Among the usual Egyptian words for ‘letter’ we do not find the one translated here by ‘memorandum’,82 so it seems that a different sort of document is referred to by that expression, or else documents of various kinds brought to the attention of the vizier. One would like to think that letters and memoranda for the vizier were sealed papyrus documents, and that the abovementioned police and attendants did not carry with them baskets full of ostraca. The copies actually received by the vizier, however, have not survived. Documentary texts are not only concerned with the collective administration of the gang and their work, but also with private business and problems of the workmen and their families. Private texts include accounts of sale, loan and hire of objects, animals and slaves or their services. Legal texts include statements, oaths, and the proceedings of local court and oracle sessions. Together, these texts shed a wonderful light, not only on economic and legal practice but, through these, also on domestic and village culture. It is especially the texts on private matters that were increasingly produced in the course of the Ramesside Period.83 One possible impetus for this has already been touched upon: the senior necropolis scribe Amennakht and his descendants, in the Twentieth Dynasty, were more firmly rooted in the family and village network of Deir el-Medina than their predecessors who had often originated elsewhere. This local dynasty of administrators may very well have considered it their job, not only to keep track of the work at the royal tomb, but also to monitor all business and problems within the workmen’s community. The objectives they had in mind in doing this would have been to strengthen their local influence and to enhance their status, rather than to report all local affairs to higher authorities. If the vizier and other government officials were interested in scrutinising the written reports of the necropolis scribes at all, they would have focused on matters directly connected with the work at the king’s tomb, rather than on the workmen’s private worries.

82 83

translation in Kitchen 2012: 361–367; see also Donker van Heel and Haring 2003: 110. The ‘policemen’ represent a force keeping order in the Theban necropolis, but also acting as messengers between the necropolis administration and outside authorities. See Donker van Heel and Haring 2003: 92–94, 108–115, for the relevant terminology. Haring 2003: 255.

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At the same time, one should look at the documentation of private affairs from a different perspective, which is that of the individual workmen and their families. They themselves may have approached the scribes with the request to write letters, reports and notes for them that could serve them in their private needs or legal conflicts. The act of producing the required document could have been considered an official registration of some sort (and the scribe an official witness), while the function of the resulting ostracon or papyrus itself might have been that of an aide-mémoire, or even legal proof. Do these possibilities fit into Egyptologists’ reconstructions of the local written culture and legal practice? It is likely that Ancient Egyptian village life, even at Deir el-Medina, was characterised by a predominantly oral culture. Estimates of literacy rates in pharaonic Egypt generally do not exceed one per cent of society. The community of royal necropolis workmen can be considered exceptional, with an estimate of about forty percent of the adult male population being literate in some sense of the word, in the late Ramesside Period.84 If we accept this high estimate, it may not always have been necessary to turn to official scribes for the production of written documents, that is, when the texts served no other purpose than the retrieval of information at some later moment. Inhabitants of the workmen’s village could thus have produced their own letters and notes, or asked relatives or friends (among whom there may have been official scribes) to do this for them. An important question that rises then is this: did written texts have any public or formal role to play in the village, and if so, what role exactly did they have? The legal system that can be reconstructed from texts regarding private law is one of customary law, an important characteristic of which is oral practice. Legal issues were dealt with on the basis of rules that were generally known and accepted, such as the basic division of a married couple’s joint property into three parts (for the wife, for the husband, and for the children), or the principle ‘he who buries, inherits’. Both principles are adduced more than once in ostraca and papyri. The inheritance principle may be referred to in documents as ‘the law of Pharaoh, life, prosperity, health’, but that does not necessarily mean that a particular king had decreed this, let alone that this had been done in writing. Royal decrees (many of which do survive in textual copies) had institutional interests at heart, rather than private matters. Evidence for the existence of written codified law in Egypt is lacking before the

84

See chapter 3, section 3.6, and the references given there. Important differences existed, of course, between the various degrees and types of literacy.

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Hellenistic Period, from which manuals have survived that record native legal practice.85 Formalities were basically oral. An important transaction would be effected with witnesses present, and could involve the taking of an oath. A local court session, such as is documented frequently in Deir el-Medina texts, would typically start with oral statements by the plaintiff and the defendant, and if the latter were found guilty, it would end with the defendant’s promise under oath to make up for the wrong committed in a specified way. In Deir elMedina court sessions, written documents never seem to have been consulted or required, judging from the texts preserved.86 Examples from outside the Deir el-Medina context are agreements on land lease, which are sometimes referred to in pharaonic documents, but did not themselves grow into a textual genre before the first millennium bce. The vast corpus of documentary texts from the community of necropolis workmen presents us with a paradox: an unusually great number of written records on private business and legal conflicts has been produced, but what these records show us is essentially oral practice. Then why did the scribes and other village inhabitants bother to commit these matters to writing? Perhaps the answer must be: because they could. Historical and anthropological literature includes many discussions and examples from different cultures and from different points in history of the spread of writing and literacy. Such a spread may be stimulated or even enforced by government authorities, but arguments have also been made for individuals and groups adopting the habit of writing, for prestige or for practical reasons. Thus, merchants who write may be able to engage in a greater number of transactions without running the risk of forgetting facts and figures. This seems to have been the case with Arab merchants in Sub-Saharan Africa in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries ad, who were more successful than their native illiterate competitors. Landowners and -users in medieval England would have had a stronger case in court if equipped with written charters. Once writing is present in society, and makes its appearance in administration and business, people start using it to their advantage, or even see themselves more or less forced to do so. At a later stage, society may see an

85

86

Arguments have been presented for earlier origins of these legal manuals, in the Late Period or the Persian domination; see e.g. Lippert 2004: 167–175 (ref. brought to my attention by Koen Donker van Heel). O. Turin cg 57544 rev. mentions a ‘list of dated documents’ ([…] rḫ.tw nɜ hry[.t]) in a very fragmentary context of a legal conflict. This would be the single possible reference to the consultation of texts in such a context in the corpus of Ramesside necropolis ostraca and papyri. Hry.t (originally hrw.y.t, from hrw ‘day’) stands for a dated, hence official document; see Donker van Heel and Haring 2003: 101–104.

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increasing demand for written records as official testimony and legal proof, and then the use of writing becomes inescapable.87 Written texts were not usually required in private legal matters in Ramesside Deir el-Medina; the local court normally relied on oral testimony. Things were different in the highest echelons of government bureaucracy. The vizier, supreme overseer and judge, checked the written records of the departments and functionaries under his control (the royal necropolis being one of these). In a famous inscription about a lawsuit over land continuing for several generations (the Mes/Mose inscription), the vizier himself appears as a judge, and at the beginning of the very first session asks the parties to show their documents. These documents, as well as a government register consulted by the vizier, proved to be unreliable, so that recourse was had to oral testimony.88 We have seen the vizier in his role as a judge also in the Turin papyrus text about a remarried priest (see the previous section); there, he ordered the inheritance arrangement to be written down in duplo, to be filed in the Medinet Habu temple as well as in the archive of the Great Court of Thebes. The existence of long registers on papyrus, mainly in agrarian administration, also testify to Egypt’s millennia-old bureaucratic tradition, but only in the context of state institutions. Although the royal necropolis was definitely a state institution, and the necropolis scribes were required to report to the vizier in writing just like all other supervisors of government departments, this obligation probably only pertains to collective matters: the royal tomb itself, the workforce as such, and its provisions. Private law and business may have been the scribes’ concern, but not necessarily so on account of higher authorities. Rather, it may have been the presence of scribes and literacy that induced locals to have texts drawn up for personal use, to remember and strengthen their cases.89 The actual use of written documents as legal proof is not attested in Ramesside Deir el-Medina, but would have been a logical step forwards.

87 88 89

See Haring 2003: 256–259 and the references given there. Hieroglyphic text in Kitchen 1980: 425–434; translation in Kitchen 2000: 307–311. An alternative view sees the necropolis scribes acting in local court cases as state representatives and prosecutors (Allam 2006). Indeed, the senior scribe often appears as a member of the local court, the composition of which was not fixed, but ad hoc, and would normally include the highest local officials.

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Local Knowledge and Output, Textual and Visual

The previous sections may leave the reader with the impression that local text production at Deir el-Medina was purely documentary, and served the needs of administration and jurisdiction. Yet reference has already been made to the quantity of literary and religious texts. Thousands of ostraca from the workmen’s settlement at Deir el-Medina, and from their workplaces at the royal tombs, show us excerpts from literary texts and magical spells, to name just the most frequently attested genres. All this is in hieratic, the common cursive script of the Ramesside Period. The purpose, or Sitz im Leben, of literary hieratic ostraca is still the subject of discussion. These texts are often thought to have been writing exercises as part of scribal training. It seems likely that many literary ostraca, including excerpts from famous classical Egyptian works, such as the Story of Sinuhe, the Instruction of King Amenemhet and the Satire of the Trades (the latter explicitly addressed to the scribal pupil), were indeed written by apprentice scribes, and checked by their teachers, who added corrections and directives. Many other literary manuscripts, especially papyrus copies and carefully produced texts on large ostraca, may rather represent the literary works owned and cherished by local literati (fig. 4.3).90 There are also hieroglyphic ostraca; these are often religious texts, and royal names and titles. And this is ‘just’ the textual output. Another important category is that of the so-called figured ostraca, which bear sketches or even final drawings of any possible subject: royal, religious, satirical, erotic (fig. 4.4).91 There are numerous sketches of human and animal figures, or parts of the human body, the meaning and function of which escape us. Some drawings may be exercises or preliminary sketches for work in the royal tombs. Drawings that show precisely the same things as tomb decorations are, however, rare. This should prevent us from regarding figured ostraca exclusively, or even mainly as being of a preliminary nature—a point very similar to the one made for documentary hieratic ostraca above. It should also be borne in mind that

90 91

For literary texts from Deir el-Medina see Dorn 2011a: 158–163, 446–472; Hagen 2007. The collection of ostraca kept in the ifao may be used as a rough indication for the relative numbers within the categories: documentary hieratic over 8,000; literary hieratic over 7,000 (for these see Gasse 2000); hieroglyphic over 300; figured over 1500. These finds are mainly from the workmen’s settlement. See the online catalogue of ifao ostraca [http://www.ifao.egnet.net/bases/archives/ostraca/] for these numbers. The recent Swiss excavations of workmen’s huts in the Valley of the Kings give the following statistics: documentary hieratic over 130; literary hieratic appr. 60; hieroglyphic less than 100; figured over 400. See the catalogue in Dorn 2011a: 224–484.

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figure 4.3 Ostracon Cairo cg 25216 from the tomb of Sennedjem (tt 1), Deir el-Medina, bearing part of the Story of Sinuhe. The ostracon is broken in two fragments; its total length is 106 cm. from daressy 1901: pl. xli

the workmen of Deir el-Medina were not just constructing and decorating royal tombs. Their settlement was surrounded by their own monumental tombs and chapels—as necropolis craftsmen, they were in a position to make their own monuments which were smaller, but often no less exquisite than the work for their royal patrons. From these tombs and chapels come hundreds of stelae and other decorated and inscribed monuments. The workmen produced decorated furniture and funerary equipment, such as coffins, shabtis (funerary statuettes) and shabti boxes. Their world, in short, was filled with monumental visual culture, featuring religious iconography and the highly iconic hieroglyphic script. Focusing on either literary or non-literary texts alone, or even on textual sources as opposed to material and iconic ones, as Egyptologists often do, obscures the fact that these categories together represent the textual and iconographic legacy of the necropolis workmen and their administrators. Indeed, they are normally found in the same archaeological contexts, as one and the same ensemble. This was driven home to Egyptologists most recently by the report of Swiss-Egyptian excavations in the Valley of the Kings. In the area surrounding the tomb of King Ramesses x (kv 18) are the remains of workmen’s

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figure 4.4 Examples of figured ostraca, Berlin p 3311 (left) and 21443 (right) from brunner-traut 1956: pl. vi and xxxiii

huts dating from slightly earlier reigns, in which much of the original contents was still present at the time of clearing: ceramic pots and dishes, stone jar stands and lids, even a bronze chisel … and hundreds of ostraca, figured, literary, non-literary, and many merely ‘inscribed’ with strokes and/or workmen’s marks. Every single hut typically contained all or several of these find categories, including different types of ostraca. These finds show, among others, (a) that many members of the gang produced or kept ostraca, and (b) that the different types of ostraca were produced and kept together. The production of both written and pictorial records by the same persons is significant. It will prove to be an important part of the background of the system of workmen’s marks, and the ‘pseudo-writing’ this system gave rise to.

chapter 5

The Use of the Workmen’s Marks: Historical Overview I would have made my servant write me news but that he was unable to manage a pen. henry james, The Aspern Papers

∵ 5.1

The Earliest Marks of the Royal Necropolis Workmen1

The reign of Queen Hatshepsut, in the early fifteenth century bce, was a time of spectacular building activity in Thebes. Hatshepsut, daughter of King Thutmose i and widow of Thutmose ii, was initially queen regent for the young king Thutmose iii but proclaimed herself pharaoh,2 and needed ideological backup, as a regent and as a woman, for this debatable step. In this she proved to be successful: she would be sole ruler for some twenty years. Hatshepsut declared that she was a ‘son’ of the god Amun-Re himself, the head of the Egyptian pantheon, who had visited her mother Ahmose in the guise of King Thutmose i. This myth of divine birth and the coronation of the queen were displayed, in text and image, on the walls of the huge mortuary temple she built at Deir el-Bahri, on the west bank of the Nile, opposite Thebes. Deir elBahri was called Djeseret ‘Holy (valley)’ by the Ancient Egyptians; Hatshepsut called her temple Djeser-djeseru ‘Holy of Holies’. It was located exactly on the axis of the temple of Karnak on the east bank, the main cult centre of Amun-Re. This deity yearly crossed the Nile to Djeseret, during his ‘Beautiful

1 This chapter draws heavily on Soliman 2016, to which the reader is referred for a much more detailed discussion. I wish to thank Daniel Soliman for reading a preliminary version of this chapter and for his suggestions for improvement. 2 See chapter 4, section 4.2. See also Dorn 2013 for Hatshepsut’s building projects in the Theban necropolis.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi: 10.1163/9789004357549_007

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Feast of the Valley’. The Karnak temple itself was extended and embellished with additional gates, courts, processional chapels, and two pairs of giant obelisks. This unprecedented extension of the Amun temple, and very probably also of his priesthood, must have been an important instrument in legitimising Hatshepsut’s kingship. The queen’s building programme also included a royal tomb, cut deeply into the rock behind her mortuary temple, in the Valley of the Kings. As was pointed out in the previous chapter, she may very well have been the first pharaoh to have a tomb there. This is not only because of the tomb itself, which is the earliest securely dated one in the Valley of the Kings, but also because the earliest pottery found in the valley, and associated with construction activity there, dates to her reign or to the later sole reign of Thutmose iii.3 Moreover, the earliest datable inscriptions from the nearby workmen’s settlement at Deir el-Medina that explicitly mention royal necropolis craftsmen and their supervisors are from the same period, or later.4 Also from this period are the earliest datable necropolis workmen’s marks, both individually as pot marks and in groups on ostraca. The pot marks have been found at various locations in the Theban necropolis, including Deir elMedina, the Valley of the Kings, the Valley of the Queens, and the tomb of three wives of Thutmose iii in the Wadi Qurud.5 The ostraca, all sadly unpublished, have been found in the Valley of the Kings, more precisely in a narrow wadi leading to the tomb of Thutmose iii (kv 34). This findspot suggests a connection with the construction of that tomb, but archaeological context and stratigraphy in the Valley of the Kings is tricky. The construction of tombs in the valley, the official number of which is now sixty-four, continued for a period of over three centuries, during which the same parts of the valley were revisited, and heaps of debris turned over repeatedly. The same has been done in modern times by treasure hunters and archaeologists. There is, fortunately, a stronger indication for connecting the ostraca with Thutmose iii and his tomb. This is the repertoire of marks on them, or rather their relation to another group

3 See chapter 2, section 2.2. 4 Chapter 4, section 4.2. 5 A very recent find is that of pottery associated with the burials of Eighteenth Dynasty princes and princesses in kv 40, discovered by the expedition of the University of Basel to the Valley of the Kings (general report: Bickel 2014; I am grateful to Susanne Bickel for showing me images of the marks). Other locations: Valley of the Queens tomb 34 (Fekri and Loyrette 1998: 130); Wadi Qurud tomb 1 (Lilyquist 2003: 94, 100, 104).

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of ostraca from a slightly later date, the reign of Thutmose’s successor Amenhotep ii. The group of four limestone ostraca found near the tomb of the latter king6 can be related, in their turn, to even later ostraca found near the tomb of Amenhotep iii, which are unquestionably connected with the construction of that tomb. Together, the corpus of ostraca found near the tombs of Thutmose iii, Amenhotep ii and Amenhotep iii present us with a set of marks that gradually changed during more than a century, starting in the reign of Thutmose iii before 1450bce7 and ending not later than the death of Amenhotep iii in 1350. The set obtained for each different point in time depends, of course, on the material preserved (see table 5.1 below): the numbers of different marks in groups a and b are based on four and five ostraca respectively, but the ostraca in group b include some very large pieces of limestone (the largest measuring 52 by 12cm), showing many marks. Group c is represented by twelve ostraca. The numbers of different marks of groups a (22), b (42)8 and c (47) therefore do not necessarily indicate a growth of the number of workmen between 1450 and 1350. We cannot exclude the possibility, however, that the earlier gang of workmen as represented by groups a and b was indeed smaller than group c. A number of ostraca from other sites in the Valley of the Kings, and also from the workmen’s settlement at Deir el-Medina, can be associated with groups a–c because of the series of marks inscribed on them, and they add only a few marks to those represented in table 5.1.9 In any case, what the numbers in groups a, b and c do indicate is that the set of marks gradually changed in the course of this period. Some marks disappeared, and new ones came to be used, while some remained in use during the entire period. This means that some new members of the gang of workmen had new marks, whereas others took over marks previously held by their predecessors. We will have a closer look at the dynamics of this system when discussing the more abundant data of the Ramesside Period, which includes written

6 For which see chapter 1, section 1.3. 7 Before or after the reign of Hatshepsut as Pharaoh; see chapter 4, section 4.2. 8 It is assumed here that marks attested for groups a and c only (I I ) were also included in group b. This may not have been the case, however, marks may reappear after one or more generations, as will become clear below. 9 It is even possible to detect a group d, possibly belonging between groups b and c (hence, to the reign of Amenhotep ii, Thutmose iv, or Amenhotep iii); its marks include I I I. Its relative position can only be established through comparison with the other groups, not by independent archaeological data.

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information specifying the workmen’s names, family relationships, and giving particulars about the organisation of the gang. For the Eighteenth Dynasty, written information is almost completely lacking. There is at least one mark in table 1 that belonged to a person we know by name: Kha, the ‘overseer of construction in the Great Place’.10 Many of the objects found in his practically undisturbed tomb (tt 8 at Deir el-Medina) have been marked with what must be his personal sign: . It is likely that  in group a is a graphic variant of the same mark. Although the angular form  predominates (mainly incised on pottery vessels), more ‘rounded’ shapes resembling  can be seen on ostraca as well as on pottery, and even on some of the objects from tt 8. As we saw in the previous chapter, Kha is thought to have lived in the reign of Amenhotep ii and his successors, Thutmose iv and Amenhotep iii. Table 5.1 gives his mark for an earlier period, and not for Amenhotep ii and iii. The mark is, however, rare on ostraca,11 whereas it is frequent on objects from his tomb and on pottery from Deir el-Medina (fig. 5.1). Among the ostraca is an almost complete pottery dish, kept in the French Archaeological Institute in Cairo (ifao), and inscribed with a series of marks that probably represents the entire gang.12 The set of marks painted on it is closely connected with group c and therefore probably from the reign of Amenhotep iii. The series of forty-two marks is headed by a mirror image of , which must represent Kha. Such graphic variety is by no means uncommon with marks, as we will see in the next chapter. If the occurrence of  in group a is not an early attestation of Kha himself,13 the mark must have belonged to some other person, perhaps someone with the same function as Kha and/or a member of his family. The absence of the same mark from groups b and c need not alarm us—it is, in fact, attested for the reign of Amenhotep iii by the ifao dish, and the relative rarity of the mark on ostraca may indicate that the overseer Kha held an exalted position that rarely made him appear among his workmen.

10

11 12 13

Pottery from two Eighteenth Dynasty tombs at Deir el-Medina is inscribed with the names as well as the marks that probably belonged to the same men: Hekanefer (tomb dm 1350, mark: ) and Nekhunefer (tomb dm 1099, mark: ). Bruyère 1928: 12, fig. 9; 1937a: 112 and 121, fig. 48; Soliman 2016: 166. The status and dating of these men are uncertain. It is known from ostraca Cairo je 72490 (group a) and ifao onl 6298, 6330 and 6424, all unpublished. O. ifao onl 6298 (unpublished). Kha’s connection with the workmen’s community began in the reign of Amenhotep ii according to Russo (2012: 77).

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table 5.1

Marks on ostraca associated with the tombs of Thutmose iii, Amenhotep ii and iii.14

a – Thutmose iii I I   I I 

I I   I I 

I I I I/ I I I I        I

I I I  I I I I       

I I I I 14

b – Amenhotep ii c – Amenhotep iii

I I  I I I I I I       I

I I I I I I I I       

I I I I

The ordering of the mark types in the table is after their earliest appearance; the chronological sections thus obtained are a, a–b, a–c, b, b–c, c. Within these sections, the sequence follows a morphological classification starting with hieroglyphic signs and continuing with geometric signs. It is not always quite certain to which class a sign belongs: some hieroglyphic signs may actually be concrete, some geometric signs may be hieroglyphic or concrete (see chapter 1, section 1.5; chapter 6, section 6.7). For some marks, graphic variants are suggested for different groups (I/—I/—I / I), but it is not certain if these variants indeed represent the same mark.

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a – Thutmose iii

b – Amenhotep ii c – Amenhotep iii

I

I

I

I

  I I/ I/I I I I I

  I  I/I I I I I

I I I I I I

I 

I 

I 

    I

   

    I

I

I I I I I I

I I I I I? I

I  I I I 

I  I I I 

    

    

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figure 5.1 Eighteenth Dynasty pottery from the workmen’s settlement at Deir el-Medina featuring marks, including that of Kha from bruyère 1953: pl. xxi

5.2

The Origin of the Marking System

If the tombs of Thutmose iii and Hatshepsut were indeed the first to be constructed in the Valley of the Kings, their reigns may have seen the creation of a new community of royal necropolis workmen settled at Deir el-Medina.15 It would be no surprise, in that case, that the earliest marks held by these workmen appear on ostraca and on pottery vessels from the same period. In the absence of any certain evidence of artisans working in earlier royal tombs, the search for an earlier history of the marks listed in table 5.1 seems hopeless. Yet it is unlikely that the system came out of the blue. Egyptian marking systems already had a long history, and so examples must have been available;16 perhaps even the specific marks themselves already existed, and were introduced into the organisation of royal tomb construction by the workmen of the hypothetical new community. It is of course possible that these men or their ancestors had already worked in earlier royal tombs, and used marks in that

15 16

Although the settlement itself seems to date back at least to Thutmose i; see the previous chapter, section 4.2. See chapter 2, sections 2.2 and 2.3.

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capacity; in that case, none of these marks appear to have survived. There are no ostraca inscribed with marks that can be dated earlier than those associated with Thutmose iii, and there is no datable pottery connected with royal tomb construction in the Valley of the Kings before his reign or that of Hatshepsut. Marks do occur on late Seventeenth-Dynasty pottery from the royal necropolis of Dra Abu el-Naga (ca. 1550bce), but they are pre-fired and usually simple types. Some more complex types among these pre-fired marks, incompletely preserved, might have been similar to marks I and  as known from the Eighteenth Dynasty necropolis workmen, but this seems too poor evidence for establishing any continuity.17 A highly specific mark, or rather decoration, on some of the Seventeenth Dynasty vessels is a variant of the hieroglyph , the moon sign (ah, i͗ʿḥ).18 It was applied carefully before firing, in relief and not painted or scratched as pot marks usually were. Its use was probably connected with the royal family of the Seventeenth and early Eighteenth Dynasties, which included kings and queens named Ahmose (ʾIʿḥ-ms) and Ahhotep (ʾIʿḥ-ḥtp). Although its form somewhat resembles I in table 5.1, it seems far-fetched to directly connect the two in view of the period of a century or more that separates them, and the different contexts in which they occur. The Dra Abu el-Naga pottery referred to here was probably part of the funerary deposits in royal and/or private tombs, not pottery used by workmen, and the marks were all made before firing. More generally, the Egyptian tradition of pot marks is unlikely to be the origin of the marking system used by the royal necropolis workmen of the Eighteenth Dynasty. Marks are rare on pottery from New Kingdom Egypt, and the same is true for slightly earlier pottery at Dra Abu el-Naga. Egyptian material from even earlier periods shows simple, linear signs, and only very rarely more complex devices that might partly have been inspired by hieroglyphs.19 In chapter 1, section 1.3, we considered the presence of Mycenean and Cypriot pottery with marks at Deir el-Medina as another potential source of inspiration, but concluded that this is unlikely because the bulk of the material is of later, Ramesside date, and marks are exceedingly rare on the fragments preserved. It is in fact much more likely that the workmen’s marks of Deir el-Medina originated from marking systems used in building projects, the history of which reaches back to almost as early as that of the pot marks. These systems were 17

18 19

Vessels zn 09/388 and zn 05/183 (unpublished), found near the pyramid of King Nubkheperre Antef. I wish to thank Susanne Michels of the German Archaeological Institute at Cairo (dai) for kindly supplying me with images of the marks. Polz 2007: 17, fig. 1. So Middle Kingdom pottery from El-Lahun; see chapter 2, section 2.2, and Gallorini 2009.

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discussed in chapter 2, section 2.3, where attention was also drawn to marks from the time of Amenhotep iii in a limestone quarry at Qurna that provided the blocks for the king’s mortuary temple. These marks, documented by Egyptologists from Waseda University, include signs similar to those of the Eighteenth-Dynasty necropolis workmen: I I I I I I  I. If they are the same marks, some of them have been mirrored, or rotated 90 or 180 degrees, which is not necessarily problematic.20 All marks are known from the ostraca of group c in table 5.1 with the exception of two (I ) that are only known from groups a and b, but this may be due to incomplete documentation presented by the ostraca preserved, and does not necessarily invalidate the dating to Amenhotep iii as suggested by the Waseda team.21 Attention was also drawn in chapter 2, section 2.3, to the use of marks in the building of the temples of Hatshepsut and Thutmose iii at Deir el-Bahri and Asasif. Some of the marks attested on blocks of these monuments (I I I I) are again similar to those known from ostraca and pottery found in the Valley of the Kings and at Deir el-Medina. What is still uncertain is whether their presence on temple blocks indicates individual workmen or teams. The similarity of some signs with those of necropolis workmen leads us to consider the former possibility, and even the possibility that they represent these very necropolis men as members of the workforce at Deir el-Bahri. However, the use of similar signs as team marks in building projects of previous periods suggests otherwise. Julia Budka’s hypothesis that they are team marks is strengthened by the information on hundreds of hieratic ostraca found at Deir el-Bahri and related to temple building, which mention teams of workmen from different localities in Egypt, and supervised by different functionaries. Thus, the marks used in monumental building in Eighteenth Dynasty Egypt may refer to teams, as they did in earlier periods, or to individuals, as they did in royal tomb construction from Thutmose iii onwards, and later also in temple building at El-Amarna and Medinet Habu. The evidence available to date suggests that the use of individual workmen’s marks in monumental building was an innovation of the early New Kingdom. It is difficult to say whether this innovation was due to changes in the organisation of the building workforce, such as the hypothetical creation of a new community of necropolis workmen by Hatshepsut or Thutmose iii, or the 20

21

For non-distinctive mirroring of Ancient Egyptian marks see Andrássy 2009b: 120; Depauw 2009: 211–212—where it is made clear that this is due to the marks being signs of single articulation. The same has been observed for medieval masons’ marks; see chapter 2, section 2.9. For the rotating of marks without change of meaning see chapter 6, section 6.6. Nishimoto, Yoshimura and Kondo 2002: 20.

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new practice of building with small talatat blocks at El-Amarna under Akhenaten. Alternatively, one might consider the possibility that the individual marks reflect a growing self-consciousness and recognition of individual artisans.22 Admittedly, there is little to suggest such a development apart from the marks themselves. Dimitri Laboury argues, rightly, that despite its conventional character Egyptian art left individual patrons and artists with plenty of room for artistic choice and style.23 His most prominent examples are the paintings in Theban royal and private tombs of the Eighteenth Dynasty and later. These paintings betray the hands of individual artists, who were highly accomplished and probably much desired by tomb owners. But Laboury also gives examples for different periods, which show that recognition of individual artists was not necessarily typical of the early New Kingdom. Even if it were, this recognition was of master painters, who usually went by the title of ‘draftsman’ (sš-qd). The majority of workmen responsible for the cutting out and the decoration of the early royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings were probably not masters, but painters and masons involved in the tunnelling and smoothing of subterranean rooms, and in filling in the contours set out by draftsmen. The quality of decorations in the Eighteenth-Dynasty tombs of the workmen themselves, and in that of their overseer Kha, testifies to limited skills, and hieroglyphic inscriptions in the same tombs show that the local level of literacy was not sufficient, either.24 The quasi-absence of hieratic texts from the royal necropolis of the Eighteenth Dynasty points in the same direction.25 Likewise, the workmen who produced the talatat blocks of the Aten temples were not masters, but mere masons. It would seem, therefore, that recognition of artistic skills was not the prime motive for the use of individual marks on blocks, in quarries, or on ostraca. If, nonetheless, self-promotion was a motive for the use of personal marks by the Eighteenth Dynasty necropolis workforce, it must have been a wish for permanent expression of ownership (which would explain the marks on pottery vessels and other objects), or presence (which would account for groups of marks on ostraca). In the latter case, an ostracon might have registered physical presence for duty at a certain location at a certain point in time or, alternatively, it could be a permanent token of the presence of individual workmen or groups of them at the sacred spot that was the Valley of the Kings. There is no 22 23 24 25

This topic of this and the following paragraphs is discussed more elaborately by van der Moezel (2016: 92–95). Laboury 2013: 36–41. See the observations on tombs tt 8 (Kha) and tt 340: Vandier d’Abbadie and Jourdain. 1939: 8–13; Laboury 2013: 34. See chapter 4, section 4.2.

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indication of such a non-practical purpose except for the later occurrence of similar marks in graffiti and votive inscriptions in the Ramesside Period. These inscriptions make the marks expressions of self-manifestation and of personal piety, the latter phenomenon being considered a particularly important aspect of Egyptian religion in the New Kingdom.26 The casual style of many marks on Eighteenth Dynasty ostraca perhaps supplies evidence against a votive interpretation, and certainly so does the frequent addition of dots and strokes for counting purposes. Yet the possibility that some of the ostraca served nonadministrative purposes should not be rejected out of hand.

5.3

A Break in the History of the Marking System?

It is still unclear what exactly happened to the royal necropolis workforce at Thebes when King Akhenaten created a new residence and a new royal burial place at Akhetaten, the present-day site of El-Amarna (see the previous chapter). Objects from Thebes that belonged to necropolis workmen and their families, and which are inscribed with references to the ‘Horizon of Aten’, were not necessarily made at El-Amarna; the references may actually be to temples of Aten at Thebes. This means that royal necropolis workmen (or some of them) were possibly living at Thebes during the Amarna Period, although the king’s tomb was constructed at El-Amarna. Perhaps they were even working on tombs kv 55 and 62, in which members of the Amarna royal family were to be buried. Given the absence of more conclusive textual and archaeological evidence, it is extremely difficult to reconstruct what precisely happened to the royal necropolis workforce during and after the reign of Akhenaten. No ostraca or any other objects inscribed with marks can be dated to the Amarna Period itself, or to the decades immediately following it. The earliest datable pieces after that period come from workmen’s huts in the Valley of the Kings, and belong to the time around regnal year 40 of Ramesses ii (ca. 1240bce; see the following section). Earlier marks of the Ramesside Period are known, not from ostraca, but from pottery vessels and various other objects. Among the earliest is the mark of the workman Sennedjem, who lived in the reign of Seti i (1290–1279) and/or in the early reign of Seti’s son and successor, Ramesses ii. Sennedjem has become a celebrity to archaeologists and art historians because of his beautifully painted tomb (tt 1) at Deir el-Medina. It was discovered, with intact burials of Sennedjem and his family, in 1886. The mummies and the associated burial

26

See Weiss 2015: 1 ff. for a recent appraisal.

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equipment were dispersed among museum collections worldwide. Some of the pottery from the tomb, as well as blocks of the tomb’s superstructure, show a painted mark that must be Sennedjem’s own: I. Such composite marks are not known from the Eighteenth Dynasty, but they were popular throughout the Ramesside Period. In fact, pottery from the nearby tomb tt 2 of Sennedjem’s son Khabekhnet shows a similar composite sign: I. The components of these marks,  I I, were also used separately, by other members of the necropolis workforce.  was held by Qaha, who was chief workman of the left side of the gang in the later reign of Ramesses ii; I and I possibly belonged to workmen named Nefersennut and Wadjmose. According to our knowledge, none of these men were related to Sennedjem and his family, which means that the use of the same signs by different persons was coincidental, or had other specific reasons that are unknown to us. Table 5.2 shows the workmen’s marks attested on ostraca from the first fifty years of the Ramesside Period, the period until year 40 of Ramesses ii. Comparison of this set with that of the reign of Amenhotep iii (who died in 1350bce) suggests little continuity: many new marks must have been introduced between the death of Amenhotep iii and year 40 of Ramesses ii. Of course, the period in between covers more than a century, which would leave ample time for substantial shifts in the repertoire, just as we saw previously in the period between Thutmose iii and Amenhotep iii. But after that earlier period, roughly a century, many signs of the original repertoire were still present: fifteen of the twenty-two marks recorded, to be precise (see table 5.1). By contrast, from the forty-six different marks we know from the reign of Amenhotep iii, only seven or eight can still be recognised on ostraca from the early Ramesside Period.

5.4

Nineteenth-Dynasty Ostraca with Marks

Hieratic ostraca were being produced by the royal necropolis administration, albeit still in small numbers, under Seti i and in the early years of Ramesses ii. It is possible that some of the ostraca inscribed with marks are from the same period, but the earliest securely datable examples of such ostraca are from the later years of Ramesses ii. These are among the finds from workmen’s huts in the Valley of the Kings. The huts were excavated by an expedition from the University of Memphis under the direction of the late Otto Schaden.27 27

Brief reference in Schaden 2008: 231. This work led to the discovery of kv 63; see also Ertman, Wilson and Schaden 2006.

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table 5.2

Marks on ostraca from the reign of Amenhotep iii and from the early Nineteenth Dynasty

Amenhotep iii Early xix

Amenhotep iii Early xix

I I I/I I I I

I? I

I

I

I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I

I I

I

 

I I I I I I I I/I I I /       

The expedition concentrated on the tomb of a later Nineteenth-Dynasty king, Amenmesse (kv 10), but much of the material found is actually connected with the construction of the tomb of Ramesses ii (kv 7). Among the hieratic ostraca is one of limestone, dated to regnal year 38 of this king (O. Schaden 96).28 After the dating, one reads: ‘weight of four spikes of the right side’. The ‘ostracon’ thus turns out to be a stone used as a counterweight for tools, a type of inscribed object that is well-represented in the Valley of the Kings. The weight is also inscribed with marks (I I I I, plus one that cannot be identified). 28

For this and other ostraca see Soliman forthcoming. Most are still unpublished, and bear no other numbers than those assigned to them by the excavator, hence ‘O. Schaden …’. I am grateful to the University of Memphis excavation team for making images available to the Leiden marks project.

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These and the other marks on ostraca from the same huts are also represented in table 5.2. The Egyptian Museum and the French Archaeological Institute in Cairo possess ostraca showing the same marks. One important piece was found near the tomb of Merenptah (kv 8) by an Egyptian expedition directed by Zahi Hawass.29 The entire group of ostraca from the workmen’s huts can be dated to the middle of the reign of Ramesses ii, a time when the production of hieratic ostraca had become more substantial than at the beginning of the dynasty. Thanks to these hieratic texts, much historical data now comes to our aid. Whereas the marks of the Eighteenth Dynasty remain anonymous to us except for that of the workmen’s supervisor Kha, the marks on the Schaden and related ostraca can be connected with necropolis workmen known by name. One hieratic ostracon dated to this period is O. bm ea 5634, a large piece of limestone (38.5×33cm) kept in the British Museum.30 It is explicitly dated to a regnal year 40 that can only belong to Ramesses ii, and lists all forty workmen of the right and left sides of the gang with days off, and reasons for absence during the entire year. This makes the ‘great absence ostracon’, as it is called by Egyptologists, an important benchmark for the early history of the Ramesside necropolis workmen. It helps date many other hieratic ostraca with names of workmen, and also makes it possible to identify the owners of the marks on the Schaden ostraca and related pieces. By comparing the ordered sequences of marks on the Schaden and related ostraca with bm ea 5634 we arrive at the identifications in table 5.3, which lists the same marks as the previous table. Not all of these marks are attested on the Schaden ostraca, or on ostraca that can be dated to the same years. We cannot always say which particular workmen are behind the marks on a given ostracon, if that ostracon cannot be dated precisely. Table 5.3 therefore tells us no more than which of the early Nineteenth-Dynasty marks on ostraca can be connected with workmen who were active in regnal year 40. The name boxes with several marks have remained empty.31 Some of these marks may no longer have been used by this time, such as Sennedjem’s mark I, which is not attested in the Schaden

29 30 31

Egyptian Museum and ifao ostraca unpublished; Hawass ostracon on https://www .youtube.com/watch?v=OSTMyBuinPc. Transcription in Černý and Gardiner 1957: pl. lxxxiii–lxxxiv; Kitchen 1980: 515–524; translation in Kitchen 2000: 361–368. The names on bm ea 5634 that are not in the table are: Bakenmut, Huynefer, Iny, Khaemtir, Merwaset, Nakhtamun, Neferronpet, Paherypedjet, Rahotep, Ramose, Simut, and Sunero.

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table 5.3

Names of workmen on O. bm ea 5634 and marks on ostraca from the early Nineteenth Dynasty32

Name

Mark

Paser (v) I Pendua I Maaninakhtuf (i) I / I Huy Amenmose Nefersennut Amennakht Siwadjet (ii) Seba (iii)?

Wennefer (ii) Harnefer (i)/(ii) Nebimentet (i) Iyernutef (ii)? Anuy (ii)? Wadjmose (i) Neferabet (i)

I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I

Name

Haremwia (i) Anhurkhawy (i)

Hehnakht (ii) Nebenmaat (ii) Aapehty (i)/(ii) Pahemnetjer (i) Amenemwia (i) Khons (ii)? Nakhtmin (vi) (Pa)kharu? Buqentuef (i) Pennub (ii)/(iii)

Mark I I I I I I I I I I/I I I /       

corpus. The Latin numbers in brackets serve to distinguish between namesakes; very often, these are fathers and sons, or grandfathers and grandsons. Many marks are related to the names of their owners. Having read the previous chapters, the reader will recognise some connections: Amenmose (I), Nefersennut (I), Anhurkhawy (I). To the Egyptologist’s eye, many more are apparent: Pendua (I man with arms raised, reminiscent of the hieroglyph for dwɜ ‘to worship’), Maaninakhtuf (the group I or just the eye I for mɜɜ ‘to see’), Huy (I phonetic ḥw), Siwadjet (I—a hieroglyph composed of wɜḏ and ḏ), Seba (I sbɜ ‘star’), Nebimentet (I i͗mn.t.t ‘west’), Pahemnetjer (I—a hieroglyphic group for ḥm-nṯr ‘priest’), Khons ( for ḫ in Ḫnsw). These

32

The prosopographical numbering (i), (ii) etc. follows Davies 1999; see below, section 5.5.

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references by marks to sounds and meaning of personal names strengthen the identifications made, but they are by no means the sole reason for making them. If that were the case, we would assign the mark I (wɜs) to a workman named Merwaset,33 rather than to Wadjmose, whose name does not seem to have any relation with his mark. The problem would then be that Merwaset would also fit the mark I (mr), the identification of which has now been left open. We would also have assigned the mark depicting a ship (wi͗ɜ) to either Amunemwia or Haremwia, whom we know to have held the marks  and I respectively. In fact, the principal basis of the identifications consists of ordered lists of names on hieratic ostraca on the one hand, and recurrent sequences of marks on the other. O. Schaden 16, for instance, gives us a sequence of nineteen marks, starting with the following ten (here arranged from left to right): I I I I I I I   I. This sequence corresponds to the sequence of names at the beginning of the absence ostracon: Pendua, Harnefer, Siwadjet, Haremwia, Wadjmose, Nebimentet, Hehnakht, Nakhtmin, Pennub, Aapehty. However, between Haremwia and Wadjmose the absence ostracon bm 5634 inserts a workman named Amennakht. Some other Schaden ostraca suggest the lotus flower I as the mark of this particular workman, but that mark is absent on O. Schaden 16. This suggests that the date of this Schaden ostracon is slightly different from the others, and also different from the hieratic absence ostracon. O. Schaden 1 gives us I I I I I I  , with Amennakht (lotus) between Haremwia and Wadjmose, and therefore seems to be closer to bm 5634, but after  (Pennub) it shows  (a mark we have not been able to assign to a particular workman yet) instead of I for Aapehty, as we would expect on the basis of bm 5634. Differences in date, be they slight or substantial, must lie behind such differences between sequences of marks on the Schaden pieces and related ostraca with marks, as well as those between sequences of names on the contemporary hieratic ostraca. Differences in dates allow for changes in the composition of the gang of workmen and its right and left sides, caused by death, retirement, replacement (temporary or permanent), promotion or demotion.

33

One of the workmen not mentioned in the table; see note 31.

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Marks and Families

So far we have only discussed marks and names. The next step will be to turn the names into individuals. The type of research that enables us to do this is called prosopography. The relatively plentiful written documentation from Deir el-Medina presents an excellent basis for such research, although vexing problems always remain. Prosopography is about individuals, but also about their families, and about their roles in society. By establishing family relationships, descent and career, names from a two-dimensional writing surface become three-dimensional persons with places in space and time. Both space and time matter to us here: the positions, activities and personal histories of the workmen enable us to reconstruct the functions of the marking system and its development through the centuries. The holder of the mark representing a sledge (I) around year 40 of Ramesses ii was a workman called Haremwia, who was a son of the workman Baki. Baki is, in fact, known to have had the same mark, thanks to a type of source totally different from ostraca: a stone seat found by Bernard Bruyère at the so-called station de repos, a group of workmen’s huts in the pass between Deir el-Medina and the Valley of the Kings.34 The seat is inscribed with a line of hieroglyphic text saying: ‘Servant of the Lord of the Two Lands in the Place of Truth, Baki, true of voice’. This exalted way of referring to Baki’s position as a royal necropolis workman is typical of monumental inscriptions in hieroglyphs: in hieratic texts a workman’s title, if written at all, is merely ‘man of the gang’. Beneath the hieroglyphic inscription is an isolated sign: I. Without any doubt this was Baki’s personal mark, which may have been added to show to less literate fellow workmen whose seat this was. The attribution of I to Haremwia now receives extra support through his descent, and we have here a clear case of a mark having been inherited by a son from his father. Baki and Haremwia are designated as Baki (i) and Haremwia (i) in the prosopographical numbering used for the Ramesside history of Deir el-Medina. There have been at least seven men called Baki in the course of 215 years, and at least six men called Haremwia. Baki (ii) was a son of Haremwia (i), and one the sons of Baki (ii) was Haremwia (ii). The naming of grandsons after grandfathers was common practice at Deir el-Medina, indeed in Ancient Egypt, as in so many societies. The practice was by no means without exception, and other sons and grandsons of the same men had different names. But there was a limited number of names that were used over and again in the workmen’s

34

Bruyère 1939: 355, pl xl.

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community. This, together the fact that the families in this community were often interrelated, makes the prosopography of Ramesside Deir el-Medina anything but a sinecure. The passing on of marks within the family was not universal: other marks of the beginning of the Nineteenth Dynasty do not seem to have remained in use, although members of the families in question still served in the gang of workmen. As we have seen already, Sennedjem’s son Khabekhnet (i) did not have the same mark as his father, but his own one: I. He does not appear on O. bm ea 5634, but is attested as a workman of the gang on later hieratic ostraca. Consequently, ostraca showing his mark must be later than year 40. Khons in table 5.3 may be Khons (ii), son of Sennedjem, in which case we have another son not taking over the mark of his father, Khons’s mark apparently being . Khons and Khabekhnet were probably Sennedjem’s eldest sons: the former is shown in a painted scene in the tomb performing the burial rites for his father’s mummy, a task typically reserved for the eldest son. Khabekhnet is the first in a row of seven sons on the wooden door of Sennedjem’s burial chamber, Khons being number three. Both sons, however, had their own mark when they held their positions as workmen in the gang, presumably as successors to their father. We do not know if any other of Sennedjem’s many sons took over the mark I; none of the objects bearing this mark can be dated later than the earliest years of the Nineteenth Dynasty. Just like the mark of Khabekhnet, other marks in table 5.3 cannot be attributed to workmen preceding those mentioned on bm 5634. A pebble found in one of the other huts of the station de repos is inscribed with I, the mark belonging to a workman called Nebenmaat by year 40 of Ramesses ii. The hut indeed belonged to this workman, as is made clear by a hieroglyphic inscription on a block from its walls: ‘Servant in the Place of Truth, Nebenmaat, true of voice’.35 The mark I held by Neferabet (i) is also attested on pottery from this workman’s own tomb (tt 5). A case similar to that of Baki and Haremwia, however, can perhaps be made for Siwadjet (ii), a son of Irynefer (i). Some pottery sherds from the latter’s tomb (tt 290) bear the mark I, which therefore may have belonged already to Irynefer, unless the pottery was deposited there by his son: the mark (with phonetic value wɜḏ) does seem to be related to the name Siwadjet, rather than to Irynefer. Theoretically, the mark may originally have been held by an ancestor who was also named Siwadjet. We know that, indeed, Irynefer (i) was a son of a man called Siwadjet: Siwadjet (i), who lived at the very beginning of the Nineteenth

35

Bruyère 1939: 357, pl. xxxvii.

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Dynasty, if not in the late Eighteenth, but who cannot be shown to have held the mark. He is not even known as a necropolis workman, but had titles connecting him with the cult of the god Amun, very possibly in the Karnak temple.36 Did Siwadjet (i) or his son Irynefer bring the mark with him to the royal necropolis workforce? This must remain speculative, but it is worth noting that several necropolis workmen of the early Nineteenth Dynasty had fathers with titles connected with the Amun temples: Sennedjem, for instance, was a son of Khabekhnet (iii), who was ‘Servant(?) of Amun’.37 Some of the necropolis workmen even had such titles themselves: Maaninakhtuf (i) and his father Pashedu (vii) were both ‘draftsmen of Amun’. Other early Ramesside workmen of the royal necropolis also had Amun temple titles, or fathers bearing such titles, and these titles included those of draftsmen, sculptors and stonemasons.38 This opens up the possibility that the marks of the early Ramesside necropolis workmen, or at least some of them, originally belonged to temple craftsmen.39 The same is possibly true for the early Eighteenth-Dynasty marks, which show close affinity to the marks used in temple building, as we have seen previously.

5.6

The Function of the Nineteenth-Dynasty Marks

On ostracon Hawass, the marks representing individual workmen are arranged in two rows. Underneath each mark are one or two vertical strokes, possibly numbers of days (of attendance?) or portions (of rations?). The sequence ends bottom left with I, a mark inspired by the sign for the scribal kit, which in the hieroglyphic and hieratic writing systems stands for ‘writing’, or ‘scribe’. Very probably, this is an early example of a mark referring, not so much to a specific person, but to a function or position; more such marks are known from Twentieth-Dynasty ostraca (see below). The mark is probably that of a person known as ‘The Scribe’, that is, the senior scribe, who at this time (about year 40 of Ramesses ii) was Qenhirkhopshef, the successor and ‘adopted’ son of Ramose. In giving these types of information, the ostracon shows itself to be

36 37 38

39

Davies 1999: 263. The phrase ‘of Amun’ very often points to Karnak, but may also refer to other, lesser Amun temples, in Thebes or elsewhere. Davies 1999: 43 with refs. The title as rendered in tt 1 is probably defective; read ⟨sḏm-⟩ʿš. Amenemope (xvii) son of Mose (vii), Amennakht (xxi) son of Nebenmaat (i), Kel (i) son of Simut (i), Pashedu (x) son of Menna (iii), Pay (i) son of Ipuy (v). High numbers in brackets do not necessarily indicate late dates. See tables 102 and 103 in Soliman 2016: 489–491. So far no marks of Ramesside temple workmen are known to me; see chapter 2, section 2.3 for the marks of temple builders of the Eighteenth Dynasty.

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figure 5.2 Schematic rendering of O. Schaden 1. After Soliman forthcoming.

more than a mere list of persons represented by marks. Even ostraca with rows of marks alone, however, are often quite informative because they adhere to fixed sequences. These sequences are likely to reflect a fixed order of workmen, an order that may in its turn indicate a functional or hierarchical division (as suggested by the scribe’s mark at the end of the row). For some ostraca we can even be more specific. Some of the Schaden pieces show a tabular format, with marks in the individual columns or boxes, and additional information in the form of dots, strokes and other signs. A splendid example is O. Schaden 1 (fig. 5.2). Its upper row of boxes contains a sequence of marks that is also known, precisely or with small divergences, from more or less contemporary ostraca. According to roughly contemporaneous hieratic ostraca they represent (from right to left): Siwadjet, Haremwia, Amennakht, Wadjmose, Nebimentet, Hehnakht, [Nakhtmin], Pennub, (unknown), (unknown), Anuy, Wennefer, Buqentuef, Maaninakhtuf, (unknown), […]. The order is almost exactly that of hieratic ostracon bm 5634 obverse, where the workmen of the left side of the gang are listed. The upper row of O. Schaden 1 thus gives us, from right to left, an ordered list of workmen of the left side. What about the bottom row? Here we see some marks from the upper row again (e.g.  Pennub, I Anuy, I Wennefer, I Hehnakht), but in different positions, and combined with other signs, some of which (I I I) may also be those of workmen, while others seem to be for commodities: I for ‘a jar of water’ I I for ‘a jar of oil’, (a jug in a net, typically indicating milk).40 The combination of I (Wennefer’s sign) and (walking legs, hieroglyphic) reminds of the combination of workmen’s names and walking legs in hieratic texts, indicating the men who have shown up for work on a particular day: ‘nn has come’. It could therefore be an indication of 40

I reads nḥḥ ‘(olive?) oil’; I is probably not just any jar, but a measure of capacity.

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presence, and similar information may have been conveyed by the dots in many of the upper boxes. This ostracon, and similar pieces from about the same time, seem to be early examples of administrative records combining workmen’s marks, additional signs, and suggestive layout, of which the Twentieth Dynasty has left us so many. O. Schaden 1 may even present us with precisely the same type of information as given by the Twentieth-Dynasty duty rosters. Although basically the upper row of boxes with workmen’s marks may represent nothing but an ordered list of workmen, and the lower boxes commodities brought or received by some of them, it is more likely that together the boxes represent, from right to left, a sequence of days with the workmen’s nominal day duties following a fixed rota, with notes on deliveries and events for some of the days. If this is true, it may seem odd that no calendar dates are given, since these always appear in the Twentieth-Dynasty duty rosters (hieratic or with marks). On the other hand, however, the earliest known Twentieth Dynasty rosters of day duties were cycles of 18 or 19 days that wandered through the 30-day months, which means that the rota itself was independent of the calendar. If O. Schaden 1 and similar ostraca are indeed to be interpreted as duty rosters with deliveries, the implication is that ostraca with marks recorded this practice at an earlier stage than the hieratic documents. The latter refer to the duty roster only from the late Nineteenth Dynasty onwards.41 Apart from the hypothetical duty rosters, Nineteenth-Dynasty ostraca with marks probably confront us with attendance registers, in which marks are ‘(has) come’, as in one of the boxes of O. Schaden 1. One combined with recently discovered piece from the station de repos, for instance, shows a row of marks belonging to five workmen of the left side, each with and a vertical stroke underneath.42 Other ostraca are similar to the ‘duty rosters’ in that they depict commodities, such as jars, in combination with one or more workmen’s marks, but without tabular organisation or fixed sequences. Among the items depicted may be sandals, and textiles of different shapes and sizes (fig. 5.3). Within the contours of the textiles are vertical strokes presumably indicating the quantity of textiles of a certain type. This feature is also know from the 41

42

The earliest reference for the word wrš ‘day duty’ in hieratic is from the reign of Merenptah if O. bm ea 5635 is from his reign, but the ostracon has been dated alternatively to the later kings Amenmesse or Siptah. It is to the reign of the latter that most of the NineteenthDynasty duty roster texts belong. I am grateful to Jaana Toivari-Viitala†, supervisor of the Workmen’s Huts in the Theban Mountains Project, Finnish Egyptological Society, for sharing images of ostraca excavated at the station de repos with the Leiden project. For the excavations see Toivari-Viitala 2014.

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figure 5.3 Ostraca ifao onl 6313 and 6263 from bruyère 1937b: 62 (no. 7); bruyère 1953: pl. xviii

so-called pictorial clothing lists, a genre of ‘figured’, non-textual ostraca showing nothing but drawings of textile items filled with strokes, and interpreted by Egyptologists as accounts of the illiterate laundrymen who were among the Deir el-Medina semdet.43 The crossover between marks and figured ostraca is not surprising. Nor is that between marks and hieratic text. Among the Nineteenth-Dynasty hieratic ostraca there are some that include marks. It is not always clear what the relation between the two different types of recording on the same ostracon is, or even if there was any relation. The clearest cases are some late Nineteenth Dynasty name lists in hieratic supplemented by columns of marks, although these rarely refer to the same workmen. Ostracon Ashmolean Museum ho 810 bears a list of workmen of the right side in hieratic, which is dated to the reign of King Siptah.44 On the reverse are four columns of marks, most of which are difficult to connect with the names on the obverse. One of them, however, does seem to refer to a workman on the obverse: the lotus flower I, which we know to have been held by a man called Khaemnun in the early Twentieth Dynasty. The same Khaemnun appears in the hieratic name list on ho 810. Recent investigation has shown this man to have been a son of one Amennakht; very probably this was the Amennakht who was represented by the same lotus

43 44

Vogelsang-Eastwood 1992; Janssen 1992b. Collier 2004: 88–89, [173].

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flower in the middle of the Nineteenth Dynasty (table 5.3).45 A similar case is ostracon ifao onl 6690 (unpublished), also from the reign of Siptah. Its obverse is a hieratic list of workmen of the right and left sides; the reverse shows four marks, including two that were current in the earlier Nineteenth Dynasty: I and  (table 5.3). In the reign of Siptah, the former mark may have been held by workman of the right side Haremwia (ii), son of Baki (ii), grandson of Haremwia (i) and great-grandson of Baki (i), the earliest known holder of I. The other mark may have been held by Buqentuef (ii) of the left side, who was possibly a descendant of Buqentuef (i). To these ‘may have beens’ and ‘possiblys’ may be added the tentative interpretation of a third mark on the reverse, the bull I. It appears here for the first time, but is also known from early Twentieth Dynasty ostraca, and is bound to represent a workman called Pamerihu, whose name literally means ‘the overseer of cattle’. Pamerihu is known as a workman of the right side under King Siptah. The fourth mark is the pillar I, which in the late Nineteenth Dynasty belonged to a workman named Nebnakht. In addition to the four marks, there is an inscription in rather clumsy hieroglyphs reading ‘Bay’. This name was held in the same period by a scribe, very possibly the senior scribe. The two sides of the ostracon are not necessarily connected, and one of the men presumably represented by marks and hieroglyphs on the reverse is mentioned in the hieratic text, but both sides of the ostracon do seem to refer to workmen of the same period. Many ostraca have only rows or columns of marks, or one single mark, accompanied by strokes or dots, or without any additional signs. It is difficult to say anything about the purpose of such records, especially if the precise circumstances of their discovery are unknown. It is tempting to compare potsherds or pieces of limestone bearing one mark only with hieratic ostraca that record nothing but a proper name, sometimes accompanied by a title or a patronym. The purpose of such ostraca is still uncertain, interpretations by Egyptologists are either practical (tokens or countermarks for tools or rations)46 or religious (name stones among the masonry of tombs and temples).47 The ostraca with single marks may also belong to such categories. We have already come across stones bearing the mark of Sennedjem I; some of these are actually still in position in the walls of his tomb chapel; others have

45 46 47

This is Khaemnun (i) according to Soliman 2016: 406; see also Collier 2014: 10. Grandet 2000: 4; Dorn 2011a: 142–143; Dorn 2015: 145. As proposed for workmen’s name stones deposited in the fill of the tomb superstructure of the high priest Amenhotep (reign of Ramesses ix) in Burkard forthcoming. I wish to thank Günter Burkard for sharing the unpublished manuscript and images of the ostraca.

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been found during excavations at Deir el-Medina but their precise archaeological context is unknown. A votive purpose for the workmen’s marks is clearly indicated, for the late Nineteenth Dynasty, by their occurrence on stone slabs originally belonging to the pavement of the local temple of the goddess Hathor. The pavement is no longer intact, but the slabs still exist, and their original position is indicated in a drawing made by their excavator, Bernard Bruyère (fig. 5.4). Some are inscribed with names in hieroglyphs, others with marks, both types of inscription being of monumental size: individual signs measure up to 30 cm in height or width. The inscribed slabs belonged to a section of the temple pavement that must have been constructed between the reign of Ramesses ii and the early Twentieth Dynasty, and the repertoire of marks seems to be in perfect agreement with this dating. Among the marks there are several from table 5.3. Some of these were possibly still held by the same workmen, whereas others now belonged to new colleagues. The lotus flower I may at this point have been held by Amennakht, or already by his son Khaemnun; the mark I may still have belonged to Siwadjet (ii) but also to a descendant of his, or to a later namesake. The mark I probably belonged to Pahemnetjer (i), who is attested as a workman in the late Nineteenth Dynasty, unlike Anhurkhawy (i), whose grandson Anhurkhawy (ii) was now the likeliest holder of I. Hay (iv), son of Anhurkhawy (i) and father of Anhurkhawy (ii), is perhaps represented here by I (through association with hieroglyphic and ḥɜ).48 We will return to this family later.49 New marks also make their appearance, such as I, probably for Nebnefer (vi), and I for Reweben (iv). The former is composed of the hieroglyphs (nb) and (nfr); the latter is the hieroglyph used (among others) as the determinative of wbn ‘to shine’; Reweben meaning ‘Re is shining’. The composite mark I is known to have been held by the workman Neferher (vi), who is known from the early Twentieth Dynasty, but it must represent an earlier workman on the Hathor temple pavement. Significantly, the mark is on the same slab as I Pahemnetjer (i), and we know that the latter’s father was Neferher (iv), who may therefore be the one indicated by I. No family relationship is known to have existed between Neferher (iv) and Neferher (vi)—the name Neferher was quite common at Deir el-Medina. As we will see in the next chapter,  is 48

49

Strictly speaking only the second hieroglyph shown here is considered to be the correct form of ḥɜ. There is, however, graphic interchange between the two signs: Gardiner 1957: 481 (nos. m 15 and m 16); for the Nineteenth Dynasty specifically see El-Enany 2007: 45 (§ 84); Haring 2010: 28. See chapter 6, section 6.3.

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figure 5.4 Hathor temple pavement, Deir el-Medina from bruyère 1952: pl. ix

probably a stylised version of the hieroglyph for ḥr ‘face’. Several new marks, such as I (variant II?) and I, still defy identification. Some workmen, finally, had themselves represented by full hieroglyphic inscriptions. These include ‘Nakhtmin’ and ‘Servant in the Place of Truth, Qen, true of voice’. Nakhtmin was possibly Nakhtmin (vi), the owner of the mark  in table 5.3, who may have chosen to be represented here by a hieroglyphic inscription instead of his mark, but since the name Nakhtmin was also very common at Deir el-Medina, it is possible that the inscription is that of a namesake. Similarly, it is uncertain which Qen is represented by the elaborate inscription with the title ‘Servant in the Place of Truth’50 and the epithet ‘true of voice’ (anticipating the status of a vindicated deceased person). It is tempting to see the combination of marks and hieroglyphic inscriptions on the temple pavement as a reflection of different degrees of literacy among the workmen represented. Nakhtmin and Qen would thus have been able to carve their names (or to have these carved) in hieroglyphs, whereas less literate colleagues had recourse to single or composite marks. Some support for this assumption is the occurrence, among the hieroglyphic names, of Paneb, whom we know to have been promoted to the position of chief workman of the 50

Employed by the royal necropolis workmen in hieroglyphic texts, see chapter 4, section 4.2.

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right side in the late Nineteenth Dynasty. His administrative responsibility as a chief workman must have required some familiarity with writing, while the very position he occupied may have inspired the wish to have himself represented in a more sophisticated way than by a mere mark. But whoever actually made the inscription did a poor job: the bird’s legs have been omitted, and of the epithet ‘true of voice’ only ‘voice’ has been made. It is also striking that the title ‘chief workman’ is missing. Was Paneb still a mere workman when the inscription was made? In that case, it may still express Paneb’s aspirations: the man is known from the written record as an extremely ambitious and infamous person; in fact, he is the most notorious of all Deir el-Medina characters known to us. A long list of indictments against him, addressed to the vizier himself, includes accusations of abuse of power, adultery and theft. It also accuses Paneb of having bribed his way, with an earlier vizier, to his position as chief workman.51 The marks on the Hathor temple pavement show that they could be used as monumental votive inscriptions. The name ‘graffiti’ employed by Bruyère (fig. 5.4) does not quite do justice to the appearance of marks and hieroglyphic texts here. The marks were, however, also used as graffiti, and could be incorporated in textual graffiti, on rock surfaces throughout the Theban necropolis. The workmen’s habit of scratching hieratic and hieroglyphic graffiti on the rocks seems to have started in the Nineteenth Dynasty—apart from one text mentioning the ‘King’s Scribe Kha’, there is no certain example of an EighteenthDynasty graffito related to the royal necropolis workforce.52 The earliest graffiti are from the reigns of Seti i and Ramesses ii, and mention the names of workmen, chief workmen, draftsmen and scribes, as well as those of viziers. The earliest senior scribes attested are Amenemope and Ramose, whose graffiti are few. Those of Ramose’s successor Qenhirkhopshef, however, are omnipresent. Whereas Ramose is almost exclusively, though exceptionally well attested in the monumental record (stelae, statues and other inscribed objects), little such material survives from Qenhirkhopshef’s long period of office. By contrast, Qenhirkhopshef is mainly known from hieratic texts on papyri, on ostraca and in graffiti. He was exceptionally prolific where graffiti are concerned: more than 200 graffiti from the late reign of Ramesses ii are his.53 Even so, the difference between the type of records left by Ramose and Qenhirkhopshef is probably 51 52 53

P. Salt 124 (= P. bm ea 10055). Transcription in Kitchen 1982: 408–414; partial translation in McDowell 1999: 47, 190–192. Theban graffito no. 1670; Peden 2001: 136–137, note 17; Russo 2012: 57 (the latter also refers to graffito no. 1850 mentioning the ‘scribes’ Kha and Ur). See the numbers given by Štubňová 2016: 130, note 51; Rzepka 2014: 184.

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not just a matter of personal taste. The great majority of monuments and hieroglyphic texts belonging to the royal necropolis workforce is from the reigns of Seti i and Ramesses ii. The reverse is true for hieratic texts (including graffiti), which grew in number from the middle of the Nineteenth Dynasty onwards. Whereas the decrease in the monumental record can be explained by various factors (reduction of local economic wealth, changing funerary practices, reuse of existing monumental tombs), the increase of hieratic texts was probably the result of the local spread of literacy in the course of the Ramesside Period (see chapter 4). The marks used as graffiti, or as part of graffiti, confirm the chronological distribution indicated in the previous paragraph: as yet there are no marks among the graffiti that can be ascribed to the Eighteenth Dynasty with certainty.54 From the early Nineteenth Dynasty onwards, their number rises significantly, but it is not until the Twentieth Dynasty that they become an important additional tool for the identification of the workmen represented by marks.

5.7

The Twentieth-Dynasty Duty Rosters

What is true for the graffiti is also true for the ostraca. The Twentieth Dynasty has left us the largest number of ostraca inscribed with workmen’s marks. Whereas the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Dynasties each left fewer than 200 datable ostraca, the Twentieth alone accounts for almost 450. A remaining number of fewer than 200 ostraca cannot be dated more precisely than ‘New Kingdom’ or ‘Ramesside’, but even if they could, they would probably not change the picture essentially. The relative wealth of ostraca with marks from the Twentieth Dynasty matches the explosive growth of hieratic ostraca and papyri in the same period, and this hieratic material provides the all-important historical background for the identification and use of the marks. It is especially the prosopographic data of the Twentieth Dynasty that enables us to make identifications, and these in turn are an important basis for following the marks and their owners back into the preceding period. But even the marks themselves become more informative by being more plentiful, by being used in more elaborate records including longer sequences of marks, and by the combination of marks and other signs, including hieratic,

54

Apart from the Qurna quarry graffito (or rather dipinto) with marks from the reign of Amenhotep iii (see sections 2.3 and 5.2), which probably refer to necropolis workforce in the context of quarrying for the king’s memorial temple.

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on the same ostraca. It seems best to start our survey of Twentieth-Dynasty material with these elaborate ostraca, which in a way are comparable with the Schaden ostraca and related records from the middle of the reign of Ramesses ii. The basis of these Twentieth-Dynasty records is the roster of day duties that is so well-known from hieratic texts. One example of its reflection in ostraca with marks is O. Berlin p 12625, which was already briefly discussed in chapter 1; it was, in fact, the first ostracon for which the owners of a whole series of marks could be identified, and for which a precise date could be proposed: almost the entire third and fourth months of the peret season, regnal year 31 of Ramesses iii. At some point during the research project of the past five years, it became clear that the Berlin fragment was originally part of a larger ostracon, another fragment of which is now in the French Archaeological Institute in Cairo (ifao) and bears the number ifao onl 300. Together, the two fragments enable us to follow the roster sequence for almost two full months. The sequence of days and marks, and the names of the workmen as known from hieratic duty rosters, are given in table 5.4. As can be seen at a glance, every individual mark is repeated after nineteen days, just like the corresponding name in the hieratic duty rosters. The sequence seems to start on the convex side of the sherd, which is therefore called ‘obverse’ here, and continued on the concave side (‘reverse’). On both sides, the dates and marks are followed by further signs for commodities and numbers, reflecting deliveries of food and firewood to the gang by the semdet workforce, which are not indicated in the table. The lines thus created must be read from right to left, and they are mainly arranged in columns. The obverse shows two such columns in black ink; the first column listing days 1–14, the second being a very short one for days 21–24. Days 15–20 are squeezed in between these columns in red lines. The reverse is even more confusing, since the text starts in the left column here with day 25 to day 6 of the next month. Days 7–11 seem to have been on a part of the ostracon that is now lost; the text continues with day 12 in the right column, at the bottom of which is day 22. Day 23 is added immediately to the left of day 22, while the lines for days 24–26 have been squeezed in between the columns, again in red ink, this time vertically. If the last four days of the month were once present on the ostracon, they can no longer be recognised in its present state. The haphazard arrangement of lines and columns is seen more often on ostraca with marks, and sometimes also on hieratic ostraca. The entries of two months together show us three full cycles of nineteen days. This clearly reflects the nineteen-day roster of day duties for the workmen of the right side that is so well-known from hieratic ostraca. A partially overlapping text in hieratic is O. Deir el-Medina 37, which records the day duties and

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table 5.4

Dates and marks on O. Berlin p 12625 + ifao onl 300 with corresponding names from hieratic sources. See also chapter 1, section 1.1, fig. 1.1.

Obverse (convex) 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

I I I I  I   I I I I  I I

Irya’a Harshire Iyernutef Anuynakht Neferher Amenemope Nesamun Nekhemmut Khaemnun Neferhotep Penanuqet Khaemwaset Nakhtmin Reshpetref Meryre

[…] I I I

Hori Userhat Minkhau

? ? I Iyernutef I Anuynakht 

Neferher

Reverse (concave) 25 26 27 28 29 30 1 2 3 4 5 6 [7–11] 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

Amenemope Nesamun Nekhemmut Khaemnun Neferhotep Penanuqet Khaemwaset Nakhtmin Reshpetref I Meryre Mose I I Hori […] […]  Neferher I Amenemope  Nesamun  Nekhemmut I Khaemnun Neferhotep I I Penanuqet Khaemwaset I Nakhtmin  I Reshpetref I Meryre Mose I I Hori Userhat I I   I I I I  I

deliveries for days 1–19 of the third month of peret, regnal year 31. Such overlap between hieratic ostraca and those with marks is normal, and will be illustrated below with another matching pair. The nineteen-day roster is known from year 24 of Ramesses iii to year 2 of his successor, Ramesses iv. After that year,

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hieratic ostraca no longer record the roster consistently, although references to it are still attested in late Twentieth-Dynasty texts. Likewise, hieratic ostraca from the period immediately preceding regnal year 24 do not seem to work with the duty roster systematically, although we know that the system goes back at least to the late Nineteenth Dynasty; it is consistently used in one papyrus and on several ostraca of that period.55 The Schaden ostraca with marks discussed above even suggest that the system was already in use by regnal year 40 of Ramesses ii. The duty roster may have been connected with deliveries principally, but not exclusively, since it is also found in texts that are not concerned with deliveries (e.g. absence lists, or legal texts), and there are also quite a few texts recording deliveries without making reference to the day duties.56 Although it is mainly the hieratic records that enable us to identify and date the series of marks, the ostraca with marks in their turn do supplement the data provided by the hieratic texts. We are informed, for instance, about the existence of an eighteen-day duty roster that was used before the nineteen-day one, prior to regnal year 24 of Ramesses iii, by two ostraca bearing marks in combination with calendar dates similar to the Berlin-ifao example discussed above.57 Hieratic texts, as far as we know at present, are silent on this eighteenday cycle. They do show that the duty roster changed in the course of time, and probably followed changes in the number and organisation of the workmen. The hieratic texts of the late Nineteenth Dynasty possibly reflect a twentynine-day cycle.58 In regnal year 1 of Ramesses iv, the nineteen-day roster was replaced by a thirty-day one. The dramatic consequence of this change for Egyptologists is that the roster now kept perfect pace with the calendar months (which invariably consisted of thirty days).59 Thus the unique combinations

55

56 57 58 59

P. Greg (= P. uc 34336), dated to regnal years 5–7 of Siptah. Transcription in Kitchen 1983a: 437–448; translation in Kitchen 2008: 361–367. For the date of this document and related ostraca see Collier 2004: 21–24. Haring 2015: 137. O. Ashmolean Museum ho 1247 (unpublished) and O. Fitzwilliam Museum ega 6120.1943 (Hagen 2011: 21, pl. 19 and 58); see Haring and Soliman 2014: 74–80. Collier 2004: 95–98. The Egyptian calendar had a year of 365 days. There were 12 months of 30 days, and 5 extra days at the end of the year which are called ‘epagomenal days’ by Egyptologists. The Deir el-Medina duty rosters continued through these epagomenal days; this means there was a five-day shift in the correlation between duty roster and calendar dates at the end of each year. But within one calendar year that correlation remained the same in the case of the thirty-day roster.

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of day duties and calendar dates, a precious tool for the precise dating of administrative necropolis records, were lost. What exactly happened to the duty roster after year 2 of Ramesses iv is still difficult to determine. We know from hieratic sources that the total number of workmen was extended in that year to 120. This was an exceptional development, and the gang was reduced again to 60 men under his successor. It seems that Ramesses iv had plans for an exceptionally large rock-tomb, but the tomb constructed during his short reign was much smaller than the one initially conceived.60 Indeed, this king is known to have been obsessed with planning monuments that would surpass those of his predecessors. His mortuary temple in Western Thebes would have been larger than those of previous kings, if its construction had proceeded beyond the initial stages. In a prayer to the god Osiris, the king asked for a reign longer than that of Ramesses ii (who ruled for 66 years), so that he would be able to surpass that king in building new monuments for the gods. His architectural zeal was probably not merely inspired by the prospect of a short reign (due to his age when he acceded to the throne). His father Ramesses iii had died after, and possibly as a result of, a conspiracy in the royal harem. The conspiracy may have resulted in the king’s death, but did not prevent the succession by his son as Ramesses iv. The latter’s reign, however, was apparently still in need of support.61 An impressive religious building programme was one way to obtain this, for this king as much as for Hatshepsut more than 300 years earlier. The extension of the gang of necropolis workmen left the duty roster of thirty days unchanged for at least another four months. What happened then is uncertain, but the rota appears to have become longer somewhere in the years that followed. One limestone ostracon with marks, Glasgow d.1925.80, shows an uninterrupted sequence of marks for days 1–30 of an unknown month plus days 1–5 of the following one (fig. 5.5). It is unlikely that these thirty-five marks represent the complete roster for the right side. Other ostraca from the same period partly supplement the sequence of the Glasgow ostracon, and

60 61

Two plans on P. Turin cg 55002 are interpreted by Demichelis (2004) as the initial building plans for the tomb and a modified, smaller version. As is strongly suggested by the apologetic nature of the main document relating to the harem conspiracy, the Turin Judicial Papyrus (P. Turin Cat. 1875) and of the Great Harris Papyrus (P. Harris i/P. bm ea 9999). Both documents were produced after the death of Ramesses iii; see e.g. Grandet 1994 vol. i: 107–122. For a transcription and English translation of the Turin Judicial Papyrus see Kitchen 1983a: 350–360; Kitchen 2008: 297– 302. The mummy of Ramesses iii shows a slash in the neck that may have been fatal (Hawass and Saleem 2016: 179–188).

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figure 5.5 Ostracon Glasgow d.1925.80, possibly dating to the reign of Ramesses v. The obverse (left) records days 1–25 of an unknown month; the reverse (right) continues with days 26–30 and days 1–5 of the following month. from mcdowell 1993: pl. xx and xxi. reproduced with kind permission of the griffith institute

together they suggest a 45-day roster.62 That roster is nowhere attested as a whole, however, and so it must remain hypothetical. The extension of the gang to 120 workmen by Ramesses iv could possibly account for such a longer cycle. One might even expect a cycle of 60 days, reflecting the size of one whole side of the gang. There are no indications, however, of a duty roster of this length. It is even doubtful, for that matter, whether all 120 men had the same status and

62

As established by Soliman 2016: 210–214. The relevant ostraca include duty rosters on the one hand (Ashmolean Museum ho 1078 and 1090, ifao onl 6219, Cairo je 96328, and especially Ashmolean Museum ho 1095), and related name lists on the other (Ashmolean Museum ho 891, bm ea 50716, BTdK 541, Cairo sr 12218). With the exception of bm ea 50716 and BTdK 541, all ostraca are unpublished.

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skills: it is possible that much of the temporarily added workforce consisted of young and not fully skilled men. It is also uncertain whether they all had their own marks.63 This means that even the ostraca with marks do not tell us what exactly happened to the duty roster after regnal year 2 of Ramesses iv. Although they extend our understanding of the duty roster in the first half of the Twentieth Dynasty a bit beyond the knowledge obtained from hieratic sources, they do not enable us to follow the roster for many more years. One reason for this is that the production of ostraca with marks, just like that of their hieratic counterparts, peaked in the late reign of Ramesses iii and lasted for only a short while thereafter. What is more, recent research of the organisation, layout and palaeography of hieratic records of duty rosters and deliveries suggests that these were mainly the work of one particular scribe: the ‘Scribe of The Tomb’ Hori, who probably acted as an assistant to the senior scribe Amennakht, and perhaps became senior scribe himself at some point.64 The duty rosters and deliveries recorded in ostraca with marks may even have been made by one man exclusively, as is suggested by their highly uniform layout and handwriting. The possible author of these ostraca is one Pentaweret who called himself ‘Scribe of The Tomb’ but was not a senior scribe. Rather, his particular responsibility seems to have been the supporting workforce (semdet) and their deliveries to the gang of necropolis workmen.65 It is precisely these deliveries, which include firewood, fish, vegetables and dates among other products, that are recorded in the Twentieth-Dynasty duty rosters with marks. This brings us to the deliveries themselves, which have only been marginally mentioned so far. Just like their hieratic counterparts, ostraca with marks give us detailed accounts of deliveries by the semdet workforce. By way of illustration we may have look at ostracon Leiden f.2000/1.5 which, incidentally, was the first ostracon of its type that could be deciphered sign by sign by the Leiden research team (fig. 5.6). Three dated entries have been preserved: days 10–12; the first line gives the last part of an entry belonging to an earlier day. The lines are to be read from right to left and can be translated as follows:

63

64 65

As asserted by Dorn (2015:151–155), on the basis of his collection of different marks known for the period Ramesses iv–vii. Soliman (2016: 323–324) argues that the number of different marks current at any moment in this period was actually smaller: some of the marks considered different by Dorn are in fact allomorphs (a possibility allowed for also by Dorn), and ostraca from this period bearing lists of marks show smaller numbers. Donker van Heel and Haring 2003: 72–82; For the scribe, or scribes called Hori see Davies 1999: 143–148. This is Pentaweret (iii); Davies 1999: 126–129; Soliman 2016: 243–246.

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figure 5.6 Ostracon Leiden f.2000/1.5 photo by kyra van der moezel; line drawing by daniel soliman. published with kind permission of the national museum of antiquities

1 2 3 4

… dates right side day 10 Mose—dates left side—600 firewood—Amenhotep Ptahmose day 11 Pasen—200 Amenhotep—300 Ptahmose day 12 Userhat—dates 2—vegetables 8–150 […] 100 Amenhotep

Astonishing as it may seem, the sequence of the three workmen’s marks I  I and their combination with days 10–12 alone suffice to connect this brief text to the thirty-day duty roster known from the reign of Ramesses iv, which started in the first regnal year of that king, in the second month of the akhet season.66 The short sequence may theoretically represent this first month of the thirtyday duty roster, but also a later month. However, dating it to the very first month of the roster is imposed by the hieratic parallel O. Deir el-Medina 41. Obverse lines 10–15 of that ostracon, which is explicitly dated to regnal year 1, second month of akhet, has entries for days 9–12 including precise matches with the deliveries recorded on the Leiden ostracon. These matches make it possible to decipher the signs that are not dates, hieratic numbers or workmen’s marks. The black triangular sign in line 1, and after the marks for Mose and Userhat in lines 2 and 4, can thus be nothing other than a reference to deliveries or units of dates. Such units are indicated in hieratic texts, just as in line 4 of the Leiden ostracon, by numbers, but not

66

Haring 2000: 54; Haring and Soliman 2014: 86–88. The sequence Mose—Pasen—Userhat was already in the nineteen-day roster in the previous months, but obviously on different dates.

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by separate graphs. Does the triangle represent a string of dates as cut from the datepalm? The numbers of units are also given in O. Deir el-Medina 41, which also has the words for the right and left sides of the gang, for which the dates were delivered. These sides are also referred to here, by specific signs: a cursive variant of I ‘right’ (line 1), and  for left (line 2). The first imitates the hieroglyphic sign for wnmy ‘right’, or rather its hieratic equivalent; the second is more difficult to understand and will be discussed below. Further signs are those for firewood in line 2 (following the number 600), and for vegetables in line 4 (between numbers 2 and 8). Whereas the sign for firewood is also occasionally used in hieratic texts, the vegetable sign is only attested on ostraca with marks. Most intriguing are the signs I and I in lines 2, 3 and 4. They are graphically identical to workmen’s marks, and one may therefore be inclined to see two references to the workman Mose in line 2: one after the calendar date, and one at the far left. However, the corresponding entry on hieratic ostracon Deir el-Medina 41 makes it clear that only the first I is a reference to the workman Mose, whereas the second one is for a woodcutter called Ptahmose: Day 10: Mose. (Delivered) by Ptahmose: 300, by [Amen]hotep: 300. Dates, left side.67 The sign preceding I in line 2 is I, a simplified rendering of the hotep hieroglyph I, and must stand for Amenhotep, the other woodcutter mentioned in the corresponding hieratic entry. This means that the semdet workforce was also indicated by individual signs on this ostracon, as they are on several other ostraca with marks from the same period. A woodcutter named Usermaatrenakht is represented by I,68 a sign otherwise used for the workman Userhat. The sign I is also known as the mark of the necropolis workman Reshpetref (see table 5.4). In both cases, as well as with I, it is the syntagmatic position of the sign that tells us what it means. When following immediately after the calendar date, it denotes a particular necropolis workman; in any other position, among the commodities and their numbers, it denotes a different person: a specific member of the semdet. The individual signs denoting the semdet workforce are not all morphologically similar to necropolis workmen’s marks. A woodcutter named Pades (literally ‘he of the beer jar’!) is referred to by a sign representing a

67 68

O. Deir el-Medina 41 obv. 11–12; transcription in Kitchen 1983b: 108; translation in Kitchen 2012: 94. See chapter 6, fig. 4, end of line 3, and Soliman 2016: 177.

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beer jar I, sometimes supplemented by  for p in pades: I.69 This group combines iconic and phonetic references, whereas I and I as references to the names Ptahmose and Amenhotep are phonetic only. A similar semiotic variety is of course known for the necropolis workmen’s marks. However, the practice of including references to the semdet workforce is attested for a brief period only, and for a small number of persons. The signs are known only from the pseudo-script used for the creation of documentary ostraca, not as property marks or in graffiti, and may therefore be no more than abbreviations created by the ‘scribes’ of these pseudo-written records. The phonetic references and the syntagmatic relations together make the system of marks and additional signs a pseudo-script. ‘Pseudo-script’ is here to be understood, not as a meaningless sequence of graphs aiming to create a superficial resemblance to writing, but as the use of (mainly) non-linguistic graphic signs, themselves highly meaningful, in a way suggestive of writing.70 This pseudo-script also includes, as we have seen already, signs for the right and left sides and for the different commodities. Some other ostraca even add a cursive version of hieroglyphic , for udjat ‘deficit’, indicating deliveries being insufficient.71 The pseudo-script system thus clearly imitates hieratic accounts. The imitation, however, is not so much based on the particular graphic appearance of hieratic ostraca and papyri. Rather, it is some of the principles of hieratic accounts that are followed, with different graphic means. Although duty rosters composed with marks record the same, or similar information as their hieratic counterparts, and are also organised by calendar dates and in horizontal lines, the selection of signs is fundamentally different. The difference becomes most obvious in the dating system. The entries start with phonetic s for sw ‘day’, but that sign is never used for calendar dates in hieratic, which employs the ideogram I for this purpose. The numbers, also, are different: whereas hieratic uses for tens and mostly horizontal strokes for

69 70

71

The same jar sign is used, on the same ostraca, to indicate beer deliveries; see e.g. chapter 6, fig. 6.4, lines 3 and 5. There are many different sorts of pseudo-script, ranging from ‘texts’ created to look like writing but not meant to be legible (asemic writing; Kammerzell 2009: 298–301) to combinations of signs originally belonging to different notation systems, including actual writing; see the discussion and examples in Elkins 1999: 143–163 (examples including Caucasian identity marks or tamgas, for which see also Perrin 2010). What they have in common is that ‘they are all like writing, but unable to serve as records of a language’ and that they are ‘dysfunctional scripts that look like they could possibly be read’ (Elkins 1999: 144). See e.g. chapter 6, fig. 6.4, line 2, 3rd sign from left.

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‘day 13’), the ostraca with marks show ∧ and vertical units in dates (e.g. strokes, which in hieratic serve to write numbers in any context except calendar dates. On some ostraca we find regnal years, written as in hieratic, but also months, for which a different system is employed. Whereas months in hieratic accounts are indicated by season and number (e.g. ‘third month of akhet’), ostraca with marks use the names of individual months as they were current in the spoken language. What appears in hieratic (and hieroglyphic) texts as ‘third month of akhet’ was called ‘Hathor’ (Ḥw.t-Ḥr) in spoken Egyptian, because the third month of akhet featured an important festival for that goddess. Likewise, the second month of shemu was actually called Pa-inet ‘the (month) of the Valley’, a name referring to the all-important procession in that month by Amun from Karnak to Deir el-Bahri (‘the Valley’). These month names are only occasionally used in hieratic texts, but never as the starting-points of dated entries. They still appear, in later Aramaic, Greek and Coptic texts, as Hathyr and Payni respectively. The signs employed for them in combination with marks are and I. The first is a combination of the sign for Ḥw.t and phonetic ḥ (for Ḥr). The second is a boat, a reference to the crossing of the Nile by Amun at the ‘Festival of the Valley’. Both notations deviate from the usual spellings of the same names in hieratic and hieroglyphic, but are motivated phonetically (ḥw.t/ḥ) and iconically (boat). What the reader has been confronted with in the previous paragraphs is administrative ‘writing’ (though not in the strictest sense of the word) by semi-literate administrators, perhaps by only one such administrator as far as the duty rosters of the early Twentieth Dynasty are concerned. The result of their (or his) work is a mixed code, based on true (hieratic) writing, on the understanding of individual hieratic and hieroglyphic signs, and on the sound of words and names in the spoken language. Similar phenomena in different records composed with marks, and from a later period, will be briefly discussed in the following section.

5.8

Other Types of Record from the Twentieth Dynasty

There is another type of ostraca bearing marks, beside the duty rosters, that supports the identification of the marks’ owners. Some ostraca from the middle of the Twentieth Dynasty present us with ordered lists of workmen and their supervisors. The ordering is at least partly hierarchical: it starts with the chief workman, continues with the senior scribe and the deputy of the chief workman, and then lists the workmen in a more or less fixed order. Thus ostracon bm ea 50716, probably from the early reign of Ramesses v, bears three columns of

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The first four marks on ostraca bm ea 50716, Prague nm p 3836 and Turin cg 5753472

bm ea 50716 Prague nm p 3836 Turin cg 57534 right side, Ramesses v left side, Ramesses v–vii left side, Ramesses ix I I I I

 I I I

 I I 

marks that together represent the entire right side of the gang (table 5.5). The first column starts with the chief workman, who at this point was Nekhemmut (vi), and whose mark I does not seem to be a reference to his name or family, but rather to his position. The sign has a hieratic ductus and represents a bee. It was inspired by a powerful expression of royalty current in the hieratic and hieroglyphic scripts: the bee as the emblem of the Pharaoh in his capacity as King of Lower (i.e. northern) Egypt. Was this sign deliberately chosen by (or for) the chief workman of the right side in order to emphasise his position and authority? That would make the mark a powerful metaphor indeed. The sign was not merely used to indicate the chief workman on ostraca, but also as a property mark on pottery, and in graffiti. It was therefore a real mark, and not merely a sign used in administrative records like the semdet signs discussed previously. We know for a fact that I was not the chief workman’s original mark. Nekhemmut (vi) had been a mere workman under Ramesses iii. As such he had the mark  as can be seen from table 5.4, where he is listed between his colleagues Nesamun and Khaemnun in the 19-day duty roster. The same mark can be seen on the Leiden ostracon from regnal year 2 of Ramesses iv (fig. 5.6), where it designates a workman named Pasen. This is because Nekhemmut had been promoted to the position of chief workman.73 As such, he came to be designated by I, leaving his original mark  free to use by the workman taking his place in the roster, Pasen. When the roster was changed to a thirtyday cycle, Pasen and his mark found a new position between Mose and Userhat, and this explains the appearance of  on the Leiden ostracon.

72 73

bm ea 50716: Demaree 2002: pl. 109; Turin cg 57534: López 1984: pl. 173a; Prague nm p 3836 unpublished. This presumably happened as early as regnal year 1: Collier 2014: 8.

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Pasen’s use of this mark is notable because he was not a relative of Nekhemmut (vi), who may have inherited  from his ancestors. His father Khons (v) and his grandfather Nekhemmut (i), who had also been chief workmen, were descendants of Sennedjem (i) of the early Nineteenth Dynasty (see chapter 6, fig. 6.3). We have seen that the marks of Sennedjem (I) and his son Khabekhnet (I) shared the element , and from a number of ostraca from the middle of the Twentieth Dynasty it is clear that by that time,  and  could be alternative forms of the same mark. The second column of marks on ostracon bm ea 50716, for instance, has  for Pasen, instead of .74 We do not know for certain which marks were held by the generations between Sennedjem and Khons (v), but it would seem that  and  reflect the same old family mark now discarded by Nekhemmut (vi).75 Nekhemmut (vi) is attested as chief workman until year 17 of Ramesses ix. We do not know which marks were held by the later chief workmen of the right side, who were not related to Nekhemmut.76 It is therefore unclear whether I remained in use for that position, although this is possible.77 The mark does seem to have been held by Nekhemmut’s father and predecessor Khons (v). This is suggested by one unpublished ostracon bearing a regnal year 22 that can only belong to Ramesses iii, and which shows I heading a list of marks held by workmen of the right side at the time.78 The second mark on O. bm ea 50716 was certainly a common sign for the position it indicated: that of the (senior) scribe I. We already came across this mark when discussing ostracon Hawass of the Nineteenth Dynasty, where it probably represents the senior scribe Qenhirkhopshef. Here we have a certain instance of a mark that did not just belong to a particular person or family, and the use of which continued with the same meaning for several generations. At the time as the bm ostracon was composed, the senior scribe was Amennakht (v), the founding father of a new family of senior necropolis scribes. The following signs do seem to be personal. The third mark is I. It belongs to Harshire, whose name and mark we have already seen in the 19-day duty

74 75 76 77 78

So has O. ifao onl 6232 (Bruyère 1953: pl. xviii, 3rd row from top, extreme left, marked ‘recto’), and perhaps O. BTdK 571 (Dorn 2011a: pl. 468). The father of Nekhemmut (i), and a son of Sennedjem (i), was Khons (ii), who may be represented by  in table 5.3 above. With the possible exception of his son (Ramesses-)Usikhopesh, who may very briefly have acted as chief workman: Davies 1999: 558. O. Cairo je 96647 (unpublished), possibly to be dated as late as Ramesses xi, shows the remains of a mark that could very well be I in its upper right corner. O. ifao onl 6462 (unpublished); Soliman 2016: 279.

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roster (table 5.4). Harshire (i) was officially a draftsman, but he was also a son of the senior scribe Amennakht (v), and acted as an assistant to his father before he became senior scribe himself, at which moment he probably took over the scribe’s mark I.79 Although still represented on the bm ostracon by his personal mark I, his position immediately after the scribe reflects his important status. The fourth mark is I and belongs to Anuynakht, whom we know to have been the deputy of the chief workman of right, and who as such would have appeared in the third slot if it were not for Harshire. The remaining list gives us the marks of the workmen of the right side in an order that closely follows the thirty-day duty roster as we know it from the reign of Ramesses iv, and its later, longer variant (reflected in e.g. O. Glasgow d.1925.80, fig. 5.5). A confirmation of the standard order chief workman—scribe—deputy is given by several ostraca with marks from the middle of the Twentieth Dynasty, including some that give us the marks of the left side of the gang. Although the left side is less well-represented in hieratic texts as well as in the ostraca bearing marks, some documents of both types indicate it had a hierarchy and a duty roster of its own. Ostracon Prague nmp 3836 is a marvellous example (table 5.5). Like the bm ostracon discussed previously, it enumerates the men of the left side in the form of columns of marks, in this case with vertical strokes added to each mark, possibly indicating days of work. The first column starts in the upper right corner with a sign that is somewhat damaged, but must be  or . We have come to know these as alternative forms of the mark of the family of Nekhemmut (vi), chief workman of the right side, a mark later taken over by the workman Pasen of the same side. However, they were both also allomorphs of , a mark well-attested in the middle of the Twentieth Dynasty as a reference to the left side of the gang. As such, we have already come across it in line 2 of O. Leiden f.2000/1.5, where it served to specify a delivery of dates to the left side. It was also used as the mark for the chief workman of that side, as is shown by several Twentieth-Dynasty ostraca, among which is O. Turin cg 57534 from the reign of Ramesses ix, where it also heads a sequence of marks of left-side men (table 5.5). Several ostraca from the mid-Twentieth Dynasty demonstrate that the same mark could also be rendered as .80 The complicated history of this mark, which possibly reaches back to the early Nineteenth Dynasty just like that of the mark of Nekhemmut (vi) and his family, will be discussed more fully in the following chapter.

79 80

He is probably the scribe represented by I on O. ifao c 7638 (unpublished): Soliman 2016: 275. E.g. O. Ashmolean Museum ho 1098 (unpublished); Soliman 2016: 310.

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The date of the Prague ostracon is not quite certain. If it is the end of the reign of Ramesses vii, the chief workman referred to by  or  is Harmose (ii), son of Anhurkhawy (ii). Harmose may have succeeded his father as chief workman already in the previous reign, but the earlier the ostracon is dated within the range Ramesses v–vii, the greater the chance is that Anhurkhawy himself is meant. We have already come to know Anhurkhawy’s personal mark I. It was inspired by the name Anhurkhawy itself, which was already borne by his grandfather. If Anhurkhawy (ii) is indeed the one mentioned on the Prague ostracon, he had discarded his family mark in favour of  /  as a general reference to ‘(chief workman of) left’. His colleague of the right side Nekhemmut had done precisely such a thing when he replaced his workmen’s mark  with I. Next in both the Prague and Turin sequences is again the mark indicating the senior scribe, who may be Amennakht and Harshire on the Prague and Turin ostraca respectively. However, given the possibility that there were two senior scribes in the second half of the Twentieth Dynasty, there are some more names to choose from, such as the Hori who was already mentioned as the possible author of so many hieratic duty rosters, or a scribe named Paybes. The Prague sequence sticks to the usual position of the deputy in the third slot. In the mid-Twentieth Dynasty the deputy of the chief workman of the left side was Qedakhtef, whose mark I was inspired by the hieroglyph for qd ‘to build’, and thus reflects the first part of his name. The appearance of I as the fourth mark, however, is something of a riddle. The same mark is also in the fourth slot on O. bm 50716, and there represents the deputy Anuynakht of the right. If the same person is referred to here, he would seem to have been demoted from deputy chief workman of the right to a mere workman of the left side. No indication for this is given by the hieratic texts of the period, although these do indicate that Anuynakht’s position as a deputy lasted only very biefly.81 The third mark on Turin 57534 is also somewhat problematic. It is inspired by the hieroglyph I for kha ‘to appear’ (representing a hill with sun shining behind it). The Turin sequence is confirmed by a column of marks on O. bm 5642, which must be a list of left-side men, and where the first and third marks are also  and I respectively. None of the deputies of the left side known from hieratic texts has a name that includes kha, but we do know a deputy of the right side called Seny whose father was named Khaemhedjet. There is no indication that Seny occupied the same position for the left side at some point, but we cannot exclude the possibility that he actually did, either.

81

Davies 1999: 74.

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Alternatively, of course, the mark may have had no relation at all to the name or family of whatever individual it designated. The fourth mark on Turin 57534, the pomegranate , belonged to the workman Amennakht (xii), more about whom and whose family will be said in the following chapter. Chief workmen and senior scribes (the ‘captains’) were not the only men in the royal necropolis hierarchy to have marks indicating their function. Also lower members of this hierarchy could employ marks related to what they did, rather than to their names and families. Certain examples include the mark for the scorpion charmer, whose medical and magical task was of the highest importance in the desert area where the workmen lived. Many magical spells have survived on papyri and ostraca from Deir el-Medina, and spells against the effects of scorpion stings are very prominent among them. What exactly the person called ‘scorpion charmer’ in the administrative hieratic texts did is uncertain. Rather than to a professional magician or physician, the title ‘scorpion charmer’ refers to a workman whose additional task it was to take measures against scorpions or their venom. For this reason the title appears in hieratic lists of workmen, while the simple depiction of a scorpion (I or I) occurs in corresponding positions in sequences of marks on ostraca. Likewise, the function of doorkeeper was indicated by a sign representing a door: . The ‘doorkeeper’ was responsible for the storage and delivery of food and messages to the workmen, and was not an official member of the necropolis workforce.82 He is normally included, however, among the last recipients in accounts of the distribution of grain rations to the workmen, and we find him also in lists of marks on ostraca. Thus, ostracon Cairo cg 25317, which has two columns of marks, has a scorpion in the middle of the first column, and a door towards the end of the second.83 It may be significant that the scorpion is also attested outside the ostraca, as an isolated sign on pottery and in graffiti, whereas the door sign is not. This could mean that I was in use as an actual mark belonging to a necropolis workman (the workman whose additional job was that of a scorpion charmer), while the doorkeeper, whose low status was close to that of the semdet workforce, was referred to by only by the producers of ostraca. The duty rosters and name lists together form the principal corpus of ostraca with marks that can be dated, and which enable the identification of the workmen represented. There are, however, other types of record on pottery and limestone that include the same marks, the purpose of which it is often extremely difficult to establish. One relatively clear case is that of absence

82 83

Goecke-Bauer 2003: 138–146. Daressy 1901: pl. lix.

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or presence lists. These are in fact lists of workmen’s marks (and are among the ‘name lists’ discussed in the previous paragraphs) with additional signs expressing absence or presence. These additions may be nothing more than dots or strokes for days of presence,84 but they may also be hieratic signs, which for ‘not (come)’.85 Obviously, it is the can be transcribed as for ‘come’ or hieratic additions that tell us what the ostraca are about. Precisely the same signs are used in hieratic ostraca listing workmen present and absent. Much more difficult are ostraca with small groups of marks in random positions, and ostraca bearing single marks. The latter seem to be a non-textual parallel to the hieratic name ostraca, the purpose of which is equally difficult to establish.86 Another enigmatic group is that of ostraca with depictions of objects accompanied by marks. Such ostraca have already been discussed for the Nineteenth Dynasty (see section 5.6), and a connection has been made with the pictorial clothing lists. Twentieth-Dynasty examples seem to be mainly about furniture, such as chests, chairs, beds and decorated headrests. Some include other objects, such as coffins and statues. fig. 5.7 shows an example probably from the time of Ramesses iv or v, and depicting chests and a bed, every object being accompanied by a group of marks. As a whole, the record is non-textual, because it solely consists of drawings and marks, but in this and some other cases the marks themselves betray a hand familiar with hieratic writing. Some marks have even received truly hieratic forms, such as the pillar I in the bottom line, extreme left, or the seat I higher up, extreme right. Other marks that can be recognised are , I, , I and I. These Twentieth-Dynasty ostraca combining marks with depictions of furniture and other objects are possibly related to the production of these items by the necropolis workmen, either for local use or for external clients. From hieratic accounts of production and sale we can infer the existence of an ‘informal workshop’ in which funerary furniture was produced for private clients.87 The production was done by an ad hoc group of workmen under the supervision of a scribe or draftsman, who would draw up the account of work and its costs for the client. This may explain the clusters of marks on the ‘furniture ostraca’

84 85 86 87

E.g. Prague nm p 3836 (unpublished). E.g. Cairo je 96647 (unpublished). See section 5.6 above. Killen and Weiss 2009: 139–141. The expression ‘informal workshop’ was coined by Kara Cooney in her investigation of this production process; see Cooney 2006. ‘Informal’ may be taken to mean that the workshop was not a formal institution or a permanent location, and also that the production for private sale was not the necropolis workmen’s core business.

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figure 5.7 Ostracon Turin cg 57523, with images of furniture, and groups of marks in hieratic ductus, reign of Ramesses iv or v from lópez 1984: pl. 171a

as representing exactly such groups of workmen. For the moment, however, this must remain a working hypothesis. There does not seem to be a precise counterpart, among the hieratic accounts, of any ostracon with marks and furniture, nor does any hieratic account of the ‘informal workshop’ mention similar selections of different items and different small clusters of workmen. If the hypothesis is correct, or very near the correct explanation, the ostraca may reflect something of the internal accounting within the ‘informal workshop’. It is important to point out that there also exist ostraca depicting objects, such as furniture, without marks or hieratic text. Among the ostraca found in the workmen’s huts in the Valley of the Kings by the Swiss expedition, there are numerous ones of the ‘figured’ kind, and these include images of furniture, mainly the individual legs of chairs. With the exception of one (depicting various types of furniture and parts of furniture, and even a royal statue), none of these feature workmen’s marks.88 By this it becomes clear that, even if the ‘furniture ostraca’ with marks represent a genre of their own, the genre overlaps 88

Dorn 2011a: pl. 334–347. The ostracon with multiple objects is BTdK 382 (ibid., pl. 335); the mark on it is . Dorn (2011a: 329) considers it an account of royal funerary furniture because of the royal statue. Such statues, however, may also have been produced privately, as is suggested by a letter on P. Turin Cat. 1879 verso i–ii (transcription in Kitchen 1983b:

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with textual accounts on the one hand, and with purely pictorial ostraca on the other. Once again, it needs to be stressed that the ostraca with marks are part of a wide range of visual information that includes written as well as pictorial records of many different types, with a high degree of interaction between the different visual codes.

5.9

The Late Twentieth Dynasty

One of the signs discussed in the previous section was that for ‘doorkeeper’: . It was probably not a real mark, but rather an abbreviation used by the producers of ostraca with marks, for individuals who were not necropolis workmen but belonged to the supporting groups, such as the semdet, and indeed the doorkeepers. A well-known doorkeeper of the late Twentieth Dynasty is Qaydjoret. As so often, the position ran in the family: both Qaydjoret’s father Penpamer and his son Thutmose were also doorkeepers. Qaydjoret himself seems to have risen, later in his life, to a slightly higher position, that of guard. Guards were responsible for controlling precious materials, such as the workmen’s tools and paint, and this task gave them a higher status than the doorkeepers. Both guards and doorkeepers, however, seem to have been neither necropolis workmen nor semdet, but represented separate groups whose hierarchical position was between workmen and semdet.89 Guards were also included in accounts of rations, together with the workmen. His promotion may have been the reason for Qaydjoret to adopt his own mark: I, a man with his arms raised, inspired by the hieroglyph for qay (qɜy) ‘high’. However, even as a doorkeeper he may already have had this mark, since it appears on several ostraca from the reigns of Ramesses ix–xi, at the bottom of lists of marks representing the necropolis workforce, which is the usual position for doorkeepers.90 On others, we see the mark higher up, among those of the workmen, as would befit the position of a guard.91 Qaydjoret’s sign still figures among workmen’s marks in a group of ostraca from Deir el-Medina mentioning years 16 to 20 of a reign that must be that of

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335–337; translation in Kitchen 2012: 267–268; see also Hovestreydt 1997). The sender, probably the senior scribe Amennakht, asks the king for provisions for the cult of a royal statue, which is described in detail and had probably been made on the order of the scribe himself. See the previous section, and Goecke-Bauer 2003: 138–146. E.g. Cairo je 96647 (unpublished). E.g. mma 09.184.783 and mma 09.184.784 (both unpublished).

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Ramesses xi.92 No hieratic ostraca from the workmen’s settlement are known from these years.93 That means that there is no hieratic backup for the identification of the marks, which also include other new anthropomorphic signs like I and I. The latter sign resembles the typical pose of the god Ptah in Egyptian iconography, and may therefore perhaps be identified with a workman called Ptahkhau, who is known from slightly earlier sources. The former resembles the hieroglyphic group , a man lifting the sky. It was used for writing the name Akhpet ‘He who lifts the sky’, sometimes even in hieratic, a script in which complex iconic devices were not exactly popular. The workman Akhpet (iii) is known from the middle of the Twentieth Dynasty, and he may still be the one represented in the ostraca with marks from the reign of Ramesses xi. Many other marks are familiar from earlier periods, such as I, I, I and I. Most importantly, however, the ostraca present another example of a pseudo-script incorporating marks and (pseudo-)hieratic characters, as well as signs that cannot as yet be satisfactorily interpreted, and perhaps stand for commodities or administrative notions. They have an unattractive but very uniform appearance, and were probably the work of one single ‘scribe’ just like the duty rosters with marks of the earlier Twentieth Dynasty. Two more marks from the late Twentieth Dynasty deserve to be highlighted here: I and I, both of which occur on an ostracon that is inscribed with columns of carefully made marks, together with a sketch of the name of Ramesses ix in hieroglyphs.94 Among the marks on this ‘name list’ we also find the lotus flower, the pomegranate and the scorpion, a combination characteristic of the period. The mark I imitates the title of ‘vizier’ in hieratic (transcribed ).95 We do not know who used this mark, and none of the names (or nicknames) recorded by royal necropolis administrators includes the word ‘vizier’ (tjaty in Egyptian). The mark may conceivably have been used by a workman or a local superior, as a reference to prominent status, either real of self-perceived. This would make the mark comparable to the powerful royal image of the bee I as used by the chief workmen Khons and Nekhemmut. Given the fact that in Ancient Egyptian administration the vizier was formally

92 93 94 95

O. ifao onl 6185 (featuring Qaydjoret) and related ifao pieces, all unpublished; referred to as ‘Grand Puits group’ in Soliman 2016: 331–342. Ostraca from Deir el-Medina and the Valley of the Kings mentioning the necropolis scribe Butehamun and his men emptying tombs are from a later date; see chapter 4, section 4.5. O. ifao ol 170 + oim 19130 (unpublished). The translation ‘vizier’ is a persistent anachronism introduced in the early days of Egyptology, and inspired by the use of the title in the Ottoman empire.

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the king’s representative, the ‘vizier’ sign seems an appropriate mark for the deputy of one of the chief workmen. A very similarly inspired mark seems to be I, which is occurs on the same ostracon as I. Whereas the latter mark is only attested once, I is known also from several other ostraca, all probably to be dated to the mid- or late Twentieth Dynasty.96 Unlike I it was not inspired by a group of hieratic signs, but by a hieroglyphic writing of the title ‘overseer of the treasury’. The most frequent hieroglyphic writing is (lit. ‘overseer of the house of silver’), but a more elaborate version is ‘overseer of the two houses of silver and overseer of the two houses of gold’. There is considerable variety in the writing of the title, ranging from compact to very elaborate.97 The mark appears to be an abbreviated form of an elaborate hieroglyphic version, including the two ‘houses’ , but omitting the distinctive elements ‘silver’ and ‘gold’ ( or , and ). Hieroglyphic renderings of the title use (a tongue), a playful writing of i͗my r ‘one who is in the mouth’, an expression meaning ‘overseer’.98 A different writing of the same expression dropped the ‘weak’ consonants i͗/ y and rendered m + r with a set of monoconsonantal signs: . This writing was favoured in hieratic; the usual writing of ‘overseer of the treasury’ in hieratic being transcribed as (lit. ‘overseer of the two houses of silver’). This writing, indeed, appears in the hieratic necropolis records whenever mention is made of the visit of a treasury overseer to the workmen’s community. Overseers of the royal treasury are attested in hieratic ostraca and papyri from Deir el-Medina and the Valley of the Kings throughout the Ramesside Period. Usually they appear together with the vizier and with royal butlers for official inspections and for effecting changes in the necropolis workforce. The treasury overseer Montuemtawy seems to have been particularly concerned with necropolis matters. He is the most frequently attested treasury overseer in necropolis records, and was active during the reigns of Ramesses iv–ix, that is, in the middle of the Twentieth Dynasty. He was a member, for instance, of

96

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O. Ashmolean Museum ho 704, ho 1131 + Brooklyn Museum 16118 (Brooklyn fragment: https://www.brooklynmuseum.org/opencollection/objects/9398/Irregular_Fragment /set/e559e1ee00d6270141d0f6c05c98abe9?referring-q=16.118#v); O. bm ea 5642 (Demarée 2002: pl. 38–39); O. fes 01.34 (Toivari-Viitala 2009: 67, [87], no. 241—contrary to what is asserted there, the signs do not include Coptic letters or quantity measures); O. ifao ol 170 + oim 19130, O. ifao onl 309, onl 411, onl 6399 and onl 6583 (all unpublished). For the title and its graphic variety in the New Kingdom see Helck 1958: 508–522. Possibly to be explained as ‘one who is in the mouth of his subordinates’ (Gardiner 1957: 62).

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the committee that extended the necropolis workforce to 120 men in year 2 of Ramesses iv.99 The same Montuemtawy had a stela erected at the station de repos, on the mountain pass between Deir el-Medina and the Valley of the Kings. The overseer is depicted here adoring the goddess Meretseger (‘She who Loves Silence’), patron deity of the Theban necropolis.100 His title is damaged on the ; the elements and (now fragmentary) stela, but probably started with were added in a second column. The group is likely to have been the inspiration for the mark I. The title ‘overseer of the treasury’ is rare in hieroglyphic inscriptions from Deir el-Medina.101 To find a stela in the necropolis workmen’s habitat that has been dedicated by this high external official himself and not by a local individual is special enough,102 but it is even more remarkable that a miniature copy (8.4cm high) of this very stela was found in one of the workmen’s huts in the Valley of the Kings.103 Apparently the original stela had made an impression in the workmen’s community. The hieroglyphic inscription on the small copy is not entirely clear. It does not precisely follow the original, and seems to copy the beginning of Montuemtawy’s title twice, clumsily, as . The name and title of Montuemtawy have also been written on a hieratic ostracon from the valley, without any further information having been added. Such ‘name ostraca’ are well-known for the local workmen (see section 5.6), but exceptional for external authorities. Did Montuemtawy enjoy particular popularity in the local community?

99

100 101

102 103

P. Turin 1891 recto (transcription in Kitchen 1983b: 76–77; translation in Kitchen 2012: 70– 71; see also Collier 2014: 1–2). Montuemtawy also heads a list of officials investigating the conspiracy against Ramesses iii (P. Turin Cat. 1875; transcription in Kitchen 1983a: 350– 360; translation in Kitchen 2008: 297–302; see also section 5.7). Bruyère 1939: 359–360; hieroglyphic text in Kitchen 1983b: 82; translation in Kitchen 2012: 74. I know of two other occurrences: stela Bankes 4 of the senior scribe Ramose, who had been a (temple) treasury overseer himself before he became necropolis scribe (reign of Ramesses ii; hieroglyphic text in Kitchen 1980: 620; translation in Kitchen 2000: 423– 424); a stela dedicated by the senior scribe Thutmose, on which the title ‘overseer of the two houses of silver and gold’ possibly refers to his father, the senior scribe Khaemhedjet (Ramesses xi; Bruyère 1952: 118–120, pl. xliv; hieroglyphic text in Kitchen 1983b: 875–876; translation in Kitchen 2012: 595–596). Stelae of local superiors sometimes mention and depict external officials, usually the vizier. Dorn 2011a: 103–105, 294–295, pl. 218–219.

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The title of treasury overseer is also attested as a proper name: Pamerperhedj ‘The Overseer of the Treasury’ is the name of a necropolis draftsman, who is therefore the most likely candidate for the identification of the owner of I. The name occurs only once, in a necropolis journal on papyrus from year 3 of Ramesses x.104 The name, or nickname, may have been inspired by the presence of an actual treasury overseer such as Montuemtawy. One might even consider the possibility that the draftsman himself was actually called Montuemtawy, but that name is not known to have been borne by any member of the royal necropolis workforce. Nor is the name Pamerperhedj ever attested in other documents than the above-mentioned journal, and the use of a high administrative title as a proper name is certainly odd. Was ‘The Overseer of the Treasury’ the draftsman’s nickname, and the mark I a reflection of that nickname, just as I reflected Amennakht ‘The Jackal’? Together with I and I, I exemplifies the use of titles of the highest external authorities as the source of inspiration for marks used by necropolis superiors, perhaps even by mere workmen, which seems not entirely inappropriate within the context of royal tomb construction. If it was not the local status of the owners that inspired the use of such marks, it may have been their nicknames. We know nothing of the continuation of I and I within local families. Both marks are only known from the second half of the Twentieth Dynasty, within a maximum of two decades before the termination of royal tomb construction at Thebes. 104

P. Turin Cat. 1898+ (Giornale of year 3) recto iv 17; transcription in Kitchen 1983b: 695; translation in Kitchen 2012: 490.

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How the Men Came by Their Marks, and Vice Versa Wie alles sich zum Ganzen webt, Eins in dem Andern wirkt und lebt! goethe, Faust.

∵ 6.1

Marks and Their Users

This is not the first time that this quotation from Faust is appearing in an Egyptological publication. It was used by the late Henry George Fischer, the grand old man of Egyptian epigraphy, in an exceedingly useful volume published together with Ricardo Caminos in 1979.1 Fischer’s contribution focused on hieroglyphic palaeography, discussing the different types of monumental and cursive hieroglyphs, and what motivated their forms and uses. In this chapter, we will focus on the questions regarding how the marks acquired their forms and meaning, how they were selected or created, and how already existing marks reached their users. In order to answer these questions, we have to look again at the use of the marks by individual workmen and their families over time. From the motivation for the use of certain marks we will then proceed to the semiotic motivation of the marks themselves, and of the marking system as a whole. In the previous chapter we have seen how the workmen of Deir el-Medina adopted and adapted marks for their personal use, but also discarded marks, even if these had been in their families for generations. The use of a particular sign was not necessarily a personal choice, as becomes clear from the continuation of marks within families, as well as from marks reflecting one’s position in the local hierarchy (e.g. I and  for the chief workmen of the right and left sides of the gang, I for the scribe, I for the scorpion charmer, and marks taken over by one workman from another together with a position in the roster of day duties). Some men apparently created their own personal marks.

1 Caminos and Fischer 1979: [27].

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi: 10.1163/9789004357549_008

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Qaydjoret of the late Twentieth Dynasty took on a mark probably inspired by his own name (I), perhaps upon his promotion to the office of guard. Earlier in the Twentieth Dynasty, the workman Amennakht (xii) used I, a mark almost certainly inspired by his nickname ‘The Jackal’. His father, the deputy Hay (vii) also called himself ‘jackal’, but his sign was the pomegranate , a family mark reaching back at least to the middle of the Nineteenth Dynasty, when it was held by his grandfather Buqentuef (i). In fact, the pomegranate does seem to have been used by Amennakht (xii) as well, at a later stage of his life. It would appear that Hay’s disappearance as deputy, perhaps through his death, made the pomegranate available. But there is even more to the use of this particular mark, as we will see below. Even these few examples suffice to show that the mechanisms through which marks came into existence and changed owners were manifold. The guiding principles of the marking system included inheritance, position, and personal choice. This variety of principles, together with the morphological variety of the marks themselves, suggests that ‘anything goes’. It is unlikely, at any rate, that the creation and distribution of marks was in the hands of one person or authority. A similar observation was made for medieval masons’ marks in chapter 2. On the basis of the morphological variety of marks in crusader architecture in Palestine, Denys Pringle found it likely that the signs were ‘the individual creation of the masons’ rather than centrally assigned.2 The linear marks applied by masons in late medieval and early modern architecture in Europe could pass from father to son, and could be adapted by the son with an additional stroke (as became clear from the fifteenth century example of father and son Boelre). Such an additional feature could also be applied to one’s own mark in case of promotion to a higher position (as was the case with master mason Robert Lynsted in 1539). These mechanisms are very similar to the ones we observe in Ramesside Deir el-Medina. The marking system of the royal necropolis workmen in the Egyptian New Kingdom thus appears to be illustrative of processes that are also known from other cultures and periods. What gives the case of Deir el-Medina its special importance, however, is the sheer abundance of material (including more than a thousand administrative ostraca), and especially the period covered by this material. In several cases, it is possible to follow the use of specific marks within the same families for as many as six generations, from the early Nineteenth (perhaps even late Eighteenth) to the mid-Twentieth Dynasty, a timespan of some 150 years or more.

2 Pringle 1981: 178; see chapter 2, section 2.8.

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Long- and Short-Lived Marks: Pomegranate, Lotus and Jackal

One excellent example of a mark being used within the same family for several generations is the pomegranate . As we have seen in the previous section, it was used by Amennakht (xii) at some point in the second half of the twelfth century bce. The mark had also been held by his father, the deputy of the left side, Hay (vii), and by his great-grandfather Buqentuef (i) (fig. 6.1). The latter was active as a necropolis workman in the middle of the thirteenth century; his mark appears on the Schaden ostraca from the middle of the reign of Ramesses ii and related documents (see chapter 5, table 5.3). Apart from the pomegranate sign, this family of necropolis workmen had one other ‘tradition’, which was probably a self-created one. Amennakht’s father Hay claimed that the office of deputy had been held by three ancestors before he himself assumed this office. This claim is expressed in a draft for a stela made on ostracon bm ea 8494,3 but it is considered by Egyptologists to have been unjust: Hay’s ancestors Amennakht (x), Nakhy (iii) and Didi (i) had probably never been deputies. Even apart from the claim to the office of deputy, Hay (vii) and his son Amennakht (xii) put great emphasis on their lineage, which should probably be considered an old one when compared to other families in the workman’s community: their oldest known ancestor, Didi (i), may have worked as a necropolis workman as early as in the late Eighteenth Dynasty.4 One way to emphasise this old lineage was the use of the pomegranate mark by Buqentuef (i), Hay (vii) and Amennakht (xii). Another way was the reference by Hay (vii) to his remote ancestor’s name Didi. In a hymn to Amun, Hay calls himself ‘lustful jackal’ (wnš dd).5 This expression was probably a wellknown literary topos; it is also found in New Kingdom love poetry,6 and there are literary and pictorial references to copulating jackals on ostraca from Deir el-Medina.7 It cannot be pure coincidence, however, that Hay’s son Amennakht had the nickname ‘The Jackal’ and the jackal mark I. Nor is it likely that the name of Hay’s ancestor Didi (Dd) had nothing to do with Hay’s use of the

3 Demarée 2002: pls. 46–47; Davies 1999: 63. 4 A stela dedicated by two sons of Didi (Nakhy and Bakenanuy) to their deceased father is dated to the reign of Seti i. Hieroglyphic text in Kitchen 1989: 37–38; see also Haring 2017. 5 Preserved on O. DeM 1038, O. BTdK 745 and 746. Discussion and references in Dorn 2011a: 190–191; see also Fischer-Elfert 1997: 123. 6 P. Harris 500: Landgráfová and Navrátilová 2009: 128–129. 7 O. DeM 1598 (Fischer-Elfert 1997: 160); O. Louvre e 14311 (Grandet 2013).

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Didi (i) | Nakhy (iii) | Buqentuef (i)  | Amennakht (x) I |  Hay (vii) |  Amennakht (xii) I figure 6.1 Amennakht (xii) ‘The Jackal’ and his ancestors

‘lustful jackal’ topos: both the name Dd and the word dd ‘lustful’ were of Semitic origin, and had similar meanings.8 It is difficult to say when this family acquired the mark of the pomegranate, and why. It may be significant that the pomegranate (Punica granatum) was introduced in Egypt from the Near East in the early New Kingdom.9 The tree and its fruit thus shared their foreign origin with the name of Amennakht’s ancestor Didi, and perhaps even with Didi himself. Unfortunately, we do not know which mark(s) was/were held by Didi and by his son Nakhy. The history of the pomegranate mark cannot be traced back earlier than Buqentuef’s use of it in the ostraca from about year 40 of Ramesses ii. We cannot exclude the possibility that it was used earlier, but it cannot be taken for granted, either, given the interruptions of its use in the family by Amennakht (x) in favour of the lotus flower I, and initially also by Amennakht (xii), in favour of the jackal. Both interruptions can be explained by similar circumstances. When Buqentuef (i) was still active as a workman, his son Amennakht (x) became a workman as well; very probably he is the same person as the Amennakht who is represented by I on ostraca from the middle of the reign of Rameses ii (see chapter 5, fig. 5.2). We do not know for certain if Amennakht took over the lotus flower from another member of the gang, or if he created the mark himself—no connection between his name or person and the mark being apparent to us—but the fact that the pomegranate was still ‘occupied’ did call 8 Schneider 1992: 261; Hoch 1994: 378–380, nos. 568–569. The Egyptological vocalisation ‘Didi’ is artificial and has no basis in Ancient Egyptian or Semitic phonetics. 9 See e.g. Germer 1985: 42–43. The erotic connotation ascribed to the pomegranate by Egyptologists is based on the reconstructed beginning of the love songs on P. Turin Cat. 1966, but this reconstruction has been contested recently by Cynthia Sheikholeslami (2015).

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for an alternative mark. From Amennakht the lotus flower passed to one of his sons, the workman Khaemnun (i), who eventually got transferred from the left to the right side.10 As such, we see him in the duty rosters from the reigns of Ramesses iii and iv, represented by his name on the hieratic ostraca, and by the lotus flower in their counterparts with marks (chapter 5, table 5.3). The lotus flower on the Hathor temple pavement, from the end of the Nineteenth Dynasty, may represent either Amennakht or his son Khaemnun (chapter 5, fig. 5.4). We have also seen that the sign still occurs on ostraca from the late reign of Ramesses xi. Just like the pomegranate, it was clearly a long-lived mark. When Amennakht (xii) became active as a workman, his father Hay (vii) was still the deputy of the left side, and as such held the family’s pomegranate mark. Amennakht therefore had to use a different mark, and in this case it seems likely that he invented one himself: the jackal sign I. His nickname ‘The Jackal’ may have been the inspiration for the mark, but it is equally possible that it was the other way round: just like the nickname, the jackal mark may have been directly inspired by the ‘lustful jackal’ topos that ran in Amennakht’s family, from his remote ancestor Didi to his father Hay. A mark giving rise to a nickname would indicate an important role for the workmen’s marks in local oral culture, but there are no other indications of the existence of such a phenomenon. Be this as it may, at some point Amennakht gave up his jackal mark and took over the pomegranate from his father, presumably after the death of the latter. The jackal sign is an example of a short-lived mark; it does not seem to have been used any more in the late Twentieth Dynasty. Although Amennakht eventually became a deputy himself, it seems that that position was not yet available when he started using , since we see this mark on ostracon Turin cg 57534 from the reign of Ramesses ix as part of the sequence  I I , representing chief workman, scribe, deputy and workman respectively (chapter 5, table 5.5). Indeed, it is possible that there were one or two deputies of the left side between Hay (vii) and his son Amennakht. The latter is attested as deputy only from year 11 of Ramesses xi onwards, whereas his father is last known to have held the position under Ramesses v. The Turin ostracon gives I as the mark of one deputy acting between Hay and Amennakht, but the identity of this deputy is uncertain.11

10

11

The filiation of Khaemnun (i) as a son of Amennakht (x) deviates from the one made by Davies (1999). It was first suggested by Collier (2014: 10), and worked out more fully by Soliman (2016: 173, note 36; 406). He may have been one of the two deputies suggested by Davies (1999: 281), or Seny son of Khaemhedjet as speculated in the previous chapter, section 5.8.

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Long-Lived Marks and Their Graphic Variety: The Families of Qaha and Sennedjem

One other family that has been referred to several times in the previous chapters deserves an integral discussion: that of Qaha (i), chief workman of the left side, and his descendants. This family presents another example of the complex tradition of necropolis workmen’s marks, and of the long periods some of these marks were in use. Qaha was chief workman of the left side of the gang in the early reign of Ramesses ii. His name is attested in a mere handful of hieratic ostraca, which is no surprise given the low numbers of hieratic sources extant from that early period. He is not mentioned on the great absence ostracon bm 5634 of year 40 or on the related O. DeM 706, both of which omit the chief workmen, but he may still have been active in the reign of Merenptah. His mark  is known from several Nineteenth-Dynasty ostraca but not from the Schaden material, which may again be due to the chief workmen not being included there. Likewise omitted from these sources were the deputies, and so they also fail to mention Qaha’s oldest son Anuy (i),12 who served as deputy to his father. Anuy’s mark was closely related to Qaha’s, and apparently a modified version of it: I (alternative form: +), omitting the central vertical but adding a cross beneath or adjoining it. Hieratic texts and ostraca with marks from around year 40 do mention another of Qaha’s sons: the workman Anhurkhawy (i), whose mark was different from both Qaha’s and Anuy’s: I (chapter 5, table 5.3). Just like Amennakht ‘The Jackal’ in the Twentieth Dynasty, both Anuy and Anhurkhawy may have been confronted with the necessity to create their own mark because their father was still active, and the holder of . Anuy, being closer in status to his father, emulated the latter’s mark but made sure it could be recognised as different. Anhurkhawy, being a mere workman, opted for a mark inspired by his own name, or rather its element An- (i.e. i͗ni͗ ‘to bring’). This mark also existed as a hieroglyph, and was the first sign of Anhurkhawy’s name in monumental texts on statues, stelae and tomb walls. Eventually it was Anhurkhawy, and not his elder brother Anuy, who succeeded his father as chief workman of the left side. Instead of discarding his own mark I in favour of , Anhurkhawy kept it, and thereby made it a new family tradition. His grandson Anhurkhawy (ii) and his great-grandson Qenna (i), both living in the Twentieth Dynasty, used the same mark. It cannot be

12

Not to be confused with his contemporary Anuy (ii) (see chapter 5, table 5.3), who belonged to a different family.

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 Qaha (i) I Anhurkhawy (i)

I Anuy

| Hay (iv) I | Anhurkhawy (ii) I I Qenna (i)

Harmose (ii) 

figure 6.2 Qenna (i), Harmose (ii) and their ancestors

coincidence that both are also known to have been deputies of the chief workmen of the left side of the gang, and that Anhurkhawy (ii) even rose to be a chief workman. Thus, I seems to have become the traditional mark of this family of local overseers. However, between Anhurkhawy (i), (ii) and Qenna, there were other members of the same family who held the same offices, but used different marks. Hay (iv) was a son of Anhurkhawy (i) and the father of Anhurkhawy (ii). He is attested as chief workman of the left side from the late Nineteenth Dynasty until year 22 of Ramesses iii, when his son Anhurkhawy (ii) succeeded him. Hay is not known to have held the mark of his father Anhurkhawy (ii); what his mark was, is uncertain, but it may have been the plant sign I. This attribution is supported by two observations. One is the shape of the mark, which resembles the hieroglyph (ḥɜ), the initial sign of Hay’s name.13 The other observation is the occurrence of this mark in graffiti together with either I or  and I. That is, the supposed mark of Hay occurs together with the mark of his father Anhurkhawy (i), or with the marks of Amennakht ‘The Jackal’ and the latter’s father Hay (vii). Some Deir el-Medina sources refer to Hay (iv) as the father of Hay (vii), but the combination of all the prosopographical evidence available makes it sufficiently clear that the latter was a son of Amennakht (x). Very probably the chief workman of the left side, Hay (iv), had at some time taken under his care, or even adopted Hay (vii), the future deputy of the same side.14 Perhaps this was even the basis for the claim by Hay (vii) to the office 13

14

As has been pointed out already in section 5.6, [note 48], the resemblance is rather to , a different hieroglyph, but epigraphic sources indicate that the two signs were sometimes confused. Davies 1999: 63–64. Cf. the similar situation with the senior scribes of the early Nineteenth Dynasty (chapter 4, section 4.4).

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of deputy, a claim he strengthened by presenting his own ancestors Buqentuef (i) and Amennakht (x) as holders of the same office (see the previous section). The father role played by Hay (iv) might have brought his namesake higher up in the local hierarchy, but the position of chief workman remained firmly in the hands of Hay’s own family. Hay (iv) may have created his own mark I, inspired by his name, and retained it throughout the long period he was chief workman, just as his father Anhurkhawy (i) had used his own mark I instead of Qaha’s sign . Hay’s son and successor Anhurkhawy (ii), however, reused I, which nicely agreed with the name he likewise inherited from his grandfather. Anhurkhawy had been a deputy to his father before he succeeded him as a chief workman in year 22 of Ramesses iii, and as such he must already have held I, given the fact that I was still used by Hay and therefore unavailable. Qenna (i) and Harmose (ii) were both sons of Anhurkhawy (ii), and although Harmose appears to have been the younger one, it is he who succeeded his father as chief workman in year 8 of Ramesses vii, while the older Qenna is only known as a deputy.15 Harmose did not take over the mark of his father, but used , as well as the alternative form . It is difficult not to see this as a reference to his great-great-grandfather Qaha, who to all appearances had been the first and last in the family to use this mark. Did Harmose adopt the mark to stress the fact that the position of chief workman of the left side went four generations back in his family? But  was already used as a reference to the left side with deliveries of dates in the duty rosters from the reign of Ramesses iv, as was noted in the previous chapter. Apparently the sign had come to be associated with the left side even before Harmose used it as chief workman; that is, at a time when his father Anhurkhawy (ii) was still chief workman of the left side, and used I. Was the association nonetheless somehow to do with Qaha and his offspring? To complicate matters even further, marks very similar to  were used by a different family from the early Nineteenth Dynasty onwards, that of the workman Sennedjem and his descendants. Sennedjem’s own mark was I, and a modified version of it was held by his son Khabekhnet: I. This family would later include at least three chief workmen of the right side: Nekhemmut (i), Khons (v), and Nekhemmut (vi) (fig. 6.3). The latter used a mark very reminiscent of those used by Sennedjem and Khabekhnet: , with  as an alternative form of the same mark. Another very similar mark  was possibly held by one Kharu or Pakharu (see chapter 5, table 5.3); this man may have been

15

Davies 1999: 29.

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I Sennedjem  Khons (ii)

I Khabekhnet

| ? Nekhemmut (i) | ? Khons (v) I |  Nekhemmut (vi) I figure 6.3 Sennedjem and his descendants

a son of Sennedjem, but also one of Qaha, or he was yet another (Pa)kharu living in the early or mid-Nineteenth Dynasty.16 We do not know whether any variants of  or  were used by Nekhemmut (i) and his son Khons (v). As a chief workman, the latter used the bee I, which was reminiscent of the hieroglyph for ‘King of Lower Egypt’ (bi͗.t.y), and therefore suggestive of the chief workman’s status. Before his appointment as chief workman, however, Khons may well have had a different mark. One can only assume, or indeed hope, that there were ways to tell apart the owners of ,  and marks with related forms at any given time. By the mid-Twentieth Dynasty,  and its alternative form  were held by the chief workman Harmose of the left side of the gang, while  with the same allomorph  were used by the workman Pasen of the right half. The latter had taken over his mark, together with his position as a workman, from Nekhemmut (vi) in regnal year 2 of Ramesses iv. Upon his promotion to chief workman, Nekhemmut himself took over the sign of the bee I from his father Khons. In this way, Nekhemmut stressed the high status he had inherited, an additional bonus being that no confusion was possible between the marks of the chief workmen of the two sides when Harmose assumed his office in year 8 of Rameses vii, using his old family mark . This mark and its allomorph  would henceforth refer to the chief workman of the left side, whereas his colleague of the right side was indicated by I. Both Harmose and Nekhemmut are attested as chief workmen until year 17 of Ramesses ix.

16

See Davies 1999: Kharu (i), Pakharu (ix) or (xii). Names starting with the definite article (‘Pa-’) may alternatively be rendered without it.

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Short-Lived Marks: Name, Reputation and Status

In the discussion of the family of Amennakht (xii) ‘The Jackal’ it was seen that Amennakht’s own mark I was inspired by his nickname and therefore belonged to him personally, rather than to his family. At the time he used it as a workman, his father Hay was still active as deputy of the chief workman of the left side, holding the family mark of the pomegranate . It was only when Hay died that this mark became available, and Amennakht started using it even before he became a deputy himself. There is no evidence for the use of I from the period after Amennakht discarded it.17 Nor is it likely that his father Hay used it before the pomegranate, even though he called himself ‘lustful jackal’ in a literary text; the jackal mark cannot be demonstrated as appearing on ostraca that predate Amennakht’s time as workman. It was a short-lived mark that appeared and disappeared together with the latter’s temporary status. It seems that it was Amennakht’s personal situation that called for its creation, when he obtained an official position as workman while the family mark was still held by his father. We have come across other examples of the same situation. Amennakht’s grandfather Amennakht (x) of the mid-Nineteenth Dynasty adopted the lotus flower I, perhaps even created it himself, because the pomegranate  was still held by his father Buqentuef when he became active as a workman. The pomegranate appears to have skipped one generation, to return as the mark of Amennakht’s son Hay (vii), while the lotus flower was passed on to another son of Amennakht, Khaemnun, and would remain in use until the end of the Twentieth Dynasty. Other possible examples of new marks being developed because the family mark was still ‘occupied’ are the signs used by Anuy and Anhurkhawy (i), both sons of the chief workman Qaha, in the early Nineteenth Dynasty. While Anuy created a variation on the mark of his father (with I as the result), Anhurkhawy took his own name as the point of departure (I). It was the latter’s sign that continued to be used in the family, and so was his name. Its use did not depend on having the name Anhurkhawy, however, since Qenna, son of Anhurkhawy (ii), also used it. The personal mark I adopted by the guard Qaydjoret is another example of a short-lived mark, although in this particular case the end of its use may rather be due to the termination of work at the royal tomb, and therefore of regular necropolis administration, at Thebes. The mark is attested until the late years of 17

Amennakht (xii) married Tahefnu (who, incidentally, was a daughter of Nekhemmut (vi), and therefore of the Sennedjem family; Davies 1999: 71, charts 7 and 8). Their sons were called Nekhemmut and Nebnefer, but nothing is known about the role of these men in the community of workmen, and no marks can be attributed to them.

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Ramesses xi, when Qaydjoret still held office. Other marks from the second half of the Twentieth Dynasty that may have been short-lived personal creations are I for Akhpet and I for Ptahkhau, as well as I (owner unknown) and I for Pamerperhedj ‘The Treasury Overseer’. See the previous chapter for these marks as well as for Qaydjoret.

6.5

Mark, Family and Position

The previous sections have shown us how some marks were passed on within the community of necropolis workmen. In addition to marks inherited from fathers or grandfathers, there were marks taken over by workmen from colleagues to whom they were not related, together with a position in the gang. Thus the workman Pasen took over the position of his colleague Nekhemmut in the right half of the gang, as well as the latter’s mark , when Nekhemmut became chief workman and started using I, a mark previously belonging to his father Khons.18 Many marks, however, continued to be used within the same families, as has been illustrated by the examples of the pomegranate , the pot-with-legs I and the lotus flower I. The latter example presents the opposite case when compared to ; Khaemnun of the left side inherited it from his father Amennakht, and took it with him when he was transferred to the right side. Thus the mark changed sides but remained in the same family. Even if they remained in the family for generations, however, the marks sometimes underwent changes. We have seen some clear examples in the previous section: the marks I and I, held by Sennedjem and his son Khabekhnet respectively, and  and I, the marks of Qaha and his son Anuy. If there is indeed a relation between the mark of Sennedjem and  or its allomorph  of his great-great-grandson Nekhemmut, there must have been further adaptations of the family mark in the course of the generations. One principle in the continuation and use of the apart is sufficiently clear: only one son could inherit the mark of his father, and only when the latter had no more need of it. In most, if not all such cases, the father had died when the son started using the mark. If the son had already obtained a position as workman, chief workman or deputy when his father was still active, he had to use a different mark. This was the situation par excellence for the creation

18

Possibly another example is that of Nesamun (iii) taking over the mark  from his colleague Irsu late in the reign of Ramesses iii, although family relationship cannot be excluded entirely in this case; see Soliman 2016: 518.

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figure 6.4 Ostracon Strasbourg h 13, late reign of Ramesses iii, with marks I  I I from top to bottom. The mark I belongs to Neferhotep (xi) or his son Meryre (vi). from koenig 1997: pl. 6; reproduced here with kind permission of the author and the ifao ©

of new signs, such as I for Anhurkhawy or I for Amennakht ‘The Jackal’. These two examples show that a man’s name or nickname could be the startingpoint, and the same was probably true for several marks known from the late Twentieth Dynasty. Taking over both the position and the mark of one’s ancestors seems to have been the most desirable process. Among the workmen mentioned in the hieratic duty roster in the late years of Ramesses iii we find two brothers, who were called Neferhotep and Meryre (see chapter 5, table 5.4). Their marks were I and I respectively; the former was inspired by the hieroglyphic sign of the hoe (phonetic mer), the latter by the sky hieroglyph (phonetic pet or hery). Neferhotep (xii) inherited I from his grandfather Meryre (v), together with the latter’s position in the duty roster. Neferhotep’s brother Meryre (vi), however, obtained a different position, five days removed from that of Neferhotep, and previously held by his father Neferhotep (xi) who had used the ‘sky’ mark I (fig. 6.4). We have no idea how the latter came by his mark, no phonetic or iconic relation being apparent between the sign and his name, or those of his ancestors. It is clear, however, that his father’s mark was not yet available when Neferhotep (xi) got his position, and therefore a different mark was needed. The hoe only became available when his son Neferhotep (xii) became active as a workman. There is an obvious relation between the sign I and the name Meryre, which in hieroglyphic and hieratic writing always includes this sign. From the graphic and phonetic point of view it would have been more logical

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I Meryre (v)

| I Neferhotep (xi) I Neferhotep (xii)

I Meryre (vi)

| Meryre (vii) I

| Panefer I

figure 6.5 Meryre (v) and his descendants

if Meryre (vi) had inherited I instead of I, but the availability of the marks and the roster positions were decisive. The connection between I and the corresponding name Meryre was thus lost in the family, but it returned one generation later, when Neferhotep’s son Meryre (vii) inherited it. Meryre (vi) left his mark I to his son Panefer (fig. 6.5). The marks held by Meryre (v) and his descendants effectively illustrate how the use of a mark depended on one’s position as much as on family. This was certainly true for high positions in the local hierarchy: that of senior scribe, chief workman and deputy. We have seen how I and  came to be associated with the positions of chief workmen for the right and left sides of the gang respectively, while the deputies of the left side stressed their status by using the pomegranate . In all three cases, not more than two generations can be demonstrated actually to have held the marks as well as the positions. There was, however, an emphasis on lineage. Personally created marks were discarded in favour of I and  as soon as these marks became available. The pomegranate was even taken over by Amennakht from his deceased father Hay before the latter’s position as deputy became available to his son. Amennakht’s use of the mark may very well have been a way to support his claim to the position, which was still held by someone else. Hay himself had claimed on a stela that his ancestors were already deputies, and we know that his grandfather Buqentuef (i) had held the pomegranate mark, though probably not the position of deputy. The chief workman Harmose even reached back further in time by using , the mark already held by his great-great-grandfather Qaha, who had really been a chief workman. The use and significance of these family marks, which were omnipresent in graffiti, on pottery and on ostraca, almost make them look like coats of arms to the modern observer. In this respect they resemble the family marks or house marks of craftsmen and merchants in the late Middle Ages (see chapter 2, section 2.8). One mark stands out as one belonging to the highest position in the workmen’s community, though not to one family: that of the senior scribe I. From

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its earliest attestation on ostraca of the middle of the Nineteenth Dynasty the sign continued to be used at least until the reign of Ramesses ix, that is, well over a century. Whereas the earliest examples must refer to one or more scribes active in the reign of Ramesses ii (Qenhirkhopshef being the most plausible candidate), the Twentieth-Dynasty specimens are likely to indicate Amennakht and his son and successor Harshire, and perhaps one or more other senior scribes. Harshire abandoned the mark he had used as a draftsman (I)19 and took up I when he succeeded his father. This change of mark is similar to those we observed for the chief workman Nekhemmut (from  to I) and the workman Amennakht ‘The Jackal’ (from I to ) in the sense that their new marks had become available through the passing away of their fathers. As opposed to the latter two examples, the mark adopted by Harshire was not an ancient family mark, although it was ancient enough itself. Starting about a century earlier, the scribe Qenhirkhopshef had held the same mark. His tenure lasted over 40 years, but he had no descendants succeeding him as a scribe. We do not know whether the mark was used by any scribe between Qenhirkhopshef and Amennakht, a period of about 30 years. We cannot rule out the possibility that the mark was not used during that time, and that Amennakht chose the mark because he considered himself the successor to the illustrious Qenhirkhopshef. That Amennakht did consider Qenhirkhopshef as his example is clear from the hieratic ‘follower graffiti’ made by the former in positions immediately adjoining graffiti by Qenhirkhopshef.20 Both scribes are among the most frequently represented personalities in Theban mountain graffiti, with hundreds of inscriptions each. Alternatively, the mark may have been used throughout the Ramesside Period, or at least during a substantial part of it, to refer to the office of senior scribe irrespective of the person holding it. The use of I would thus be similar to the signs of the doorkeepers and scorpion charmers ( and I), but just like the latter it was a real mark in the sense that it was also applied as an individual sign on pottery and in graffiti. Indeed, its use as a pot mark and graffito strongly supports the idea that it might represent a person, and the members of the workmen’s community would know which person was represented, that is, who held the position of senior scribe at the time. It is striking that we do not know of any specific personal mark of the senior scribes Ramose, Qenhirkhopshef

19 20

See chapter 5, tables 5.4 and 5.5. Dorn 2014: 61 with note 14.

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and Amennakht. The mark I used by Harshire before he became a senior scribe cannot be traced back in history, so there is no way of telling whether it was an older family mark or not. All this means that, as far as we can see, the senior scribes lived without family marks, using only I to indicate their all-important position. It should be noted here, however, that these high local functionaries, who were also the middlemen between the workmen’s community and the royal bureaucracy, had other ways to locally express their position and personality. Ramose is quite well-known to Egyptologists for his impressive monumental record including many stelae and statues, and even a chapel for the cult of the deified Ramesses ii.21 Indeed, Ramose explicitly presents himself on his monuments in association with royal cult and imagery. This was not done by his contemporaries who were mere workmen or chief workmen, although these groups also had stelae and statues made, though in smaller numbers than Ramose. Qenhirkhopshef and Amennakht have left considerably fewer monuments than Ramose, which is a circumstance not to be seen independently of the fact that the early Nineteenth Dynasty was the period of the most lavish private monumental production for the workmen’s community. By contrast, Qenhirkhopshef and Amennakht both left hundreds of graffiti (a genre little explored by Ramose). The two scribes also produced very substantial numbers of papyrus documents, which in both cases became the core of extensive libraries enriched by later scribes, and including literary and religious texts as well as administrative records and correspondence.22 When seen from this angle, the mark used by the senior scribes does not strike one as being as important as those used by the chief workmen and their deputies in the Twentieth Dynasty.

6.6

Morphology: Distinctive Forms versus Allomorphs

The previous sections concentrated on ways in which existing marks found new users, and on circumstances leading to the creation of new marks. The motivation for the morphology of new marks were only marginally dealt with. Two alternative motivating factors readily presented themselves. One of these

21 22

See Exell 2006; Valbelle 2014. The so-called Chester Beatty Library and related texts seem to have started with the collection and copying activities by Qenhirkhopshef (Pestman 1982), while many of the papyri kept in the Museo Egizio at Turin can be ascribed to Amennakht and his descendants. See chapter 4, sections 4.5 and 4.6.

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was to take the name or nickname of the holder as the starting-point. Two clear examples of this practice are I for Amennakht ‘The Jackal’ and I for Anhurkhawy. The same motivation may be supposed for  (Khons), I (Hay), and I (Meryre), although we do not know for certain when and why these marks were introduced. The marks I and I also illustrate how such ‘name marks’ continued to be used within the same families, just like the proper names they were based on, and so the morphologically ‘appropriate’ marks could again be used by bearers of the appropriate names, though they could as easily end up with relatives who had different names. The other option for the creation of a new mark was to adapt an already existing one. The mark I / + held by Anuy (i) is probably an example of this practice, being an adapted form of , the mark of his father Qaha. The original mark was later used by Harmose, a descendant of Qaha but not of Anuy.23 There being no evidence for its use between Qaha and Harmose, it is possible that the latter re-introduced the mark after three generations. A similar case is that of Sennedjem and his son Khabekhnet, whose marks I and I are clearly graphically related. They are not attested in these precise forms for their descendants, but a somewhat similar mark was held by Sennedjem’s greatgreat-grandson Nekhemmut: . At the time that Nekhemmut used this mark, and passed it on to his colleague Pasen,  was a graphic variant (allomorph) of  and of . This suggests that  had descended from  as much as Nekhemmut had descended from Sennedjem, yet there is again no evidence for marks of these forms being held by the intermediate generations. The sign  and related forms are perfect examples of linear and rather abstract marks. Such marks make it easy, indeed perhaps even inviting, to adapt by adding or changing details without interfering with any iconic value, since they have no such value. A similar phenomenon was observed for linear mason’s marks in Gothic architecture (see chapter 2, section 2.9). However, abstract marks may find their origins in iconic or hieroglyphic signs. It is in fact very likely that  is originally the depiction of a builder’s tool, the level, actual examples of which have survived fom Ancient Egypt (fig. 6.6 a). A fine example has even been found among the objects in the tomb of Sennedjem.24 It is a wooden implement shaped like , with a limestone plummet hanging from its summit by a cord. This plummet may even be indicated by a dot or tiny loop at the bottom of the central vertical line in two or three samples of the mark,

23 24

Anuy’s mark I inexplicably turns up once again in Twentieth-Dynasty ostracon ifao onl 6472 (unpublished): a mere allomorph of ? Shedid 1994: 51, fig. 32.

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figure 6.6 a: Level and plummet from the Middle Kingdom necropolis of Lisht, from Gautier and Jéquier 1902: 60, fig. 71 and 73; b:  as rendered on ostraca ifao onl 6536 (left) and 6351 (right) facsimiles kyra van der moezel, published with kind permission of the ifao

probably all dating from the Nineteenth Dynasty (fig. 6.6 b).25 The remaining sixty samples of the same mark, which date from the entire Ramesside Period, do not show this detail. The level is even known as a sign in hieroglyphic inscriptions.26 As such it is rare, its single function being that of a logogram or determinative in seba ‘level’. This word is mostly found as a metaphor, referring to a person as a just or wise one.27 As a hieroglyphic sign, it may be a more or less detailed image of the level, including the plummet, but it may also be rendered more simply as .28 Despite its existence and morphological variety, it is less likely that the hieroglyph was the model for the mark; I do not know of any occurrence of the sign in hieroglyphic inscriptions from Deir el-Medina, whereas the actual tool must have been handled frequently by the workmen. The tool therefore seems to have been the model for the graphic form of the hieroglyph as well as for that of the mark, while the level metaphor may very well have been an important reason for the popularity of this mark in the early Nineteenth Dynasty. The level as a carpenter’s tool thus inspired the marks held by Qaha, Sennedjem and their sons Anuy and Khabekhnet. The individualised versions of Sennedjem and Khabekhnet were created by adding extra elements (I and I), and therefore did not interfere with the potentially iconic value of  itself. Qaha’s

25 26 27

28

O. ifao onl 6351 and 6536, perhaps also 6479 rev.; all unpublished. See also the discussion in van der Moezel 2016: 173. Erman and Grapow 1926–1931 iv: 86, 15 (sbɜ). The expression ‘level expelling injustice(?)’ (sbɜ dr nw) occurs in autobiographic inscriptions of the Middle Kingdom (Griffith 1889: pl. 6, col. 265) and the Eighteenth Dynasty (statue Cairo cg 583: Borchardt 1925: 138 and pl. 104, col. 9). See Gardiner 1908: 135, note 7, for references. The drawing of the relevant tomb inscription of Sarenput at Aswan (Middle Kingdom) by Müller (1940: fig. 5, extreme right) suggests that the sign includes the plummet, but see Edel 1971: 21–22 and fig. 6, confirming the use of the abstract form  as already implied by Gardiner’s note.

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figure 6.7 Forms of I and I , from left to right: O. Berlin p 14231, O. DeM 264, O. Fitzwilliam Museum ega 6120.1943, O. Ashmolean Museum ho 1094. facsimiles kyra van der moezel

son Anuy, however, took the decisive step of having the central element (the plummet) removed, thus rendering the sign more abstract. The allomorphy  /  /  observed on mid-Twentieth-Dynasty ostraca is an even stronger indication of  having lost its iconic reference since its first use. The mark, in its different graphic variants, had become a truly abstract sign. Its resemblance to a level played no role in its interpretation, as it still might have done a few generations earlier. Allomorphy (change of form not necessarily involving change of meaning) is an important issue to consider. Morphological variation is not always the result of conscious adaptation. More examples can be given, not only from the abstract domain, but also including marks with iconic and textual reference. The hoe I, held by Meryre (v) and several of his descendants, had as alternative forms and I, which included the sun I (Re), and thus approached the full hieroglyphic and hieratic writing of the name Meryre.29 Duty rosters may use both I and I to refer to the same workman. What may be significant is that I is attested on ostraca made by experienced scribal hands, as becomes clear from the neatly made signs, and sometimes by a clear hieratic ductus. The creators of such ostraca recognised the mark as a character, and accordingly sometimes completed the supposed reading ‘Meryre’ with  for I ‘Re’ (added beneath or over the hoe). On other occasions they only drew the hoe, but among the numerous examples of that variant there are also many that betray hands unfamiliar with writing, to the point that the hoe can hardly be recognised as such because it has been reduced to a mere cross (fig. 6.7). Since not all samples can be dated precisely, it is not entirely certain whether all the Meryres and Neferhoteps who held the mark could use any possible form. The duty rosters demonstrate, however, that there existed allomorphs for one and the same person, and the stylistic differences observed above indicate that the precise graphic form depended on the maker of the ostracon, 29

being the usual grouping in hieroglyphic and hieratic.

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rather than on the individual referred to by the mark. The compound form I indicates, furthermore, that the maker had the hieroglyphic or hieratic writing of the name Meryre in mind even when the workman referred to was named Neferhotep. This throws light on the semiotic process involved in the interpretation of the sign (see chapter 3, section 3.3). In this particular case, semiosis in the Peircean sense included iconic reference, i.e. phonetic resemblance (I mer for Meryre, or I ‘Meryre’ in full), and indexical reference or metonymy, i.e. family relationship: Neferhotep (xi) or (xii) as descendant of Meryre (v). Another mark inspired by writing is the seat I, clearly the hieroglyph for set (s.t) ‘place’. Its numerous occurrences date to the Twentieth Dynasty, and the single workman that can be connected with the mark with any certainty is the draftsman Amenwa.30 There is nothing in this name, or in the family history of Amenwa, that might explain why this mark was used by this particular draftsman. However, among the Twentieth-Dynasty marks there is also one that presents itself as a graphic variant: I. This compound mark can be read as ‘Place of Truth’ (Set Maʿat), the official name of the royal necropolis in hieroglyphic inscriptions. As such, it also figures in the titles of the necropolis workmen when rendered in hieroglyphs. Thus it would not be strange to see the mark associated with any of these workmen, but the question remains of why it was used by one of them specifically. That question cannot be answered here, but the established dates of ostraca bearing the mark I do suggest that this more elaborate variant was in fact used, not by Amenwa himself, but by one of his sons, the workman Hori. This would be another example of a mark being adapted for use by the holder’s son. It is not entirely certain, however, that the variation observed here is not similar to that of I and I, and that the simple sign I did not invoke the expression Set Maʿat ‘Place of Truth’ in the mind of the beholder just as readily as I. A rather spectacular case of allomorphy is presented by a number of ostraca from the mid- to late Twentieth Dynasty, unfortunately all unpublished, and listing the marks of workmen of the left side of the gang. The obverse of ostracon Ashmolean Museum ho 1098, duly starting with  for the chief workman, has the following sequence in its second column (here arranged horizontally from right to left): […] I I I I. After cobra, falcon eye and necklace, there is a group of three identical hieroglyphic signs. This group, a multiplication of I nefer ‘good, beautiful’, is also common in hieroglyphic and hieratic, and would stand for neferu ‘beauty’ in the mind of the Egyptian scribe

30

This is Amenwa (i); he was a son, or a son-in-law, of Hay (vii): Davies 1999: 73 and 171.

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and reader. The graphic variety of this mark, however, casts severe doubt on any linguistic associations being there in the minds of its makers. Two ostraca kept at the ifao31 give us the same sequence, even including a following mark that is lost on the Ashmolean piece, as follows:  I I I I and  I I I I. In the first case, the mark in question has been reduced to I, which can easily be seen as a graphic variation of I—though no longer as a correct hieroglyphic spelling of neferu. The second case is bewildering at first sight, since I / I has been replaced by I (ankh), a totally different sign. Another contemporary document helps us understand what has happened here. Ostracon Brooklyn Museum 16118 is a huge flake of limestone, both sides of which show drawings of commodities arranged in boxes, many of which also include marks.32 Three boxes sufficiently preserved at the top of the obverse include the marks I, I and I. The occurrence of these three marks together suggests that I is another variant of I, and in fact I turned upside down, so that ‘double nefer’ became a badly made ‘double ankh’. The mark I on the second ifao ostracon can now be explained as a further reduction of the sign. In all, four graphic forms of the same mark are known to us: I I I I. Whereas one can easily imagine that I and I may be the same mark when applied individually on objects that can be turned around (such as pottery bowls), turning signs upside down on ostraca and changing numbers of identical sign components would seem to seriously influence their interpretation. But this is only so when they are regarded as writing, or as imitations of writing. Although there can be no doubt that hieroglyphs were the source of inspiration for the mark, the connection with writing seems to have been severed in at least some of its uses. Unfortunately we do not know which workman was represented by the mark, but given the short period covered by the above-mentioned ostraca, it seems unlikely that all variants, occurring in similar sequences of marks, refer to different persons. This in its turn means that the graphic variation is allomorphy, not adaptation for different users. The reader will observe that in the above example, the interpretation of different graphs as variants of one single mark is mainly supported by their occurrences in otherwise identical sequences. This very circumstance may, of course, have been equally important to the reader in antiquity. The context, or more precisely the syntagma, may have helped him understand the individual 31

32

Ostraca ifao ol 170 + oim 19130 and onl 6480 (all unpublished). The oim fragment (Chicago, Oriental Institute Museum) is also inscribed with part of the titulary of Ramesses ix in hieroglyphs. To the Brooklyn piece belongs the smaller fragment O. Ashmolean Museum ho 1131; both fragments are unpublished. Full discussion in Soliman 2016: 355–357.

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sign, and prevented confusion with others. Just as in the case of the pseudowriting developed in duty rosters concerned with deliveries, it was the position of the mark that determined its role, and in the particular case of I and its variants it did this even more so than the precise shape of the mark itself. Indeed, precise graphic form was not always decisive. As we will see in the following section, the actual ‘mark’ often appears to have been, not a precisely defined graph, but the notion or object it stood for, a signified, though at a different level from that of the person identified by the mark. Deciding between allomorphs and marks adapted on purpose, between meaningless and meaningful graphic variation, is only possible with marks in precisely dated contexts. For this reason, many potentially meaningful variations cannot be confirmed as such. This is especially true for the earlier New Kingdom, the Eighteenth Dynasty. It is tempting, for instance, to see in I and I two different marks inspired by the same hieroglyph, the latter sign being an adapted form of the former with three additional strokes. It is likely, in this case, that we are dealing with two different marks, since the single occurrence of I on an ostracon is together with I.33 Two other ostraca show a variant of I with two strokes instead of three,34 which may be the same sign as I, or yet another. The rarity of these supposedly adapted forms contrasts with the ubiquity of I. Were the variants with additional strokes short-lived marks used by one or two sons who could not (yet) use the mark of their father? In the absence of any prosopographical information for this early period, this must remain a speculative suggestion.

6.7

Sign Categories and Fuzzy Borders

We have seen how one and the same sign invited different semiotic strategies. Most, if not all members of the workmen’s community would have understood immediately which person was referred to by a particular mark. But exactly how a mark was graphically realised, and how it was recognised, depended on the makers’ and the readers’ frame of reference. A mark such as I, so clearly inspired by a meaningful hieroglyphic group, could easily be reduced and turned upside down, even to the point of resembling quite a different hieroglyph, apparently without affecting its primary function as an identity

33 34

O. Cairo je 96591 (unpublished), probably to be dated under Thutmose iv or Amenhotep iii. O. Cairo je 96585 and O. ifao onl 6214, both unpublished.

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mark. But this was only so to the minds of those not fully familiar with writing. Surely, a trained scribe would have been far less inclined to change the precise shapes of marks that betrayed a hieroglyphic or hieratic origin. This means that semiotic processes of interpreting a mark, although always starting from the same sign and ending up with the same person identified, travelled different paths in different brains. However, the marking system was even more complex than writing to begin with, since it consisted of different categories of signs, all used within the same system. There are basically three categories: writing, concrete, abstract, and the marking system employed by the Deir el-Medina workmen was by no means the single such system to have these categories. As we have seen in chapter 2, similar marking systems in many different cultures and periods display the same three characteristic categories, that is, whenever writing is present in the same societies. In chapter 3, section 3.5, we have tried to connect this to James Elkins’ theory that all sorts of visual communication consist of three domains: those of writing, picture and notation. His model of the three domains and their overlap makes it possible to interpret a visual sign system as a specific mix of these domains, and to detect shifts in such a mix. Let us first look at the individual domains. Writing stands out, in the marking system studied in this book, as a very important component, if not the most important one. Hieroglyphic writing (and to a lesser extent, hieratic) was unquestionably a major source of inspiration, and the clearest one to detect for an Egyptologist. Marks such as I I I I I are highly specific graphic configurations that would not have looked the way they look if their models had not been hieroglyphs or hieratic signs. Even clearer cases are compound marks inspired by hieroglyphic and hieratic groups, such as I I I I I. Marks inspired by writing represent a very substantial proportion of the repertoire at any given time, and their relative importance seems to have grown in the course of the New Kingdom. There are cases, however, in which it is difficult to decide whether a mark is hieroglyphic or whether it preferably belongs to a different category, the pictorial. The problem here is, obviously, that hieroglyphs are also pictorial, or iconic, in the sense that they mostly depict concrete objects or beings. The jackal mark I could theoretically have been inspired by a hieroglyph, and the Egyptologist might be inclined to classify it as such. However, signs depicting walking jackals occur exceedingly rarely, if at all, in hieroglyphic inscriptions from Deir el-Medina, whereas the animal itself could be observed in the Theban mountains. The sign is therefore more likely to be ‘concrete’, a graph having the living animal as an example, instead of the hieroglyph, as was already made clear in chapter 1.

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The same is true of the scorpion I. Representatives of the species unfortunately abounded in the workmen’s environment, and were a regular threat to their health and their lives. Scorpion stings were treated magically; numerous copies of magical spells in hieratic have survived on ostraca and papyri. But in hieratic, words for animals are not written with images of these animals; instead, a generic ‘animal’ determinative is used, the hide-and-tail (transcribed as ; see sections 1.5 and 3.4). Scorpions are hardly ever the subject of local hieroglyphic inscriptions,35 so hieroglyphic examples did not readily present themselves, either. And there is yet another reason to see the scorpion mark as a ‘concrete’ sign, i.e. its inconsistent morphology. The nineteen samples known show little uniformity; the body being in either a horizontal or a vertical position, having scissors and legs (four or six), or scissors only. The latter type (I) occurs on two ostraca, but seems to be more frequent as a pot mark. Another example of a concrete sign is the jar. The Twentieth Dynasty repertoire of marks includes many different depictions of jars, which we may reduce here to a limited number of basic types, e.g. I I I (with handles and without, with liquid issuing from it and without). It is clear, however, that different types may represent the same mark, since they are found in the same sequences on ostraca.36 It was therefore not the precise form of the jar that mattered (as it did in hieroglyphic writing), but the very notion of ‘jar’. This makes it unlikely that a hieroglyphic sign was the source of inspiration. One final and clear example of a non-hieroglyphic mark is the pomegranate , which is not at all usual as a character in Egyptian writing. A mark whose ‘concrete’ origin was considered earlier is , which was probably inspired by the level as a carpenter’s tool (fig. 6.6). As we have seen, however, its appearance is usually rather abstract, and the fact that  could be exchanged for  or  indicates that iconic association, if it had been of importance at all, was soon lost, and the sign became a truly abstract one. A similar case among the Eighteenth-Dynasty marks has already been discussed in chapter 1, section 1.5: . This rather abstract-looking sign turned out to be a graphic variant of I, a necklace as rendered in the hieroglyphic script, being the sign for ‘gold’ (nbw). Eighteenth Dynasty ostraca with marks were very often made by persons unfamiliar with writing, so hieroglyphs were not recognised

35 36

Save for the occasional mention of the scorpion charmer; e.g. stela bm ea 265 (Moje 2007: table l 07). As was already pointed out by Haring (2009b: 130–131).

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as such, and could be reduced to ‘abstract’ marks. The ‘gold’ mark is also known from the Ramesside Period, but then it always appears to have been rendered ‘correctly’ as I. Another abstract mark from the Twentieth Dynasty is  with its variant . Both forms are attested in the same relative positions in series of marks on ostraca, and judging from the duty rosters of the early and mid-Twentieth Dynasty the mark was held by the workman Neferher (vi) (chapter 5, table 5.4). There is even a third allomorph, which is more elaborate: I. It is known for Neferher (vi) as well as for an earlier workman of that name, Neferher (iv), who was possibly his grandfather. The latter may be the one represented by I on the Hathor temple pavement of the late Nineteenth Dynasty (chapter 5, fig. 5.4). This compound form includes the hieroglyph I nefer, one of the two components of the name. One is therefore tempted to see the other component, her, in the sign  or . Now the word her (ḥr) that is part of the name Neferher means ‘face’; the entire name being inspired by an epithet of the god Ptah, ‘Beautiful of face’. The hieroglyphic sign for ‘face’ that is used for writing this name is , and one could see  and  as reductions of this face sign to ‘grids’. The vertical lines would render both sides of the face, with the optional third line in the middle for the nose and neck, while the horizontal line indicates the eyes and ears.37 In this way, another ‘abstract’ mark has been unmasked as inspired by a hieroglyph. Of course, hieroglyphic origin (if really applicable) does not mean that a mark was also recognised as a hieroglyph by its users, and the same is true for abstract signs with concrete origins. Signs such as  and  can therefore still be classified as abstract, regardless of their supposed concrete or hieroglyphic origins. And in addition to these, there are marks that are bound to have been abstract, from the moment of their first use at Deir el-Medina, among such forms as I       . Further research might reveal concrete or hieroglyphic origins of several of these signs, but their historical origin is not necessarily relevant for them to be understood by the Ancient Egyptian users. Some of these forms already had a long history, even as parts of marking systems, by the early New Kingdom. We have every reason, therefore, to consider the abstract signs a very real category within the marking system investigated here. Thus, it seems possible and useful to distinguish hieroglyphic (and hieratic), concrete and abstract as different categories of signs within the same marking system. It is essential to point out that the borders between these categories are

37

See for this explanation van der Moezel 2016: 32–33.

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figure 6.8 Marks of the written, concrete (pictorial) and abstract domains

far from absolute. Indeed, they are extremely fuzzy, and examples can be given for signs belonging to the overlap, or intersection, between any two of the three categories. The relative positions of the marks discussed in this section may be rendered in a tripartite model as in fig. 6.8.

6.8

The Role of Writing and Literacy

Throughout the period covered by the marking system discussed in this book, writing had a major influence on the marks and their use. In chapter 3, section 3.5, the question has even been asked as to whether the system was a pseudoscript from the start, that is, whether writing was its main or single source code. In spite of the use of marks on ostraca, often in neat horizontal lines, and despite the presence of marks of hieroglyphic origin, this seems unlikely. At the time of the earliest identified marks on pottery and ostraca from the royal necropolis, in the middle of the fifteenth century bce, similar marks were used in quarries and on temple blocks in the same region, and these marks already had a very long history. From this observation we concluded, in the previous chapter, that the marking system of the necropolis workmen was inspired by, or was a continuation of already existing similar systems. The use of the marks on ostraca was a novelty. The practice of using marks to refer to individual workmen instead of teams, which may also have been an innovation in this period, made it possible to list persons by means of

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their marks, and to add information connected with them in the form of dots or strokes. In this way, a new type of administrative record was created that existed side by side with the hieratic records—the existence of the latter remains hypothetical for the Eighteenth Dynasty, but was massive in the following Ramesside Period. During that period, records composed of marks on ostraca assumed increasingly elaborate shapes, resulting in what may be called a pseudo-script by the middle of the Twentieth Dynasty. The clearest examples of this pseudo-script are the duty rosters composed with marks, numbers and other signs. Such rosters of day duties and deliveries of supplies seem to appear in a tabular format as early as the middle of the Nineteenth Dynasty, even before the genre is known from hieratic administration. The numerous Twentieth-Dynasty examples, however, clearly mimic the format of hieratic texts, and consist of horizontal lines starting with calendar dates and marks, which are followed by signs referring to commodities delivered and their amounts, to the semdet-workforce, and to the right and left sides of the gang. Numbers, which are often repeatedly used within the same line with different commodities, were made with signs borrowed from hieratic—a rare phenomenon in the Nineteenth Dynasty, but exceedingly common in the Twentieth. Through these numbers, lines superficially convey an overall hieratic impression. Whoever made these records had mastered hieratic signs for numbers, but little else from that script; even calendar dates, which have their own specific format in hieratic, appear as ‘normal’ numbers in the duty rosters with marks. A remarkable later parallel to this practice is the frequent use of Egyptian hieratic numbers on Canaanite ostraca, seals and weights of the early first millennium bce.38 These sources, mainly dating from the eighth to the sixth century, often show a mixture Old Hebrew alphabetic writing and Egyptian hieratic numbers. The latter reflect the strong influence of Egyptian administration, which had been present in the southern Levant throughout the Late Bronze Age (ca. 1500–1100 bce). Although the Egyptian presence ended effectively in the eleventh century, scribes in the kingdoms of Judah and Israel maintained the habit of writing numbers in hieratic on ostraca for centuries.39 Ultimately,

38 39

For which see Wimmer 2008. It is difficult to assess to what extent the Canaanite scribes followed their ‘own’ hieratic tradition after the Late Bronze Age, and if they were influenced by Egyptian hieratic in later centuries (Wimmer 2008: 271–281). One major problem in this respect is the lack of hieratic texts of the early first millennium from Lower (i.e. Northern) Egypt (Quack 2010d: 122).

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this notation system gave way to the use of alphabetic characters with numerical value as developed in Phoenician and Aramaic, a system also adopted by the Greeks, together with the alphabet. Obviously a major difference between the Theban ostraca with marks and the Canaanite ostraca is that the latter were made by true scribes who had mastered the native alphabetic writing system of Judah and Israel, whereas the Egyptian ostraca bore marks basically used in a non-linguistic notation system. However, the producers of both types of record included signs for numbers borrowed from a writing system that was not their own. Unfamiliarity with the system is clearly shown in the Egyptian case by the notation of calendar dates, which deviates from normal hieratic practice. It is also shown by the practice, however rare, of writing from left to right. A clear example of this practice is a duty roster from year 30 of Ramesses iii,40 where a column of calendar dates has every line starting from the left edge of the ostracon with for sw ‘day’, followed by the hieratic day number, an identity mark, and signs for commodities and their amounts. The signs themselves, however, are not mirrored, so that asymmetric marks (e.g. I) and numerical signs (┐ for ‘5’) keep facing right. This is the only example in which entire lines seem to have been written retrogradely. Several examples exist in which only the numbers have been inversed, with the units to the right of the tens instead of the other way round.41 The mirroring of hieratic numerical signs is rare.42 These examples of the incorrect treatment of hieratic characters do show that they did not originally belong to the makers’ own code.43 The hieratic numbers made by the Canaanite scribes do not include examples of reversing the order of signs, or of mirroring individual signs; probably their habit (as scribes!) of writing from right to left prevented this from happening. In time, the scribes of Judah and Israel did develop their own palaeographic characteristics in writing hieratic numbers,44 but apparently borrowing signs from different systems has different effects in scribal and in non-scribal milieus.

40 41

42

43 44

Ashmolean Museum ho 1084 reverse (unpublished). All unpublished: Ashmolean Museum ho 1078 line 1; ho 1093 obv. 1–2; ho 1247 rev. right col.; Berlin p 12625 + ifao onl 300 rev. bottom; oim 19125 obv. 2; ifao onl 312 obv. 2; onl 314 rev.; onl 329 obv. 1. Fitzwilliam Museum ega 6120.1943 obv. 1 and rev. 5 (Hagen 2011: 77 and 119); Strasbourg h 10 rev. 6 (Koenig 1997: pl. 4). In all three cases the sign reversed is that for the number ‘20’. This phenomenon is different from the mirroring of individual marks, for which see Andrássy 2009b: 120; Depauw 2009b: 211–212. As is especially clear for multiples of thousand; see Wimmer 2008: 239–245.

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The pseudo-script encountered in the Theban necropolis in the Twentieth Dynasty testifies to the growing influence of script on the system of identity marks as employed on ostraca. This influence also makes itself felt in two other ways. One is the hieratic ductus of marks, rare in the Nineteenth Dynasty but visible on very many Twentieth-Dynasty ostraca; not the pseudo-written duty rosters but other records, with columns of marks only, with marks and hieratic numbers, or with depictions of furniture with marks. It shows that marks were used by real scribes as much as by the pseudo-scribes of the duty rosters. Finally, the growing influence of writing on the marking system becomes clear from the range of marks that were in use in the necropolis workmen’s community at different points in time. In the course of the New Kingdom, the percentage of marks inspired by hieroglyphic or hieratic writing became ever greater, as is illustrated by the tables in chapter 5. Table 5.1 gives us the sixty-three marks used between ca. 1450 and 1350 bce, approximately fifty per cent of which seem to have had hieroglyphic signs as their models (i.e. 30 out of 63). Tables 5.2 and 5.3 show forty marks of the early Nineteenth Dynasty (ca. 1300–1250bce), with writing covering about sixty-five per cent of the repertoire (26 out of 40). In the set of nineteen marks used by the right side in year 31 of Ramesses iii, or 1157bce (table 5.4), that percentage has grown further to almost eighty (15 out of 19). Admittedly, the selections of Ramesside marks in the tables are considerably smaller than that of the Eighteenth Dynasty. Counting marks on selected ostraca from the Eighteenth, Nineteenth and Twentieth Dynasties, one arrives in fact at somewhat higher percentages for all periods,45 but that does little to affect the overall picture of the increasing use of signs from writing. Does the choice of any of the categories writing, concrete or abstract tell us something about the literate skills of the owners of marks? Very probably not, with the single exception of the senior scribe whose capacity, or perhaps rather his hierarchical position and prestige, were indicated by the (pseudo-)hieroglyph of the scribal kit: I. By the middle of the Twentieth Dynasty, when literacy at Deir el-Medina reached its peak, the group of individuals with full or substantial writing skills included not only scribes and draftsmen, but also 45

Haring (2009b: 127) arrived at 50 to 60 % for the Eighteenth Dynasty, and 60 to 85% for the Ramesside Period (the two ostraca used for the latter period are, in fact, both from the Twentieth Dynasty). Soliman (2016: 498) has 61.9% for Amenhotep iii, 78.9% for Ramesses ii, 86.4 % for Ramesses iv–v, and 86.0% for Ramesses ix. On the basis of her table of marks not inspired by writing, van der Moezel (2016: 30 and 35) estimates that these were a good 50.45 % of the signary in the Eighteenth Dynasty, 23.40% in the Nineteenth, and 17.73 % in the Twentieth Dynasty.

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the chief workmen and their deputies.46 Indeed, a ‘colophon’ at the end of a legal statement on a pottery sherd mentions the chief workman Nekhemmut (vi) as the producer of the text, which has been written by a competent hieratic hand.47 Nekhemmut took over the hieratic bee sign I from his (probably no less literate) father Khons when he succeeded the latter as chief workman, but the mark he had held until that moment was abstract . Being the son of a chief workman, Nekhemmut could probably write before he became a chief workman himself. His contemporary, the chief workman Harmose, who was supposedly equally literate, even used the abstract mark  or  when he held office. The deputies Hay (vii) and Amennakht (xii) held the marks  and I respectively, both of which were concrete rather than hieroglyphic marks. Taken together, what we know about these marks and their holders suggests that literacy was not necessarily reflected by the types of marks used. Another observation prevents us from regarding a mark as the reflection of the holder’s writing skills, and that is the fact that marks were often not created or chosen by their holders, but inherited from relatives or taken over from colleagues. Thus, for instance, the passing on of the marks I and I, both of hieroglyphic origin, says little about the degree of literacy of Meryre (v) and his descendants, all mere workmen. And the transfer of  from Nekhemmut to Pasen together with the former’s position in the duty roster obviously does not imply the same literate skills, or lack of them, for both holders. The single way in which marks do inform us about the writing skills in the community of workmen is by their style. Marks may be of different types and origins, but whether representing a hieroglyph, a hieratic sign, a concrete object or being, or nothing at all, the way they were made tells us whether the maker was familiar with hieroglyphs or hieratic writing, or with none of these. Several Eighteenth Dynasty ostraca bear hieroglyphic marks that have been made with such care that they are probably the work of draftsmen or scribes. Many others show us hieroglyphic, concrete and abstract marks that are all so crude that no writing skills seem to have been involved. Ramesside ostraca sometimes show an unmistakable hieratic ductus, thus demonstrating that such ostraca were also made by individuals who mastered hieratic writing. Others, however, have been made by persons far less proficient in writing, and among these are the pseudo-written duty rosters. Being the products of non-scribes appears to have

46 47

And presumably the sons and assistants of these functionaries: Baines 2007: 93–94 (= Baines and Eyre 1983: 90); Janssen 1992a: 82–83. O. uc 32054: see chapter 1, fig. 1.2. For colophons, see Haring 2003: 264, note 30. They are rare; other unambiguous examples mention scribes.

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been precisely the point of these ostraca, which represent an administration that ran parallel to the system that produced the hieratic records, and which could be handled by administrators far less familiar with writing. The writing skills of the producers of ostraca with marks also become apparent from the ability to read them as characters. This ability is reflected in the creation and use of compound hieroglyphic marks as alternatives to simple ones. Only a person having some familiarity with writing would recognise I as an alternative form of I. Rendering I as I, on the contrary, shows that the maker of the latter was insufficiently aware of the hieroglyphic origin of the sign.

6.9

Morphology and Semiosis: Anything Goes?

In this and the following section, the principal observations made with regard to the Deir el-Medina marking system will be collated so as to provide answers to the research questions formulated in chapter 1, section 1.6. The present section concentrates on the graphic aspects of the system and the ways in which meaning is conveyed; the following section (the final one of this chapter) deals with the functional context of the system. One of the questions asked in section 1.6 was whether a model exists, or can be developed, that explains the appearance of very different graphic signs and sign categories within one and the same system. Arguments presented in chapter 3 and the present chapter suffice to answer this question with an unreserved ‘yes’. The model to be used must proceed from the idea of a visual communication system as consisting of the three domains of writing, picture, and notation. Such a model has been presented by the art historian James Elkins, and can be adapted for the study of marking systems (Ancient Egyptian as well as medieval European and yet others) by renaming the domains written, concrete and abstract. These three labels would seem to do justice to the categorisation of types of signs, as well as to their graphic disposition on material supports (lines, columns, or yet other graphic arrangements on rock surfaces, ostraca, pottery vessels and other objects). This typology is not merely descriptive. At a deeper level, the explanation of the appearance of different types of signs within the same system lies in the motivation of the shapes and uses of the individual signs themselves. We have looked at a number of relatively well-documented examples, and in some cases we have been given a glimpse of the circumstances in which new marks were created. The sons of the chief workman Qaha, at the beginning of the Nineteenth Dynasty, had marks that were different from the one used by their

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father. Qaha’s mark  was originally concrete, and inspired by a type of tool, the level. Yet it was already on its way to becoming an abstract sign, as the newly created mark of Qaha’s son Anuy suggests. Anuy modified his father’s sign by removing the central element (originally representing the plummet) and added a cross at the side or at the bottom: I or +. Much later we see related marks appearing in the same family:  and . We do not know whether these later variants were consciously created, and when, but Anuy seems to have modified a concrete or already abstract sign, with a new abstract one as a result. His brother Anhurkhawy, meanwhile, moved in a totally different direction. Instead of creating another modified version of his father’s mark (as would have been possible to our minds), he took his own name and its hieroglyphic spelling as the points of departure, and chose the initial hieroglyph as the example for his mark: I, a sign clearly belonging to the domain of writing. Amennakht (xii) of the Twentieth Dynasty, having obtained a position in the gang of workmen, had to introduce a new mark because his father’s pomegranate sign  was not yet available. Instead of that concrete sign, he used another concrete one, the jackal I, which was inspired by his own nickname, and hence by an aspect of his family history. Anuy, Anhurkhawy and Amennakht were three different persons, and it is difficult to say what their precise circumstances and thoughts might have been. In some important respects, however, their situations were similar: all three belonged to the level of chief workmen and deputies, and all three were sons not taking over the marks of their fathers. No compelling reasons present themselves to us for their choice of abstract, written or concrete signs, but the fact that they chose differently in similar circumstances does suggest that they were at liberty to do so. We can think of reasons why a given sign would have been used by a specific person, but we can only speculate as to why that specific sign would have to be someone’s personal mark instead of conceivable alternative ones. Similarly, it is difficult for us to say exactly how a mark encountered on a pottery vessel, on an ostracon or in a graffito would lead an observer to the identity of the owner. Since there were alternative strategies to arrive at a specific mark for one’s personal use, there must have been different strategies also for interpreting the different types of marks. As we have seen in chapter 3, section 3.3, different semiotic processes could be involved, even in the interpretation of one and the same mark and at the same time. In the mid-Twentieth Dynasty, many if not all the members of the workmen’s community would have recognised I as the mark of the deputy Qenna (i), but they would have done so in different ways. When the mark was encountered on an ostracon, among the first marks in a column, it would be recognised as the mark of the deputy, and

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workmen would know that this deputy was Qenna. Someone with knowledge of hieroglyphic writing would perhaps ‘read’ the mark, in whatever context, as the beginning of the name Anhurkhawy, realise that there had been two prominent members of the community with that name, and that an equally prominent living descendant of these men was the deputy Qenna. In the latter case, iconic and metonymic modes were part of the process of semiosis. In the first case, the context of the mark might have been decisive, but iconicity and metonymy could still have been part of the cognitive process of the reader. This would be in accordance with the contention, in modern cognitive science, that the human brain resorts to different strategies simultaneously in order to make sense of signs of whatever sort. Although we cannot say which strategies would have been the most likely ones with every specific mark on every specific occasion, the observer’s degree of mastering writing would have been one important factor. Signs mean different things to different users, and hieroglyphs could be characters of writing to one observer, but mere icons or indexes to another.48 This difference becomes visible to us only for those who copied the marks on ostraca. Whereas some of these ‘scribes’ recognised marks of hieroglyphic or concrete origin and rendered them precisely as such, those who did not know or care changed their appearance, often to the point of turning them into abstract signs. Perhaps we may say that the marks as signs evoked different mental images in the minds of different users. These mental images, which might be proper names (e.g. ‘Anhurkhawy’) or notions (e.g. ‘pot’, ‘scorpion’) would be the signifieds at the first level that presented itself in the mind of the observer, but on a different level, there were real-world signifieds, the persons living and working in the same community. The three graphic domains of written, concrete and abstract signs were parts of the same system at all times. They represent different sorts of motivation, but not different source codes of the marking system in a historical sense. From the moment they first become visible to us, in the early fifteenth century bce, the Deir el-Medina marks were part of one single system, and the source code, or codes of that system were marking systems that already existed, and which included the same three graphic domains already during the Old Kingdom. The Deir el-Medina system would distinguish itself from older (and later) marking systems by the strong local influence of writing. Marks inspired by hieroglyphic writing made up fifty per cent or more of the repertoire in the Eighteenth Dynasty, and over eighty per cent in the Twentieth. The growing use of the

48

See Roy Harris’s notion of asymmetric communication: chapter 3, section 3.4.

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marks on ostraca was also inspired by writing, and ultimately made the system a prominent component of a pseudo-script that included syntagmatic rules and phonetic references. This pseudo-script can truly be called bricolage as defined by Claude Lévi-Strauss (see chapter 3, section 3.5). Its main sources were the marking system and hieratic writing. The marking system itself was also the result of bricolage, but one that started at a much earlier date. The Deir el-Medina marks and their predecessors represent a sign system that began as a mixed system and continued to be so. This was partly because all graphic systems, past and present, are mixed. As was pointed out by James Elkins, even a printed page in a book—one ultimate product of a highly literate culture—includes pictorial and notational devices, such as illustrations, graphs and layout. Obviously, writing, image and notation do not have precisely the same relative status in printed books, in which long sequences of characters are the core, and in which the same text may be rendered in different formats (notation) and with different or no illustrations (picture). By contrast, the written, concrete and abstract signs in the Deir elMedina marking system do have the same status: they can all be applied as ownership marks on objects, and together they figure in sequences of marks on an ostracon. The system was also capable of adopting new signs of the three different classes at any time. The fact that the three types of signs have the same status within one system is due to the openness of that system, which we will now turn to. Being a sign system of single articulation (see chapter 3, section 3.2), the marking system was very much open to the introduction of new signs. Systems of double articulation, such as language and writing, are considerably less open, although never entirely closed. Seeing that new signs of very different sorts could become part of the system at any time, one might have the impression that anything goes. But there is no system without rules, and the effect of rules tends to be restriction. Were there restrictions in the Deir el-Medina marking system? They do not seem to have been present in the morphology of the signs and the associated processes of signification. Unlike the writing systems that were used at the same time (hieroglyphic and hieratic), the marking system did not work with fixed categories (e.g. human, animal, architecture) and prototypes for these categories. Insofar as there were categories, written, concrete and abstract, they were not precisely defined, given the presence of fuzzy borders. This becomes clear from modifications of marks, which suggest different interpretations by different users. Even fixed graphic types were not as important as they were in writing. The precise graphic appearance of marks was often less important than the notion they conveyed (e.g. ‘pot’, ‘scorpion’), and this was true for hieroglyphic and abstract marks no less than it was

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for signs of concrete inspiration. The categories and types that were there do not seem to have posed restrictive rules, and no reasons for excluding certain types or categories have become apparent to us. From the graphic point of view, pretty much anything goes. Graphically, the marking system was open, but it was a system nonetheless. Restrictive rules were there to be sure, but these rather belonged to a different aspect of the marking system: its functional context. The organisation of the royal necropolis workforce, the positions of its individual members, and their family background very much determined which signs were part of the system at any given point in time. Family circumstances and changes in the organisation necessitated transfers of marks among individual users, or the creation of new marks. The disappearance of a workman could lead to the disappearance of his mark if it was not continued within his family, or taken over by a colleague in the workforce. And overall, the total number of marks that were part of the system at any given moment could not exceed the number of active workmen and their superiors.

6.10

Historical and Functional Context: Graphic Communication and Literacy

We have shown, in this and the previous chapter, how individual marks developed, and how the marking system as a whole developed through generations and through centuries. The system was probably inspired by similar marking systems that existed at the time the royal necropolis workforce started using individual signs as marks of ownership and on ostraca, in the early fifteenth century bce at the latest. Despite their morphological similarity to pot marks of earlier periods, and their use as pot marks, it seems more likely that the Deir el-Medina marks were inspired by marking systems used in monumental building projects. The building of temples in western Thebes, such as those of Hatshepsut, Thutmose iii and Amenhotep iii, may have been the direct channels through which individual marks reached the constructors of the royal tombs. Such a direct transfer is not documented, with the possible exception of the Qurna quarry where blocks were being produced for the temple of Amenhotep iii, and where signs have been found that are identical to some of the marks on ostraca of the same time from Deir el-Medina and the Valley of the Kings. It is uncertain whether the marks used in temple building in the early Eighteenth Dynasty were those of individual workmen, or rather those of teams and their supervisors, as had been the case in much earlier periods. It is only

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from the Amarna Period onwards that individual masons’ marks can be argued to have existed in temple building. After that period, many new marks appeared in what must have been a largely new group of necropolis workmen. Since several of these also worked for Theban temples, had previously done so, or had fathers who had done so, it is possible that marks newly introduced originated again from temple building—it is impossible to be certain since no marks associated with Theban temple craftsmen of this period are known. The end of royal tomb construction at Thebes, under Ramesses xi, was also the end of the marking system, or at any rate of the local use of the marks. From the early Nineteenth Dynasty to the end of the Twentieth, we can identify very many owners of marks, and thus follow the system much more closely than is possible for the Eighteenth Dynasty. From its very beginning under Hatshepsut and Thutmose iii, the system was subject to the strong influence of writing. As a marking system, it included signs inspired by hieroglyphic writing. This was a merely a characteristic it inherited from older similar systems; maybe even some of these signs themselves had been part of older marking systems used in monumental building. In the case of the marks of the royal necropolis workforce, however, the influence of writing went significantly further, and made the marks into a prominent component of the creation of administrative records on ostraca. The earliest such records consisted of nothing more than groups or linear sequences of marks, often accompanied by numbers of strokes or dots. Ostraca of this type continued to exist in the Ramesside Period, but from the middle of the Nineteenth Dynasty onwards we also see more complex types of record, indicating days, persons, commodities, numbers, and other administrative notions. Apparently, there existed a need for such ostraca alongside the hieratic texts that essentially recorded the same information. The hands that produced the duty rosters in a pseudo-script including marks were not those of accomplished scribes, hence they probably represent semi-literate individuals who acted as assistant clerks. The fact that other ostraca with marks do show a hieratic ductus demonstrates that the hieratic scribes also mastered this code, and that they had an interest in the information it encoded.49 It is therefore very likely that the producers of hieratic administrative texts and those of ostraca with marks worked closely together, at least from the later years of Ramesses iii onwards. The semiliterate ‘scribes’ of the duty rosters can thus be considered assistants to the 49

Note that several examples exist of marks included in hieratic texts on papyrus: the Gebelein, Reisner and Varzy papyri discussed in chapter 2, sections 2.1–2.3. Marks are not found, however, on any of the numerous papyri from the royal necropolis administration of the New Kingdom.

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hieratic scribes, and were perhaps especially concerned with deliveries by the supporting staff (semdet). A similar situation may already have existed before the Amarna Period. We do not know for certain, however, whether hieratic administrative texts were being locally produced at that time. If they were, the ostraca bearing marks may have supplemented them, more or less as they would do in the Ramesside Period. But the absence of hieratic ostraca from Deir el-Medina and the Valley of the Kings that are unambiguously related to royal tomb construction also leaves room for a different hypothetical situation: that ostraca with marks were the only locally produced administrative records of the royal necropolis workforce. Hieratic records of royal tomb construction in the Eighteenth Dynasty must have existed, but they may have been produced and filed at other locations, maybe even in offices on the east bank, in the city of Thebes. After all, the supervision of the royal tomb was in the hands of the vizier and the high priests of Amun. Some support for the hypothesis that ostraca with marks were the only administrative records made in the royal necropolis itself is provided by the fact that there is no trace of hieratic writing skills on these ostraca, whereas such skills are clearly indicated by many Ramesside examples. Some Eighteenth-Dynasty ostraca do indicate familiarity with hieroglyphic writing, and may therefore have been produced by skilled draftsmen. If this reconstructed scenario is correct, the only local administrative records were ostraca with marks made by semi-literate workmen, and they were made not because writing was locally prominent, but because it was locally absent. The format of many of these ostraca, however, did imitate that of writing. The decisive impulse to start creating ostraca with identity marks may therefore have been the local absence of administrative writing in combination with the wish, felt in a team of semi-literate workmen, to have administrative data graphically fixed on a permanent medium. The ensuing documentary practice was firmly established by the time local hieratic ostraca began to be produced in substantial numbers in the early Nineteenth Dynasty. Henceforth, ostraca bearing marks would be made and used in addition to the hieratic ones, though in smaller numbers: the number of ostraca with marks known so far is less than 1,100, whereas documentary hieratic ostraca amount to at least ten times as many. This difference is probably due to the fact that the number of people who produced ostraca with marks, as well as the number of purposes for which they were produced, was more restricted than those of hieratic texts. Whereas the latter came to be produced increasingly for the administration of work as well as for private and judicial affairs, the ostraca bearing marks seem to be concerned almost exclusively with collective matters related to work at the king’s tomb, such as name lists, day duties and deliveries.

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The presence of these ostraca, and the increasing influence of writing on the use and repertoire of the marks, have important implications for local literacy. The omnipresence of identity marks, on ostraca and otherwise, demonstrates that the range of graphic communication, and even that of written information, was wider than that of writing in a strictly linguistic sense alone. It was therefore also wider than current publications of Ramesside ostraca from the royal necropolis would suggest, since the great majority of ostraca with marks remain unpublished. In fact, the range of graphic expression and communication on ostraca is even wider. It also includes figured ostraca of different types, from mere sketches to small votive monuments, as well as ostraca with types of visual information that are very difficult to classify and understand. The majority of these ostraca also remain unpublished so far.50 Together they are illustrative, perhaps more than any other type of document or monument, of the knowledge and creativity of individual members of the community of royal necropolis workmen. For the particular type of visual communication that is represented by the Deir el-Medina marking system and its uses, visual creativity was at least as important as literacy. Such creativity was abundantly present in this community of experts in monumental tomb construction and decoration. The use of the marking system on ostraca may have been the work of a very limited number of workmen and scribes, but the system itself was in much wider use, for marking ownership and presence, basically by all members of the gang. The creation, use and understanding of the marks was therefore based on knowledge that was spread even wider than that of writing. Both writing and marks, however, were in turn part of an even more extensive visual spectrum. As a final conclusion, therefore, I would plead for a wider view, not of writing, which as a sign system is specific enough, but of literacy. In modern Western society, writing is so all-pervasive that many find it difficult to think of literacy otherwise than as mastering writing in the full and strictest sense of the word. The so-called ‘new literacies’ (now perhaps better named ‘twenty-first century skills’) are very possibly on their way to changing this attitude, since visual information in digital media includes so much more than just writing. In fact, however, people have always been confronted with different types of visual communication, which often included writing, and have used them to their advantage. 50

Most relevant for the subject of this book are the thousands of ostraca waiting to be published in the French Archaeological Institute in Cairo (ifao), and many hundreds in the Egyptian Museum (Cairo) and the Ashmolean Museum (Oxford).

Epilogue: The Alphabet I noticed some strange inscriptions on statuettes, and tablets, which were partly imitations of hieroglyphs, but partly in the old Mediterranean signary. They were evidently a jumble of signs acquired by the local workmen, just as are found in Egypt, and used for writing. petrie 1932: 195

∵ In the winter of 1905–1906, Sir William Matthew Flinders Petrie was on an archaeological campaign in the Sinai Peninsula. At Serabit el-Khadim, a remote spot in the mountainous south part of the desert, he discovered ‘strange inscriptions’ on objects among the remains of the local Egyptian temple of Hathor and on rock surfaces nearby. This discovery, and Petrie’s ideas about it, were briefly discussed in chapter 1, section 1.3. In the above quote, a connection is made between the Proto-Sinaitic signs (as they are known today) and the marks used by Egyptian workmen. Petrie made this connection even more explicit in his book The Formation of the Alphabet (1912), in which he argued that marks as found on Egyptian pottery and ostraca, from different periods and places, were the origin of alphabetic characters. This connection made by Petrie between the early alphabet and marking systems was a daring and clever one at the time, but since then his theory has been superseded by research suggesting that alphabetic writing originated in the Near East or Egypt, that the earliest known alphabetic scripts were inspired by Egyptian hieroglyphs and cuneiform signs, that they were first used for WestSemitic languages, and through these languages (especially Phoenician and Aramaic), in adapted forms, reached ever larger groups of people. In the present book, alphabetic characters are not considered descendants of identity marks, but there is another possibly relevant connection between the two. That connection lies in the similarity of the process in which existing sign systems become the basis for the creation of new ones. Such a process of bricolage has been illustrated in this book for the Deir el-Medina marking system. Its ingredients were hieroglyphic writing (and, to a lesser extent, hieratic), together with concrete models (human, animal, object) and geometric forms. It is very likely that the Sinai sign inventory and the related signs discovered in the Wadi el-Hol had very similar, or even the same sources of inspiration.

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The precise number of Proto-Sinaitic early alphabetic characters is difficult to establish; overviews currently available suggest a minimum of twenty-one signs and a maximum of thirty-three.1 Many of these may be of hieroglyphic inspiration. Among the most plausible hieroglyphic models are the rejoicing (for h) and the lamp wick (perhaps for ḥ).2 However, iconic signs, man such as depictions of human beings, parts of the human body, animals, plants and objects need not be hieroglyphs. Some of the Proto-Sinaitic characters are even difficult to assign hieroglyphic origins, such as the human hand in a vertical position, with the indication of the separate fingers (as opposed to the horizontal hieroglyphic rendering focusing on contours), or the precise forms of the ‘house’ sign (for b < bêt ‘house’). For those signs, Orly Goldwasser coined the term ‘concrete’.3 Yet other characters may be of abstract geometric nature. The cross I read as t (< tau) is also known as an Egyptian hieroglyph, but was not necessarily inspired by that sign. Instead, the cross as a common geometric device could have been the origin of the Proto-Sinaitic character and of the hieroglyph.4 It also occurs very often in marking systems; at Deir el-Medina it is especially well-attested on Eighteenth-Dynasty ostraca and pottery. Research into the earliest history of the alphabet is difficult and controversial. This is mainly due to the scarcity of material, which is possibly spread over a long period of time. The available overviews in monographs and articles very much reflect personal views.5 Proposed datings of the Proto-Sinaitic inscriptions range from the early to late second millennium,6 and there is very little other material that might be earlier than the thirteenth century bce, the date of the cuneiform alphabet of Ugarit (modern Ras Shamra, in Syria). Firm evidence for Canaanite alphabetic scripts (including Phoenician and Old Hebrew) is later than the Ugarit texts. Some new material that has recently emerged might bring us further.7 Together with a thorough re-investigation of the material known so far, this should lead us in time to a more satisfying reconstruction

1 21 in Goldwasser 2006: 154–155; 33 in Hamilton 2006: 254–268; 27 to 29 in Sass 1988: 106. 2 Phonetic values remain uncertain. It is assumed that they have nothing to do with those of the original hieroglyphs, and that they represent the initial sounds of West-Semitic words for the objects depicted (according to the principle of acrophony). 3 Goldwasser 2006: 140–141. 4 The Biblical Hebrew letter name tau means ‘sign’, perhaps referring to the cross as sign par excellence. 5 E.g. Sass 1988; Goldwasser 2006; Hamilton 2006; Morenz 2011. 6 See Haring 2015c for an overview of the chronological and other controversies connected with Proto-Sinaitic. 7 Wimmer 2010; Haring 2015b.

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of the earliest alphabetic traditions, and to a better understanding of the ProtoSinaitic corpus and its importance. This, in turn, will contribute significantly to our understanding of the ongoing process of bricolage that is the history of writing and of visual sign systems more generally.

Bibliographical Essay Chapter 1 The results of previous research of the Deir el-Medina marking system have appeared in a number of articles and book chapters, which will be duly referred to in the course of this book; the more important of them being (1) for the ostraca: Dorn 2011: 139–141, 369–382; Haring 2000, 2009a and 2009b; Haring and Soliman 2014; (2) for pot marks: Aston 2009; (3) for graffiti: Fronczak & Rzepka 2009; Rzepka 2015. The ostraca referred to in sections 1.1 and 1.3 are more fully discussed in chapter 5 of this book and in Soliman 2016. Overviews of pharaonic Egyptian scripts, their reception in Western scholarship and their decipherment are given by e.g. Iversen 1993; Parkinson 1999: 12–69; Quack 2010a; Farout 2016. For a ‘crash course’ in reading hieroglyphic inscriptions see Collier and Manley 1998. For a more extensive introduction to (Middle) Egyptian grammar, Gardiner 1957 has long been the standard. It has now been superseded by more recent grammars (of which there are many, Allen 2014 being a frequently used book in English), but Gardiner’s grammar is by no means obsolete, and its sign list (pages 438–548) is still the best to consult for pre-Hellenistic hieroglyphic texts. The topic of writing in Ancient Egypt is appropriately put into perspective with reference to other ways of visual expression and communication by Parkinson 1999; Baines 2007; Kammerzell 2009. Early alphabetic writing in the Near East and the Mediterranean World is briefly touched upon again in the Epilogue, but is not the central topic in this book. Reflections on its supposed relevance to marks (or rather on the reverse: the marks’ relevance to early alphabets) in earlier scholarly work can be found in Ditze 2007: 277–278; Aston 2009: 49–50; Haring 2009a: 144. Alphabetic writing in the second millennium bce (especially the Proto-Sinaitic inscriptions) is a difficult and controversial topic, and in dire need of further research. The most substantial overviews for the Near East and Egypt are Sass 1988; Hamilton 2006; Morenz 2011. More detailed discussions and controversies abound; see e.g. Goldwasser 2006; Colless 2014; Wimmer 2010; Haring 2015b.

Chapter 2 For the pot marks of proto-historic Egypt, see most recently Engel 2015; Brink, Köhler and Smythe 2016, and The International Potmark Workshop: http://

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www.potmark-egypt.com. Egyptian pot marks of different periods are discussed in Budka, Kammerzell and Rzepka (eds) 2015: 185–320; Middle Kingdom pot marks from Kahun discussed by Gallorini 2009; New Kingdom pot marks in the Theban necropolis by Aston 2009; Ramesside pot marks at Qantir by Ditze 2007. For the organisation of the monumental construction workforce in the Old Kingdom see Eyre 1987: 7–11; Verner 2003; for the phyle system see Roth 1991. For later periods see Andrássy 2007. On the workers’ team marks see Andrássy 2009a and 2009c. For the marks used at Deir el-Bahri in the Eighteenth Dynasty see Budka 2009a and 2009b; Wieczorek 2015. Quarry marks of Late Period and Greco-Roman Egypt are discussed in Depauw 2009a and 2009b; Dijkstra 2012. A new impulse to the study of this material is being given by the research of the quarries at Gebel el-Silsila under the supervision of Maria Nilsson; Nilsson 2015 is but one of her many publications on this work. For the comparative study of marking systems, see the proceedings of the conferences on marks held in Leiden, Berlin and Warsaw: Haring and Kaper 2009; Andrássy, Budka and Kammerzell 2009; Budka, Kammerzell and Rzepka 2015. The first two include case studies on non-Egyptian material; the third one focuses entirely on Ancient Egypt. For non-Egyptian marking systems see especially Evans Pim, Yatsenko and Perrin 2010. Sections 2.5–2.9 are essentially a digest of specialist literature on medieval and later marks used in European monumental building. The field is, of course, vast, and publications mainly include case studies of particular periods, regions and monuments. The pioneering work by Jean-Louis van Belle transcends national and cultural borders (van Belle 2014), and includes the founding of the Centre International de Recherches Glyptographiques (cirg, http://www.cirg .be). His own main expertise is on the masons’ and quarry marks of Belgium and Northern France (van Belle 1984). For more general discussions on France, see Esquieu 1992; Reveyron 2003. For the Netherlands: Janse and de Vries 1991; de Vries 2009. For England: Tyson 1994.

Chapter 3 Sections 3.1–3.3 are mainly based on van der Moezel 2016 (Part ii: Semiotic and Cognitive Analysis), which in turn builds on the work of Ferdinand de Saussure, Louis Hjelmslev, Roland Barthes, Roman Jakobson, and Charles Sanders Peirce. For semiotics in general, see Chandler 2007. Applications of semiotic and cognitive theory to Egyptian hieroglyphic writing include first and foremost the work by Orly Goldwasser. Goldwasser 1995 concentrates on semiotics;

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Goldwasser 2002 on classification theory; for the latter see now also Lincke 2011 and, for a different approach, Meeks 2012. There is more writing about writing than one can possibly read, and I have made selective use of the great number of works that have come to my attention. My knowledge of the subject has been steered most of all by the conference series ‘The Idea of Writing’, started in 2004 at Leiden University by Alex de Voogt, and now annually held at different universities. These conferences present an ideal forum for theoretical and comparative discussion among linguists, Sinologists, Japanologists, Egyptologists, Assyriologists and other specialists in language and writing. Two volumes of proceedings have appeared so far: de Voogt and Finkel 2010; de Voogt and Quack 2012. For writing and literacy in Ancient Egypt see Baines 2007; Baines and Eyre 1983; Eyre 2009 and 2013; Haring 2003; Janssen 1992a; Quack 2010a; te Velde 1984. More general, theoretic work on literacy includes Goody 1977; Olson 1994 and 2016; Street 1984. Views expressed here of the significance of writing compared with and taken together with other sign systems have been very much inspired by the work of Roy Harris (1986, 1995, 2000) and James Elkins (1999), both in turn partially inspired by Ludwig Wittgenstein, Jacques Derrida, Nelson Goodman, and other thinkers.

Chapter 4 The most important handbooks on the royal necropolis workmen’s community in the New Kingdom remain Černý 1973 and Valbelle 1985. Andreu 2002 is an exhibition catalogue with updates on several aspects of the community’s history and legacy. For the history of its external administration see Häggmann 2002. A brief introduction is Bierbrier 1982. The Deir el-Medina Database of Leiden University [http://dmd.wepwawet.nl] offers a search tool for the documentary ostraca and papyri as well as a systematic bibliography on all aspects of Deir el-Medina’s history and archaeology. References to editions and translations of ostraca and papyri mentioned in this chapter and the following can be found in that database. Transcriptions and translations of many of these documents, and of graffiti left by the workmen and their supervisors in the Theban mountains, are given in Kenneth A. Kitchen’s Ramesside Inscriptions (Kitchen 1975 and following); translations of selected texts and passages in McDowell 1999. An up-to-date discussion of royal tomb construction around the beginning of the New Kingdom is to be found in Polz 2007. Recent overviews and appraisals of the reign of Akhenaten and the city of El-Amarna are produced

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by Laboury 2010 and Kemp 2012; for the end of the New Kingdom and the beginning of the Third Intermediate Period see Barwik 2011. The systematic bibliography of The Deir el-Medina Database includes sections on the Tomb Robberies Papyri and the Late Ramesside Letters.

Chapters 5 and 6 These chapters are based on primary source material, which is discussed much more extensively by Soliman 2016. Prosopographic data are mainly those provided by Davies 1999.

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Timetable: Kings and Dynasties of the Egyptian New Kingdom

Year1

Dynasty King

1539 (ca.) xviii 1514 1493 1482 1479 1458 1425 1400 1390 1353 1336 ? 1323 1319

Ahmose Amenhotep i Thutmose i Thutmose ii Thutmose iii/Hatshepsut Thutmose iii (sole reign) Amenhotep ii Thutmose iv Amenhotep iii Amenhotep iv/Akhenaten Smenkhkare Tutankhamen Ay Horemheb

1292 1290 1279 1213 1202 1202 1197 1192

xix

Ramesses i Seti i Ramesses ii Merneptah Seti ii Amenmesse Siptah Tausert

1190 1187 1156 1149 1145

xx

Sethnakhte Ramesses iii Ramesses iv Ramesses v Ramesses vi

1 Years bce from Hornung, Krauss and Warburton 2006: 492–493.

276

timetable: kings and dynasties of the egyptian new kingdom

(cont.)

Year

Dynasty King

1138 1130 1129 (ca.) 1110 (ca.) 1106 (ca.)

Ramesses vii Ramesses viii Ramesses ix Ramesses x Ramesses xi/‘Renaissance’

1076 (ca.) xxi

Smendes

Index of Subjects Functions and titles (e.g. draftsman, workman) are only included here for general, anonymous uses; for the same designations as references to specific individuals see Index of Individuals. abstract/geometric (sign) 1, 29, 33–34, 36– 37, 44–45, 50, 52, 56–61, 63, 64 fig., 65, 67–68, 71, 77, 81–83, 105–107, 162n14, 222, 223n28, 224, 228–230, 231 fig., 234– 239, 244–245 acrophony 89, 245n2 aide-mémoire 114, 117, 152 Akhet-Aten see: El-Amarna allomorphy, allomorph 190n63, 197, 215, 217, 221–222, 224–227, 230 alphabet(s), alphabetic 16–20, 25, 27, 30, 34, 36, 56–58, 60, 63, 66–67, 70–71, 74, 81, 83, 89, 91–92, 94–95, 97–99, 103, 108– 109, 114–115, 116n76, 232–233, 244–247 Amarna Period 53, 134–135, 140, 241–242 Arabian (Ancient) 109 Arabic 52, 73 Aramaic 59, 194, 233, 244 arbitrary 33, 89, 96 ars memorativa 104 Asasif 55 fig., 166 asemic writing 193 assembly/construction mark 42, 62 authorship 71 boustrophedon 105 bricolage 36, 105–106, 108, 239, 244, 246 builders’ marks 15, 35, 48–57, 176n39 butische Schrift 17n29 (calendar) dates 7–10, 47, 49, 137, 144, 150, 178, 185, 186 table, 187–188, 191–194, 232– 233 calligraphy 106 Canaanite 18, 21, 89, 232–233, 245 captains (of workmen) 137–139, 199 cattle brand 41–42, 57 check note 49 chief draftsman 134–135, 139 chief workman, foreman 7, 111, 127n14, 129, 137–138, 183, 194–199, 204, 207, 211–212, 214–215, 217, 219, 221, 225, 235, 237 Chinese 24, 108–109, 116

classifier, determinative 28–29, 32–33, 91, 98–99, 181, 223, 229 coat of arms 75, 80, 219 concrete (sign) 32–33, 36–37, 45, 50, 61, 63, 81, 105–106, 162n14, 228–230, 231 fig., 234–240, 244–245 consonantal (writing) 27n69 construction mark see: assembly mark control mark 35, 45, 70, 76 Coptic 25, 27, 194, 204n96 countermark/-weight 170, 180 Deir el-Bahri 42n5, 55–56, 124–125, 130, 158, 166, 194, 248 Deir el-Bersha 57 Deir el-Medina passim demotic 14, 23n58, 24–26, 30 deputy, deputies 111, 129, 140, 142, 147, 194, 197–198, 204, 209, 211–212, 217, 219, 221, 235, 237 determinative see: classifier diferença 58 dipinto, dipinti 55, 184n54 Djoser tiles 42n6 doorkeeper 199, 202, 220 double articulation 91–92, 97, 102, 239 Dra Abu el-Naga 125–126, 165 draftsman, draftsmen 6, 111, 134–135, 137, 139, 141, 167, 176, 183, 200, 234–235, 242 duty roster 7–10, 146, 147n64, 178, 184–199, 203, 211, 214, 218, 224, 227, 230, 232–235, 241 early writing 36, 42, 43n8, 48, 103, 109 Ehrenzeichen 74 El-Amarna, Akhet-Aten 41 fig., 52, 131–135, 166–168, 249 El-Lahun 16–17, 44–45, 51, 123n2, 165n19 Elephantine 56 emblem 101–102, 117, 195 figured/pictorial ostraca 11–12, 54n55, 155, 157, 179, 201, 243, 202

278

index of subjects

fisherman, fishermen 129, 139 font (type) 90, 99, 106–107 foreman see: chief workman Fraktur 67 ‘funny signs’ 5–7, 12–14 furniture ostraca 13, 200–201, 234 guard 129, 202 Gebel el-Asr 44 Gebel el-Silsila 56–57, 248 geometric (sign) see: abstract graffito, graffiti 6, 14–15, 18, 31–32, 41, 49, 55, 57, 80, 94, 122, 144, 146, 168, 183–184, 193, 195, 199, 213, 219–221, 237, 247, 249 (see also Index of Theban graffiti) graphic memory aid 102–104, 109 Greco-Egyptian script 30 Greco-Roman/Hellenistic Period 7n3, 11, 24, 26, 30, 57, 91, 122n2, 153, 248 Greek 1, 8n6, 16, 25–27, 48n32, 49, 56, 59–60, 66, 67n86, 73, 81, 89, 98, 110, 194, 233 guild 61 Gurob 16 Hebrew 18, 27n69, 88–89, 232, 245 hieratic passim hieroglyph, hieroglyphic passim house mark, Hausmarke 35, 79, 219 icon, iconic (Peirce) 94–97, 106, 108 iconicity, iconic 1–2, 25, 27–33, 40, 63, 81, 89, 91, 97–98, 101n28, 106, 107n46, 108–109, 156, 193–194, 203, 218, 222–225, 228–229, 238, 245 iconic literacy 101 identity, identities 2, 57, 62, 73, 80–81, 102, 211, 237 ideogram, ideographic 24, 28, 43n9, 63, 64 fig., 95, 109, 193 index, indexical (Peirce) 94–97, 106, 108– 109, 225, 238 informal workshop 200–201 integrative semiology (Harris) 101–102 interpretant (Peirce) 93–95 jar docket

21, 47–48

Karnak pottery

47

ram sphinxes 42n6 temples 124, 132, 135, 147–148, 158–159, 176, 194 khetem 146 khipu (cord notation) 102, 104 label 47–48 literacy, literate 2, 33, 35, 3–38, 41, 66, 73, 79, 82–83, 96–97, 101, 104, 109–113, 116–117, 122, 152–155, 167, 174, 179, 182, 184, 194, 231, 234–235, 239–242, 243, 249 Late Ramesside Letters 144, 147–149, 249 Latin 65–67, 71, 74, 81, 89, 115 laundrymen 139, 179 layout 105, 107, 114, 139, 178, 190, 239 literary texts 7, 26, 38, 55n54, 112, 114, 146, 155–157, 209, 216, 221 logo (commercial), trademark 1–2, 35, 57, 79 logocentric 108n50 logogram, logographic 28–29, 32–33, 45, 95, 105, 108–109, 223 logo-syllabic 20n45 Malkata 47 marque de tâcheron 69–70, 73 masons’ marks 83 Egyptian 52–53, 57, 241 European 15, 35, 43, 60–83, 166n20, 208, 222, 248 master mason/craftsman 71, 73–76, 78–79, 81–82, 167, 208 matriz 58 Mayan hieroglyphs 24 Medinet Habu 7n3, 53, 71n111, 147–149, 154, 166 Meisterzeichen 71, 74–75 merchants, tradesmen, traders 21, 61, 75, 79, 123, 153, 219 Meroitic 30 metaphor, metaphorical 87–89, 94, 132, 195, 223 metonym, metonymic 28, 32–33, 88–90, 94– 96, 225, 238 mirroring (signs) 71, 79, 161, 166, 233 monoconsonantal (writing) 17–18, 30, 91, 204 monogram 48n32, 58–59

index of subjects motivation (of sign) 222, 236, 238 Mutterfigur 78

89, 94, 97, 194, 207, 221–

name ostraca 200, 205 necropolis journal/log 115, 147–148, 150, 206 new literacies 101, 243 nickname 31–32, 203, 206, 208–209, 211, 216, 218, 222, 237 numbers, numerical signs 5–7, 15, 29, 44– 45, 49, 63, 102, 176, 185, 191–194, 232–234, 241 object (Peirce) 93–97 onomatopoeia, onomatopoeic 89, 94 open/closed system 32, 91 orality, oral 29, 39, 112–113, 115–117, 152–154, 211 orientation (marks, writing) 20n45, 66, 71 ostracon, ostraca passim (see Index of Ostraca) ownership/property mark 16, 37, 41, 45, 47, 56–58, 60, 80, 167, 193, 195, 239–240, 243 palace ware 47 palimpsest 149 papyrus, papyri 6–7, 11, 26, 29–30, 48, 51, 54, 99, 112–115, 122–123, 130, 138–139, 142, 144–152, 153n86, 154–155, 183–184, 187, 193, 199, 204, 221, 229, 241n49, 249 (see also Index of Papyri) paradigm, paradigmatic 85–86, 88, 105– 106 Phoenician 17–18, 67n86, 89, 233, 244–245 phonogram 27, 29, 105 phyle 49, 50 fig., 51, 138, 248 pictogram, pictographic 100, 102, 105, 117 pictorial (signs) passim pictorial bible 102, 104 pictorial clothing lists 13, 179, 200 pictorial narratives/records 102–104, 109 pictorial ostraca see: figured ostraca Piramesse pottery see: Qantir pot mark 6, 16, 17n29, 21, 35, 41–48, 50–51, 57, 83, 159, 165, 220, 229, 240, 247 Cypriote 21, 165 Mycenean 21, 165 Syrian 42n7, 43nn9–10

279 post-fired 16, 21, 44–46 pre-fired 16, 21, 42–47, 165 potter(s) 41–43, 139 pottery Egyptian 7, 12, 14–16, 42n7, 43–48, 56, 80, 113, 137, 159, 161, 164–169, 175, 195, 199, 219–220, 226, 231, 235–237, 244– 245 foreign 21, 43n10, 59, 165 production mark 16, 42, 44–45, 47 property mark see: ownership mark prosopography 174–175 Proto-Sinaitic 18–20, 32n80, 244–247 pseudo-hieroglyphic 48 pseudo-hieroglyphs (Byblos) 13 pseudo-scribe 234 pseudo-script/writing 13, 108, 157, 193, 203, 227, 231–232, 234–235, 239, 241 Ptolemaic 24, 30, 57n62, 110 Qantir/Piramesse pottery 45–46, 247 quarry mark 48, 56–57, 60–62, 69, 79, 167, 184n54, 231, 248 Qurna (quarry) 22, 53–54, 57, 166, 184n54, 240 reburial, reburied 125, 136, 143–144 rebus 17n29, 28–29, 103 referentiality 90, 93–94 religious iconography 31, 63, 81, 156 religious texts 7, 11, 26, 38, 112, 114, 146, 155, 221 representamen (Peirce) 93–96 restricted literacy 116 retrograde 233 Roman Period 24, 56, 60, 66–67, 70, 112–113 Rosetta Stone 24 runes 17, 67n89 Sammelstein 66n83, 74, 75 fig. scorpion charmer 199, 207, 220, 229n35 scribe(s) 5–7, 8n6, 29, 37, 41, 111–112, 114, 129–130, 137–141, 143–145, 148–149, 151–155, 176–177, 180, 183, 193, 200, 203, 220–221, 225, 228, 232–235, 238, 241– 243 seal 48, 59–60, 144, 232 seal impression 21, 47–48 semasiography 88n5, 108

280 semdet 111, 139, 179, 185, 190, 199, 202, 242 semdet scribe 139 semdet sign 192–193, 195, 232 semi-literacy/-literate 33, 83, 101, 117, 122, 194, 241–242 semiosis 93–97, 106, 225, 236, 238 semiotics/semiology 62, 84–85, 90, 93, 108, 248 Semitic 18–20, 27n69, 210, 244, 245n2 senior scribe 137–141, 143, 154n89, 180, 183, 190, 194, 196–199, 202n88, 207, 211, 213n14, 219–221, 234 Serabit el-Khadim 18, 244 signature 70, 74, 94 signification 2, 82, 94–95, 102, 106, 239 signified 85, 88–90, 92–95, 98, 227, 238 signifier 63, 85, 88–90, 92–95 Sinai 17–19, 30, 89n9, 244 single articulation 91n12, 102, 166n20, 239 station de repos 174–175, 178, 205 structuralism 62, 81, 85–95, 98, 105 syllabic writing, syllabaries 13n15, 20n45, 27n69, 30, 98, 108–109, 115 symbol, symbolic (Peirce) 94–97, 106, 108 synecdoche 28n70 syntagma, syntagmatic 85–86, 91, 106, 192– 193, 226, 239 tally stick 102 tamga 193n70 Tanis 145 tattoo 57 team mark 48–53, 55–57, 166, 231, 240, 248 Tell el-Yahudiya tiles 16, 42n6 token 98, 102, 167, 180 tomb(s) 11, 15, 47–48, 110, 113, 180, 184, 203n93

index of subjects royal tomb(s) 5–7, 11, 16, 34, 46, 53–54, 121, 124–127, 130–131, 133, 145, 151, 154– 156, 164–165, 168, 240, 242 private tomb(s) 11, 14–15, 21, 26n67, 34, 126–127, 133–134, 136, 156, 165 (see also Index of Theban Tombs) tomb construction 52, 55, 125, 129, 159, 164– 167, 206, 216, 241–243, 249 tomb decoration/painting 37, 139, 155, 167 tomb looting/robbery 144 trademark see: logo tradesmen see: merchants transport mark 42, 48, 56 Ugarit (Ras Shamra)

245

Valley of the Kings 6–7, 14, 19, 22, 34, 46, 52–54, 56, 121, 124, 126, 129, 131, 135–136, 138, 141, 145n58, 155n91, 156, 159–160, 164–170, 174, 201, 203n93, 204–205, 240, 242 Valley of the Queens 6–7, 19, 34, 53, 121, 124, 126n12, 130, 159 visual literacy 101n27 vizier 129, 137, 140, 148, 150–151, 154, 183, 203– 204, 205n102, 242 vocalisation 8n6, 27, 210n8 votive inscriptions 35, 41, 72, 80, 168, 181, 183 Wadi el-Hol 18–19, 20n42, 30, 89n9, 244 water carrier(s) 129, 139, 146 wax tablet 112–113 woodcutter(s) 129, 139 workmen’s huts 22, 46, 138, 141, 155n91, 156– 157, 168–169, 171, 174–175, 201, 205 writing passim writing board 11, 112–113

Index of Individuals Ancient Egyptian, non-royal. Numbering and vocalisation of the names of Ramesside necropolis personnel and administrators follow Davies 1999. Aapehty (i)/(ii) (workman) 172 table, 173 Akhpet (iii) (workman) 203, 217 Amenemope (scribe) 127, 128 fig., 129–130, 132 Amenemope (senior scribe) 137, 140–141, 183 Amenemope (workman) 186 table Amenemope (xvii) (workman) 176n38 Amenemwia (i) (workman) 172 table Amenhotep (high priest) 180n47 Amenhotep (woodcutter) 192 Amenmose (workman) 172 Amennakt (v) (senior scribe) 54, 141–143, 151, 190, 196–198, 202n88, 220–221 Amennakht (x) (workman) 172 table, 173, 177, 179, 181, 209–211, 213–214, 216–217 Amennakht (xii/Pawenesh) (deputy) 31–32, 199, 206, 208–213, 216, 218–220, 222, 235, 237 Amennakht (xxi) (workman) 176n38 Amenwa (i) (draftsman) 225 Anhurkhawy (name) 92, 95–96, 198, 238 Anhurkhawy (i) (chief workman) 96, 172, 181, 212–214, 216, 218, 222, 237 Anhurkhawy (ii) (chief workman) 92, 96, 181, 198, 212–214, 216 Anuy (i) (deputy) 212, 213 fig., 216–217, 222– 224, 237 Anuy (ii) (workman) 172 table, 177 Anuynakht (deputy) 186 table, 197–198 Bakenanuy 209n4 Bakenmut 171n31 Baki (i) (workman) 174–175, 180 Baki (ii) 174, 180 Bay (senior scribe?) 137, 141, 180 Buqentuef (i) (workman) 172 table, 177, 180, 208–210, 214, 216, 219 Buqentuef (ii) (workman) 180 Butehamun (senior scribe) 143–147, 203n93 Didi (i) 209–211 Djehutinefer (treasury overseer)

130

Hapuseneb (high priest) 129 Haremwia (i) (workman) 172 table, 173–175, 177 Haremwia (ii) (workman) 180 Harmose (ii) (chief workman) 198, 213 fig., 214–215, 219, 222, 235 Harmose (superior) 127, 130 Harnefer (i)/(ii) (workman) 172 table, 173 Harshire (i) (draftsman/scribe) 186 table, 196–198, 220–221 Hay (iv) (chief workman) 181, 213–214, 222 Hay (vii) (deputy) 31, 208–209, 210 fig., 211, 213, 216, 219, 225n30, 235 Hehnakht (ii) (workman) 172 table, 173, 177 Herihor (general/high priest) 144 Hori (chief draftsman) 138 Hori (scribe) 190, 198 Hori (workman) 8–9, 186 table, 225 Hormin (draftsman) 138 Hunero (wife of Amenemope) 140 Huy (scribe) 141 Huy (workman) 172 Huynefer 171n31 Ineni (mayor, overseer) 127, 129–130 Iny 171n31 Ipuy (chief workman) 141 Ipuy (v) (workman) 176n38 Irsu 217n18 Irya’a 186 table Irynefer (i) 175–176 Iyernutef (ii) (workman) 171n31, 172 table, 186 table Kasa (workman) 8–10 Kasa (chief draftsman) 134 Kel (i) (workman) 176n38 Kha (overseer) 16, 126–127, 129–130, 161, 164 fig., 167, 171, 183 Khabekhnet (i) (workman) 169, 175, 196, 214, 215 fig., 217, 222–223

282 Khabekhnet (iii) (workman) 176 Khaemhedjet 198, 211n11 Khaemhedjet (senior scribe) 205 Khaemnun (i) (workman) 179, 180n45, 181, 186 table, 195, 211, 216–217 Khaemtir 171n31 Khaemwaset (overseer) 127, 130 Khaemwaset (workman) 186 table Kharu see: (Pa)kharu Khons (ii) (workman) 172, 175, 196n75, 215 fig., 222 Khons (v) (chief workman) 196, 203, 214, 215, 217, 235 Maaninakhtuf (i) (workman) 172, 176–177 Maya (treasury overseer) 136 Menna (workman) 9 table, 176n38 Merit (wife of Kha) 16, 127 Merwaset (workman) 171n31, 173 Meryre (v) (workman) 218–219, 224–225, 235 Meryre (vi) (workman) 8–10, 186 table, 218– 219, 222 Meryre (vii) (workman) 219 Mininwy (chief of police) 136n34 Minkhau (workman) 186 table Minmose (scribe) 140–141 Montuemtawy (treasury overseer) 204– 206 Mose (workman) 8–9, 31, 91, 176n38, 186 table, 191–192, 195 Nakhtamun 171n31 Nakhtmin (vi) (workman) 172 table, 173, 177, 182, 186 table Nakhy (workman) 134, 136 Nakhy (iii) (workman) 209–210 Nebenmaat (ii) (workman) 172 table, 175, 176n38 Nebimentet (i) (workman) 172–173, 177 Nebnakht (workman) 180 Nebnefer 181, 216n17 Neferabet (i) (workman) 172 table, 175 Neferhebef (overseer) 127, 129–130 Neferher (iv) (workman) 181, 230 Neferher (vi) (workman) 181, 186 table, 230 Neferronpet 171n31 Neferhotep (xi) (workman) 10, 186 table, 218, 219 table, 224–225

index of individuals Neferhotep (xii) (workman) 218–219, 225 Nefersennut (workman) 169, 172 Nekhemmut (i) (chief workman) 196, 214– 215 Nekhemmut (vi) ((chief) workman) 12 fig., 186 table, 195–198, 203, 214–215, 216n17, 217, 220, 222, 235 Nesamun (iii) 186 table, 195, 217n18 Nofretkhau (wife of Huy) 141 Pades (woodcutter) 192 Pahemnetjer (i) (workman) 172, 181 Paherypedjet 171n31 Paiankh (general/high priest) 144, 148 (Pa)kharu 172 table, 214–215 Pamerihu (workman) 180 Pamerperhedj (draftsman) 206, 217 Paneb (chief workman) 182–183 Panefer 219 Pasen (workman) 191, 195–197, 215, 217, 222, 235 Paser (v) (workman) 172 table Pashedu (vii) (draftsman) 176 Pashedu (x) 176n38 Pawenesh (‘The Jackal’) see: Amennakht (xii) Pay (scribe) 127, 129 Pay (i) (workman) 176n38 Paybes (scribe) 198 Penanuqet (workman) 9 table, 10, 186 table Pendua (workman) 172–173 Pennub (ii)/(iii) (workman) 172 table, 173, 177 Penrennut 12 Pentaweret (iii) (scribe) 190 Ptahkhau (workman) 203, 217 Ptahmose (woodcutter) 192 Qaha (i) (chief workman) 169, 212, 213 fig., 214–217, 219, 222–223, 236–237 Qaydjoret (doorkeeper/guard) 202, 203n92, 207–208, 216–217 Qedakhtef (deputy) 198 Qen 182 Qenamun/Qenna (chief draftsman) 134 Qenhirkhopshef (senior scribe) 137, 141–142, 149n75, 183, 196, 220–221 Qenna (i) (workman/deputy) 92, 96, 212– 214, 216, 237–238

283

index of individuals Rahotep 171n31 Ramesses-Usikhopesh (chief workman?) 196n76 Ramose (senior scribe) 137, 140–142, 171n31, 176, 183, 205n101, 220–221 Reshpetref (workman) 186 table, 192 Reweben (iv) 181 Seba (iii) (workman) 172 Sennedjem (i) (workman) 168–169, 171, 175– 176, 180, 196, 212, 214–215, 216n17, 217, 222–223 Seny (deputy) 198, 211n11 Setau (workman) 134, 136 Siwadjet (ii) (workman) 172–173, 175–177, 181 Simut 171n31, 176n38 Sunero 171n31

Ta (vizier) 141 Tahefnu (wife of Amennakht) 216n17 Tener (draftsman) 128 fig. Thutmose (chief draftsman) 134–135 Thutmose (doorkeeper) 202 Thutmose (senior scribe) 143–145, 147, 205n101 Thutmose (steward) 136 Userhat (workman) 8–9, 186 table, 191–192, 195 Usermaatrenakht (woodcutter) 192 Wadjmose (i) (workman) 169, 172 table, 173, 177 Wennefer (ii) (workman) 172 table, 177

Index of Ostraca Ashmolean Museum ho 704 204n96 Ashmolean Museum ho 810 179 Ashmolean Museum ho 891 189n62 Ashmolean Museum ho 1078 189n62, 233n41 Ashmolean Museum ho 1084 233n40 Ashmolean Museum ho 1090 189n62 Ashmolean Museum ho 1093 233n41 Ashmolean Museum ho 1094 224 fig. Ashmolean Museum ho 1098 197n80, 225– 226 Ashmolean Museum ho 1131 + Brooklyn Museum 16118 204n96, 226n32 Ashmolean Museum ho 1247 187n57, 233n41

Cairo cg 25671 Cairo cg 25759 Cairo je 72490 Cairo je 96328 Cairo je 96585 Cairo je 96591 Cairo je 96647 Cairo sr 12218

Berlin p 3311 157 fig. Berlin p 12625 + ifao onl 300 5–10, 31, 185, 186 table, 233n41 Berlin p 14231 224 fig. bm ea 5624 136nn33–34 bm ea 5634 171, 172 table, 173, 175, 177, 212 bm ea 5635 178n41 bm ea 5642 14n16, 198, 204n96 bm ea 5861 14n16 bm ea 8494 209 bm ea 50716 189n62, 194–198 Brooklyn Museum 16118 see: Ashmolean Museum ho 1131 + Brooklyn Museum 16118 BTdK 382 201n88 BTdK 541 189n62 BTdK 571 196n74 BTdK 745 209n5 BTdK 746 209n5

fes 01.34 204n96 Fitzwilliam Museum ega 6120.1943 224 fig., 233n42

Cairo cg 24105 13 fig., 14 Cairo cg 24105–24108 14n17 Cairo cg 25216 156 fig. Cairo cg 25270 14n18, 15 fig. Cairo cg 25317 199 Cairo cg 25317–25321 14n19 Cairo cg 25325–25326 14n19 Cairo cg 25326 19n41 Cairo cg 25327 bis 19n41 Cairo cg 25515 88n6

140n45 20n43 161n11 189n62 227n34 227n33 196n77, 200n85, 202n90 189n62

Deir el-Medina 37 185 Deir el-Medina 41 191–192 Deir el-Medina 264 224 fig. Deir el-Medina 706 212 Deir el-Medina 1038 209n5 Deir el-Medina 1598 209n7

187n57,

Glasgow d.1925.67 7, 10 Glasgow d.1925.80 7n5, 8, 10, 188, 189 fig., 197 Hawass

171, 176, 196

ifao c 7638 197n79 ifao ol 170 + oim 19130 203n94, 204n96, 226n31 ifao onl 300 see: Berlin p 12625 + ifao onl 300 ifao onl 309 204n96 ifao onl 312 233n41 ifao onl 314 233n41 ifao onl 329 233n41 ifao onl 411 204n96 ifao onl 6185 203n92 ifao onl 6214 227n34 ifao onl 6219 189n62 ifao onl 6232 196n74 ifao onl 6263 179 fig. ifao onl 6298 161nn11–12 ifao onl 6313 179 fig. ifao onl 6330 161n11 ifao onl 6351 223 fig., n25 ifao onl 6399 204n96

285

index of ostraca ifao ifao ifao ifao ifao ifao ifao ifao

onl 6424 onl 6462 onl 6472 onl 6479 onl 6480 onl 6536 onl 6583 onl 6690

161n11 196n78 222n23 223n25 226n31 223 fig., n25 204n96 180

Leiden f.2000/1.5 190, 191 fig., 197 Louvre e 14311 209n7 mma 09.184.783 202n91 mma 09.184.784 202n91 oim 19130 see: ifao ol 170 + oim 19130 Prague nmp 3836

195, 197–198, 200n84

Schaden 1 173, 177–178 Schaden 16 173

Schaden 96 170 Strasbourg h 10 233n42 Strasbourg h 13 218 fig. Toronto a.11 136n34 Turin cg 57523 40n2, 201 fig. Turin cg 57534 195, 197–199, 211 Turin cg 57544 153n86 Turin 66837 19 uc 31988 uc 32054 uc 45682 uc 45683 uc 45705 uc 45708 uc 45716 uc 45733

20n44 12 fig., 235n47 20n44 20n44 20n44 20n44 20n44 15 fig.

Index of Papyri Abbott 150n81 Ashmolean 1958.112

138n38

Berlin p 10494 147n65 Bibliothèque Nationale 197, v 144n55 bm ea 10055 (Salt 124) 183n51 bm ea 10375 144n56 Chester Beatty El-Lahun

149, 221n22

51, 122–123n2

Gebelein 44–45, 49 Geneva d 409 + Turin Cat. 2021 Greg (uc 34336) 187n55 Harris i (Great Harris Papyrus) Harris 500 209n6 Ramesseum Onomasticon Reisner ii 50–51, 241n49

147–148, 154

188n61

21n52, 51

Turin Cat. 1875 (Judicial Papyrus) 188n61, 205n99 Turin Cat. 1879 (Mine Map) 54n51, 201n88 Turin Cat. 1880 (Strike Papyrus) 142 Turin Cat. 1881+ 31n73 Turin Cat. 1885 149n76 Turin Cat. 1888 + 2085 147n67 Turin Cat. 1891 205n99 Turin Cat. 1895 + 2006 (Taxation Papyrus) 147n68 Turin Cat. 1898+ 206n104 Turin Cat. 1900 148 Turin Cat. 1966 210n9 Turin Cat. 1999 + 2009 148n71 Turin Cat. 2021 see Geneva d 409 + Turin Cat. 2021 Turin cg 55002 188n60 Turin prov. no. 3581 130n20 Varzy

39–40, 45, 241n49

Index of Theban Graffiti 1111 141n48 1143 141n48 1282 145n57

1670 183n52 1850 183n52

Index of Theban Tombs, Royal and Private Amenhotep (high priest) 180n47 Amenhotep i (Dra Abu el-Naga) 125 Amenhotep ii (kv 35) 14, 22, 160, 162–163 table Amenhotep iii (kv 22) 22, 54, 160, 162–163 table Amenmesse (kv 10) 170 Harmose (dm 1159) 127 Hatshepsut (qv, kv 20) 124, 126, 159, 164 Hekanefer (dm 1350) 161n10 Irynefer (i) (tt 290)

175

Kha (tt 8) 16, 42n5, 126–127, 161, 167n24 Khabekhnet (tt 2) 169 kv 39 125n6 kv 40 159n5 kv 54 (embalmers’ cache) 42n5 kv 55 135–136, 168 kv 63 (embalmers’ cache) 42n5, 169n27 Merenptah (kv 8)

Neferabet (tt 5) 175 Nekhunefer (dm 1099) qv 34

161n10

159n5

Ramesses ii (kv 7) 170 Ramesses iv (kv 2) 149n76, 188 Ramesses x (kv 18) 138, 143, 156 Ramesses xi (kv 4) 143 Senmut (tt 353) 55 Sennedjem (tt 1) 156 fig., 168–169, 175, 180, 222 Siptah (kv 47) 144–145 Thutmose i (kv 38) 126–130 Thutmose ii (kv 42) 126, 129 Thutmose iii (kv 34) 159–160, 162–163 table, 164 Thutmose iv (kv 43) 136 Tutankhamen (kv 62) 124, 135–136, 168 tt 340 167n24

171 Wadi Qurud tomb 1

159n5

Index of Deir el-Medina Marks Including allomorphs, and other uses of the same graphs in pseudo-written accounts. Pictorial marks (including those resembling hieroglyphic and hieratic characters) are given first; their order agrees with the sign list in Gardiner 1957: 438–548. They are followed by abstract/geometric marks. The marks discussed in this book make up appr. 50 per cent of the full New Kingdom range of Deir el-Medina marks, for which see Van der Moezel 2016. 170 table, 172 table 202, 208, 216 203, 217 170 table, 172–173 203, 217 162 170 table, 172 I 182 I 170, 172 table, 173 I 8–9, 186 table  20n45, 163, 164 fig. I 163 I 162n14, 163  162n14, 163 I 162 I 180, 182 fig. I 31–32, 206, 208–2011, 213, 216, 218, 220, 222, 228, 231 fig., 235, 237 I 8–9, 170 table, 172 table, 177, 186 table, 191– 192 I 170 table, 172, 177 I 203–206, 217, 228, 231 fig. I 186 table, 195 table, 197–198 I 8–9, 31, 56, 91, 160n9, 164 fig., 166, 170 table, 172, 186 table, 191–193, 200, 201 fig., 203 I 182 fig. I 56, 160n8, 162, 166, 169, 170 table, 172, 182, 223, 225, 230 I 226 I 225–228, 231 fig., 236 I 181, 182 fig. I I 182 I 182 fig. I 181, 182 fig., 230, 231 fig. I 169, 170 table, 171, 172 table, 175, 180, 196, 214, 215 fig., 217, 222 I 8–9, 90, 186 table I 163 I 20n45, 162, 165 I 203–204, 206, 217, 228, 231 fig. I I I I I I I

I 163, 166 I 225–226 I 163 I 163 I 225–226 I 162 I 195–196, 198, 203, 206–207, 215, 217, 219–

220, 228, 231 fig., 235 I 199, 207, 220, 229, 231 fig. I 199, 229, 231 fig. I 46 fig. I 170 table, 172 table, 173, 177 fig., 179, 181,

182 fig., 186 table, 203, 210, 216–217, 218 fig. I 162n14, 163 I 162n14, 163 I 170, 172–173, 175, 177 fig., 181, 182 fig., 203 I 181, 182 fig., 213–214, 222, 228, 231 fig. I 163 I 162  170 table, 172 table, 177 fig., 180, 195 table, 199, 208–211, 213, 216–217, 219–220, 229, 231 fig., 235, 237 162, 164 fig. I I 163, 170 table, 172 table, 186 table, 218–219, 235 I 20n45, 162 I 181, 182 fig. I 163, 165–166 I 163, 170 table, 172, 186 table, 200, 201 fig. I 170, 172 table I 160n9 I 163, 164 fig. I 195 table, 198, 211 I 162 I 20, 186 table I 180, 200, 201 fig. I 163 I 195 table, 198 I 56, 162, 166

290

index of deir el-medina marks

I 170 table, 172 table, 194  170 table, 172 table, 173, 177 fig. I 170 table, 172 table, 177, 186 table I 200, 201 fig., 225 I 225, 228, 231 fig.  162, 193  20n45, 177 fig. I 32, 162, 166, 170 table, 172 table, 173 I 170 table, 172 table, 173, 177 I 170 table, 172 table I 170 table, 172 table I 170 table, 172 table, 175 I 163 I 186 table, 192–193 I 160n8, 162  162 I 170 table, 172, 181, 182 fig., 200, 201 fig. I 170 table, 172–173, 177 fig., 191 fig., 192 I 33, 225–226, 229–230, 231 fig.  33, 163, 229, 231 fig. I 170 table, 172 table, 177 fig., 186 table I 186 table, 195 table, 196–197, 220–221, 228,

231 fig. I 163, 166 I 170 table, 172 table, 177, 182 fig., 186 table,

218 fig., 226 I 226, 236 I 162 I 163, 166, 169, 170 table, 172 table, 173, 177

fig., 223, 227 169, 175, 196, 214, 215 fig., 217, 222 105 160n9, 227 227 170 table, 172 table, 175, 203 170 table, 172, 177 fig. 8–9, 56, 162, 166, 170 table, 172 table, 173, 186 table, 218–219, 222, 224–225, 233, 235–236 I 105, 224–225, 228, 231 fig., 236 I 170, 172 table, 173–174, 177 fig., 180 I 163 I 182 fig. I 182 I 162, 170 table, 172 table 163 I 170 table, 172 table, 177 I 163 I 162, 193, 229, 231 fig. I I I I I I I

I 177 fig., 229, 231 fig. I 229, 231 fig. I 96, 170 table, 172, 181, 182 fig., 198, 212–214,

216–218, 222, 228, 231 fig., 237 20n45, 162, 166, 164 fig. I I 182 fig. I 176, 195 table, 196–197, 207, 211, 219–221, 228, 231 fig., 234 I 170 table, 172 table I 163, 230, 231 fig.  162, 170 table, 172, 175, 196n75, 215 fig., 222, 224 I 163, 182 fig. I 163, 164 fig.  20n45, 33, 162, 186 table, 217n18, 218 fig., 230, 231 fig. 16, 161, 164 fig.   161–162  33, 163, 230, 231 fig.  20n45  33, 162, 230, 231 fig.  161n10, 163  163  163  163, 165  162, 164 fig.  163  162, 230, 231 fig.  33, 163, 230, 231 fig.  163, 230, 231 fig.  15, 20n45, 160n8, 162, 170 table, 172 table, 173 15, 170 table, 172 table   15  163  20n45, 163  162, 166  161n10, 163, 164 fig.  162, 164 fig., 230, 231 fig.  163  170 table, 172 table, 173, 177 fig., 182, 186 table, 200, 201 fig.  191 fig., 192, 195 table, 197–198, 207, 211, 214–215, 217, 219, 222–224, 229, 231 fig., 237 I 212, 213 fig., 216–217, 222, 237  186 table, 191, 195–198, 200, 201 fig., 214– 215, 217, 220, 222, 224, 229, 231 fig., 235, 237

291

index of deir el-medina marks 169, 195–198, 201n88, 212, 213 fig., 214–215, 217, 219, 222–225, 229–230, 231 fig., 235, 237  170 table, 172 table, 214  170 table, 172 table 

 226  230, 231 fig.  170 table, 172 table, 173, 177, 181, 186 table,

230, 231 fig.