Literary Change in Mesopotamia and Beyond and Routes and Travellers Between East and West: Proceedings of the 2nd and 3rd Melammu Workshop (Melammu Workshops and Monographs) 9783963270666, 3963270667

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MWM 2 Proceedings of the 2nd and 3rd Melammu Workshops

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Melammu Workshops and Monographs 2

Literary Change in Mesopotamia and Beyond and Routes and Travellers between East and West Proceedings of the 2nd and 3rd Melammu Workshops Edited by Rocío Da Riva, Martin Lang and Sebastian Fink

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Literary Change in Mesopotamia and Beyond and Routes and Travellers between East and West Proceedings of the 2nd and 3rd Melammu Workshops

Edited by Rocío Da Riva, Martin Lang and Sebastian Fink

© 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

Melammu Workshops and Monographs Volume 2

Edited by Sebastian Fink and Robert Rollinger

Scientific Board Alberto Bernabé (Madrid) Josine Blok (Utrecht) Rémy Boucharlat (Lyon) Eckart Frahm (New Haven) Mait Kõiv (Tartu) Ingo Kottsieper (Göttingen) Daniele Morandi Bonacossi (Udine) Sabine Müller (Marburg) Simonetta Ponchia (Verona) Kurt Raaflaub (Providence) Thomas Schneider (Vancouver) Rahim Shayegan (Los Angeles) Shigeo Yamada (Tsukuba)

© 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

Literary Change in Mesopotamia and Beyond and Routes and Travellers between East and West Proceedings of the 2nd and 3rd Melammu Workshops

Edited by Rocío Da Riva, Martin Lang and Sebastian Fink

Zaphon Münster 2019 © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

The Melammu Logo was drawn by Rita Berg from a Greco-Persian style seal found on the north-eastern shore of the Black Sea (Dominique Collon, First Impressions: Cylinder Seals in the Ancient Near East (London: British Museum Publications 1987), no. 432). Illustration on the cover: P.E. Botta / E. Flandin: Monument de Ninive, Bd. 1: Architecture et sculpture. Paris 1849. Tf. 41.

Literary Change in Mesopotamia and Beyond and Routes and Travellers between East and West. Proceedings of the 2nd and 3rd Melammu Workshops Edited by Rocío Da Riva, Martin Lang and Sebastian Fink = Melammu Workshops and Monographs 2

© 2019 Zaphon, Münster (www.zaphon.de) All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photo-copying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Printed in Germany Printed on acid-free paper ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6

© 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

Table of Contents Literary Change in Mesopotamia and Beyond 2nd Workshop of the Melammu Project, University of Innsbruck, 13–14 October 2016 Edited by Martin Lang and Sebastian Fink About a History of Ancient Near Eastern Literature: An Introduction Martin Lang ..........................................................................................................9 The Transformation of the Sumerian Temple Hymns Peeter Espak .......................................................................................................15 Looking for Threads of Transmission and Change in II Millennium Heroic Narrative Simonetta Ponchia ..............................................................................................23 Legends of Sargon: History to His Story: Forming the Warrior King Archetype Takayoshi M. Oshima .........................................................................................43 Some Notes on the Evolution of the Hittite Royal Annals Vladimir Sazonov ................................................................................................57 The Evolution of the Festival of Dumuzi in the Light of Russian Assyriology Vladimir Emelianov ............................................................................................89

Routes and Travellers between East and West Cultural Exchange in the Ancient World 3rd Workshop of the Melammu Project, University of Barcelona, 22–23 March 2017 Edited by Rocío Da Riva and Sebastian Fink Introduction Rocío Da Riva / Sebastian Fink ........................................................................107 Greek as Travellers in Near Eastern Sources Paola Corò........................................................................................................113 Assyrians and Babylonians in Classical Sources Sebastian Fink / Kerstin Droß-Krüpe ...............................................................135

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Table of Contents

Invading Mesopotamia, from Alexander the Great to Antiochus VII Julien Monerie ..................................................................................................155 Travelers in Upper Mesopotamia during the Middle and Early Neo-Assyrian Periods: Itineraries and Objectives, from East to West Aurélie Paci ......................................................................................................187 The Sage’s Lehrjahre Jaume Pòrtulas .................................................................................................221 Religious Networks and Cultural Exchange: Some Cases from the Eastern Mediterranean and Aegean in the 3rd–1st Millennia BC Ian Rutherford ..................................................................................................229 Through the Middle Sea: An Overview of the Main Mediterranean Sea-Routes in Antiquity Christoph Schäfer / Pascal Warnking...............................................................241 Greek Mercenaries in Mesopotamia: The Visit of the Ten Thousand Christopher J. Tuplin ........................................................................................259

Index ...............................................................................................................285

© 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

Literary Change in Mesopotamia and Beyond 2nd Workshop of the Melammu Project, University of Innsbruck, 13–14 October 2016 Edited by Martin Lang and Sebastian Fink

© 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

© 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

About a History of Ancient Near Eastern Literature An Introduction1 Martin Lang

The idea to organize a conference about a topic of a “Literaturgeschichte” has arisen during my work on my Habilitationsschrift.2 Its heuristic aim was a diachronic view on the tradition of the deluge and its continuities and changes throughout the history from its early roots in Sumerian sources of the 3rd mill. BCE, over the formative time in the Isin period,3 when a developed narrative of the Flood with its rich intertextual network emerged. The journey went on by passing the important œvres of the cuneiform literature, inūma ilū awīlum (Atraḫasīs) in which this story very probably via “Mythenkoppelung”4 was integrated. Further, the investigation treated šūtur eli šarri, the OB Gilgameš song that in all likelihood lacked the Flood story, and stepped over, via the extant fragments of the flood narrative in the Mediterranean west in Ugarit and Megiddo, to ša naqba īmuru (the 12 tablet version of the Gilgameš song) with the Flood story on tablet XI in its most developed and esoteric shape,5 down until the vertical reception in the Hellenistic period.6 The properties and the condition of our sources from the cuneiform tradition allow this diachronic view on its material, and it was W.G. Lambert, who sharpened this argument as follows: “It is of course a disadvantage to have only partly preserved texts in many cases, but as compared with texts which have come down to us complete by a long copying tradition there is one advantage. We have only the final form of the Hebrew Bible, and scholars speculate about its compilation and transmission before it reached that final form. With the cuneiform tradition

1

This conference was supported by the FWF, the Austrian Fonds zur Förderung wissenschaftlicher Forschung (Austrian Science Foundation), A Glossary of the Sumerian Emesal Songs and Prayers (P 27224–G19). The organizers owe thanks to all contributors to the conference. Unfortunately, for various reasons, not all papers could be published here. 2 Lang, forthc. 3 This was also figured out by Chen, 2012 and Chen, 2013. 4 Wilcke, 1999: 70. 5 Leaving aside the alleged late dating of tablet XII (cp. Frahm, 1999) possibly some elements in the 12 tablet version, especially in the flood version on tablet XII of the Gilgameš song seem to be late (i.e. Neo Assyrian). Cp. Lang, 2014, and Lang, forthc. 6 Lang, 2013. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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we are in a position in some cases to tap the tradition at varying points over the centuries.” (Lambert, 1926–2011)7 Further, during our lexicographical work with the corpus of the Sumerian Emesal laments8 the question has arisen: Why are there and how can we explain literary changes in the tradition of the sub-corpus we are working on? Whereas its material, the Sumerian Emesal songs, being in use as liturgical practical texts (“Gebrauchstexte”) and performed9 until the very latest period of the cuneiform tradition (until its script obsolescence, or even longer?),10 underwent other ways of tradition than literary texts, they show veritable signs of literary change. How does cuneiform literature develop, how does it change, and: why does it change? Together with Sebastian Fink, who, at present is working Helsinki, somehow shares similar interests, we decided to design this small conference which finally was embedded into the framework of the Melammu-Project. This very project in its origins was founded for the research on the heritage of Mesopotamian traditions, to “investigate the continuity, transformation, and diffusion of Mesopotamian and Ancient Near Eastern culture from the third millennium BCE through the ancient world until Islamic times and after”.11 From this perspective, I think, Melammu was the ideal format for a conference like ours. Organizing a conference about some aspects of a “Literaturgeschichte” of the Ancient Near East, and, as the title wants to say, “and beyond”,12 that means, a Literaturgeschichte of the Antiquity, this sounds a little bit too ambitions, or daring and bold. This sounds even naïve and arrogant, whereas, all the more, we have no established History of Literature in the field of cuneiform studies.13 Of course, we have numerous outlines of histories of literature of the classical languages Latin and Greek. And, indeed, we have several attempts and fruitful sketches about Sumerian14 and Akkadian Literature,15 about the Hittite16 and Ugaritic Tradition17 – I leave aside here the Hebrew Bible with its own history of research as

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Lambert, 2008: 16. The FWF Projects: A Glossary of the Sumerian Emesal Songs and Prayers (P 27224– G19) and Glossar zu den sumerischen kanonischen Balag-Liedern (P 23323–G19). It was Anne Löhnert who held her paper about the “Techniques of editing Mesopotamian Lamentations” in this conference. 9 Del Nero, 2015. 10 Houston/Baines/Cooper 2003: esp. 450–456. 11 http://melammu-project.eu/project/prdescriptionproj.html (Nov 12th 2018). 12 So Johannes Haubold’s presentation in this conference dealt with “the textual transmission of Greek and Akkadian epic”. 13 Pongratz-Leisten, 2001: 15–19. 14 E.g. Jacobsen, 1987 and Volk, 2015. 15 E.g. Foster, 32005 and 2007. 16 E.g. Haas, 2006. 17 E.g. Pardee, 2012. 8

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well –, but they cannot exceed the anthological character of these studies. For the Sumero-Akkadian Literature I only want to mention two works, which I think, shall not be forgotten. On the one hand it is Jeffrey Tigay’s work about the development of the Epic of Gilgameš,18 which is still a masterpiece of its own, and, on the other hand it is Herman Vanstiphout’s short sketch about the emergence, the development and even the decline of a genre.19 It was highly influential on the studies about the Sumerian city laments, it was seen as a challenge, but it has never been surpassed. But mostly, these sketches – I refer to these about ANE literature, if at all they are a “Literaturgeschichte” –, are, at least in the German speaking parts of the world, obliged to a “nationalistic” concept of a Literaturgeschichte. The idea of “Literaturgeschichte” per se derives from the rising European nationalism(s) as a means of cultural self-definition and self-awareness. It developed from a historia litteraria as a report about new books, be it scientific or for a broader public, a “bibliography” to a story, a commented narrative, about the unfolding and development of the literature of a nation. In the early 19th century this bibliographical and anthological character shrunk and the historia litteraria underwent a change. The turning point in this development was the publication of the “Geschichte der poetischen National-Literatur der Deutschen von Dr. G.G. Gervinus. Erster Theil. Von den ersten Spuren der deutschen Dichtung bis gegen Ende des 13. Jahrhunderts (Leipzig: W. Engelmann, 1835)”. As such this Literaturgeschichte became an integral part of the education and even in public discourses. Therefore the idea of a Literaturgeschichte is, from its cradle onwards, and in many aspects, a national one. It is a story about the formative poetic works of a specific nation with a specific language and, as such, it follows its peculiar laws of deliberate selection and canonization. From the point of view of an ANE scholar, our history of literature cannot be Sumerian or Akkadian, separated according to language or even ethnocentric essentialism, it has at least to be Sumero-Akkadian, as well as it has to give up its anthological character and to recognize its evolution and should more and more be embedded in its historical dimensions. As such it has to be more closely connected to the Hurro-Hittite tradition, and to consider a possible flashback in the period we call Middle-Assyrian. It was a small conference, and not all contributions are published here. The following talks condense in this publication: Peeter Espaks “The Transformation of the Sumerian Temple Hymns” rayes the changes in the transmission of hymnic literature during the reign of Šulgi. Re18

Tigay, 1982. Vanstiphout, 1986. Herman Vanstiphout’s interest in these questions led to numerous other publications and, meetings of scholars in Groningen in the late eighties and early nineties (Vogelzang/Vanstiphout, 1992 and 1996). For the awareness of developments and innovations in Sumerian literature see also Michalowski, 2005. 19

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structurings of collections, re-adjusting of city-lists and changes in divine hierarchies and genealogical constructions adopting king Šulgi to different families of gods clearly serve in order to legitimate and secure the royal rule. Simonetta Ponchia in her article “Looking for threads of transmission and change in II millennium heroic narrative” examines the tradition of heroic narratives by reconsidering its formal peculiarities and its leading topoi within its longue durée development by tracing it back until the 3rd mill. BCE and considering a possible Hurrian influence in the third and early second mill. BCE. A second contribution touches the tradition of the heroic in the “narûliterature”: Takayoshi Oshima’s “Legends of Sargon – History to His Story: Forming the Warrior King Archetype” deals with Sargon of Agade as a literary construction in many different works. Sargon legends transformed a historical figure to the archetype of the warrior king. According to Vladimir Sazonov’s paper “Some Notes on the Evolution of the Hittite Royal Annals” the influence of Mesopotamian traditions upon Hittite historiographic texts is clearly visible, but Annalistic writing has to be acknowledged as a unique literary genre of ANE literature that made its own pace of development. Vladimir Emelianov’s “The Evolution of the Festival of Dumuzi in the Light of Russian Assyriology” impressionally demonstrates that the perception of certain literary phenomena from different cultural contexts leads to unexpected results. According to the Melammu idea, and having in mind the origins of the idea of “Literaturgeschichte”, our endeavour can only be transnational or international, beyond constructed and deliberate ethnic and linguistic boundaries, though each of us has his or her special field. Bibliography Chen, Y.S., 2012: “The Flood Motif as a Stylistic and Temporal Device in Sumerian Literary Traditions”. JANER 12, 158–189. — 2013: The primeval flood catastrophe. Origins and early development in Mesopotamian traditions. Oxford Oriental monographs. Oxford. Del Nero, P., 2015, “Texts and Performance: The Materiality and Function of the Sumerian Liturgical Corpus”. In P. Delnero / J. Lauinger (eds.): Texts and Contexts. The Circulation of Cuneiform Texts in Social Space. SANER 9. Berlin/Boston, pp. 87–118. Foster, B., 32005: Before the Muses. An Anthology of Akkadian Literature. Bethesda. — 2007: Akkadian Literature of the Late Period. Guides to the Mesopotamian Textual Record 2. Münster. Frahm, E., 1999: “Nabû-zuqup-kēnu, das Gilgames-Epos und der Tod Sargons II”. JCS 51, 73–90. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Haas, V., 2006: Die hethitische Literatur. Texte, Stilistik, Motive. Berlin. Houston, St. / Baines, J. / Cooper, J., 2003: “Last Writing: Script Obsolescence in Egypt, Mesopotamia, and Mesoamerica”. Comparative Studies in Society and History 45, 430–479. Jacobsen, Th., 1987: The Harps that Once … Sumerian Poetry in Translation. New Haven. Lambert, W.G., 2008: “Mesopotamian Creation Stories”. In M.J. Geller / M. Schipper (eds.): Imagining Creation. Institute of Jewish Studies Studies in Judaica 5. Leiden. Pp. 15–59. Lang, M., 2013: “Book two: Mesopotamian Early History and the Flood story”. In J. Haubold / G.B. Lanfranchi / R. Rollinger / J. Steele (eds.): The World of Berossos. Proceedings of the 4th International Colloquium on “The Ancient Near East between Classical and Ancient Oriental Traditions”. Classica et Orientalia 5. Wiesbaden. Pp. 47–60. — 2014: “Einige Beobachtungen zur sumerisch-akkadischen Überlieferung der Fluterzählung(en)”. In H. Neumann / R. Dittmann / S. Paulus / G. Neumann / A Schuster-Brandis (eds.): Krieg und Frieden im Alten Vorderasien. 52e Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale International Congress of Assyriology and Near Eastern Archaeology, Münster, 17.–21. Juli 2006. AOAT 401. Münster. Pp. 461–473. — forthc.: Die keilschriftliche Überlieferung des Sintflutmythos: eine Traditionsund Literaturgeschichte. AOAT 453. Michalowski, P., 2005: “Literary Works from the Court of King Ishbi-Erra of Isin”. In Y Sefati (ed.): An Experienced Scribe who Neglects Nothing: Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honor of Jacob Klein. Bethesda. Pp. 199–212. Pardee, D., 2012: The Ugaritic Texts and the Origins of West Semitic Literary Composition. Oxford. Pongratz-Leisten, B., 2001: “Überlegungen zum Epos in Mesopotamien am Beispiel der Kutha-Legende.” In J. Rüpke (ed.): Von Göttern und Menschen erzählen. Formkonstanzen und Funktionswandel vormoderner Epik. Stuttgart. Pp. 12–41. — 2015: Religion and Ideology in Assyria. SANER 6. Göttingen. Tigay, J., 1982: The Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic. Philadelphia. Vogelzang, M. / Vanstiphout, H.L.J. (eds.): 1992: Mesopotamian Epic Literature. Oral or Aural? Lewiston. — (eds.): 1996: Mesopotamian Poetic Language. Sumerian and Akkadian. CM 6. Groningen. Volk, K., 2015: Erzählungen aus dem Land Sumer. Wiesbaden. Wilcke, Cl., 1999: “Weltuntergang als Anfang. Theologische, anthropologische, politisch-historische und ästhetische Ebenen der Interpretation der Sintflutgeschichte im babylonischen Atram-hasīs-Epos”. In A. Jones (ed.): Weltende. Beiträge zur Kultur- und Religionswissenschaft. Wiesbaden. Pp. 63–112. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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The Transformation of the Sumerian Temple Hymns Peeter Espak1

As previously stated by the current author, several Sumerian mythological-historical texts that stress the importance of the city of Eridu and list the cultic centre of the god Enki in the pre-eminent position all most likely sprout from the period of king Šulgi and his royal ideology.2 The standard version of the Sumerian King List, the Sumerian Flood Story and also the Sumerian Temple Hymns, which consider Eridu “the first city,”3 might all have been developed as an ideological and theological program for confirming the legitimate status of the city of Ur as the seat of kingship and for ideologically cementing Ur-Namma’s established Ur III dynasty’s divine genealogical relations.4 The concept of considering Eridu the First city of Sumer and Akkad is clearly expressed in the opening lines of the Sumerian King List, having its earliest known sources datable to the Ur III period, but probably originating already from the period of the dynasty of Akkade.5 The mentioning of Eridu as the pre-eminent city at the beginning of the list fits the context of the ideology of Šulgi. Already I.M. Diakonoff found evidence supporting the date of composition of the king list during the Ur III period in the peculiar fact that the rulers of Lagaš were missing from the text. This might have been the result of a military conflict between the states of Ur and Lagaš.6 As there is indeed plenty of proof that in the beginning of the Ur III period there actually was a military conflict between these two states also involving Utu-hegal of Uruk in its early phases, his opinion seems justifiable. According to the inscriptions of Utu-hegal, he was the restorer of “the border of Lagaš into the hands of Nanše/Ningirsu on which the man of Ur had laid a claim” (ki-sur-ra lagaški / lú uri5ki-ke4 / inim bí-gar / šu-na mu-ni-gi4).7 It is known that after the joint forces lead by Uruk, probably in alliance with Lagaš of Gudea and the state of Ur, had vanquished the remnants of the Gutian power in Mesopotamia, the states of Uruk and Lagaš were both incorporated into Ur III’s centralised system of empire. In a situation where in theory all the above-mentioned power centres might have had a “legitimate” claim of supremacy and kingship of Sumer and Akkad, the leaving out of Lagaš from the previous mythologi1

The current paper was supported by the Estonian Science Council grant PUT500 and Tartu University basic financing grant PHVKU1891. 2 Espak, 2015b. 3 Cf. Espak, 2015: 57–58. 4 Espak, 2016: 99ff. 5 Steinkeller, 2003: 267ff. 6 Diakonoff, 1983: 164. 7 See Frayne, 1993: 280–283 Utuhegal 1–3. Espak, 2016: 88ff. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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cal-historical seats of kingship might have been an actual political need. The text of the Sumerian King List begins with the statement that the principle of kingship nam-lugal was lowered down from the heavens and was first bestowed on Eridu of king Alulim (lines 1–3):8 [nam]-lugal an-ta è-dè-a-ba [eri]duki nam-lugal-la eriduki á-lu-lim lugal “When the kingship from heaven was lowered down, in Eridu was the kingship, in Eridu Alulim became king.” A similar scenario is also described in the Sumerian Flood Story. The kingship is granted from the high above heavens along with the attributes of a “human” or “earthly” kingship. Then the different cultic rites and divine powers and rules are organised. Bricks are made for the newly formed cities and their names are announced and distributed to them. The honour of being the First city is given to Eridu and the city is received or given to the god Enki. Then follow Bad-tibira, Larag, Zimbir and Šuruppak (B, 6–16):9 [u4 x] x nam-lugal-la an-ta è-dè-a-ba men maḫ gišgu-za nam-lugal-la an-ta èd-a-ba [garza me] maḫ šu mi-ni-ib-šu-du7 [iri-bi-e]-ne [šeg12-bi ki kù-ga im]-ma-an-da-šub mu-bi ba-an-sa4 kab dug4-ga [ba-ḫal]-ḫal-la nesag iri-bé-e-ne eriduki máš-sag dnu-dím-mud mi-ni-in-šúm 2-kam-ma-šè nu-gig-ra bàd-tibiraki mi-ni-in-šúm 3-kam-ma la-ra-ag dpa-bíl-«ḫur»-sag mi-ni-in-šúm 4-kam-ma zimbirki šul dutu mi-ni-in-šúm 5-kam-ma šuruppag dsùdki-ra mi-ni-in-šúm iri-bé-e-ne mu-bi ba-an-sa4-a kab dug4-ga ba-ḫal-ḫal-la “When the kingship from heaven was lowered down and the exalted crown ant the throne of kingship from heaven was lowered [The rites and great me]-s were made perfect \ down The bricks for the cities in holy places [were formed] Their names were announced and distributed to them (?) As the first offering-gift of those cities, Eridu was given to the leader (of the gods) Nudimmud The second one, Bad-tibira, was given to the Mistress The third one, Larag, was given to Pabilsag 8 9

ETCSL 2.1.1.; Jacobsen, 1939. ETCSL 1.7.4.; Jacobsen, 1981: 517. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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The fourth one, Zimbir, was given to the hero, Utu The fifth one, Šuruppak, was given to Sud And after the names of these cities were announced and distributed between them (?).” Convincing evidence to support the idea that all the compositions featuring Eridu in the beginning of different mythological-historical texts were composed in that form during Ur III period, or more precisely, during the reign of Šulgi, is the fact that only during his reign can we find evidence of royal inscriptions where such a feature is dominant. The earlier mythological compositions give Eridu no significant status in comparison to other important Sumerian cities such as Nippur, Uruk, or Ur. In all the textual evidence we have, Enlil’s cultic centre Nippur was considered to have the highest status of any city. Only during the reign of Šulgi can we find emphasis on the special status of Eridu. Rulers after him do not stress the special position of the city of Eridu in their royal titles and this feature also disappears from literature. In all the other periods before and after Šulgi, Eridu is often the second most important city after Nippur. In most royal titles of Mesopotamian rulers, the city has a comparable rank with Ur or Uruk. The later prominence of Eridu results much more from the theological reasoning of the First Dynasty of Babylon where the theology of Marduk was central. To adjust the new high deity to the overall Mesopotamian pantheon and create new and sound genealogical relations inside the pantheon, Marduk was made a son of Enki/Ea.10 The royal hymn entitled “The Song of Šulgi,” which describes the king’s cultic or political journeys to the most important Mesopotamian cultic centres, clearly lists Eridu as the preeminent city, situated before Nippur and Enlil (5–12):11 [lugal]-gu10 eriduki-šè na-gen n[un gal] a-a den-ki ḫúl-la-a d š[ul-g]i-re eriduk[i]-šè na-gen nun gal [a]-a [de]n-ki ḫúl-la-a lugal-g[u10 E]N.LÍLki-šè na-gen kur gal a-a [den-l]íl ḫúl-la-a d šul-gi-r[e E]N.LÍLki-šè na-gen kur gal a-a den-líl ḫúl-la-a

“My king went to Eridu Be happy, great prince, father Enki! Šulgi went to Eridu Be happy, great prince, father Enki! My king went to Nippur Be happy, great mountain, father Enlil! Šulgi went to Nippur Be happy, great mountain, father Enlil!”

This tradition of exalting Enki and Eridu seems to have completely stopped after the reign of Šulgi. All the rulers of the Isin dynasty give no special status to Eridu when compared to the other important cultic or political centres of Mesopotamia. In analysing the texts of Šulgi, it seems impossible to speak about a continuation of an older tradition which already from time immemorial considered Eridu “the city of the cities” or the First City. This kind of understanding is also missing in 10 11

See the conclusions in Espak, 2015b: 65–66. Frayne, 1983: 7–9. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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the ideologies of the succeeding kings of Ur III or Isin.12 One text certainly relatable to the ideology of Šulgi is the Sumerian Temple Hymns.13 The ninth hymn is indeed dedicated to Šulgiʼs own temple E-ḫursag. The composition begins with a hymn to the temple of Enki in Eridu. The relation to the ideology of Šulgi and the other texts treated above seems obvious when comparing the structure and sequence of the deities and temples of the text: 1. Enki in Eridu: é den-ki eriduki-ga14 2. Enlil in Nippur: é den-líl nibruki-a 3. Ninlil in Nippur: é dnin-líl nibrukia 4. Nuska in Nippur: é dnuska nibruki-a 5. Ninurta in Nippur: (é-šu-meša4) é dninurta nibruki-a 6. Šuzianna in Gagimaḫ: dšu-zi-an-na gá-gimaḫ-a 7. Ninḫursag in Keš: é dnin-ḫur-sag- gá kèški-a 8. Nanna-Ašimbabbar (daš-ím-babbar) in Ur: é dnanna úriki-ma 9. E-ḫursag of Šulgi in Ur15 10. Asaluḫi in Kuara: é dasal-lú-ḫi kuaraki 11. Ningublaga in Kiabrig 12. Nanna-Ašimbabbar in Gaeš 13. Utu in E-babbar of Larsa 14. Ninazu in Enegi 15. Ningišzida in Gišbanda 16. Inanna in Uruk 17. Dumuzi in Badtibira 18. Ninšubur in Akkil 19. Ningirim in Murum 20. Ninĝirsu in Lagaš 21. Bau in Irikug 22. Nanše in Sirara 23. Ninmarki in Guaba 24. Dumuzi-abzu in Kinirša 25. Šara in Umma. 26. Inanna in Zabala 27. Iškur in Karkar 28. ? 29. Ninḫursag in Adab 30. Ninisin in Isin 31. Numušda in Kazallu 32. Lugal-Marda in Marda 33. Ištaran in Dēr 34. Ninazu in Ešnunna 35. Zababa in Keš. 36. Nergal in Kutha 37. Suʼen in Urum. 38. Utu in Sippar 39. Ninḫursag in ḪI.ZA 40. Inanna in Ulmaš. 40. Aba in Akkade 41. Nisaba in Ereš. The temple of the god An is not mentioned as being situated in the first position. A practice which might be expected from a Neo-Sumerian composition before Ibbi-Su’en traditionally listing the gods in the following order: An, Enlil, Ninḫur12

See Espak, 2016: 92ff. Sjöberg, 1969. The cycle of hymns dedicated to different cultic centres of Mesopotamia existed already in the Early Dynastic Sumerian literature known under the title Za-me Hymns in much shorter version compared to the later longer composition ascribed to Enḫeduana of the Dynasty of Akkade by tradition. The archaic version of the Keš Temple Hymn (see Biggs, 1971 and Wilcke, 2006) also testifies that the tradition of longer compositions dedicated to temples had already Early Dynastic roots. Therefore, the text edited and reformulated during the period of Šulgi had already a long history of development in the earlier centuries and Šulgi’s scribes do not invent or compose a new cycle of hymns but are rather remodelling the ancient sources for the needs of the present. 14 See the similar table and reasoning in Espak, 2016: 102. 15 Including: “15 lines are an addition”: 15 taḫ-ḫu-um é-ḫur-sag šul-gi úriki-ma. 13

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sag, Enki, Su’en, Utu, Inanna.16 Enki seems to have been moved from his usual and original position following the goddess Ninḫursag and preceding NannaSuʼen to the first position. The Early Dynastic Za-me hymns, in turn, were listed in this order: Enlil, Nin-Unug, Inanna, Enki (En-nu-te-mud), Asaluḫi, Nanna, Utu, Ningal, etc.17 When considering that Enki’s hymn was moved from its “original” Early Dynastic position directly preceding the god Asaluḫi to the first position even preceding Enlil, it becomes understandable why Enki’s circle deity Asaluḫi – otherwise not forming a part of the major gods of the pantheon of the period – is strangely situated directly after Šulgi and Ur’s main deity Su’en. Šulgiʼs own hymn is later added to some form of previously existing larger composition of hymns. After the moon god comes the Eridu circle deity Asaluḫi, whom one would expect to find directly behind Enki, similar to how the Nippur circle deities are sectioned together after the hymn of Enlil. Based on the previous observations, the following scheme for the restructuring of the previously existing collection of temple hymns may be suggested:18 1. The hymn of Enki, situated originally between Ninḫursag and Nanna-Su’en, was moved to the first position. 2. The hymn to Asaluḫi of Kuara, which most probably was originally situated just following Eridu and Enki like we can find in the Za-me hymns, was placed after the city god of Ur Su’en. This was most likely done because a minor deity – Asaluḫi preceding the most important deity of the city of Ur – seemed inappropriate. 3. The hymn of Šulgi was added to the hymn of Nanna-Su’en, thus theologically and ideologically demonstrating that Šulgi himself as a ruler of Ur was a minor deity in the circle of the city god of Ur. Other deities in the original composition were largely left where they had previously been, including the gods of Lagaš and Umma. In comparison to the Za-me Hymns, it seems possible that a previous “older” composition transformed by the scribes of Šulgi had already moved Ninḫursag to the place of Inanna, as was already customary in the beginning of the Neo-Sumerian tradition. The reasons for the novel Enki-Eridu ideology of Šulgi are hard to understand clearly and remain to the fields of speculative imagination. It is reasonable to assume that it must have arisen from a well-founded practical political need, most probably to cement and theologically base the foundations of Šulgi’s rule and therefore his city’s status as the legitimate holder of nam-lugal-la of Sumer and Akkad. He certainly needed a “legitimate” beginning for his own dynasty and, of course, the cities which were submitted to the new “empire” through force were 16

Espak, 2015: 64ff. After the period of Ibbi-Su’en, Enki starts proceeding the mothergoddess and takes the third position in the listings of deities. 17 Biggs, 1974, 46ff.; Espak, 2011, 49. 18 See Espak, 2016: 102–103 for similar reasoning. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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not suitable for the role of an ancient beginning-point. The dynasties and cities of Akkade, Keš or Uruk, some of which had been overtaken by Ur-Namma, were most probably not the best candidates for that special status in the ideology of Ur III. The Šulgi E hymn starting with praise to Enlil states that Šulgi was crowned king in Eridu and was given a diadem in Uruk. Next his special relation to the city god Su’en is stated (lines 9–12): šeg12 eriduki-ga-ta aga zi ak-me-en19 unugki-ta suḫsu-uḫ za-gìn kéše-rá-me-en sipad ki ág dnanna-me-en barag-ga túm-ma-me-en inim den-líl-lá-ke4 níg sag9-ga ki-šár-ra ma-ab-de6 “(I Šulgi) from the brick-built Eridu received my legitimate crown! From Uruk bestowed by my lapis-lazuli diadem! The beloved shepherd of Nanna I am! Fit for the throne! The word of Enlil has given me blessing everywhere!” As Ludek Vacin speculates, Šulgiʼs own new divine genealogy might have played a role in his choice of Eridu as the place for his coronation. He concludes that the process of Šulgi’s identification and adoption to different families of gods made him also an identical figure to the god Dumuzi, the son of Enki, which “can perhaps explain the unique statement in hymn Šulgi E (l. 9) about the king’s coronation in Eridu, for Dumuzi was a son of Enki, the city god of Eridu. This can be seen as the second step of Šulgiʼs elevation to the divine realm.”20 Although possible, this does not explain the special status of the city of Eridu in his ideology. Šulgi might have freely continued the Early Dynastic tradition of considering the city of Nippur the central point of focus as far as the kingship nam-lugal and also the mythological foundations of Sumer and Akkad are concerned. The elevated status of Eridu during this period must have represented something of true political importance for the king and his self-portrayal. What seems quite clear, however, is that during the reign of Šulgi, several literary compositions were restructured or composed to give special praise to the city of Eridu in a previously unprecedented form. This special place of Eridu in mythology seems to have disappeared after the reign of Šulgi.

19 20

ETCSL 2.4.2.05. Vacin, 2011: 215–216.

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Bibliography Biggs, R.D., 1971: “An Archaic Sumerian version of the Kesh Temple Hymn from Tell Abū (S)alābīkh”. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 61, 193–207. — 1974: Inscriptions from Tell Abū Salābīkh (with a Chapter by Donald P. Hansen). Oriental Institute Publications 99. The University of Chicago Press. Diakonoff, I.M., 1983: История Древнего Востока, Зарождение древнейших классовых обществ и первые очаги рабловладельческих цивилизаций, Часть первая, Месопотамия. Moscow: Главная Редакция Восточной Литературы. Espak, P., 2011: “Some Early Developments in Sumerian God-Lists and Pantheon”. In Thomas R. Kämmerer (ed.): Identities and Societies in the Ancient East-Mediterranean Regions. Comparative Approaches. Henning Graf Reventlow Memorial Volume. Acta Antiqua Mediterranea et Orientalia 1. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 390/1. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Pp. 47–58. — 2015: The God Enki in Sumerian Royal Ideology and Mythology. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. — 2015b: “Was Eridu The First City in Sumerian Mythology?” In Studia Orientalia Tartuensia. Tartu: Tartu University Press. Pp. 53−70 — 2016: “The Establishment of Ur III Dynasty. From the Gutians to the Formation of the Neo-Sumerian Imperial Ideology and Pantheon”. In Th.R. Kämmerer / M. Kõiv / V. Sazonov (eds.): Kings, Gods and People. Establishing Monarchies in the Ancient World. Acta Antiqua Mediterranea et Orientalia 4. Alter Orient und Altes Testament 390/4. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Pp. 77−108. ETCSL: J.A. Black / G. Cunningham / J. Ebeling / E. Fluckiger-Hawker / E. Robson / J. Taylor / G. Zólyomi: The Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature (= ETCSL) (http://www-etcsl.orient.ox.ac.uk/). Oxford, 1998– 2006. Frayne, D.R., 1983: “A New Šulgi Text in the Royal Ontario Museum”. Annual Review of the Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia Project, 6–9. — 1993: Sargonic and Gutian Periods (2334–2113 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia, Early Periods. 2. Toronto/Buffalo/London: University of Toronto Press. Jacobsen, Th., 1939: The Sumerian King List. Assyriological Studies 11. Chicago/London: The University of Chicago Press. — 1981: “The Eridu Genesis”. Journal of Biblical Literature 100, 513–529. Sjöberg, Å.W., 1969: Sjöberg, Åke W. / Bergmann, E.: The Collection of the Sumerian Temple Hymns. Texts From Cuneiform Sources 3. Locust Valley, New York: J. J. Augustin Publisher. Steinkeller, P., 2003: “An Ur III Manuscript of the Sumerian King List. In W. Sallaberger / K. Volk / A. Zgoll (eds.): Literatur, Politik und Recht in Mesopotamien. Festschrift für Claus Wilcke. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag. Pp. 267–292. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Vacin, L., 2011: Šulgi of Ur: Life, Deeds, Ideology and Legacy of a Mesopotamian Ruler as Reflected Primarily in Literary Texts. Ph.D. dissertation. Department of the Languages and Cultures of Near and Middle East School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London. Wilcke, Cl., 2006: “Die Hymne auf das Heiligtum Keš. Zu Struktur und ‘Gattung’ einer altsumerischen Dichtung und zu ihrer Literaturtheorie.” In P. Michalowski / N. Veldhuis (eds.): Approaches to Sumerian Literature: Studies in Honor of H.L.J. Vanstiphout. Cuneiform Monographs 35. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Pp. 201–237.

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Looking for Threads of Transmission and Change in II Millennium Heroic Narrative Simonetta Ponchia

“Trasportiamoci col pensiero di qui a tremila anni. Chissà quali libri della nostra epoca si saranno salvati, e di chissà quali autori si ricorderà ancora il nome. Ci saranno libri che resteranno famosi ma che saranno considerati opere anonime come per noi l’epopea di Gilgamesh; ci saranno autori di cui sarà sempre famoso il nome ma di cui non resterà nessuna opera, come è successo a Socrate; o forse tutti i libri superstiti saranno attribuiti a un unico autore misterioso, come Omero.” (Italo Calvino, Se una notte d’inverno un viaggiatore, 1979)

The many obscurities and gaps in the reconstruction of ancient literatures make it particularly risky to venture into the evaluation of change. Moreover, when we consider Mesopotamian literature as a whole, the impression we get is that tradition had a particularly important role and weight as a progressively constructed, filtered, and preserved memory, so that this – partly illusory – image of continuity induces us to privilege a linear dimension of transmission and development and to underestimate other types of change. In order to contextualize change within a stream of tradition it would be useful to know the contemporary opinions on the reception of past works and on innovation, a reaction that only rarely is preserved explicitly enough, as in the case pointed out by U. Gabbay in his recent edition of Emesal prayers. The scholar observes that different musical instruments were used in the performance of Emesal prayers over time as part of wider cultic changes that were not always favourably accepted, as seemingly illustrated by the following passage from an Old Babylonian Emesal prayer, which refers to the change from Sumerian to Akkadian: “My lady’s emblem is robbed! (...) Her ninda-bread is akalum! Her kaš-beer is šikarum! Her kašbir-beer is ...! Her Balaĝ(-prayer?) is a gerrānum(-lament)?! My lady’s (leather) ùb-instrument is a li-li-ìs!” 1 Although such a reference to the cultic sphere and its literary expression is an isolated case, various hints at the perception of tradition may be drawn from literary catalogues, mentions of authors, intertextual quotations and allusions. They contribute to the understanding of processes of diffusion, reinterpretation and can-

1

Quoted from Gabbay, 2014: 86. For the performance in the first mill. see ibid., p. 101. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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onization of literary texts and to moving from a philological level of analysis of variations to a historical interpretation of change. The recent appearance of various studies on literature and literary texts testifies to the interest in and efforts made towards a reassessment of our methodological tools in this field and encourages further examination of the topic of change in literary compositions, not limited to the philological analysis of formal changes in a text (although such an analysis of variation remains fundamental), but considering the various historical dynamics to which such change can be correlated.2 Some of these dynamics have been recognized and reconstructed, although with varying degrees of confidence and detail, such as, for instance, the cultural policy of the Ur III, Isin II, and Middle Assyrian dynasties. On the other hand, the existence of specific interests and their development by experts and the learned in various fields has been thought to influence selections and interpretations within the literary repertoire.3 Both are obviously aspects of the interpretation of history, which may take the form of a continuous and gradual process or an abrupt change of perspective. Furthermore, it should be stressed that despite the apparently coherent development of a Mesopotamian, or Sumero-Akkadian tradition, a plurality of factors and inputs ought to be taken into consideration. In the present note a segment of the tradition of heroic poetry is considered, as a particularly apt example to illustrate the aspects just mentioned. Heroic kings are the addressees of hymnic literature and the subjects of narratives of various tones and lengths. The border is blurred between narratives of legendary heroes, praise of reigning kings, and accounts of their accomplishments in the form of royal inscriptions. And, therefore, between what we usually label as literary expression and the representation of royal ideology and historical narrative. This situation appears to provide margins for interpretation and therefore to be a motor of change. The debate on these themes has been particularly lively and is here reconsidered as a starting point for further research. 1. Epic and heroic literature The kings of Akkad and of the following dynasties of the Ur III and Old Babylonian periods were the protagonists of a rich literature, whose reception, study and transmission over time has inspired intensive investigation and discussion, even concentrating on the changes in literary taste and ideological conceptions that its 2

On these issues see Michalowski, 2005 and most recently Pongratz-Leisten, 2015. Pongratz-Leisten, 2015: 30f explains this perspective and the scope of her research thus: “the central aim of this study is to demonstrate that texts were the product of the scholars working in the entourage of the king. Every statement made in a text or performed in ritual regarding the agency of an individual king or the institution of kingship as a whole represents the hidden voice of these scholars, who crafted ideological responses to the circumstances that prevailed at particular historical moments.” She stresses their role of protagonists in shaping royal ideology (p. 35). 3

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development shows.4 A central topic of discussion is the category of fictionality and the relationship of legendary tales attributed to historical kings with royal inscriptions they and their successors wrote. The fact that fictional narratives were inscribed on stelae (narû) – or refer to inscriptions on stelae – has conditioned the discussion concerning the nature and function of the texts, which appear to be messages of moral and ideological value for a future audience. The content of this long and crucial discussion is here left in the background, also due to the fact that the use of the term narû over time seems to connote variously the texts it defines.5 Taking advantage of its results, however, it seems useful to attempt a comprehensive view of a phase of literary elaboration in which the interaction of scribal competence and specific interests in the representation of power induced the reinterpretation of texts and motifs and produced variation and change. For reference, a schematic view of the earliest texts on Sargon and Naram-Sin – as edited by J. Goodnick Westenholz, 1997 and reconsidered by Haul, 2009 – followed by a brief summary of some major characteristics is repeated here: Text/Manuscripts

Provenance

Language

MLC 641 = BRM 4 4 AO 7673 3N T296 VAT 17166

Uruk Nippur Babylon

Sumerian + Akkadian glosses bilingual

AO 6702

?

Old Babylonian

TIM IX 48

Tell Harmal (in the land of Ešnunna) Nippur ? Kanesh

Old Babylonian

UM 29–13–688 St.Étienne 150 Kt. j/k 97

Old Babylonian

Old Bab. / Early Middle Bab. Old Assyrian

Modern Title/ Content “I Sargon” Sargon’s rise to power Sargon’s rise to power Sargon the conquering hero Sargon in foreign lands Sargon the lion Adad is king!

4

On the concept of “heroism” and the relation between king and hero in Mesopotamian ideology, see the articulated analysis of Lanfranchi, 2007. The scholar revises the development of the literary tradition concerning the kings of Akkad starting from the consideration that: “They appear as the main persons in literary compositions dealing with deep philosophical problems about royal behaviour, texts that are often designated as ‘legends’, but actually pertain the genre labelled as wisdom” (p. 20). 5 See Haul, 2009, chap. 5. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Text/Manuscripts

Provenance

Language

BM 139965

Old Babylonian

BM 120003

Old Babylonian

L 74.225

Larsa

Old Babylonian

MAD 1 172 A 1252 + 8696 MAH 10829 BM 79987

Ešnunna6 Mari Babylon (?) Sippar

Old Akkadian Old Babylonian Old Babylonian Old Babylonian

VAT 7832a MLC 1364 BM 17215

Larsa?? Sippar Sippar

Old Babylonian Old Babylonian Old Babylonian

Modern Title/ Content Naram-Sin and the lord of Apišal Erra and Naram-Sin Death of Naram-Sin Great Revolt Great Revolt 17 kings against Naram-Sin 10th battle Cuthean Legend

The two great themes that this group of texts elaborate are Sargon’s heroism and conquests and the great revolt against Naram-Sin, likely as a reinterpretation of the kings’ own inscriptions and as a meditation on the fate of kingdoms and dynasties which started during the Ur III period. This selection of events and the interest in their interpretation continued during the following centuries as illustrated by the paradigmatic value of Sargon’s heroism, as extolled in The King of battle – that has an el-Amarna version and later ones from Assur and Nineveh – and in Naram-Sin’s unfortunate vicissitudes narrated in the Cuthean Legend – which has later versions in Middle Babylonian, from Boğazköy, and in Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian periods.7 Although the majority of the earliest texts are incomplete or fragmentary and their provenance is often unknown, it is possible to get a rough idea of the spread of the literature concerning the rulers of Akkad in the Old Babylonian period. It appears to be present not only in the southern centres of scribal education, such as Nippur, Babylon and Sippar, but also in the area of Upper Mesopotamia: Ešnunna, Mari, and Assur, whence it is reasonable to presume that the text or the topic of Kt j/k 97 – which was found in a merchant’s house in Kaneš – originally came, and where the image of the heroes of Akkad was promoted by Samsi-Addu.

6

Cf. Pongratz-Leisten, 2015: 131 for another literary text of the period attesting to Hurrian influence. MAD 1 172 is considered by the scholar as a clue of the role of Ešnunna in the transmission of the Akkad tradition to Assur (p. 132). 7 Haul, 2009, resp. chap. 8 and 7. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Tablet AO 6702 is relatively well preserved and allows pinpointing of the ingredients – both of form and content – of the exaltation of Sargon’s heroism: direct speeches of praise probably in dialogues, images of fighting and violence, images and metaphors of the warriors’ courage, and exaltation of a kind of liturgy of war linked with the cult of Ištar, but also the march through a dark forest,8 and the reaching of far-off regions, located at and beyond the borders of the Mesopotamian world as somehow summarized by the toponym of Uta-rapaštim. Moreover, the overlapping of structure, motives and terminology of TIM IX 48 shows the existence of an established tradition of tales around Sargon. The concordance of motifs and expressions in TIM IX 48 and AO 6702 may suggest that they provide the model for the later Šar Tamḫari epos. 9 Kt j/k 97 adds an important detail concerning Assur’s role in the invention and diffusion of the Akkad tradition.10 In the case of Naram-Sin and the tale of the Great Revolt, the oldest version preserved is the one from Eshnunna, MAD 1 172, a school text that has been classified as a probable literary elaboration rather than an abstract from a historical inscription.11 This attestation is also significant in the light of the importance 8 This literary topos that, as remarked by Haul, 2009: 215, is also echoed in omen literature, may be compared with the Sumerian tales of Lugalbanda and Gilgameš (on this comparison and bibliographical references see ibid., 217f). 9 Haul, 2009: 250 observes that the comparison of TIM IX 48 and AO 6702 shows that both texts share general structure, scenes, motifs and formulation; both elaborate materials of the oral tradition, but are at the same time under the influence of the “schriftliterarischen Tradition, die insbesondere durch die authentischen Königsinschriften der altakkadischen Zeit und durch zeitgenössische Verschriftungen anderer sargonischer Epen konstituiert war.” He reviews the elements that support this hypothesis and discusses the possible itineraries of the text, whose written version might have been accompanied by orally transmitted versions, even in different languages such as Hurrian and Hittite. Their influxes on the later texts can be detected in some details, such as the name of Sargon’s enemy Nurdaggal and its possible reinterpretations (pp. 288–290). He also admits an amount of creativity in dealing with the legends of the Sargonid kings and, after comparing the later Šar Tamḫari tale, concludes: “beide Erzählungen sind nicht als Varianten der Šar tamḫāriLegende anzusehen, gleichwohl sie das grundlegende Erzählmuster von einem König, der in die Ferne zieht und diese erobert, sowie einzelne Motive mit der Šar tamḫāri-Legende gemein haben.” (p. 300). Pongratz-Leisten, 2015: 156f. observes that “the text was written by a well-educated scribe and abounds in literary allusions”, at the same time it “represents an improvisation on a variety of literary themes that must have circulated in oral form”. 10 Haul, 2009: 302. 11 Text MAD 1 172, defined as a Schülertafel for the presence of erasures and the general low quality of the script, is extensively commented in Haul, 2009 with detailed references to previous discussions and bibliography. Its central point is to identify Lugalane and his role in the revolt against Naram-Sin, since from the comparison with other documents he appears quite elusive; his mention in MAD 1 172 might be connected with the text of Ninmešara attributed to Sargon’s daughter Enḫeduana and be therefore considered as a

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Eshnunna had in influencing the scholarly tradition of Mari in the following OB period.12 Concordances and differences between text A 1252 + 8696 from Mari and the unprovenanced MAH 10829, and between these texts and Naram-Sin of Akkad’s inscriptions have been discussed at length as examples of a literary-historical tradition and its circulation. In his edition of the Mari version Charpin maintains that the text could have been composed in Mari at the time of Samsi-Addu’s rule, as is also suggested by a fragment of Naram-Sin’s inscription found there and by a reference to the existence of a statue of him.13 The presence of the tale in Mari may be further compared with the historical narrative of Yaḫdun-Lim, who in his inscriptions appears to use expressions and motifs that suggest his aspiration to emulate Naram-Sin’s achievements and victory over the rebels (see RIME 4.6.8.1 and 2). Although the circumstances of discovery of A 1252+ are not clear enough to infer the date and origin of the text, it may be taken for granted that the Akkad tradition circulated and was used as a model of his kingship not only by Samsi-Addu, but also by other kings of the time. More generally, it may be presumed that these texts, even in their school examples, can be connected to a court literature which consisted of praising, celebratory chants with narrative sections of varying size, also including variously structured dialogues. This outline implies a question of impractical solution, such as what the relations between oral or popular narratives and scribal competence and knowledge of the written tradition were. Yet, the problem is not whether a more free oral repetition and reinvention of heroic stories could have filtered into court literature, composed by scribes who shared a similar education and had knowledge of the same literary repertoire, but rather whether a differentiated reception of texts and motifs was fostered by different contexts – such as the Babylonian one, where the Ur III tradition was perpetuated, and the Upper Mesopotamian one, although this is scarcely known. The spread of literary and scribal materials and patterns from the south to the north-west is documented already by Early Dynastic texts from Ebla and Mari,14 but the motifs of heroic battle and literary quotation (Haul, 2009: 47). After examining the evidences of the existence of an Akkadian literature, despite the change of protagonists and works imposed by the Ur III dynasties, Haul concludes: “Möglicherweise stellt MAD 1 172 nur die Spitze eines Eisbergs altakkadischer legendarischer Literaturwerke dar.” (p. 55). 12 Cf. Charpin/Ziegler, 2003: 40 who assume that: “La prépondérance politique d’Ešnunna se doubla d’une influence culturelle considérable. Mari adopta alors une nouvelle fasson d’écrire: format des tablettes, forme des signes et syllabaire suivirent désormais le modele des scribes d’Ešnunna. Le caractere tres «babylonien» des inscriptions commémoratives de Yaḫdun-Lim, mais aussi des textes juridiques, est clairement attribuable a cette influence.” 13 Charpin, 1997: esp. 16f. 14 See Pongratz-Leisten, 2015: 63f. for an overview and references. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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royal valour possibly became objects of a communication code also adapted to specific and different circumstances. The recent complete edition and commentary of the Epic of Zimri-Lim (Guichard, 2014) is a very important addition to our picture of a court literature that in its main characteristics seems to be shared throughout in the whole region. The text from Mari was composed against a literary background that saw the kings of Akkad as protagonists and provided stylistic models. Such a comparative view induces one to observe change according to two lines. The first concerns the reinterpretation of the heroic code in a purely literary, or sapiential way. The exaltation of heroism in the literature of the Akkadian period, together with Šulgi’s hymns, were probably a source of inspiration for the Old Babylonian prologue of the Gilgameš epic, which appears not only as an elaboration of the Sumerian hero cycle, but as a commentary on heroic narratives and court literature. The second line considers the possibility of connecting literary elaboration and performance with specific socio-political circumstances, and may be examined in relation to texts referring to contemporary events. 2. Legendary heroes and present-day warriors The language of heroism composed the repertoire that the scribes could employ in texts narrating different tales and for diverse occasions. Variation within this repertoire is due to literary elaboration of well-defined motifs such as exhortation to heroism and its description,15 narration or mention of extraordinary achievements,16 including the treading of difficult and liminal itineraries.17 These motifs are bound to the employment of a standardized lexicon and formal structures, such 15 As an example the following expressions may be cited (text and trasl. after Goodnick Westenholz, 1997): isinnu ša mutī in the description of the imminent battle in AO 6702: 19, or, in the same text (ll. 44–54) the description of the warriors: mīrī dannūtim, “the strong bulls”; mitlu tuqumtam “filled with battle”; 3-šu qurādūtim, “threefold heroic”; irāt ḫurāṣ ḫapiru, “adorned with a gold breastplate”; našu rēš napluḫatim, “raising frightful head”; emqam birkim, “swift of knee”; šutātû qurdam, “finding each other in heroism”; or the praise of heroic qualities in UM 29-13-688 / St.Étienne 150: 8’: tamalli šarrūtam, “you fulfilled the kingship”; 16’: libbi nēšim nadri, “heart of a raging lion”; rev. 6’f: šalummatišu, “their frightening radiance”, rigimšu šagimim, “his bellowing roar”; rev. 15’: nimri gāṣiṣu(?) libbaš uzza, “my gnashing panther, his heart is (filled with) fury”; the description of the champions in rev. 17’–19’: zajjāru mudû arû ananta 7 dannūti ašaridušu līmi ša uttaku kabtassu šitpa dāpinu qurādum, “Enemies, experts, leaders of battle, / seven strongmen are his champions, / thousands are they whom he bends to his will”. 16 For example in AO 6702: 65–67: capture of 9 enemy fortresses, and (ll. 96–113) conquest of many countries; or TIM IX 48 iii: 13’f, where the city of the enemy is said to be conquered 9 times; in Kt. j/k 97: 5–7 the conquest is described: ištu ṣīt šamšim adi erab šamšim mātam aṣbatma, and 70 cities are said to be conquered and destroyed in a single day (ll. 9–11), etc. 17 For the latter case cf. TIM IX 48: iv 9’–11’: march through the forest; darkness; and Kt. j/k 97, 47–: the king stays in prolonged darkness.

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as praising sections and dialogues. These are also the ingredients of the text from Kanesh which has elicited various and even contrasting interpretations, due to the blatant exaggeration of the king’s heroic qualities, that has stimulated attentive analyses and even suggested to interpret it as a parody.18 Alster and Oshima (2007: 8) conclude that the text may be considered “as an early example of the same type of heroic literature as comes to light in the later Alexander Romance” for the combination of historical deeds with fairy-tale motifs, written and oral memories and narratives. This composite character of the text is recognized by J. Goodnick Westenholz (2007: 26), who remarks that “the symbolism of excess in the banquet provided by Sargon is not a parody but indicative of heroic feats and royal obligations”. Sargon’s conquests are mentioned at the beginning and listed at the end of the tale, as a combination of places mentioned in the Naram-Sin narratives and of places forming the Old Assyrian geographical horizon (Dercksen, 2005: 118). However, the main interest of the tale seems to be the representation of heroic behaviour whose stage is not the battlefield, but occasions that are endowed with a ritualistic character and serve to exalt the leader’s valour and bond with his ministers and warriors. A theme that variously resurfaces also in Gilgameš’ tales, such as Gilgameš and Agga, and in various points of the XII tablet version of the epic. Hunting enterprises illustrate the king’s ability to dominate even the wilderness, as later explicitly affirmed by royal inscriptions, and substantiate the epithet of lion used for the hero. In Kt. j/k 97 the capture of steppe creatures like the gazelle and the serpent is a clear representation of this quality of dominator of the wild world.19 It is narrated as a heroic game, as stressed by the fact that the whole hunt takes place between the throwing of a clay brick into the river and its recovery before it gets lost in the water. Dercksen (2005: 117f) cogently remarks that both the topos of swiftness and the assertion of truth concerning the extraordinary enterprises of the king are well attested in Šulgi hymns and therefore may be acknowledged as clear literary allusions. Moreover, could this be considered not simply as a hyperbolic homage to the tradition of heroic swiftness, but more concretely a reference to playful contests of champions – somehow reminiscent of Gilgameš’ pukku and mekku game?20 The other moment of celebration the text refers to is the heroes’ banquet, which is again narrated with hyperbolic details concerning the number of the par18

For brevity’s sake only some of the various contributions to the discussion are cited here. On the other hand, these images (steppe, serpent, water depth) may have a relation with the netherworld. 20 Cf. Groneberg, 1987: 122 for the mention of pukku and mekku in the text of The Exaltation of Ishtar in a passage where the use of the instrument is image of/connected with the outburst of battle. For a recent review of interpretations and a further proposal concerning the nature of Gilgamesh’ heroic play see Rollinger, 2008. Heroism appears in fact a topic of different representations also in later texts such as LKA 62. 19

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ticipants and their heroic voracity, using as a model, according to Dercksen, an inscription of Sargon (RIME 2.1.1.11: 29–37) and possibly, as proposed by Alster and Oshima, adding a motif typical of folklore that narrates how the last arrivals happen to obtain the choicest portions. The banquet might have been the occasion for the performance of heroic chants and poems.21 On the other hand, it may be presumed that the topic was not only a field of scribal exercise. It may be recollected that the Assyrian merchants had, like those from Eshnunna, Mari or elsewhere, to develop their activity within an often conflictual situation, in which the memory of past heroes offered an authoritative and uncontroversial identification due to its antiquity, together with a hyperbolic image of success through difficulties. Although the text from Kanesh – as a reflection, fantastically conceived, of ceremonies that followed and celebrated a military victory – has shown the possibility that the memory or even the ritual commemoration of ancient heroes was linked with the ideology of power, the transmission of heroic values appears much more apt in the historical context where the Epic of Zimri-Lim can be placed. The latter text contains a less bombastic description of various stages of war, that can nevertheless be read vis-à-vis the scribal and literary tradition which included the copying of ancient inscriptions and hymns and the re-elaboration and diffusion of ancient narratives and motifs in the form of authoritative, although fictional, memories (narû). Durand, 1993: 51 stresses the exceptional value of Zimri-Lim’s epic, that is not only analogous to the cycle praising the dynasty of Akkad, but should be considered as representative of the poetry of the time, afterwards lost.22 He connects it to the letter ARM 26/1 233 in which Itūr-Asdū informs of the delivery of a prophetic message asking for the sending of a ṭēmum gamru to the god Dagan concerning the Benjaminite war.23 Although the epic is not formulated as a letter or a report, it has been proposed that it is related to a royal visit to the temple of Dagan after the conquest of Ida-maraṣ during the first year of ZimriLim and to celebrations connected with this event, and reveals the importance of communication channels in warfare. The literary characteristics of the Mari text appear directly comparable with those of the Akkad legends, as illustrated in detail by Guichard.24 The text first of 21

On the possible performance of heroic narratives and royal hymns see also Guichard, 2014: 138. 22 See Guichard, 2014: 6. He classifies the text as “le témoin original d’un littérature de cour” whose examples are missing from other sites. It is at the same time an example of an Amorrite literature, and a peculiar product of Mari (ibid.). See also pp. 70f and chapter III. 23 Durand, 1988: 475. 24 Chap. III and especially pp. 80–83 for a comparison with AO 6702. Other specific concordances are singled out, for instance: the expression ana pāni parākum (ii 5) is commented by Guichard (p. 43) as characteristic of the Mari vocabulary of war, but also as © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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all constitutes praise of the heroic lord – who receives his power and constant support from the gods – but it is also a representation of his relations with his generals and soldiers, as in AO 6702 where the corps that composed Sargon’s army are listed with descriptive and evocative details: “those from the city (...), those of the escort adorned with a gold breastplate, from the marketplace of Ḫaššum. The ironclad (...), the linen-cloaked dressed in mountain-gear, swift of knee (...)” (ll. 46–53).25 Motifs and lexicon appear to be traditional as demonstrated by many parallels, especially with hymns and royal inscriptions, but are woven into the fabric of the text with particular care and show how literary images associated with past kings were lively means of representing present achievements.26 In the Epic of Zimri-Lim the initial expression of the intention to praise the hero – which corresponds to a well attested formula of homage27 – is closed by the invitation to listen (šemê, “do listen!”, i 5) addressed to the audience, and is repeated with variation in line i 14.28 In ii 20 Zimri-Lim addresses his generals with words that express a topos which was used in BM 139965 (esp. ll. iii 13–19), the so-called Epic of Naram-Sin, or Naram-Sin and the Lord of Apišal. 29 His speech is especially directed at his officials.30 The list of the soldiers is expanded in ii 33–35 with the mention of the Bedouin shepherds (qarradīya Ḫana and mārū nāqidi) who comprise Zimri-Lim’s troops.31 The king asks for their counsel and attested in the heroic vocabulary of the stela of Daduša and in the Sargon’s text UM 29– 13–688. On the topos of the march through the forest see ibid. p. 49, and p. 92 for the verse and strophe structure with the search for symmetry. 25 See Goodnick Westenholz, 1997: 67–69 and Haul, 2009: 212–214 for attempt at identification. The list may be considered a literary expedient. 26 Speeches and dialogues characterize other texts of the Akkad cycle. For instance, in AO 6702, 1–9 Sargon addresses his warriors, and gets (11–16) the ašarēdum’s answer; 30–39 contain an exhortation to be distinguished in valour, and in the final part, 96–118, Sargon pronounces his self-praise, and in 121–123 launches a final challenge to future kings; TIM IX 48 is organized as a long dialogue starting with Sargon addressing his soldiers (i 16’) and announcing his plans (fragmentary); UM 29-13-688 / St.Étienne 150 alternates (2’– 8’) the praise of the lord (fragmentary) and of heroic qualities, Sargon’s answer (9’), and a (rev. 15’) renewed praise. 27 rīm tuqumtim luna’’id qurādam ana dīri šumaššu luštašni (i 1–2), “I want to praise PN, the savage bull of combat, I want to repeat the hero’s name for ever”. See Guichard’s philological commentary for some parallel examples (2014: 25f). 28 lušarbīma (i 16), “I want to extoll”. 29 issaqqaram ana eṭlīšu (ii 21), “he addressed his young men”. The sentence is preceded by an expression illustrating brotherhood between the king and his soldiers. 30 ūta’’er šukallāšu (ii 28), “he ordered to his vizier”; sugāgī īšpuṭ (ii 29), “he commanded to the sheiks”. 31 ina piḫrim wāšibūt Aḫ-Purantim, “Avec la troupe des conscrits, les habitants des Bordsde-l’Euphrate”. Guichard (p. 47) also notes the concordance of this motif with AO 6702. Moreover, he observes (p. 48) that ii 35 may reflect the terminology relating to the Mari © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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they listen to his speech (ii 36f),32 when they speak in their turn they remind the king of his valour and of their strategic superiority over the enemy,33 thus the mer’ûm, the “chief of pasture”, encourages the king to show his heroism with a formula that corresponds to those at the beginning and again, as noted by Guichard (p. 48), to the words addressed to Naram-Sin in BM 139965. The king rejoyces at this speech. It may be hypothesized that this dialogue corresponds to a literary transposition of the enactment of a riḫṣum, an “assembly”.34 In col. iii royal heroism is described through the scenes of the defeat and massacre of enemies. It is also represented by the image of the king who partakes of the hardship of military life together with his soldiers.35 And at this point the heroic leader encourages his soldiers (iii 15f)36 and assures them that the enemy will see (using again amāru as in l. ii 45 referring to the king) their discipline, likely with astonishment and fear.37 This speech raises the soldiers’ eagerness to combat and their valour is described (iii 19–22).38 The oracular enquiry to the gods is answered affirmatively and this reinforces the warriors’ determination; the support of all the gods allows the king to address his final exhortation to the soldiers (iii 44) who listen to it.39 This attitude is the contrary of the guilty one of those army and its nomadic and settled components. 32 ina milkīkunu anāku lūpuš (ii 36), “I will act according to your counsel”; išmēma annêm qabāšu Ašmad (…) issaqqaršum (ii 37f), “after listening to these words of his, PN addressed him”. 33 Zimrī-Lîm līmurū qurudka PN [tenēštum ana dīri] lina’’id šumka (ii 45f), “PN let your heroism be seen, let [people?] praise your name [for ever?]!” 34 [šarrum iḫdu ana aw]āt mer’îm wardīšu (ii 47), “[the king rejoiced at the] word of the chief of pasture, his servant”. On the interpretation of the term riḫṣum as “s’entretenir, discuter” and “entretien discussion”, “palabre”, see Durand, 1988: 181–192. The author quotes, e.g., the following text (p. 183): “(…) Voici ce que je lui ai écrit: ‘Qu’en est-il au sujet des Benjaminites à propos de qui tu m’envoies lettre sur lettre? Si ces gens [reprennent] à leur compte tes propos et doivent faire ce que tu dis, après délibération, qu’AtamriIlum [prenne] la tête [de 10] ou 20 de leurs Anciens et qu'ils viennent chez moi. Qu’ils (RHȘ) avec les [Hanéens(?)/Bensim’alites] afin que j’ecoute leurs propos, [que je discute avec eux], et que j’envoie chez [mon Seigneur] les propos que j’aurais entendus de leur part’.” 35 mê nadāti ištanatti esik itti redî kalumma iššuš (iii 9f), “he drank the water from the leather bag; together with the soldiers he endured everything”. Cf. Guichard, 2014: 54 for concordances with text BM 139965 (Naram-Sin) and other parallels in later texts, and on the particular significance of fresh water in rituals connected with war. 36 kīma šurinnim ippāna illak ana lā lē’îm inaddin libbam (iii 15f), “like a standard he proceeded in front, to the exhausted one he returned and gave courage”. 37 išdīkunu immar nakrum (iii 18), “the enemy will see your discipline” (Zimrī-Lîm līmurū qurudka [tenēštum ana dīri] lina’’id šumka (ii 45f), “PN let your heroism be seen, let [people?] praise your name [for ever?]!”). 38 labšū patrī namṣarī šukurrī (iii 21), “daggers, swords, and spears their habits”. 39 qarradušu išmū ziki[r šaptīšu], “his soldiers hear the word of his lips” (iii 46). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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who īpulū zērtam, “answered with hatred” (iv 4) and are destined to die. The text appears built on a subtle play of repetitions and symmetries which underscore the reciprocity between the king and his generals and troops in fostering heroism and struggling for a victory, which is finally guaranteed by the trustworthiness of the king’s troops.40 The text shows the employment both of parallelism and repetition and correspondences within the strophes such as in the following example: išti erṣetim dāmī qarradī (i 25 and again II 16), “the earth will drink the warriors’ blood”, and ballat qerbetum ina dāmīšunu (iii 6), “the interior of the land is drenched in their blood”. Guichard (2014: 94) concludes that the text’s structure can be described as an alternation of narrative and hymnic passages with the praise pronounced by the “chief of pasture” Ašmad at the heart of the composition.41 This construction illustrates the mastering of the scribal art and literary repertoire, an aspect that may be confirmed by the presence in the Mari chancellery of other literary texts belonging to the Babylonian tradition such as A 1252 + on Naram-Sin, as part of a traditional relation that has Early Dynastic examples and of the general diffusion of this court literature, possibly linked to specific ceremonial occasions. The Epic of Zimri-Lim also attests to a manifestation of this literary tradition and suggests looking for the existence of a specific ceremoniality linked to the socio-political structure of the Mari kingdom and the system of military alliances. It may be considered that this heroic side of dialogues also has procedural counterparts, such as the agreements concerning the partition of booty.42 It is impossible to say whether these heroic texts can be associated with the presence at court of specific performers such as the muštawûm, documented in some Mari letters and administrative lists of expenditures. According to Ziegler 2007, 50–52, the term, a participle from šutawûm, might be interpreted as “spécialistes de la déclamation”, although the genre of their recitations, liturgical or even heroic, is unknown. 3. Looking for a context The importance of the cults of ancient kings for the legitimation of the reigning leaders is variously attested. The text from Larsa L 74.225, seemingly written in honour of Naram-Sin, despite the difficulties of interpreting its fragmentary lines, reveals a particular elaboration of the theme of the death of the king and may be considered in the light of more extended texts such as the hymns in honour of Ur-

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iṣṣammar eli mutī kimtīšu (iii 32), “he could trust on the warriors of his clan”. On the possibility of identifying this man see Durand/Guichard, 1997: 33, fn. 80. Ašmad appears in particular as sender of ARM 26 24, a letter that deals with the decision-making of the Ḫana, and is mentioned in ARM 26 37 as leader of a group of Ḫana that seem to show seditious intentions. 42 See e.g. LAPO 17 457. 41

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Namma and Gilgamesh.43 The function of Kt j/k 97 has been associated with the evidence of a kispum ritual in Mari addressed to the statues of Sargon and NaramSin, likely introduced by the Assyrian dynasty, M12803.44 It is interesting to note that in the latter text, after a reference to offerings to the statues of the Akkadian kings, which were placed in the throne room, the rite includes the kispum for their Assyrian namesakes Sargon and Naram-Sin, and for the Ḫana yarâdum, those of the Numḫâ, and others, thus connecting various ancestry lines, in a way that might even be compared to the scope of the first sections of the Assyrian king list, which connects Samsi-Addu to the kings of Assur.45 Other types of ceremonial occasions are attested in the Mari documentation, such as banquets and war rituals during the reigns of both Yasmaḫ-Addu and Zimri-Lim. Administrative texts illustrate the organization of banquets in occasion of the tēbibtum, the conscription.46 Beside being an administrative appointment, they were important occasions of direct contact and for the establishment and reinforcement of allegiance bonds. To this end it was seemingly inspiring to acknowledge a common ideal of heroism and even a common “heroic ancestry”. Ceremonies and a common code of warfare might have provided means and tools for easier contacts and dialogues. 47 According to Durand/Guichard 1997, the festival of Eštar in the seventh year of Zimri-Lim’s reign (= ZL6’) saw the participation of various vassal rulers in Mari, others are attested for the following year.48 The distribution of wine is also attested on such occasions, in which foreign guests participated.49 On some liturgical and celebratory occasions recita-

43 Ur-Namma A (Flückiger-Hawker, 1999,) and Death of Gilgameš (Cavigneaux/Al-Rawi, 2000). 44 Durand/Guichard, 1997: 66–70 and Dercksen, 2005: 119–123 for commentary and setting. 45 For the Epic of Zimri-Lim a scenario of funerary celebrations has also been envisaged, although the tragic end of Mari prevented the performance of such a cult in which the epic was meant to be recited for the deceased king: Durand/Guichard, 1997: 42: “Il est vraisemblable que l’Épopée de Zimrî-Lîm aurait pu servir à commémorer Zimrî-Lîm lui-même après sa mort”. 46 As documented by the texts from Chagar Bazar, Talon avec la collaboration de Hammade, 1997. A synthesis with reference to bibliography is given in Ponchia, 2012. 47 See also A. 1146 (Marello, 1992). 48 Ibid. 210f . The reconstruction of the ritual is also difficult due to the various gaps in the text. In the ritual of Eštar of Irradân edited by Durand/Guichard, 1997, there is mention of lismū dannūtum, “strong runners”, who, after running a kind of circumambulation, enter the temple. At this moment the king takes part in the ceremony of the divine meal and various specialist performers, appear to be involved (ibid., p. 50f, 55 and 58, esp. col. iii, where wrestlers and acrobats seem to perform). Lamentation hymns punctuate the various phases of the ritual. See more recently Ziegler: 2007: 55–64. 49 Chambon, 2009: 57 and 166 esp. The latter text is a summary of the expenditures for wine on a liturgical occasion. Babylonian messengers and sheiks of the Ḫana were invited

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tions and musical performances were given. Some specific acts attested in rituals, although their interpretation is often difficult, might even provide parallels with the texts celebrating heroic enterprises. The rituals celebrated by Samsi-Addu after conquering Arrapha, as recorded in his stela, are to be identified with the ḫumṭum festival attested elsewhere.50 It seems that this ceremonial side had an important role in strengthening the bonds of alliance, especially in consideration of the high level of conflict during this period. The hostility of the Benjiaminites at the beginning of Zimri-Lim’s reign required various diplomatic activities, as illustrated by the following passage of the letter A. 2730 sent to Zimri-Lim by the mer’ûm Ibal-El: “Entre moi et Sarraya, il y a un pacte par le sang et des liens forts ont été instaurés. Cent Bédouins et cent de mes sujets des Bords-de-l’Euphrate avec moi, (c’est-a-dire) deux-cents de mes sujets de confiance, notables de mon pays, se sont tenus dans le sang et je lui ai preté serment par le dieu (i-na da-mi iz-zi-zu u ni-iš AN-lim [l]u-ú za-ak-ra-ak-sum).”51 The role of the Ḫana component in this complex framework was fundamental especially for their military strength, as illustrated in the synthesis provided by Heimpel (2003, 29–36).52 On the other hand, in the relations between allies the matter of prestige had an impact on diplomatic protocol, as illustrated by the letter of Itur-Addu to his lord Zimri-Lim (A2968+).53 The Mari diplomat reports to the king on his embassy to Babylon and on how vigorously he reaffirmed the preeminence of Zimri-Lim over the Turukkean allies and claimed to be honoured by the protocol of his audience with Hammurabi. This episode and the other details in the letter suggest that within alliances the rank of the participants was somehow fluid and their prestige might have been subject to competition.54 That heroic narratives and their performance had a role in this complex political discourse seems obvious, but the practical development of communication and performance is not explicitly documented. Insufficiently documented is a possible change from a heroic literature featuring the kings of Akkad to narratives featuring the reigning king and his soldiers, or a combination of these types of to the table in the Court of the Palm. 50 Charpin/Ziegler, 2003: 92. 51 Cf. Charpin/Ziegler, 2003: 180; See also ibid., 190–195 and 202f. on the reconciliation between Zimri-Lim and the Benjiaminites some years later and related contacts. 52 The author summarizes the discussion on the meaning of the term Ḫana and recognizes the following ones: of “ancestral tribal unit”, including Sim’al, Yamutbal and possibly also Yamina and Numḫa, “pasturalists or nomads”, “Sim’al pasturalists”. (Heimpel, 2003: 35). 53 Guichard, 2004. 54 “Pourquoi donc alors les rois [du pays] du Šubartum ne cessent-ils pas d’écrire chez ton Seigneur en tant que frères (atḫutam) et ne lui écriventils pas en tant que fils (mārutam)?” (ll. 14–15 quoted in Guichard’s translation). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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narratives. If the text from Kaneš is another token of the diffusion of the literature concerning the kings of Akkad operated by Samsi-Addu, or if more generally it may be considered in combination with funerary celebrations of ancient kings, who were ancestors of the Assur dynasty, and if the various texts on the kings of Akkad attest to the circulation and development of this literary material in scribal circles, the Epic of Zimri-Lim appears to indicate a shift in the focus of literary elaboration.55 By using motifs and style of the Akkad heroic literature, this text shifts the attention to the reigning king who had ended the interlude of Assyrian domination of Mari. In this respect, the Epic can be considered together with the royal inscriptions and hymns for reigning kings well attested in courts of the Old Babylonian period. Communication appears to have been a crucial aspect of war, not only as far as strategic information is concerned, but also for gathering allies and obtaining consensus, as suggested by this reference in a letter of Yasmaḫ-Addu: “Sumu-epuḫ (the king of Yamḫad) ne cesse d’envoyer a l’ensemble du pays (a-na ma-tim ka-li-ša) des ‘Nuzites’ et des messagers chargés de bonnes nouvelles, disant: ‘J’ai réuni les Turukkéens; j’ai fait pénétrer des gens chez les Turukkéens et j’ai remporté la victoire sur Samsi-Addu. En outre j’ai pillé son pays.’ Voila ce qu’il ne cesse d’annoncer.”56 The genesis of a genre devoted to the description of war episodes may be also searched for in reports of strategic interest, as is suggested by the following passage of a letter sent to the king of Mari by his elder brother Išme-Dagan, which was aimed at obtaining information of strategical importance, or perhaps contained the request for a report that was meant to be illustrated and become a piece of narrative exalting the values of the Ḫana leaders: “Au sujet de la victoire sur l’Ešnunnéen, vous n’avez pas rendu claire l’information livrée dans ton message écrit, si des grands personnage, hommes de renom ont été tués. Une armée nombreuse a-t-elle été tuée avec eux? Maintenant, décris dans une lettre les (moments) significatifs de cette victoire et fais-la-moi porter. Au moment de la victoire sur les Lulléens, at-on repoussé le centre de l’armée; sont-ce les ailes à droite et à gauche qui

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This view can be checked against a wider scenario of communication through ritual performances. As discussed in Durand/Guichard, 1997, it is possible to hypothesize a change in the choice of rituals and their timing, in this case with the intent to clearly distinguish the new era. Even the rituals of Eštar honour different hypostases of the goddess, of Irradan, during Yasmaḫ-Addu’s reign, and of Deritum during Zimri-lim’s when the Bensimalite goddess whose origin was in the Balih valley occupied the central place in the state ritual (cf. ibid.). 56 ARM V 17+ translated and commented by Charpin/Ziegler, 2003: 117. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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ont remporté la victoire? Est-ce dans le centre qu’on l’a remportée? Qu’en est-il?”57 Text A 1146 (edited in Marello, 1992) is a letter that offers a rhetorical treatment of the theme of the warrior’s ideals and way of life. The letter – that according to Marello’s reconstruction was exchanged between two Benjaminite chiefs, Ḫammi-ištammar and Yasmaḫ-Addu and seemingly intercepted by Zimri-Lim – was aimed at obtaining military assistance from a lazy and unwilling ally. A similar tone is used in the report sent by Samsi-Addu to Yasmaḫ-Addu (ARM I 69+), which relates the progress made in the campaign against Aḫazum. It concludes with the famous exhortation to the younger prince: “Ton frère, ici, a remporté la victoire. Mais toi, la-bas, tu es couché au milieu de femmes. A présent, lorsque tu iras a Qatna avec les armées, sois réellement un homme. Ton frère vient de se créer une réputation, de meme crée-toi une réputation lors de la campagne de Qatna!” (Charpin/Ziegler, 2003: 98). The opposition between the lazy and comfortable life within the palace walls and the hard virile life of the warriors that run over the steppe are motifs variously treated in later texts such as the Cuthean Legend and the Erra Epic. Moreover, the comparison with Dumuzi in A 1146 and the literary horizon it evokes is another tiny clue that the narrative re-elaboration of war episodes might not have been so sporadic as the written remains suggest. And various occasions might have stimulated a more or less free or fixed transformation according to a literary code of news and celebrations of military facts, even as part of performances, recorded or not in written form. 4. Concluding remarks The brief excursus proposed here, starting from the heroic narratives of the Old Babylonian period which focus on the kings of Akkad, exemplifies the research on the various concomitant factors that are premises and motors of change. Haul’s conclusive remark describes the causes of the genre development: “Am ehesten lässt sich die Genese der Sargon- und Narām-Sîn-Legenden erklären, wenn man sie als ‚Mischformen‘ versteht, die sich sowohl memorierter, letztlich schriftliterarischer Traditionen als auch mündlich-sagenhafter Traditionen bedienten. Der größere Anteil scheint nach dem bisherigen Befund dabei auf die schriftliterarische Tradition zurück zu gehen. Schließlich sollte als dritte gestaltende Kraft nicht die literarische Kreativität der Dichter unterbewertet werden, die die Legenden komponiert und niedergeschrieben hatten.” (2009, 251).

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Looking for more general trends, Durand (1984) had observed that a tradition of victory chants was retrievable from the examples from Mari and Babylonia (Hammurabi and Samsu-iluna), but that (p. 155): “La tradition s’en perd, semble-t-il, après l’époque amorrite, au moins dans la littérature écrite. Mais on trouve, au moment où le roi d’Assyrie, Adadnêrâri II, s’empare de Nisibe, dans la bouche de ses soldats, au commencement des combats, puis dans celle de celui qu’il a vaincu, l’araméen NûrAdad, des accents d’une tonalité tout à fait analogue.” The same author (in 1993) addressed the fundamental issue of transmission from a wider perspective: defining the contribution of the western and Amorite cultures to the development of the literary tradition and individual literary texts, such as Enuma eliš, that are known mostly in their 1st millennium versions. He concluded with the identification of some significant elements that may be interpreted as innovation clearly attributable to western influx, once the Mesopotamian world had abandoned “le poids mort de ‘Belles-Lettres’ sumériennes” (p. 61). More recently B. Pongratz-Leisten (2015) drew the attention to the contribution of the Hurrian culture in the third and early second millennium and observed that the use of the eastern Tigridian orthography in the texts from Ešnunna “links the city with the Old Akkadian and Old Assyrian horizons, i.e. the northern Mesopotamian sphere.” This induces her to look for “the existence of a particular Tigridian discourse that incorporated a combination of Hurrian, Sumero-Babylonian, and northern Akkadian/Assyrian elements” (p. 46) and to identify signs of the existence of an early Hurrian scribal tradition which mediated the relationship with the southern cuneiform tradition and served to express Hurrian cultural identity and its interaction with that of Assyria (pp. 62–72). Considering specific parallels, she argues that: “it is legitimate to ask whether Hurrian scholarly circles were also responsible for the transmission of the Sargon of Akkad tradition attested in the Old Assyrian Sargon Legend found at Kültepe” (p. 72). This background was seemingly favorable to Samsi-Addu’s action of promotion of Akkadian literature as a model of kingship (p. 142f). It may be further observed that the borrowing from the southern tradition included ritual performances, such as liturgical hymns, adapted into a local liturgy, and that the circulation of specialists among the courts of Upper Mesopotamia and the Levant was not limited to scribes but included musicians and probably other performers.58 Developments in our knowledge of Upper Mesopotamian sources and history are progressively revealing a complex image, the result of inputs from various components, with original contributions from Hurrian and Amorrite cultural milieus, although it is not always easy to distinguish the first origin of a motif and/or its reinterpretation according to a specific cultural and literary background. Yet 58

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the efficacious representation of the Akkadian dynasty, visual representations included, highly influenced the power discourses of other areas and later periods. Scholastic texts and concordances of motifs suggest that Akkadian literature became a kind of translation tool, which could be used even to narrate a different type of kingship such as the Hurrian or the Amorite models and to celebrate the heroic king in a mixed milieu.59 In the early II millennium the intermingling and integration of these cultural components seems to have largely been accomplished, a process that the spreading of the southern scribal culture had fostered, although different models of power existed as the texts from Mari clearly illustrate. In a period of changing boundaries and alliances, and of the need to propose a model of heroism and power efficacious towards subjects and allies, the heroic code of representation was destined to be elaborated, perpetuated and transmitted. The diffusion of such a code among the military elites and possibly among their troops was part of the basic language for communicating and understanding political decisions and for understanding contemporary royal inscriptions. It was moreover the premise of the following development of the latter genre. As a last consideration in order to avoid a simplistic image of this development, it is necessary at least to mention the fact that the scribal culture also reversed the image of the victorious hero and transformed it into that of the suffering and reflecting hero (Naram-Sin and Gilgameš). A change which was transmitted to posterity as one of the most intriguing achievements of Mesopotamian thought, and that may be connected to the evaluation of the very concept of change. In literary works change is attributed to the action of young and powerful heroes, who do not listen to counsels of prudence or even wait for divine assent. If and how the elaboration of these concepts and images was influenced by, and in its turn influenced, the scenario delineated above is a matter for further inquiry. Bibliography Alster, B. / Oshima, T., 2007: “Sargonic dinner at Kaneš: The Old Assyrian Sargon legend”. Iraq 69, 1–20. ARM 26/1: Durand, J.-M., 1988: Archives Royales de Mari XXVI/1. Paris. Cavigneaux, A. / Al-Rawi, F.N.H., 2000: Gilgameš et la mort. CM 19. Groningen. Chambon, G., 2009: Les archives du vin à Mari. Mémoires de NABU 12. Paris. Charpin, D., 1997: “La version mariote de l’Insurrection générale contre NarâmSîn’”. In Recueil d’études à la mémoire de M.-Th. Barrelet. Florilegium Marianum 3. Paris. Pp. 9–17. Charpin, D. / Ziegler, N., 2003: Mari et le Proche-Orient à l’époque amorrite. Essai d’histoire politique. Florilegium Marianum 5. Paris. Dercksen, J.-G., 2005: “Adad is king! The Sargon Text from Kültepe”. JEOL 39, 107–125. 59

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Durand, J.-M., 1984: “Trois études sur Mari”. MARI 3, 127–180. — 1988: Archives Royales de Mari XXVI/1. Paris. — 1993: “Le mythologème du combat entre le Dieu de l’Orage et la Mer en Mésopotamie”. MARI 7, 41–61. Durand, J.-M. / Guichard, M., 1997: “Les rituels de Mari”. In Recueil d’études à la mémoire de M.-Th. Barrelet. Florilegium Marianum 3. Paris. Pp. 19–78. Flückiger-Hawker, E., 1999: Urnamma of Ur in Sumerian Literary Tradition. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 166. Fribourg/Göttingen. Gabbay, U., 2014: Pacifying the Hearts of the Gods: Sumerian Emesal Prayers of the First Millennium BC. Heidelberger Emesal-Studien 1. Wiesbaden. Goodnick Westenholz, J., 1997: Legends of the Kings of Akkade. The Texts. Winona Lake. — 2007: “Notes on the Old Assyrian Sargon Legend”. Iraq 69, 21–27. Groneberg, B., 1987: “Tilpānu = Bogen”. RA 81, 115–124. Guichard, M., 2004: “‘La malédiction de cette tablette est très dure!’ Sur l’ambassade d’Itûr-asdû à Babylone en l’an 4 de Zimrî-lim”. RA 98, 13–32. — 2014: L’Epopée de Zimri-Lîm. Florilegium Marianum 14. Paris. Haul, M., 2009: Stele und Legende. Untersuchungen zu den keilschriftlichen Erzählwerken über die Könige von Akkade. Göttinger Beiträge zum Alten Orient 4. Göttingen. Heimpel, W., 2003: Letters to the King of Mari. MC 12. Winona Lake. Lanfranchi, G.B., 2007: “The King as a Hero in ancient Mesopotamia”. In A. Coppola (ed.): Eroi, eroismi, eroizzazioni. Padova. Pp. 17–25. Marello, P., 1992: “Vie nomade”. In Mélanges M. Fleury. Florilegium Marianum 1. Paris. Pp. 115–125. Michalowski, P., 2005: Mesopotamian Vistas on Axial Transformations.” In J.P. Arnason / S.N. Eisenstadt / B. Wittrock (eds.): Axial Civilizations and World History. Leiden/Boston. Pp. 157–181. Pongratz-Leisten, B., 2015: Religion and Ideology in Assyria. SANER 6. Berlin. RIME 2: Frayne, D.R.: Sargonic and Gutian Periods (2334–2113 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia Early Periods 2. Toronto 1993. Rollinger, R., 2008: “TUM-ba u5-a in ‚Gilgamesch, Enkidu und die Unterwelt‘ (Z. 154/161) und dessen Konnex zu den Spielgeräten ĝišellag/pukku und ĝiš E.KID-ma/mikkû”. JCS 60, 15–23. Talon, Ph., avec la collaboration de H. Hammade 1997: Old Babylonian Texts from Chagar Bazar. Supplementum ad Akkadica 10. Bruxelles. Ziegler, N., 2007: Les musiciens et la musique d’après les archives de Mari. Florilegium Marianum 9. Paris.

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Legends of Sargon History to His Story: Forming the Warrior King Archetype Takayoshi M. Oshima1

In memory of Joan Introduction Unlike the other texts discussed during the Melammu Workshop held at Innsbruck, “Literary Change in Mesopotamia and Beyond,” any attempt to reconstruct the redaction history of the legends of Sargon the Great faces a particular challenge. The challenge consists in two primary issues. 1) Although their main subject matter is the same, i.e. Sargon’s campaigns to faraway lands in the legends available to us recount different military expeditions or different episodes of the same campaign. 2) Šar Tamḫāri, the “King of Battle,” which recounts his war against Purušhanda, is known in various versions not only in Akkadian but also in Hittite. However, overlaps among the various recensions are not sufficient to reconstruct the redaction history of Šar Tamḫāri. Hence, instead of discussing “literary changes” to the Sargon legends, I discuss what these legends created. The Sargon legends turned a historical figure into the paragon of the warrior king. It shaped the image of the ideal king in the ancient Near East. However, before discussing the influence of the Sargon legends on the royal ideology of the ancient Near East, a survey of the legends of Sargon available to us is necessary. In this study, I will discuss the narrative texts commonly classified as legends by modern scholars that only recount Sargon’s heroic deeds apart from anyone else.2 Thus, I will exclude the Old Babylonian copies of Sargon’s royal inscrip1

I would like to thank Prof M. Lang and Dr S. Fink for their kind invitation to this workshop. I am also grateful to Prof Y. Cohen and Dr A. Gilan for reading my manuscript and offering me insightful comments. Thanks are also due Ms S. Rogers for editing my text. I would like to dedicate this paper to late Dr Joan Goodnick Westenholz. Joan spent at least three decades studying the legends of Sargon and Narām-Sîn until her untimely passing in 2013. Although Joan is probably better known as one of the first scholars who engaged in gender studies in the ancient Near East, Sargon and Narām-Sîn were her true loves. Her enthusiasm and passion for them manifested in her various works on the ancient kings of Akkad including her monumental book Legends of the Kings of Akkade, which appeared in 1997 from Eisenbrauns (Westenholz, 1997). 2 About the term “legend,” citing Dégh (1972: 73), Westenholz (1997: 22–23) observed as follows: “The relation of legend to history is closer than that of fiction to fact; the legend may not contain objective truth, but it is accepted as true in its cultural context. This belief in its historicity is an essential element of legend. Likewise, the didactic © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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tions and various historiographic texts, including the Sumerian King List, the Weidner Chronicle, and the Chronicle of Early Kings.3 By the same token, I am not going to discuss the so-called historic omens regarding the Akkadian kings. Survey of the legends of Sargon Currently we know of ten literary compositions that, following Westenholz (2010: 27), we may call Res Gestae Sargonis.4 With the exception of the Sumerian Sargon Legend (no. 1 on our list), all these texts praise Sargon as a warrior king who

aims of the legend are also clear: ‘The reason for telling a legend is basically not to entertain but to educate people, to inform them about an important fact, to arm them against danger within their own cultural environment’.” As we shall see below, ancient kings apparently assumed the historicity of the events recounted in the texts discussed here and tried to emulate Sargon’s heroic achievements in order to prove themselves. Another term which might be used is “epic,” although Assyriologists normally do not apply this term in the title of the narrative poems discussed in this paper. P. Michalowski (1992: 228) warns that application of the term “epic” to ancient Near Eastern texts “subconsciously bring[s] to bear upon these texts very specific anachronistic expectations and interpretative strategies.” Yet, note the examples of the Zimrilim Epic and the TukultiNinurta Epic and that no scholars challenge their historicity. In order to refer to the texts in our corpus, Assyriologists also use the term narûliterature, which was first introduced by Güterbock (1934). With this term, Assyriologists frequently refer to various styles of literary texts with a historical figure, normally a king, as its protagonist. One must keep in mind, however, that the term narû-literature as a definition of a particular type of narrative is a modern invention. The incipit of the Cuthean Legend reads ṭupšenna pitēma narâ šitassi, “open the tablet-box and recite the ‘stela’,” when complete. Westenholz, 1997: 263; see also Haul, 2009: 108, fn. 35. Yet, it seems that the term narû does not refer to a text’s genre but rather to the material of the medium, i.e. a stone tablet. Instead of narû, Gilgameš Epic I, 24–27 refers to a tablet of lapis lazuli. See George, 2003: 539: “[Find] the tablet-box of cedar, [release] its clasps of bronze! [Open] the lid of its secret, [lift] up the tablet of lapis lazuli (ṭup-pi na4uqnî) and read out.” Modern scholars have not reached any consensus about the exact definition of the term. For a survey of narû-literature, see Haul, 2009: 95–131. As it makes little sense to nonspecialists, I consciously avoid using this term in this study. Incidentally, Westenholz (1997: 21) observes that, unlike the Sumerian texts, Akkadian texts were never classified by ancient scribes. 3 Glassner, 2004: 117–127, 263–269, and 268–271 respectively. 4 The term Res Gestae in this particular case refers to historical narrative texts like the Res Gestae Alexandri Macedonis or autobiographical works like the Res Gestae Divi Augusti. Incidentally, Westenholz uses the term Res Gestae Sargonis in two different ways. She normally uses it as a reference to all the legends of Sargon. Yet, in some place, (e.g. Westenholz, 2010: 27–28), with the same term, she refers to five specific narrative texts (nos 2–5, 7 in our list). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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led his army to faraway lands. The following lists these texts and provides short summaries:5 1: Sumerian Sargon Legend (Edition: Cooper/Heimpel, 1983: 67–82; translation: Foster, 2016: 348–350) Set in Kish in the reign of Ur-Zababa, whom Sargon served as a cupbearer, this legend recounts how Sargon, with the help of the goddess Inanna, escaped UrZababa’s plot to kill him and rose to power. Two Old Babylonian manuscripts (AO 7673 and 3N T 296) are known. Cooper and Heimpel (1983: 68) suggest that the poem “may just be a degenerate version of a text composed in the Ur III period.” This poem reveals the name of Sargon’s father Laʾibum; however, his mother’s name is not preserved. A later composition, Sargon’s Birth Legend (no. 8 in our list), on the other hand, states that Sargon’s mother was an entu-priestess, but he never knew who his father was. 2: Old Assyrian Sargon Legend (Edition: Alster/Oshima, 2007. See also Haul, 2009: 339–354) Its manuscript Kt. j/k 97 was discovered at Kültepe in the house of the merchant Ah-Šalim in 1958 and first published by Günbatti (1997). It is the oldest extant manuscript of the Sargon legends and was composed in the form of a first-person narrative probably around 1850 BCE. It speaks of Sargon’s ability to run swiftly; his dining with his 11,000 men; his stay in darkness (ikiltu) for seven years, one month, and fifteen days; and his conquest of the Amanus mountains, where he erected his statue. It also includes a list of conquests: the peoples of Tukriš, Hutura, and Alašia (Cyprus); Amorites; the peoples of Kilari, Kaneš, and Hatti; Luhmeans; Luluans; and Hahha’ans (ten in total). As observed by van de Mieroop (2000: 153), these areas are all located in greater Anatolia or along its border. Modern scholars have suggested different interpretations of this text. Hecker (2001) takes it as a laudatory royal inscription, and Dercksen (2005: 108) suggests that it was recited during kispum, a ritual honouring the dead with food-offerings and libations, in order to exalt Sargon. Cavigneaux (2005: 596) suggests that an Assyrian scribe composed it based on his knowledge of Sargon and Narām-Sîn, which he gained through their inscriptions erected in the temple courtyard in Assur. Cavigneaux’s argument could be supported by the fact that the text shares stylistic features with Old Akkadian royal inscriptions: as Foster (2016: 267) observes, “in the spirit of the authentic inscriptions of Rimush and Manishtusu, [Sargon] swears to the truth of what he says [in the text].” Alster and Oshima (2007: 5

I only refer to the latest text editions and translations, where one can find earlier studies of each text, and as to the modern titles, I follow Westenholz 2010. See also Haul, 2009: 16–31 and Westenholz, 2010: 27–29. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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8) take a similar line of argument as Cavigneaux and suggest that the Old Assyrian Sargon Legend is an early example of heroic literature comparable with the Alexander Romance. However, it is more popular among scholars to regard it as a parody and question any historicity of the events recounted in it.6 In the Old Assyrian Sargon Legend, Sargon proudly claims that he daily slaughtered 1,000 oxen and 6,000 sheep in order to feed 11,000 men. The numbers given are rather extravagant and unrealistic. However, a careful examination of this text and some of the royal inscriptions of Sargon reveals that this episode might not be another shaggy-dog story but is rather based on Sargon’s own claims made in his royal inscriptions. In his two royal inscriptions, Sargon himself boasts that 5,400 men ate in his presence daily (RIME Sargon, E.2.1.1.11, 29–37//36– 44// E.2.1.1.12, 22’–30’). The number given in the Old Assyrian Sargon Legend is exaggerated, being slightly more than double, but we cannot dismiss it as a completely baseless claim invented by the composer of the Old Assyrian Sargon Legend from Kaneš.7 Sargon’s stay in the dark is another element known from other texts related to Sargon. Some so-called historical omens refer to Sargon’s stay in the dark, but they do not reveal the length of this stay.8 Sargon, the Conquering Hero (no. 3 in our list), although it also does not speak of the length of the period that Sargon stayed in the darkness, recounts that Sargon ventured into the Land of Uta-rapaštim located in a dark forest. 3: Sargon, the Conquering Hero (Westenholz, 1997: 59–77) Written in Old Babylonian, it begins with Sargon’s talk of battle followed by an Ašarēdu’s response and advice to the king. It also recounts Sargon’s campaign to the remote land of Uta-rapaštim, sitting in darkness, and conquest of the land of Simurrum. Of the list of seven lands conquered by him, only the names of Amurru, Subartu, and Carchemish are preserved. It concludes with a challenge to future kings, “Lo, the king who wants to equal me, where I have gone, let him also go!” Because the story begins in the middle of a critical situation, an event known to the ancient audience but not to us, Joan Goodnick Westenholz (1997: 59) observes

6

Van de Mieroop, 2000: 155; Foster, 2016: 267; Haul, 2009: 339–354. A Hittite version of Šar Tamḫāri, KBo 22, rev. 8’–10’, recounts that Sargon was so happy to be at Puruš-handa that he remained there for three years and ten months. It is difficult to assess the significance of this claim. Yet, one may note that the length of his stay at Puruš-handa is a little less than a half of the period that the Sargon legend from Kaneš claims that he stayed in darkness, i.e seven years, one month, and fifteen days. It is possible that there was an Anatolian tradition about Sargon being there for a longer period of three or seven years and the numbers given in these texts reflect that tradition. Incidentally, no known Mesopotamian texts including the Amarna recension of Šar Tamḫāri reveal the length of Sargon’s stay in Anatolia. 8 Foster, 2016: 254, no. 18. 7

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that “it is a part of a larger work and thus forms only a second or third tablet in a series.” 4: Sargon in Foreign Lands (Westenholz, 1997: 78–93) This text is also written in Old Babylonian. The tablet containing this text was found at Tell Harmal (ancient Šaduppûm). It was copied by van Dijk and collated by J. Black (TIM IX 48). Because we do not have its beginning, the setting of this poem is not clear, but it seems that it begins with descriptions of Sargon’s military achievements. After what has survived from the introduction, it recounts Sargon’s campaign to the Amanus Mountains and the Cedar Forest. In the Cedar Forest, Sargon voices to his men his wish to wage war against Mardaman somewhere in the Upper Tigris region of northern Mesopotamia. The poem also refers to Sargon’s conquest of the Simurrians, but this is probably a separate episode. B. Foster (2005: 107) presents this text and the previous one (i.e. text no. 3) together as a single text. As Westenholz (1997: 78) observes, although there are several parallel episodes, their wording is different. Given this, one must take Sargon, the Conquering Hero and Sargon in the Foreign Lands as independent of each other. 5: Sargon, the Lion (Westenholz, 1997: 94–101) This is a late Old Babylonian or early Middle Babylonian composition. Two manuscripts of the poem are known: UM 29-13-688 from Nippur and St. Étienne 150 whose provenance is not known. Due to its very fragmentary condition, its exact nature is not clear, but it appears that it recounts Sargon’s campaign against either Elam or the Cedar Forest. 6: I, Sargon (Westenholz, 1997: 34–35) An Old Babylonian fragment (MCL 641 = BRM 4, 4) preserves 9 lines of what appears to be a first-person narrative: “I Sargon, beloved of Ištar, who roamed through the world (lit.: Four Quarters) (…).” This could be an introductory section from one of the Old-Babylonian Sargon legends discussed above. 7: Sargon, King of Battle (Westenholz, 1997: 102–139. For the Hittite recension, see Gilan, 2000) The next text, known by its ancient title Šar Tamḫāri, King of Battle, is known from multiple recensions. It recounts Sargon’s campaign at the request of merchants to Puruš-handa, a city located in central Anatolia.9 Roughly speaking, there 9

Modern scholars have not reached any consensus about the modern identification of Puruš-handa. P. Garelli (1989: 149–152) and K. Hecker (2006–2008: 119) identify the city with the modern Acemhöyük. On the other hand, D. Hawkins (1992: 272) observes that Karahöyük-Konya, about 140 km east of Acemhöyük, is a more likely candidate for Parshunta (Puruš-handa). Recently, G. Barjamovic (2011: 366) suggested placing the city even © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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are three different provenances of the manuscripts – with second millennium manuscripts from Hattuša (6 MSs) and Amarna (2 MSs) and first millennium manuscripts found at the Assyrian cities of Aššur and Nineveh (2 MSs). The texts found at Hattuša are written in Late Hittite, while the others are written in Akkadian. However, in the Amarna version, scholars have observed features that are more commonly attested in the Hittite scribal traditions.10 Based on this observation, G. Beckman (2001: 88), among others, suggests that the Amarna version of Šar Tamḫāri was copied at Hattuša during the late Middle Hittite period (circa 1400) and sent to Egypt.11 Moreover, it has been suggested that the Hittite versions are not Hittite translations of a contemporary Middle Babylonian recension but are derived from an Old Babylonian version which might be transmitted through the Hurrians, both orally and in written form.12 Each recension preserves a similar but not identical name of Sargon’s enemy: Nūr-Dahhê (Hittite), Nūr-Daggal (Amarna), and Nūr-Dagān (Neo-Assyrian). Nūr-Dagān is also known from the Mappa Mundi: mZALÁG-dda-gan LUGAL purš[a-h]a-an-[da], “Nūr-Dagan, the king of Purš[a-h]an[da].”13 Previously it was suggested that Nūr-Dahhê in the Hittite recension was the result of confusion between the signs HE and HÉ (= GAN). According to this hypothesis, instead of Nūr-Dahhê, Nūr-Dagān was actually meant.14 Note also KBo 13.46, 8’, mnu-urda-ga-[ … ]. However, Archi (2000) has suggested taking Nūr-Dahhê as being the original name of the king, derived from a Hurrian name Nawar-tahe, “Manof-Nawar.” Note the Habiru prism from Tikunani, col. viii 2: mna-wa-ar-da-ahe. 15 Thus Archi (ibid.) argues that Nūr-Dagal (Amarna) and Nūr-Dagan are “semitized, interpreting it as nawru, nūr «light», «light of Dagan».” Van de Mieroop (2000: 137 fn. 20) suggests that Nūr-Dagān was the original form but it was modified to Nūr-Dahhê in the Hittite recension, which was transmitted to the Hittites through the Hurrians, so that the name would be more acceptable to Hurrian speakers. 8: The Birth Legend of Sargon (Westenholz, 1997: 36–49) This is another first-person narrative. All the known manuscripts are from the first millennium – three manuscripts from the library of Aššurbanipal at Nineveh and

further in the west in the region of Bolvadin. Regardless of Puruš-handa’s exact location, the ancient Mesopotamians apparently believed that Sargon successfully led his army deep into central Anatolia far away from his city Akkad in central Mesopotamia. Sargon’s achievement must thus be seen as great bravery by the many rulers to come. 10 For detailed analysis, see Westenholz, 1997: 105–107. 11 See also Westenholz, 1997: 105; Izre’el, 1997: 71. 12 See Klinger, 2005; Archi, 2007. 13 Horowitz, 2011: 23, obv. 10’. 14 Güterbock, 1969: 18; Westenholz, 1997: 103. 15 See Salvini, 1996: 33. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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one tablet from Neo-Babylonian Dilbat. Sargon recounts that, because his birth mother, an entu-priestess, had to conceal her pregnancy and the subsequent birth, she put baby Sargon in a basket and sent him down a river. He further tells that he was found and adopted by Aqqi, a water-drawer. He became a gardener, but because of the goddess Ištar’s affection towards him, he rose to power and became a ruler. This is the earliest example of a story in which a baby that was discarded in a river at birth emerges into greatness as an adult. The account of his campaigns is followed by Sargon’s challenge to future kings (Westenholz, 1997: 45): “Whatever king will arise after me, [Let him exercise kingship for xx years]! Let him rule the black-headed people! Let him cut his way through the (most) difficult mountains with copper axes! Let him ascend all the high mountains! [Let him traverse all the foothills]! Let him circumnavigate the Sealands three times! [Let Dilmun submit to him]! Let him ascend to the Great Wall of Heaven and Earth! [Let him remove (its) stones …]!” 9 and 10: Sargon Letters (Westenholz, 1997: 143–147; 148–149) The next entries are, strictly speaking, not legends but fictitious letters said to be sent by Sargon to his subjects. One may compare them with the Gilgameš Letter (Foster, 2005: 1017–1019). One of these fictitious letters was discovered at Nippur, and the second one was found at Ur. In the Ur letter, Sargon requests several deities (i.e. Šamaš, Ilaba, Zababa, Ištar, and Annunītum) to grant him approval for a campaign against Puruš-handa. These letters include lists of people and professions that were most likely based on type II/2 of Proto-Lu.16 Historicity of the accounts of Sargon’s adventure recounted in his legends As stated earlier, with the exception of the Sumerian Sargon legend, these texts praise Sargon as a warrior king who conquered distant lands. The episodes recounted in these legends can be divided into two groups. 1) The events also referred to in copies of Sargon’s royal inscriptions and contemporary documents. Specifically, the Old Babylonian legends recount that Sargon led his army to the Amanus Mountains, Simurrum, Elam, and the Cedar Mountains. These events are correlated with other historical documents. 2) The episodes that cannot be correlated with his royal inscriptions or contemporary texts. In particular, Sargon’s campaigns to Anatolia are not known from his royal inscriptions or historiographic texts.

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Events mentioned in Sargon’s royal inscriptions and contemporary documents Two Old Babylonian Sargon legends, Sargon the Conquering Hero (no. 3) and Sargon in Foreign Lands (no. 4), refer to Sargon’s campaign to Simurrum. His war against Simurrum is not known from his extant royal inscriptions. However, given the fact that Sargon’s campaign to Simurrum is mentioned in a year-name of Sargon,17 one can safely conclude that this episode is based on a historical event that took place during his lifetime. The Old Assyrian Sargon Legend (no. 2) and Sargon in Foreign Lands (no. 4) refer to the Amanus Mountains, located in south-central Turkey, dividing the coastal regions of Cilicia from inland Syria. It is spelled ha-ma-na-am and huma-nam respectively.18 Because Narām-Sîn, the grandson of Sargon, states in a royal inscription that Nergal granted him the Amanus Mountains, Cedar Mountains, and the Upper Sea (RIME 2, Narām-Sîn, E.2.1.4.26, i 22–28), one may surmise that Narām-Sîn’s achievement was credited to Sargon in the Sargon legends.19 Yet, it is also possible that Sargon himself conquered the Amanus Mountains. In his royal inscriptions, Sargon claims that Dagan gave him Ebla, the Cedar Forest, and the Silver Mountains as far as the Upper Sea (RIME 2, Sargon, 28, E 2.1.1.11, 20–28; E 2.1.1.12, 13’–21’). If the Silver Mountains refer to the snowcovered mountains of Anatolia as suggested by various modern scholars,20 it is very reasonable to believe that Sargon had to cross the Amanus Mountains en route to the Silver Mountains. Given these facts, one may speculate that the Old Babylonian Sargon the Conquering Hero and Sargon in Foreign Lands are dramatized accounts of historical events that took place in the Old Akkadian period. Events otherwise unattested Not all the events recounted in the Sargon legends can be correlated with Sargon’s known royal inscriptions or contemporary documents. For example, the Old Assyrian Sargon legend (no. 2) hints that Sargon put the greater Anatolian region under his control. Yet, no known historical documents confirm his claim over that region. Sargon’s campaign to Puruš-handa at the request of the merchants is the main subject of various legends of Sargon, with the most notable example being King of Battle. Puruš-handa and its ruler, Nūr-Dagan, are also mentioned together with 17

mu śar-um-gi śi-mur-umki-šè ì-gin-na-a, “the year Sargon went (on a campaign) to Simurrum.” See RIME 2, 8. 18 Dercksen (2005: 113–114) thinks that hu-ma-nam is not the Amanus Mountain. 19 Foster (2016: 14; 259–260) is the last to observe that later scribes attributed all the successes of the Akkadian kings to Sargon, while they portrayed Narām-Sîn as “a hapless empire loser” by attributing to him all the failures of the Akkadian kings. 20 E.g. Foster, 2016: 4 with 26, note 9. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Sargon in the Mappa Mundi,21 which also refers to Uta-napištim. This is yet another episode that is not confirmed by the known royal inscriptions of Sargon. Sargon as the archetype of warrior king We can risk guessing editorial history of various Sargon legends to a limited degree. For example, various recensions of Šar Tamḫāri are known from Hattuša, Amarna, and Neo-Assyrian sites. Because of the Hurrian terms in the Hittite versions of Šar Tamḫāri, such as Aranzah, the Hurrian term for the Tigris, Archi (2000; 2007) argues that the Hittite version was transmitted through the Hurrians. The Hittite scribe might be responsible for expanding the legend. Terri (2009: 114), on the other hand, claims that the episode of the fall of Puruš-handa in the Hittite recension is an insertion made by the Hittite scribe, probably reflecting Hattušili I’s treatment of the city. Terri (2009: 116) even argues that the Hittite recension of Šar Tamḫāri was entirely composed by the Hittites. The Hittites clearly played important roles in the dissemination of the poem. As discussed earlier, because we observe Hittite scribal tradition in the Amarna recension, Amarna versions were most likely written by the Hittite scribes. However, two major reasons make it impossible to reconstruct a detailed redaction history of all the legends attributed to Sargon the Great. 1) the Sargon legends do not always recount the same episodes, and 2) even when the same event is recounted in various legends or in different recensions of one legend, the poor preservation of the manuscripts does not allow detailed examination of the literary history of the Sargon legends. The best example is Sargon’s campaign against Puruš-handa, the main subject of the King of Battle. Therefore, in the following section, I will discuss what these legends created. With other scholars, I will argue that what these Res Gestae Sargonis created was the model of the ideal warrior king in the ancient Near East.22 The Sargon legends transformed a historical figure to the archetype of the warrior king. The ancient kings regarded Sargon of Akkad as the paragon of the warrior king and, regardless of their historicity, it seems that legends of Sargon inspired the Hittite and Assyrian kings to venture beyond the borders of their territories and conquer distant lands. The best example of the kings who tried to emulate Sargon of Akkad is Sargon II (722–705 BCE). He was the first king, in over one thousand years, to revive the name of Sargon in some form (i.e. Šarru-ukīn instead of Šarru-kīn);23 the previous king who bore this name was an Old Assyrian king (circa 1920–1881 BCE). The name was not all that Sargon of Akkad and Sargon 21

See fn. 13 above. E.g. Liverani, 1993: 64–67; van de Mieroop, 1999, 330–334; Gilan, 2010: 53; idem, 2015: 240; Galter, 2014: 44–45; 339. 23 Novotny, 2005; Frahm, 2005. If Novotny is correct to assume that Šarru-ukīn was given by his father as Sargon’s birth name, Tiglathpileser III was responsible for the revival of this name. 22

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II had in common; various modern scholars have observed that Sargon’s conquests as recounted in his royal inscriptions strongly resemble the lands listed as Sargon of Akkad’s territory in the Sargon Geography.24 It seems that Sargon II actually responded to Sargon of Akkad’s challenge in the Birth Legend and tried to replicate his achievements.25 The Hittite kings also regarded Sargon as the archetype of a warrior king. For example, in the so-called Annals of Hattušili I, also known as the Many Deeds, Hattušili I, who reigned in the second half of the seventeenth century BCE, boasts that he surpassed Sargon of Akkad as follows:26 “No one had crossed the Euphrates River, but I, the Great King, the Tabarna,27 crossed it on foot, and my army crossed it on foot behind me. Sargon (of Akkad also) crossed it. [He] fought the troops of Hahha, but [he] did not do anything to Hahha. He did not burn it down; smoke was not visible to the storm-god of Heaven. But I, the Great King, the Tabarna, destroyed Haššuwa and Hahha and [burned] them down with fire. I showed smoke to the sun-god of Heaven and the storm-god. I hitched the king of Haššuwa and the king of Hahha to a wagon.” Hattušili’s conquest of Haššum and Hahhum, which took place in the final year covered in his Annals, forms the climax of the text. 28 The very detailed and lengthy descriptions of his battles against Haššum and Hahhum and the aftermath suggest that Hattušili took great pride in these acts. By comparing himself to Sargon of Akkad, the Hittite king clearly wished to cement his fame as the greatest conqueror. Emphasizing his burning down Haššum and Hahhum, which Sargon of Akkad did not do, was meant to place Hattušili in a position even greater than the great Sargon of Akkad. One may call the reference of Hattušili destroying these cities by fire in the Annals as the “icing on the cake.” It is rather remarkable that the Hittite king compares himself not with his ancestors such as Anitta,29 who also conquered Puruš-handa, but with the Old Akkadian king who lived more than 24

E.g. Liverani, 1993: 64–67; van de Mieroop, 1999: 330–334; Galter, 2014: 339. For the Sargon Geography, see Horowitz, 2011: 67–95. As Horowitz (ibid., 77) observes, not all the territories referred to in it are known from Sargon’s royal inscriptions or historiographical texts. Hence Horowitz (ibid., 78) speculates that its author “compiled the Sargon Geography by synthesizing a variety of materials, not all of which pertained directly to Sargon of Akkad.” 25 See, e.g., Galter, 2014: 339. 26 Beckman, 2006: 221. See also Gilan, 2015: 223–224. 27 For this Hittite royal title, see Soysal, 2005. 28 Gilan, 2010: 53. 29 Torri (2007: 110–118) suggests that the event of Sargon’s campaign to Puruš-handa is the product of Anatolian and specifically Hittite interest in Sargonic legend. See also Westenholz, 2010: 290–294. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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a half millennium earlier. Gilan (2010: 53) observes that: “Hattušili did not only compare himself to Sargon, he apparently engaged in direct dialogue with him, responding to the famous challenge taken from one of the Old Babylonian compositions about this ruler (Westenholz, 1997: 77): ‘Lo, the king who wants to equal me, where I have gone, let him also go!’”30 Although no royal inscription of Sargon refers to Haššum or Hahhum, these cities are known from Sargon’s legends. Haššum is mentioned in Sargon, the Conquering Hero as a colony from which Sargon launched his invasion of the land of Utarapaštim. Hahhum is alluded to in the list of people tortured by Sargon in the Old Assyrian Sargon Legend from Kaneš. The way they are mentioned in these texts, however, shows that they had almost no significance. It seems that, in the collective memory of the Hittites, Sargon’s Euphrates crossing and conquest of Hahhum occupied a more significant position than how it was probably remembered in the Mesopotamian scribal traditions. What Hattušili copied from Sargon was not just the war efforts but also the way he presented his achievements. Like Sargon, Hattušili also erected a statue with an inscription recounting his deeds. M. Bachvarova (2016: 180) observes that “Hattusili makes a point of mentioning the gold statue he has made of himself for the Sun-goddess of Arinna, on which are inscribed his deeds. In this he is again imitating Sargon, for his deeds too were inscribed on statues of himself.”31 It has been suggested by various modern scholars that Muršili I, Hattušili’s successor, was also inspired by Sargon’s campaign and attempted to live up to his example.32 Muršili I resumed the military campaign that Hattušili began and destroyed Aleppo, the capital of Yamhad. He then led his army down the Euphrates to Babylon, located about 1,000 km south-east of Aleppo. Gilan (2010: 55) observes that, although the Sargon Legends and Narām-Sîn Legends are known to Hittite scribes, there is no known evidence suggesting that they developed a scribal tradition about their own kings similar to the Old Akkadian royal legends. There is no known legend of Hattušili or Muršili recounting their heroic deeds in epic style. This fact may also suggest that, instead of idolizing their own ancestors, the Hittites regarded Sargon the Great as the paragon or archetype of the warrior king ideal and tried to emulate his achievements recounted in his legends. Before concluding this paper, I would like to make one more remark on the legends of Sargon. In many respects, Sargon of Akkad is reminiscent of Gilgamesh, the legendary king of Uruk. Like Sargon, Gilgamesh and his companion Enkidu ventured to the Cedar Forest. One Old Babylonian recension of the Bab30

See now Gilan, 2015: 228. See also Gilan, 2010: 55. 32 E.g. Haas, 1993. 31

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ylonian Gilgamesh epic recounts that, in order to reach the Cedar Forest, the heroes travelled the road to the “land of Ebla” instead of “Mount Lebanon” as known in the later versions. This matches the accounts known from royal inscriptions of Sargon and Narām-Sîn: for the Akkadian kings, the Cedar Forest was the Amanus Mountains. Based on this, A. George (2003: 94) observes that Gilgamesh’s expedition to the mountains of the far north-west might be based on the memory of historical events in the Old Akkadian period. George (2003: 20) also suggests that Gilgamesh’s “race in darkness along the path of the Sun” is perhaps related to traditional Babylonian stories about Sargon of Akkad, who in the King of Battle and various omen apodoses is said to have marched through a region of darkness before emerging into sunlight.”33 Based on George’s observations, one may suggest that even the epic hero Gilgamesh followed in the footsteps of Sargon of Akkad. Bibliography Alster, B. / Oshima, T., 2007: “Sargonic Dinner at Kaneš: The Old Assyrian Sargon Legend”. Iraq 69, 1–20. Archi, A., 2000: “Nawar-Tahe, King of Puruihanda”. NABU 2000, 67, no. 61. — 2005: “Transmission of Recitative Literature by the Hittites”. AoF 34, 185– 203. Bachvarova, M.R., 2016: From Hittite to Homer: The Anatolian Background of Ancient Greek Epic. Cambridge. Barjamovic, G., 2011: A Historical Geography of Anatolia in the Old Assyrian Colony Period. CNIP 38. Copenhagen. Beckman, G., 2001: “Sargon and Naram-Sin in Hatti: Reflections of Mesopotamian Antiquity among the Hittites”. In D. Kuhn (ed.): Die Gegenwart des Altertums. Heidelberg. Pp. 85– 91. — 2006: “Annals of Hattušili I”. In M.W. Chavalas (ed.): Historical Sources in Translation: The Ancient Near East. Malden MA / Oxford. Pp. 29–42. Cavigneaux, A., 2005: “Les soirées sargoniques de marchands assyriens”. In A. Kolde et al. (eds.): Mélanges offerts à André Hurst. Genève. Pp. 592–602. Cooper, J. / Heimpel, W., 1983: “The Sumerian Sargon Legend”. JAOS 103, 67– 82. Dégh, L., 1972: “Folk Narrative”. In R. M. Dorson (ed.): Folklore and Folklife. Chicago. Pp. 53–83. Dercksen, J.G., 2005: “Adad is King! The Sargon Text From Kültepe (with an Appendix to MARV 4, 138 and 140)”. JEOL 39, 107–129. Frahm, E., 2005: “Observations on the Name and Age of Sargon II and on Some Patterns of Assyrian Royal Onomastics”. NABU 2005, 46–50, no. 44.

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Frayne, D., 1993: Sargonic and Gutian Periods (2334–2133 BC). RIME 2. Toronto/Buffalo/London. Foster, B.R., 2005: Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature, 3rd ed. Bethesda. — 2016: The Age of Agade: Inoventing Empire in Ancient Mesopotamia. London / New York. Galter, H.D., 2014: “Sargon II. und die Eroberung der Welt”. In H. Neumann et al. (eds.): Krieg und Frieden im Alten Vorderasien: 52e Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale: International Congress of Assyriology and Near Eastern Archaeology Münster, 17.–21. Juli 2006. AOAT 401. Münster. Pp. 329–343. Garelli, P., 1989: “Le marché de Purušḫattum”. In K. Emre / M. Mellink / N. Özgüç (eds.): Anatolia and the Ancient Near East: Studies in Honor of Tahsin Özgüç / Tahsin Özgüç’e armağan. Ankara. Pp. 149–152. George, A.R., 2003: The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts. Oxford. Gilan, A., 2000: Sargon in Anatolia – The ‘King of Battle’ in a Hittite Context. MA thesis, Freie Universität Berlin. — 2010: “Epic and History in Hittite Anatolia: In Search of a Local Hero”. In D. Konstan / K.A. Raaflaub (eds.): Epic and History/ Chichester. Pp. 51–65. — 2015: Formen und Inhalte althethitischer historischer Literatur. Texte der Hethiter: Philologische und historische Studien zur Altanatolistik 29. Heidelberg. Glassner, J.J., 2004: Mesopotamian Chronicles. Society of Biblical Literature Writings from the Ancient World 19. Atlanta. Günbatti, C., 1997: “Kültepe’den akadlı Sargon’a abit bir tablet”. Archivum Anatolicum 3, 131–135. Güterbock, H.G., 1934: “Die historische Tradition und ihre literarische Gestaltung bei Babyloniern und Hethitern bis 1200. Erster Teil: Babylonier”. ZA 42, 1–91. — 1969: “Ein neues Bruchstück der Sargon-Erzählung ,König der Schlacht‘”. MDOG 101, 14–26. Haas, V., 1993: “Eine hethitische Weltreichsidee: Betrachtungen zum historischen Bewusstsein und politischen Denken in althethitischer Zeit”. In K. Raaflaub (ed.): Anfänge politischen Denkens in der Antike. Die nahöstlichen Kulturen und die Griechen. Schriften des Historischen Kollegs, Kolloquien 24. München. Pp. 135–144. Haul, M., 2009: Untersuchungen zu den keilschriftlichen Erzählwerken über die Könige von Akkade. Göttinger Beiträge zum Alten Orient 4. Göttingen. Hawkins, D., 1992: “The Inscriptions of the Kızıldağ and the Karadağ in the light of the Yalburt Inscription”. In H. Otten / E. Akurgal / E. Ertem (eds.): Hittite and Other Anatolian and Near Eastern Studies in Honour of Sedat Alp. Ankara. Pp. 259–275. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Hecker, K., 2001: “Akkadische Texte”. In O. Kaiser et al. (eds.): Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments, Ergänzungslieferung. Gütersloh. Pp. 58–60. — 2006–2008: “Pur(u)šḫattum”. RlA 11, 119–120. Horowitz, W., 2011: Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography. Mesopotamian Civilizations 8. Winona Lake. Izre’el, S., 1997: The Amarna Scholarly Tablets. Groningen. Klinger, J., 2005: “Die hethitische Rezeption mesopotamischer Literatur und die Überlieferung des Gilgameš-Epos in Hattuša”. In D. Prechel (ed.): Motivation und Mechanismen des Kulturkontaktes in der späten Bronzezeit. Eothen 13. Firenze. Pp. 103–123. Liverani, M., 1993: “Model and Actualization: the Kings of Akkad in the Historical Tradition”. In M. Liverani (ed.): Akkad, the First World Empire: Structure, Ideology, Tradition. HANES 5. Padova. Pp. 41–67. Michalowski, P., 1992: “New Sources Concerning the Reign of Naram-Sin”. JCS 32, 233–46. Novotny, J.R., 2005: Review of M. Dietrich, The Babylonian Correspondence of Sargon and Sennacherib. SAA 17. Helsinki. 2003, in BiOr 62, 82–86. Salvini, M., 1996: The Habiru Prism of King Tunip-Teššup of Tikunani. Rome. Soysal, O., 2005: “On the Origin of the Royal Title Tabarna/Labarna”. Anatolica 31, 189–209. Terri, G., 2009: “Sargon, Anitta, and the Hittite Kings agaisnt Purušḫanda”. AoF 36, 110–118. Van de Mieroop, M., 1999: “Literature and Political Discourse in Ancient Mesopotamia: Sargon II of Assyria and Sargon of Agade”. In B. Böck et al. (eds.): Munuscula Mesopotamica: Festschrift für J. Renger. AOAT 267. Münster. Pp. 327–339. — 2000: “Sargon of Agade and his Successors in Anatolia”. Studi Micenei ed Egeo-Anatolici 42, 133–159. Westenholz, J.G., 1997: Legends of the Kings of Akkade: The Texts. Mesopotamian Civilizations 7. Winona Lake. — 2010: “Historical Events and the Process of Their Transformation in Akkadian Heroic Traditions”. In D. Konstan / K.A. Raaflaub (eds.): Epic and History/ Chichester. Pp. 26–50.

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Some Notes on the Evolution of the Hittite Royal Annals Vladimir Sazonov

1. Introduction1 It should be noted that Hittite historiographic texts have been analysed by several Assyriologists and Hittitologists2 but they have still not paid enough attention to literary changes in the Hittite annalistic tradition since the emergence of the annals as a genre in the Hittite state (17th century – the Annals of Ḫattušili I) until the end of Hittite kingdom. There exist several annals and fragments of Hittite annals and res gestae (e.g., the Annals of Tutḫaliya, the Annals of Arnuwanda, Manly Deeds of Šuppiluliuma I, the Ten Year Annals of Muršili II, the Extensive Annals of Muršili II, etc). Many studies on Hittite historiographic texts (e.g., annals, royal edicts) have concentrated either on analysis of a certain Hittite historiographic text (or several texts) or on specific annals of certain kings (e.g., Ḫattušili I, Muršili II, etc.)3. There are some (but not many) studies which show the evolution of the Hittite royal annals as a literary genre and chart changes which happened in the annalistic tradition of the Hittites.4 For that reason, in the current article I will focus on some

1

This article was written with the financial support of grant PHVAJ17908. I am very thankful for critical remarks to Prof. Dr. Gerfrid G.W. Müller, Dr. Mait Kõiv, Dr. Sebastian Fink and the anonymous reviewer. 2 “Historiographic texts” is a modern term (Gilan, 2015: 11–13). The literature on Ancient Near Eastern and Hittite historiography is vast – Archi, 2000: 2367–2377; Alparslan, 2013: 48–61; Beckman, 1995: 23–34; Bryce, 1983; Cancik, 1970; Cancik, 1976; Cancik, 1993: 115–133; Cancik, 2002: 74–81; Carruba, 1973: 37–46; de Martino, 2005: 225–230; Devecchi, 2005; Devecchi, 2013: 3250–3252; Gerhards, 2013: 107–130; Gilan, 2010: 51– 65; Gilan, 2015; Götze, 1933; Grélois, 1988: 17–145; Güterbock, 1934: 1–91; Güterbock, 1938: 45–149; Güterbock, 1956: 107–130; Güterbock, 1964b: 107–115; Güterbock, 1983: 21–35; Haas, 2006; Hoffner, 1975: 49–62; Hoffner, 1980: 283–332; Hoffner, 1997: 182– 204; Kammenhuber, 1958: 36–155; Liverani, 2004; McMahon, 1994: 149–157; del Monte, 1993; Nemirovski, 2005: 3–14; Neu, 1986: 181–192; Klinger, 2001: 272–291; Klinger, 2008: 27–48; Klock-Fontanille, 2001: 234–239; Strobel, 2011: 245–274; Taracha, 2007: 659–664; van Seters, 1983; van Seters, 1995: 2433–2444. 3 E.g., Badalì, 1987: 43–44; Beckman, 1995: 23–34; Carruba, 1973: 37–46; Carruba, 2008; Devecchi, 2005; Neu, 1974; Schmid, 1985: 1–21; Steiner, 1984: 54–73; Taracha, 1997: 74–84; Wolf, 1994: 159–164; Wilhelmi, 2016: 223–239. 4 One of the latest in-depth studies on Hittite historical literature (including annals and Res Gestae) was published by A. Gilan in 2015. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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examples5 that show the evolution and changes of historical Hittite literary texts6 using examples from the royal annals as a genre throughout the whole of Hittite history in the second millennium BC. I will also compare Hittite royal annals from the Old and New Kingdoms in order to highlight some characteristic changes in Hittite literature, using examples from royal annalistic texts from the 17th century BC until the collapse of the Hittite kingdom (ca. 1190/1180 BC). 2. Some general notes on the annalistic literature of the Hittites The ancient Near Eastern historiographic texts which we have from Ancient Mesopotamia7 have a long tradition which started in Early Dynastic Sumer (2800– 2335 BC). The Hittites were no doubt influenced in several fields by the Mesopotamian cultural space but is difficult to say whether or not they were influenced in the field of historiography (if so, then in which ways?)8. It is also possible that 5

Only from the annals. See more on Hittite historical texts – e.g., Bryce, 1983; Carruba, 1973: 37–46; Carruba, 1977: 156–165; Carruba, 2001: 51– 72; Carruba, 2003; Carruba, 2008; Taracha, 1997: 74– 84; Cancik, 1970; Cancik, 1976; Cancik, 1993: 115–133; Cancik, 2002: 74–81; Gilan, 2010: 51–65; Gilan, 2015; Sazonov, 2017a: 179−182. 7 Grayson, 1980: 140–194; Carrena, 1989. 8 Hittite culture was influenced by several neighbouring states: Assyrians, Babylonians, Syrian city-states (e.g., Richter, 2002: 295–322) and Hurrians. A. Ünal (1989: 138) writes concerning the Hurrian presence in the Hittite world: “Hurrians first appear in the historical texts as enemies of the Hittites. Convincing evidence is lacking, but direct influence may already have begun in the Old Kingdom. Visible influences are more readily observed from the Early Empire period under Tuthaliya III and Arnuwanda I. By the time of Hattusili III and his Hurrian wife Puduhepa, the Hurrian cultural invasion was well under way. From the Early Empire on the Hurrian influence began to be felt so strongly that some scholars believe the dynasty to be of Hurrian origin”. The Hittites probably adopted an Old Babylonian (Alalaḫ?) form of the cuneiform script for writing texts in the Hittite language (Collins, 2007: 142; Gilan, 2015: 14) and Gilan (2015: 16) argues: „Die altassyrische Keilschrift, die zeitweise während der kārum-Zeit in Anatolien in Gebrauch war, wurde bekanntlich von den Hethitern nicht übernommen. Wegen der Ähnlichkeit der hethitischen Keilschrift mit der altbabylonischen Kursivschrift aus Alalaḫ (Tell Açana, Schicht VII) wird oft vermutet, dass der von den althethitischen Schreibern verwendete Schriftduktus im Zusammenhang mit der Eroberung der großen städtischen Zentren Nordsyriens während der Regierungszeit Ḫattušilis I. nach Ḫattuša gelangte”. In the II millennium BC Hittite scribes tried accurately to translate and record disappearing literature in the Hattic language which, at that time, was a dead language. Hittite scribes were also working on learning and adopting Babylonian literary and writing traditions, including poetry and composed bilingual texts which archaeologists have found in the Boğazköy archive. J. Klinger (1998: 365–366) had some interesting thoughts on the origin of Hittite cuneiform: “Schon aus der frühesten Zeit der Archive und Bibliotheken von Hattuša sind reichlich Funde die verschiedensten Textgenres erhalten- und dies sogar in mehreren verschiedenen einheimischen Sprachen. Klar ist jedoch, daß die Beantwortung der Frage, von 6

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Mesopotamian influences on Hittite historiographic texts are, although still detectable, not particularly significant. Some very important historical Hittite texts were written in two languages: Akkadian and Hittite (e.g., Bilingual Testament of Ḫattušili I.9). Hittite historiographic texts include edicts (like the Proclamation of Telepinu10), royal annals, and a few narratives of a more literary character.11 According to Gary Beckman these historical texts (annals) share a single purpose: “the justification of kingship and its current occupant in the eyes of both gods and men”.12 Hittite royal annals are first-person or sometimes third-person narrations of the Hittite rulers’ military campaigns organized by regnal year (but not always) and these annals “take the form of a military itinerary in which military victories, the destruction of cities, and lists of booty and captives taken are recounted.” 13 Hittite historiographic texts14 concentrate mostly on military matters but also include political history and the fulfilment of religious duties.15 Propaganda16 and the justification of politics and military campaigns played an important role in Hittite historiographic texts, just as they did in Ancient Mesopotamia.17 Generally, Hittite literature18 has a special place and its own role in the Ancient Near Eastern literary legacy. It was strongly influenced by Ancient Mesopotamian literary tradition (Assyro-Babylonian and Hurrian, Syrian, etc.), although it had its own particularities.19 These particularities show some divergence from Mesopotamian literary traditions and one very special Hittite-specific fea-

wem und vor allem wann die Hethiter schreiben lernten, von den ältesten Quellen ihren Ausgang nehmen muß.” Klinger (1998: 374) also makes crucial conclusions about Hittite script: “Mit der uns bekannten althethitischen Textüberlieferungen ist nicht gleichzeitig der Beginn der hethitischen Schrift- und Schultradition gegeben, sondern nur der Beginn der Archive in Hattuša. Es ist vielmehr längere Phase eigenständiger Entwicklung vorauszusetzen, die bisher aber nicht quellenmäßig dokumentiert ist”. See also Archi, 2010: 37– 46. 9 For more on the Testament of Ḫattušili I see Klock-Fontanille, 1996: 33–66. The literary and verbatim similarity of the Testament of Ḫattušili I and the Proclamation of Telepinu, make us wonder if the Testament of Ḫattušili I might have been an example for Telepinu, when he wrote his Proclamation (see more Mõttus, 2018). 10 Hoffmann, 1984; Starke, 1985: 100–113. 11 Collins, 2007: 143. 12 Beckman, 1995: 32. 13 Collins, 2007: 143. 14 Kammenhuber, 1958: 36–155; Beckman, 1995: 23–34. 15 Hoffner, 1980: 283–332; Devecchi, 2013: 3250. 16 E.g., see about Hittite political propaganda in the Apology of Ḫattušili III – Schmid, 1985: 1–21: for more about propaganda see Hoffner, 1975: 49–62. 17 Hoffner, 1975: 49–62; Sazonov, 2016a: 23–50. 18 More on Hittite literature see Haas, 2006. 19 Güterbock, 1934:1–91; Güterbock, 1938: 45–149. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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ture was the invention of the annalistic genre.20 For example, the Annals of Ḫattušili I21 is a historical chronicle written in an annalistic style, but in Mesopotamia we know of no such chronicle from the same period. Hittite historiographic texts were already different from Akkadian historiographic literature and M. Alparslan argues: “Compared to the Near Eastern parallels the Hittite historiography shows some important differences. The Mesopotamian tradition was largely influenced by religious thought. For the Mesopotamians history was an ethical discipline related with religion. Historical documents was a by-product of one’s desire to attract god’s favor. By contrast, in Hittite historiography the religious factor is far less prominent, rather, a desire to vindicate the kings’ legal right on the throne is observed”.22 One can only agree with H.G. Güterbock who explains the importance of Hittite annals as follows: “Hittites made original contributions in the field of historiography”.23 Before we go deeper into this genre, some questions need to be addressed. Firstly: what do we understand by the term ‘annals’? Annals (from Latin: annāles, and annus, “year”) are a concise historical record in which events are arranged chronologically, year after year.24 According to Gary Beckman “annals, a term borrowed from Roman historical writing, are a genre of historical text in which an account of events is presented year by year.”25 Amir Gilan writes the following about Hittite annals: “Während die Hethiter selbst, dem Kolophon zufolge, die Inschrift Ḫattušilis als pešnatar- ‚Mannestaten‘ bezeichneten, hat sich in der modernen Forschung vor allem die Bezeichnung ‚Annalen‘ eingebürgert“.26 Like Shigeo Yamada, I prefer to use the plural term annals for “a record of events arranged in yearly sequence”.27 According to Elena Devecchi, “Annals appear for the first time in the late seventeenth century as an innovation of the Hittites, whose finest examples were produced in the late fourteenth century”.28 Hittites called annals pešnatar (masculinity29), literally “manli-

20

Güterbock, 1934: 1; Ünal, 1989: 13. Gilan, 2015: 215–229. 22 Alparslan, 2013: 50. 23 Güterbock, 1983: 171 24 Alparslan, 2013: 49–50. 25 Beckman, 2009: 237. 26 Gilan, 2015: 233–234. 27 Yamada, 2009: VIII. 28 Devecchi, 2013: 3250. 29 Alparslan, 2013: 50. 21

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ness”, which means “Manly Deeds”30 and, as H.G. Güterbock correctly underlined, “If we say ‘Deeds’ for short, we should remember that the Hittite term is not the same as res gestae, but rather has the connotation of virtues”.31 But of course, there is a problem with using the modern term ‘annals’ to describe several Hittite historiographic texts; several scholars, among them J. Klinger,32 M. Alparslan 33 and A. Gilan 34 , studied this issue about using the terms annals and “Deeds”. Secondly: What are the functions of Hittite annals? Gary Beckman states that the functions of the royal annals (and res gestae) of Hittite kings are the following: “The royal annals and res gestae functioned as reports by the ruler of his activities on behalf of his para-human superiors. Even the literary material may have been utilized in training the scribes necessary for the functioning of the entire system. Or perhaps such texts provided entertainment and instruction for the ruler and his court, strengthening their will and capacities for fulfilling their duties.”35 3. The evolution of historical texts and the emergence of the annalistic genre in Hittite literature in the Old Kingdom 3.1. The Annals of Ḫattušili I (CTH 4) The earliest known Hittite annals are the Annals of Ḫattušili I (CTH 4)36, which

30

See more on “Manly Deeds”: Bachvarova, 2010: 66–85; Hazenbos, 2006: 235–239. Güterbock, 1983: 175. 32 Klinger, 2001: 276. 33 Alparslan, 2013: 49–50. 34 About the term annals (case of the Annals of Ḫattušili I) see Gilan, 2015: 234: “Nichtsdestotrotz stellt sich die Frage, ob die moderne Bezeichnung ‚Annalen‘ auf die ‚Mannestaten‘ Ḫattušilis zutrifft. Wie Klinger zu Recht bemerkt, wird der Begriff ‚Annalen‘ übernommen, ohne dass eine methodologische Diskussion über seine Tauglichkeit für das hethitische Material stattgefunden hätte. Jörg Klinger zufolge handelt es sich lediglich ‚um eine forschungsgeschichtlich bedingte Konvention, die eben keine Rückschlüsse auf formale Elemente, wie etwa verwendete Erzählerposition u. ä., zulässt‘. Deshalb schlägt er vor, die ‚Mannestaten‘ Ḫattušilis eher als Chronik zu betrachten”. 35 Beckman, 2009: 225. 36 Hoffner (1980: 293) writes: “After the Anitta text the oldest Hittite text in annalistic style is the text known as the manly deeds of Hattusili”. The newest translations: Haas, 2006: 32–41 and Beckman, 2006b: 219–222; See more on the Annals of Ḫattušili I – Cornelius, 1958: 292–296; Kümmel, 1985: 455–463; Gilan, 2015: 215–248. See also Otten, 1957: 77–84; Imparati/Saporetti, 1965, 40–85; Beckman, 2009: 237; See more on HittiteAkkadian bilingual texts Kuyper, 1998: 93–98. For more on Ḫattušili I and his annals (especially about CTH 13: The Extensive Annals of Ḫattusili I) see Kempinski, Košak, 31

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is basically a Hittite-Akkadian bilingual text, in which the Akkadian and Hittite versions differ.37 It is not the earliest Hittite historiographic text.38 As correctly remarked by H.G. Güterbock, “what distinguishes our text from others is its character: the text of Ḫattušili is an annalistic report, in contrast to the literary compositions known so far.”39 The annalistic report is a new literary genre and a new invention in literary tradition, but not only in Hittite literature; it is a new phenomenon in the whole of the Ancient Near East literary tradition. The Annals of Ḫattušili I is the first annalistic text in history. This text provides an overview of Ḫattušili I’s military campaigns in different regions (Anatolia and Northern Syria).40 Like the Text of Anitta41 the Annals of Ḫattušili I can be divided into different subchapters.42

1982: 87–116. A. Gilan (2015: 216), besides the Akkadian version (KBo 10.1) of the annals, also listed 5 Hittite manuscripts (A–E): “A: KBo 10.2; B: Ba. KUB 23.31; Bb. IBoT 3.134 (+) KUB 23.41; Bc. VBoT 13 + KUB 57.48; C: IBoT 4.264; D: KBo 10.3; E: KUB 40.6 (+) KUB 23.33 (+) KUB 23.20)”. 37 For more on the Hittite version see De Martino, 2003: 21–79. On the Akkadian version see Devecchi, 2005. On differences between the Akkadian and Hittite versions see footnotes in Beckman, 2006b: 48–64. For more on the differences see Melchert, 1978; Houwink ten Cate, 1983: 91–109 and Gilan, 2015: 217. 38 At the beginning of Hittite historiography (Alparslan, 2013: 49) stands the Text of Anitta (CTH 1) (Neu, 1974), which does not belong to the annals genre, however I think that in some places the Text of Anitta is similar to the Hittite annals in content and structure (Hoffner 1980: 291–293). For that reason the Text of Anitta does not belong to the annals genre, so is not included here for deeper analysis. I did, however, analyse it in a previous paper (Sazonov, 2017a: 179−182). With the Text of Anitta many things remain unclear and complicated and, as L. Wilhelmi (2016: 232) correctly pointed out concerning such difficulties: “A compilation of CTH 1 from more than one source adds a certain complication to the question of the original language used, as it is theoretically possible that not all sources were written in the same language. In any case, it is necessary to allow for a process of evaluation and possible editing of the original sources. This invalidates the argument that the typical Boğazköy ductus, exhibited already in Old Hittite manuscript, could only be accounted for if the composition was translated from a different language, as a mere copying process could not explain the loss and original Old Assyrian ductus, which would have been the only type of ductus available to the local Kaneš/Neša scribes at the time”. See more on the Text of Anitta Starke, 1979: 47–120; Badalì, 1987: 43–44; Carruba, 2001: 51– 72; Carruba, 2003; Dercksen, 2010; Kimball, Slocum, 2017. Latest translations: Beckman, 2006a: 216–219; Klinger, 2005: 139–141. 39 Güterbock, 1964a: 5. 40 Miller, 1999; Miller, 2001: 410–429. See also Cancik, 1970: 49f, Hoffner 1980: 293– 294. 41 The Text of Anitta consists of different literary subcategories (e.g., Haas, 2006: 28; Sazonov, 2017a: 179−182). See also Hoffner, 1980: 291–293. 42 Based on KBo 10.2 = H; Gilan, 2015: 217 and Beckman, 2006: 219–221. For that reason © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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First Year (H i 1–14)43 The very first section is a preamble (introduction), where the official titularies44 of Ḫattušili I and his line of succession are contained. In some ways it is similar to the beginning of the Text of Anitta.45 In the second section there comes a short description of the first year of Ḫattušili I’s military campaign against the city of Šanaḫḫuitta: “I went to (the city of) Šanaḫḫuitta, but I did not destroy it; I destroyed its countryside. I left forces in two places as garrisons, and I gave whatever sheepfolds there were in that vicinity to the garrison troops”.46 And after destroying of the city Šanaḫḫuitta, Ḫattušili I went on to the city of Zalpa and destroyed it as well.47 He carried off its deities (statues), gold, etc.48 Second Year (H i 15–21 § 4) In the second year of the military campaign Ḫattušili I conquered and destroyed Alalakh and captured the following towns: Alalaḫ, Waršuwa, Tašḫiniya and Ika-

the text was divided into six subchapters – years. Hoffner (1980: 295) remarks: “The deeds of the king are organized according to the king's regnal years, of which only the first five are included on this tablet. Because the colophon is broken where the notation ‘complete’ or ‘incomplete’ once stood, we do not know if originally there was a second tablet containing events from later years. To be sure, the years are not actually numbered in the text”. Kempinski and Košak (1982: 98) argue: “The discovery of KBo 10:1–3 provided us with the ‘Six-years Annals’ of this king. Contrary to the communis opinio (e.g., Gurney in CAH 1973), it is more likely that these annals do not list a sequence of six years but are excerpts from an extensive edition of his annals from which the most important six years of his reign were chosen and written on the small golden statue which was offered to the Sun god (KBo 10:2 iii 21). Looking at the six years recorded, one wonders how Hattusili, after a short campaign to the north (Šanahuitta, Zalpa) was able to march straight forward to Alalaḫ if the southern provinces were not already under his control”. 43 Beckman, 2006b: 219 (§ 1). A. Gilan (2015: 217) pointed out differences between Akkadian and Hittite versions in this year: “Die Akkadische Fassung wechselt hier von einem Bericht, der in der 3. Pers. Sg. gehalten ist, zu einem Bericht in der 1. Pers. In H besteht der Feldzugsbericht gegen Šanaḫuitta aus fünf Zeilen. Die ersten drei schildern die Ereignisse selbst, die zwei weiteren betreffen die Beuteverteilung. Ḫattušili vermag es nicht, Šanaḫuitta zu erobern, zerstört nur ihre Ländereien und verteilt die Beute an die Garnisonen, die er dort zurücklässt. Die militärische Aktion gegen Zalpa wird in lediglich anderthalb Zeilen beschrieben, die Beuteliste umfasst dagegen fünf”. 44 About Hittite royal titulary see Sazonov, 2010: 157–217; Sazonov, 2009: 30–51. 45 Compare with Beckman, 2006a: 217, § 1 (A-1–4): “Anitta, son of Pithana, became king of (the city of) Kušsara. He behaved in a manner pleasing to the storm-god in heaven”. 46 Beckman, 2006b: 219 (§ 1 A i 1–8). 47 Beckman, 2006b: 219 (§ 2 A i 9–11). 48 Beckman, 2006b: 219–220: (§ 2 A i 9–11, § 3 A i 12–14). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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kali.49 Here Ḫattušili I introduced the formula “in the following year” (MU.IM. MA-an-ni=ma).50 Third Year (H i 22–45 §§ 5–6)51 In the third year of his reign Ḫattušili I (according to his annals in translation by Gary Beckman) performed various actions and fought against Arzawa and Hurrians and others. “In the following year52 I went to the land of Arzawa and took away their cattle and sheep. But in my rear the Hurrian enemy entered the land, and all the countries became hostile to me; only the single city Ḫattuša remained. I am the Great King, the Tabarna53, beloved of the sun-goddess of Arinna54. She placed me on her lap, held me by hand, and ran before me in battle. Then I went in battle to (the city of) Nenašša, and when the people of Nenašša saw me (coming), they opened up (their city)”.55 In this year the Hittite king Ḫattušili I describes his military activity and the battles of his army against the kingdom of Arzawa which was located in the south-western part of Anatolia. He fought against the Hurrians (uruḪUR-RI)56, whom he des49

Beckman, 2006b: 219; § 4. Gilan (2015: 217–218): “Das Sumerogramm, das eigentlich für das akkadische šaddagda („im vorherigen Jahr“) steht, wird in den „Mannestaten“ Ḫattušilis I. für den Ausdruck „im folgenden Jahr“ verwendet”; Beckman, 2006b; 220, § 4 (A i 15–21); see Devecchi, 2005: 36–37, line 6: a-na ba-la-aṭ. 51 Beckman, 2006b: § 5 (A i 22–45); see also Gilan, 2015: 218–219. 52 Again the formula “the following year” (MU.IM.MA-an-ni=ma) was used. 53 For more on the royal title Tabarna see Soysal, 2005: 189–209; Sazonov, 2010: 175– 180; Sazonov, 2011: 18–25. 54 For more about Arinna see Popko, 2009. 55 Beckman, 2006b: § 5 (A i 22–34). A few notes on composition: “beloved of X goddess” – it is quite an old and common motif, already well-known in Early Dynastic Sumer. One of the first written records of the ruler as ‘beloved of the deity’ comes from Mesilim of Awan (2600/2500 BC). Below is the beginning of one of Mesilim’s inscriptions: “Mesilim, King of Kish, beloved son of Ninḫursağ” (RIME 1: Me-silim E1.8.1.3, p. 71, line 1.) The motif of the goddess going before the king in battle is also well-known in Mesopotamia. E.g., in A praise poem of Šulgi (A praise poem of Šulgi, Šulgi X: ETCSL http://etcsl. orinst.ox.ac.uk/section2/tr24224.htm, last assessed 14.07.2018) we read: “42–48The lady, the light of heaven, the delight of the black-headed, the youthful woman who excels her mother, who was granted divine powers by her father, Inanna, the daughter of Suˀen, decreed a destiny for Šulgi, the son of Ninsun: 49In battle I will be the one who goes before you ...”. The motif of the deity who is going to battle before the king is used here in the Šulgi text (Šulgi X). In the Annals of Ḫattušili I it is used for the first time in Hittite literature and we also see it reappear later in Hittite annals – e.g., in Annals of Muršili II (Goetze, 1933) from the late 14th or the beginning of the 13th century BC. 56 Gilan (2015: 219, f. 796) correctly pointed out that “KBo 10.1 hat hier kurḪa-ni-kal-bat. 50

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ignated as “enemy” (KUR), who invaded the Hittite kingdom and conquered several Hittite territories until “only the single city Ḫattuša remained”. Then the king of Ḫatti also destroyed the city of Ulma (Ulluma) and gave a list of tributes. After Ḫattušili I got control over the city of Šalliaḫšuwa, which surrounded him 57, he then came back as victorious ruler to Ḫattuša, the capital of the Hittite empire.58 Fourth Year (H i 46–ii 10) In the fourth year Ḫattušili I was focused on several military campaigns and expansion; he pursued military campaigns against different cities and lands, e.g., Šanaḫḫuitta, Takšanaya, Appaya, Alḫa and Parmanna, and these military actions are briefly described. It ends with the destruction of Alḫa.59 The war with Šanaḫḫuitta takes more than five months, Ḫattušili I states that he destroyed Šanaḫḫuitta in the sixth month.60 Here the king mentions the sun-god, who “appeared in the midst of the lands” (Hittite version).61 However, in the Akkadian version the sungod is represented slightly differently: “The sun-god stood behind the lands”.62 Ḫattušili I also wrote in the Hittite version that “The many deeds that [I ...] I took to the sun-goddess of Arinna.”63 But, again, in the Akkadian version this phrase has another meaning: “Whatever I brought I dedicated to the sun-goddess of Arinna.”64 Further differences can be found when comparing Akkadian and Hittite versions, which I here omit as they lie beyond the focus of my research. Dazu jetzt Devecchi 2005, 39 Anm. 39 mit einem altbabylonischen Beleg, der zeigt, dass Ḫanikalbat keineswegs einen Anachronismus für die Regierungszeit Ḫattušilis I. darstellt, wie üblicherweise angenommen wurde. Vielmehr deutet diese Bezeichnung auf die Altertümlichkeit von KBo 10.1 hin”. See Devecchi, 2005: 38–39, line 11. 57 Gilan, 2015: 219. This is described in a rather strange way: “The land of Šalliaḫšuwa delivered itself with fire, why those persons (its inhabitants) entered my service” (Beckman, 2006b: 220). Beckman (2006b: 249) explained this fact in the following way: “This probably indicates that the city demonstrated its submission through the destruction of its own fortifications”. 58 Beckman, 2006b: 219, § 5. 59 Beckman, 2006b: 220, § 6; See also Gilan, 2015: 219–220. 60 Beckman, 2006b: 220, § 57 (A i 46–52). 61 Beckman, 2006b: 220. 62 Beckman, 2006b: 249. 63 Beckman, 2006b: 220; Hoffner (1980: 296): The phrase: “(the deity) took me/him by the hand” also occurs in §§ 5 and 9. Mursili II’s Detailed Annals (KBo V 8 iii 41–42) has: numu dU NIR.GÁL EN-IA ŠU-an ḫarzi naŠmu piran ḫuyanza “The mighty storm god, my lord, holds my hand and runs before me”, and the Apology of Ḫattusili, 1 21: numu d IŠTAR GAŠAN-IA ŠU-za IṢBAT “Ishtar mv 1ady held me by the hand”. 64 Beckman, 2006: 249. Gilan (2015: 220, footnote 800) observes: “Die akkadische Fassung weicht an dieser Stelle ab: Vs. i 25–26: mi-im-ma ša ub-lam (26) a-na DUTU URU TÚL-na ú-še-li ‚Alles was ich wegnahm, weihte ich der Sonnengöttin von Arinna‘. Wird der Begriff ‚Mannestaten‘ in der hethitischen Fassung als Synonym für ‚Beute‘ verwendet?” © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Fifth Year (H ii 11 – the end) In the fifth year Ḫattušili I destroyed the land of Zaruna. The Hittite king also mentioned an alliance between the people of Haššuwa and Aleppo who fought against him, but over whom he was victorious: “The people of Ḫaššuwa came against me in battle, and the troops of the land of Aleppo were with them as allies. They came to me [in battle] and I defeated them”.65 One interesting motif here is the appearance of the storm-god in the midst of the land: Ḫattušili I mentioned this event when he engaged in battle with the city of Žippašna.66 According to A. Gilan the motif of the sun, which appeared in the midst of the land(s), was later common motif in the Annals of Muršili II.67 In this year Ḫattušili I mentioned crossing the river Euphrates and compared himself to a lion68, striking fear into all his enemies: “And in a few days I crossed the Euphrates River. I scattered the land of Ḫaššuwa like a lion with its paws”. Ḫattušili I compared himself to a lion for a second time: “Like a lion, I frightened off (the city of) Ḫaḫḫa with menacing gestures, and I destroyed Zippašna”. In that same year the conquest and destruction of Haššuwa, Ḫaḫḫa and some other cities took place.69 The fifth year text also contains an ‘epilogue’. In this epilogue Ḫattušili I mentions his long list of tributes from Ḫaššuwa and Ḫaḫḫa, and writes about freeing slaves: “I removed the hands of its slaves from the sickle. I freed them from compulsory services, and I ungirded their loins.”70 Freeing slaves is not a new motif in Ancient Near East literature, but to my knowledge this is the only instance we know, as it is never mentioned again in later Hittite annals. The epilogue goes on to mention the fashioning of a golden statue of the king dedicated to the sun-

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Beckman, 2006b: 220, § 10, line 31. Beckman, 2006: 221, § 14. 67 Gilan (2015: 222): “Die Zerstörung Zippašnas gibt Anlass für die ‚Sonne‘, wieder in der Mitte der Länder zu erscheinen. Darauf folgt die Beschreibung einer gleichzeitigen Handlung, die später für die ‚Mannestaten‘ Muršilis II. typisch ist”. 68 Collins, 1998: 15–20. Already king Anitta was compared to a lion: “And like a lion [I fell upon (?)] the land(s)”. Ḫattušili I (in fifth year of his annals) compared himself to a lion: “I scattered the land Haššuwa like a lion with its paws” (Beckman, 2006b: 221, § 10). In Ancient Mesopotamia this motif was also popular. What is more, one Akkadian legend “Sargon, the Lion” (Westenholz, 1997: 94) describes Sargon of Akkad as a lion. In “Praise poem of Šulgi” (Šulgi A) we read that Šulgi is mentioned as a “fierce-looking lion and as the lion of Utu” (Šulgi A, http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/section2/tr24201.htm, last assessed 14.7.2018). Ulanowski (2015: 255–284) provides a detailed overview on the motif of the lion in Mesopotamian and Greek Civilizations. 69 Beckman, 2006b: 221, § 14–20. 70 Beckman, 2006b: 221, § 17. 66

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goddess of Arinna,71 but the most interesting passage is probably the comparison of Ḫattušili I to Sargon of Akkad: “No one had crossed the Euphrates River, but I, the Great King, the Tabarna, crossed it on foot, and my army crossed it on foot behind me. Sargon (of Akkad also) crossed it. [He] fought the troops of Ḫaḫḫa, but [he] did not do anything to Haḫḫa. He did not burn it down; smoke was not visible to the storm-god of Heaven. But I, the Great King, the Tabarna, destroyed Ḫaššuwa and Ḫaḫḫa, and [burned] them with fire. I showed smoke to the sun-god of Heaven and the storm-god. I hitched the king of Ḫaššuwa and king of Ḫaḫḫa to a wagon”.72 Gary Beckman supposed that “the highlight of the work is the favorable composition of Ḫattušili’s accomplishments in Syria with those of Sargon of Akkad”.73 This is the culmination of the whole story, as V. Haas has remarked.74 It seems that Ḫattušili I took the empire of Akkad and its legendary king Sargon as archetypes when building his own empire.75 Akkadian legends about the kings of Akkad76, popular in Assyria and Babylonia, were at that time already familiar to Hittite scribal traditions. The reason for comparing himself with Sargon of Akkad is simple: Sargon of Akkad was the archetypical ruler in the Ancient Near East. We know that the Hittites assimilated many Mesopotamian traditions, and Akkadian literature and legends about Akkadian kings were well-known among the Hittites. In this text there is another important ancient motif which should be mentioned: the motif of the king crossing a river.77 This motif is represented in the Annals of Ḫattušili I and in Šar tamḫari (King of Battle), where we can read: 19'–20'. “However, my lord, can they have informed thee! The soldiers of thy god have brought thee (…). I have crossed the river”.78 Moreover, Ḫattušili I asserted that he was better than Sargon of Akkad because Sargon was not able to destroy Ḫaḫḫa, whereas Ḫattušili I destroyed not only Ḫaḫḫa but also Ḫaššuwa:

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Beckman, 2006b: 221, § 10–20. See more on sun deities and the sun-goddess of Arinna by Hittites Yoshida, 1996; Steitler, 2017. 72 Beckman, 2006b: 221, § 19–20. 73 Beckman, 2006b: 237. About mentioning Sargon by Ḫattušili I, see Güterbock, 1964a: 1–6; Beckman, 2001: 85–91. 74 Haas, 2006: 40. 75 Haas, 2006: 41. 76 Westenholz, 1997: 250; Haul, 2009: 253–302. 77 Güterbock, 1964a: 4–5. About kings crossing rivers in Mesopotamia see Rollinger, 2013. 78 Westenholz, 1997:127. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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“He did not burn it down; smoke was not visible to the storm-god of Heaven. But I, the Great King, the Tabarna, destroyed Ḫaššuwa and Ḫaḫḫa, and [burned] them with fire. I showed smoke to the sun- god of Heaven and the storm-god”.79 Divine forces and theological justification In this text the sun-goddess of Arinna and some other gods (storm god, goddess Mezulla), are mentioned much more often than in the Text of Anitta.80 The Hittite king was first among the Hittites to be called ‘beloved of the X deity’, in this case the sun-goddess of Arinna. She held Ḫattušili I by the hand and ran before him in battle. This is also a new motif for the Hittites which will be used again in later Hittite annals, e.g., by Muršili II. We can see in the Annals of Ḫattušili I that Ḫattušili I captured several cities, some of them burned and destroyed, but only with the permission of the sun-goddess of Arinna and other gods. For example, in the fourth year of his annals Ḫattušili I declares: “[Then] I destroyed [it] in the sixth month. I, the Great King, was satisfied. The sun-god appeared in the midst of the lands. The manly deeds that [I ....] I took to the sun-goddess of Arinna”.81 King Ḫattušili I mentions several times that he took the deities of conquered cities: “[I took] its deities: the storm-god, Lord of (Mt.) Amaruk, the storm-god, Lord of Aleppo, Allatum, (Mt.) Adalur, Lelluri, 2 oxen of gold, 13 (!) statues of silver and god, 2 model shrines, and rear wall. And I plated it with silver and gold; and I plated the door with silver and gold”.82 At the end of text there are some other gods mentioned when Ḫattušili I proudly declares destroying Ḫaššuwa and Ḫaḫḫa: “But, I, The Great King, the Tabarna, destroyed Ḫaššuwa and Ḫaḫḫa, and [burned] them down with fire. I showed smoke to the sun-god of Heaven and the storm-god. I hitched the king of Ḫaššuwa and the king of Ḫaḫḫa to a wagon”.83 However in the Text of Anitta we cannot find any comparison of Anitta with Sargon of Akkad; there Purušḫanda is mentioned.84

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Beckman, 2006b: 221; § 19–20. For comparison with the Text of Annita on this topic see Sazonov, 2017a: 179−182. 81 Beckman, 2006b: 220, § 7. 82 Beckman, 2006b: 221, § 11. 83 Beckman, 2006b: 221, § 20. 84 Anitta wrote about his successful campaign against Purušḫanda and its ruler: “When I went on campaign [against (the city of] Purušḫanda] the ruler of Purušḫanda [brought] me 80

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Some notes on composition and style The Annals of Ḫattušili I were written in a dry and enumerative style. We can say that some other Old Hittite historical compositions (e.g., the Proclamation of Telepinu) are very elaborate and more detailed. If we compare this text to the Text of Anitta, we can see that the Annals of Ḫattušili I are slightly more detailed and much longer, about 150 lines in total, structured year by year like annals. Some notes in summary We see that from 18th –16th centuries in the Hittite kingdom there emerged a literary canon, and within it historical literature as a separate genre. One could say these were the first royal chronicles and annals. It is remarkable that both texts, the Text of Anitta and the Annals of Ḫattušili I, are in some ways quite similar. For example, both are descriptions of the deeds of kings, especially their military campaigns, and both texts begin in a similar way with an introduction where the titulary of kings, their genealogy, etc., are listed (while Anitta mentioned that he is a “son of Pitḫana”, Ḫattušili stated that he is a “brother’s son of Tawananna”85). In both texts both kings (Anitta and Ḫattušili I) are compared to lions86. In the Annals of Ḫattušili I we can read: “Like a lion, I frightened off the city of Ḫaḫḫa with menacing gestures, and I destroyed Zippašna”.87 There are other similarities, but a number of differences too. For example, hunting88 was mentioned in the Text of Anitta, but in the Annals of Ḫattušili I there is

gifts: He brought me a throne of iron and scepter(?) of iron as presents. When I [came] back to Neša, I brought the ruler of Purušḫanda with me. When he goes into the throne room, he will sit before me on the right” (Beckman, 2006a: 218 § 19 A 73–79). Here we can compare Text of Anitta with King of Battle (Westenholz, 1997: 102–104; 113, 118, 119) where Sargon of Akkad had led his military campaign against Purušḫanda or Purušhattum; Dercksen, 2010: 71–75; Torri, 2009: 110–118. 85 For more on Tawananna see Bin-Nun, 1975: 105: “Hattušili’s introduction in the Annals as Tawananna’s brother’s son seems to declare the king a legitimate successor”. Beckman, 2006b: 219: § 1; Devecchi, 2005: 34 and 35. 86 Anitta was compared to a lion in his text; see Beckman, 2006a: 217, § 6, A 20–26). 87 Beckman, 2006b: 221. 88 Text of Annita, line 59 (see also Neu, 1974: 14f, 44, 87). Hoffner (1980: 327) pointed out: “Later Assyrian kings liked to portray themselves on hunts or at banquets. In his classic study of Hittite civilization the late Albrecht Goetze observed that, whereas the preOld Kingdom monarch Anitta likewise described a hunt in which he took part, later Hittite kings eschewed the mention of royal hunts, if indeed they ever participated in such. Anitta not only lists the animals caught on the hunt, but informs us that before departing on the hunt he made a vow to a deity: ‘I made a vow (to the deity) and [on] a hu[nt I went]’.” See also Sazonov, 2017b: 153–154. This description of the hunt is unique in Hittite historical texts. As G. Beckman correctly pointed out: “Although later Mesopotamian monarchs © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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no mention of hunting at all. Moreover, the structure of both texts is quite different. In the Text of Anitta we can see that events are mentioned and listed without any proper chronological system. In the Annals of Ḫattušili I, on the other hand, all Ḫattušili I’s conquests are presented year by year89. Of course, Ḫattušili I ruled in 17th century BC, about 100 years after Anitta, so we can see that this is something new: a presentation of historical events in a yearly format. Ḫattušili I writes in this way: “In the following year I went to the land Arzawa (…)”90, then “in the following year I went in battle to the city of Šanaḫḫuitta (…)”.91 So, Ḫattušili I lists his military campaigns year by year. We can say that the Annals of Ḫattušili I differ from the Text of Anitta in several ways92: the Annals of Ḫattušili I are basically a “report” of the king’s deeds (military actions) for the sun-goddess of Arinna (“Rechenschaftsbericht an die Sonnengöttin von Arinna”93) which are presented year by year (exactly 6 regnal years of Ḫattušili I), but the Text of Anitta is probably not a “report” for a goddess or god, and the role of gods is represented in the Text of Anitta in quite a modest way. However, in the Annals of Ḫattušili I the gods (especially the sun-goddess of Arinna) played a very significant role. If the Text of Anitta is an historical text written in the form of a chronicle or royal inscription, then the Annals of Ḫattušili I show new developments and were written in the annalistic style (year by year). That said, these first Hittite annals were quite laconic, and the text written by Ḫattušili I is more detailed than the Text of Anitta. In the Annals of Ḫattušili I the culmination takes place when the king mentions that he is not only as powerful as Sargon of Akkad, but that he even surpasses him. I think this is the most important message of the text. The Empire of Akkad

often boast of their prowess in the chase, Anitta’s hunt (§ 16) is unparalleled in the historical accounts of Hittite kings” (Beckman, 2006a: 217). Moreover, we can find the motif of the killing of lions during the hunt from later Mesopotamian sources (Middle and NeoAssyrian royal inscriptions; e.g., RIMA 2: Tiglath-pileser I A.0.87.1, p. 26, col vi, 76–84.). 89 Gilan (2015: 225) concludes that that more than half of the text (incl. Hittite and Akkadian versions) are about the conquest of Ḫaššu(wa), Zippašna, Ḫaḫḫum and tribute and treasures which the Hittite king took from these cities. 90 Beckman, 2006b: 220, § 5. 91 Beckman, 2006b: 220, § 7. 92 Hoffner (1980: 293) writes about differences between the Text of Anitta and Hittite annals: “The manner of designating years in the Anitta text is quite different from Hittite annals. In Anitta the word ‘year’ occurs twice: in § 3 in the expression ‘after my father Pithana (died), in the same year’ (šaniya witti); and in § 17 in the expression ‘in the following year’ (wettandannieššima). The latter might be compared with MU.IM.MA-annima of the annals of Hattusili I and the MU(.KAM)-annima of the annals of Mursili II, but the correspondence is incomplete”. 93 Haas, 1994: 13. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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was well-known to the Hittites; the Hittite king Ḫattušili I, like many other kings of the Ancient Near East, saw in Sargon an archetypical ruler.94 4. Some General Notes on Annalistic Literature of the New Hittite period After the dark period in Hittite history (ca. late 16th –15th century)95 when texts were scarce, we have historical Hittite texts from the period which started around 1400 BC until 1190/1180 BC, the period of so-called empire.96 Most historical Hittite texts, annals included, originated from this period during which Hittite annals really developed as a genre. We have the following annals from this period: fragments of the Annals of Tutḫaliya97 (first king of the New Kingdom) and of a similar text about his coregency with his son Arnuwanda I (the Annals of Arnuwanda98).99 From Šuppiluliuma I100 we have fragments of his annals, and the text Manly Deeds of Šuppiluliuma I which was written by his son Muršili II, narrator of the text.101 Then we have the Ten Year Annals of Muršili (II).102 Muršili II103 also wrote another version of his annals known either as the Extensive Annals or the Comprehensive Annals.104 H.G. Güterbock pointed out very correctly about the Comprehensive Annals: “Also, the Comprehensive Annals describes simultaneous events and how they were related to one another”.105 There are also a few fragments which may be parts of the Annals of Ḫattušili III.

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Liverani, 1993: 43–64. The next step in the development of the genre of historical narration was taken by king Telepinu (end of 16th or early 15th century BC), who in the introductory part of his proclamation laid out all the earliest history of the Hittite kingdom. However, the Proclamation of Telepinu does not belong to annalistic literature, although it still played a significant role in the development of the Hittite historiographic tradition (see Mõttus, 2018). 96 Houwink ten Cate, 1970; Shelestin, 2014: 800–826: Seeher, 2001: 623–634; de Martino, 2010: 186–197. 97 CTH 142; see Italian translation by del Monte, 1993: 143–145. About the Annals of Tutḫaliya see del Monte, 2003a: 14–16; Carruba, 1973: 37–46; Carruba, 1977: 156–165; Neu, 1986: 181–192; del Monte,1993b: 45–49, 143–145; de Martino, 1996: 13–38; Taracha, 1997: 74–84. 98 CTH 143. 99 Taracha, 2007: 660. 100 About Šuppiluliuma I see Stavi, 2011: 226–239; del Monte, 1993: 133–141; del Monte, 2009. 101 Hazenbos, 2006: 235. 102 Grélois, 1988: 17–145; del Monte, 1993: 57–72. 103 About Muršili II see e.g. Houwink ten Cate, 1995–1996: 51–72. 104 Del Monte, 1993: 73–132. 105 Güterbock, 1983: 176. 95

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4.1. The Annals of Tutḫaliya and the Annals of Arnuwanda106 In the Annals of Tutḫaliya I/II107 we read about deportations of people by the Hittite ruler”.108 Deportation was not new phenomenon at this time in the Hittite world and in the Ancient Near East. In Ancient Near Eastern sources we find information about the deportation of people in the 3rd millennium BC109, but especially later in the Middle-Assyrian royal inscriptions of Adad-nārārī I, Shalmaneser I, Tukultī-Ninurta I, or in the Neo-Assyrian annals and royal inscriptions, e.g., in texts from Shalmaneser III, Tiglath-pileser III, Sargon II, Sennacherib and other Neo-Assyrian kings.110 The Annals of Arnuwanda (I) (CTH 143) are also preserved only in fragments. Unfortunately, we cannot say much about these annals – the Annals of Tutḫaliya I /II and the Annals of Arnuwanda (I) – (e.g., regarding style, composition, narratives, etc.) because both texts are preserved only in fragments and many lines are missing. It is for this reason I did not choose these annals for my analysis. 4.2. The Manly Deeds of Šuppiluliuma I The Manly Deeds of Šuppiluliuma I111 is an historiographic text112 about Šuppiluliuma I’s reign (1344–1322 BC), but it was written by his son Muršili II (1321– 1295 BC) who is the real narrator of this text. Muršili II was very interested in recording the history of his and his father’s reigns. For that reason, he allowed the deeds of his father Šuppiluliuma I, a great conqueror, to be recorded. Generally, the Manly Deeds of Šuppiluliuma I show us some differences from the Annals of Tutḫaliya I /II and the Annals of Arnuwanda and the Annals of Muršili II and according to M. Alparslan, “unlike the annals, the regal years are not counted, and the narrative style is different from the Annals of Muršili. Complicated accounts are absent and the campaigns are listed successively. Thus it can be seen as a ‘historical report’”.113

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For Tutḫaliya and Arnuwanda see Carruba, 1977: 156–165. Del Monte, 1993:143–145; Carruba, 1977: 156–163; Neu, 1986: 181–192; Taracha, 1997: 74–84; Carruba, 2005: 179–205. 108 Del Monte, 1993: 144. 109 RIME 2: Rīmuš E2.1.2.4, pp. 47–48, ll. 1–29, 38–72; Rīmuš E2.1.2.3, pp. 45–46, ll 1– 36; Rīmuš E2.1.2.2, pp. 43–44, ll. 1–17, 29–35. 110 On deportation in Assyria see Oded, 1979; Sazonov, 2012b; Sazonov, 2016b: 66. 111 Güterbock, 1956: 41–98; 107–130; del Monte, 1993: 40–45. 112 This text is also somehow ‘annalistic’, but different from other annals and as Alparslan (2013: 59) correctly remarked, “The Deeds of Šuppiluliuma is also fragmentary, though originally it comprised of at least seven tablets. In contrast to the annals, this document uses the third person singular instead of the first”. 113 Alparslan, 2013: 60. 107

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In the Manly Deeds of Šuppiluliuma I deported people are mentioned several times: “And the deportees, cattle, sheep and go[ods] which [the enemy held] he took away from him and ga[ve] them back [to the Hittites].”114 The role of divine forces, theological justification and power ideology Muršili II mentioned in the Manly Deeds of Šuppiluliuma I115 that gods helped his father (Šuppiluliuma I) not only to win battles, but also to deport prisoners of war and conquered civilians: “While he was fortifying Almina, he sent forth Urawanni and Kuwatnaziti, the great “shepherd”, into the country of Kašula in order to attack. And the gods of my father helped them, (so that) they conquered all of the country of Kašula and brought its population, cattle and sheep before my father. The deportees whom they brought were one thousand.”116 Like in all previous Hittite annals and the annals of Muršili II, the Manly Deeds of Šuppiluliuma I is full of theological justification for the “deeds” and military campaigns of Šuppiluliuma I, written in the following way: “And the gods helped my father: the Sun Goddess of Arinna, the Storm God of Ḫatti, the Storm God of the Army, and the Lady of the Battlefield, (so that) he slew the aforementioned whole tribe, and the enemy troops died in multitude.”117 Relations with Egypt A new development which appears in the Manly Deeds of Šuppiluliuma I is relations with Egypt. It should be noted that in 14th century BCE (the period of the Amarna letters) we have unique records of Hittite-Egypt relations which are reflected in the current annals.118 As H.G. Güterbock correctly remarked, “the most famous episode is also the one told with greatest skill; this is the story of the request of the widow of Tutankhamon for a son of Suppiluliuma whom she wanted to become her husband and king of Egypt”.119

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Güterbock, 1958: 78 (G col. IV, 24'–26'). Hazenbos, 2006: 235–239. 116 Güterbock, 1958: 91 (KBo V 6, A i 31–37). Here is again mentioned deportation of the people by Hittites. 117 Güterbock, 1958: 75 (The Deeds of Šuppiluliuma as told by his son Muršili II: (BoTE 37i). ll. 7'–10'). 118 Güterbock, 1958: 96–97 (E3 III 24 – A iv 15). 119 Güterbock, 1964a: 10. 115

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4.3. The Annals of Muršili II In fact, Muršili II120 wrote two versions of the annals: the Ten Year Annals and the Extensive Annals.121 The Extensive Annals122 of Muršili II are more fragmentary than the Ten Year Annals. 123 Because the Ten Year Annals is better preserved and both annals (the Extensive Annals and the Ten Year Annals) were written by the same king (Muršili II), I will focus mostly on the Ten Year Annals here. The Ten Year Annals124 Probably the best example of the Hittite annalistic tradition is the first version called the Ten Year Annals of Muršili II.125 They were probably written no earlier than the 10th year of Muršili’s reign. The Ten Year Annals is a well-organized text which summarizes king Muršili’s annual military campaigns in Anatolia. The end of each year is summarized by a phrase such as “This I did in one year” and the next paragraph follows with the opening “In the next year (…)”.126 The text of the Ten Year Annals is coherent while it “framed by prologue and epilogue”.127 In the fairly long prologue of the Ten Year Annals, Muršili II gives an introduction to historical events of the Hittite empire that took place when king Šuppiluliuma I died (Muršili’s father), and then when his brother Arnuwanda died and he, Muršili II, became king. In this introductory section Muršili II also invokes the sun-goddess of Arinna, to whom he addresses a prayer; and the sun120 See on Mursili II e.g., Houwink ten Cate 1995–1996: 51–72. Alparslan (2013: 49) pointed out: “... there is another very important historiographical document, i.e. the annals, which, especially in the reign of Muršili II, became a genre closest to the ‘modern historiography’.” 121 For more on Muršili’s annals see Nemirovski, 2005: 3–14. 122 Or “Comprehensive” or “Detailed” Annals – edited by Goetze, 1933. The Comprehensive Annals are about of events continues until the 21st year of the Muršili II and the Comprehensive Annals gives “more detail and includes more campaigns not directly led by the king” (Beal, 2003: 82). 123 We see that the beginning (CTH 61 II, 1 i: 2–10 ii: 1), the first year (KUB 19.29 obv. I; AM 24 ff), and the fifth year (CTH 61 II, 3 i: 2–8) are not as well preserved as in the Ten Year Annals of Muršili II. Indeed, the sixth year is entirely missing. 124 Consists of 366 lines. The Ten Year Annals of Muršili II tells about first ten years of his reign – see Alparslan 2013: 57. 125 CTH 61 I; del Monte, 2003a: 27–32; Götze, 1933: 38–77; Grélois, 1988: 17–145; del Monte, 2003b: 62–67; Beal, 2003: 82–90. Beal (2003: 82): “This composition is known from five copies. The best preserved is KBo 3.4 + KUB 23.125. This appears to be a copy from approximately the reign of Muršili’s grandson Tudhaliya IV (Grélois 1988: 38–44). The other copies, KBo 16.1, KUB 19.38 (+) KUB 14.21, KBo 16.4, and KBo 16.2 (+) ll3/e, appear to be slightly earlier (Grélois 1988: 38–44)”. The Ten Year Annals of Muršili II describes events (military) during the first 10 years of Muršili II (Beal, 2003: 82). 126 Mineck, 2006: 254. 127 Alparslan, 2013: 57.

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goddess hears his prayer and helps him. This is new in the Hittite annalistic genre, an element never presented before that reveals the religious feelings of the king.128 It is another type of text which shows us that Muršili II was religious (like other Hittite kings), offering prayers not only concerning several plagues but also concerning his wife.129 Of course, we have prayers from other Hittite rulers too,130 but the prayers from Muršili II are most representative. In the main text of the annals the ten years of Muršili’s reign are described in detail, but in a rather laconic and dry style. The text ends with a short epilogue in which Muršili II summarizes his ten years of reign: “I have already been king for 10 years since I sat on the throne of my father. I have conquered these enemy lands in 10 years by my own hand. The lands that the princes and lords were conquering are not in this account. What the sun-goddess of Arinna, my lady, extends to me I will accomplish it and I will set it down (i.e., in word of tablet) ”.131 If we compare the Ten Year Annals of Muršili II to the Annals of Ḫattušili I we can see many differences, similarities and a continuation of the annalistic tradition132. The Ten Year Annals of Muršili II are much longer than the first Hittite annals, the Annals of Ḫattušili I, and are more profound and detailed in their descriptions of military campaigns. We could even say that the tradition of annalistic writing by the Hittites culminated in the annals of Muršili II. Harry A. Hoffner, Jr. pointed out about differences between the Annals of Ḫattušili I and the Ten Year Annals of Muršili II: “To be sure, the years are not actually numbered in the text. No new section commences with the words ‘in my ..-th year’. But then neither is this practice attested for the much more developed annals texts of Mursili II. The introductory formula for each new year in the Hittite version is MU.IM. MA-an-ni-ma, ‘in the following year’. In his Ten-Year Annals Mursili II (c. 1330) employs MU-an-ni-ma and MU.KAM-an-ni-ma regularly to

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Mineck, 2006: 254. Singer, 2002: 47–79. 130 Sürenhagen, 1981: 83–168; Singer, 2002: 21–46; 80–24. 131 Mineck, 2006: 258, § 38. 132 Hoffner (1980: 296) summarizes the differences between these two annals as following: “The phraseology of the Hattusili I annals is by no means so stereotyped as the greater part of the Ten-Year Annals of Mursili, but it resembles in its greater variety of phraseology the latter’s Detailed Annals and of col. IV of KUB 26,71 (d. [8.2]). The author does not, for instance, find it necessary in enumerating each victory to credit the divine assistance in some stock line such as ‘the gods ran before me and I smote the enemy’. Rather, divine assistance is described in several ways and rarely in the same way twice. The Akkadian version at § 5 speaks of the goddess placing the king on her lap.” 129

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mark the transition to the narration of a new year’s events.”133 In the epilogue of the Ten Year Annals of Muršili II we can read: “I have already been king for 10 years since I sat the throne of my father. I have conquered these enemy lands in 10 years by my (own) hand. The lands that the princes and lords were conquering are not in (this account). What the sun-goddess of Arinna, my lady, extends to me I will accomplish it and I will set it down (i.e., in words on a tablet)”.134 M. Alparslan underlined, that the “statement in the prologue is repeated in a similar way in the epilogue”135 and that “the last sentence also nicely illustrates the religious aspect of Hittite historiography”,136 – “What the sun-goddess of Arinna, my lady, extends to me I will accomplish it and I will set it down”. 137 The role of divine forces, theological justification and power ideology Throughout his text king Muršili II attributed all of his military accomplishments to divine favour and protection.138 This also makes both annals of Muršili II (the Ten Year Annals of Muršili II and the Extensive Annals) quite different from the Annals of Ḫattušili I. Muršili II repeated several times, even constantly, the name of the sun-goddess of Arinna, patron of his dynasty, but also often mentioned other deities and he constantly repeats that the sun-goddess of Arinna “ran before him in battle”.139 The Annals of Ḫattušili I had already mentioned that the sungoddess of Arinna “ran before him in battle”140 but there is a difference: Muršili II declares that not only the sun-goddess of Arinna ran before him in battle like with Ḫattušili I, but also “the mighty storm god, Mezulla and all the gods ran before him”.141 So here is an expansion of the old tradition142. 133

Hoffner, 1980: 295. Mineck, 2006: 258, § 38. 135 Alparslan, 2013: 58. 136 Alparslan, 2013: 58. 137 Mineck, 2006: 258, § 38. 138 Mineck / van den Hout / Hoffner, 2006: 253. 139 E.g., Mineck 2006: 257, § 30. 140 Beckman, 2006b: 220, § 5. 141 Mineck, 2006: 256, Year 4; § 21. Beal (2003: 83) writes: “In Muršili’s view, it is the gods running before his army that give him the margin of victory. In the Ten Year Annals the repeated phrase is the ‘Sungoddess of Arinna, my lady, the victorious Stormgod, my lord, Mezzulla and all the gods ran before me.’ In the Comprehensive Annals, on the other hand, the phrase is somewhat different: ‘The victorious Stormgod, my lord, the Sungoddess of Arinna, my lady, the Stormgod of Ḫattuša, the Protective Deity (dLAMMA) of Ḫattuša, the Stormgod of the Army, IŠTAR of the countryside, and all the gods ran before me’.” 142 See the Annals of Ḫattušili I: “I am the Great King, the Tabarna, beloved of the sungoddess of Arinna. She placed me on her lap, held me by the hand, and ran before me in 134

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The theological justification of deeds had been used by Hittite kings since Anitta, but at the time of the New Kingdom it became more elaborate and complex.143 As noted above, Muršili II tried to justify his wars and reign with the support of the gods and emphasized that the gods made him victorious, like Darius I did in his Behistun inscription more than 800 years later, constantly repeating: “by the favour of Ahuramazda I am king in this country” or “by the favour of Ahuramazda this I did” or “by the favour of Ahuramazda my army smote that rebellious army exceedingly”.144 Divine forces play a bigger role in the Annals of Muršili II than in the Annals of Ḫattušili I. So, we can conclude that theological justification was very important to Muršili II. Of course, there are also other new elements, e.g., just as there were some changes in Hittite royal titulary after the Old Kingdom period, we see that these changes are reflected in Muršili’s annals. Ḫattušili I began his texts with the formula “I, the Great King, the Tabarna, Ḫattušili, king of the land of Ḫatti, ruler of the city of Kuššar”, while Muršili II used a different titular formula at the beginning of his introduction to the annals: “Thus says My Sun (My Majesty) Muršili, King of Ḫatti-land, Hero, son of Šuppiluliuma, Great King, Hero”. His royal titular formula differs from other royal titular formulae of the first annals of the New Kingdom – the Annals of Tutḫaliya and the Annals of Arnuwanda – because Muršili II, like his father Šuppiluliuma I, used the royal epithet “My Sun”145 or “My Majesty” (dUTUši). This was introduced by the Hittites before Šuppiluliuma I (probably by Zidanta II)146 but Muršili II was one of the first to use this epithet in royal annals. He also continued the usage of the Assyro-Babylonian royal epithet “Hero” (UR.SAĞ)147, used by several kings before him, in the annals. Mass deportation in the Hittite annals of Muršili II In the fifth year of the Ten Year Annals King Muršili II mentions the deportation of people and, of course, in relation to gods, the gods justified this act and even helped Muršili II to accomplish it: “The sun-goddess of Arinna, my lady, the mighty storm god, my lord, Mezzulla and all the gods ran before me and I conquered the entire land of Arawanna. There were 3.500 civilian captives that I conducted to the royal house”.148 battle” (Beckman, 2006b: 220, § 5). 143 Hoffner, 1975: 49–62. 144 See e.g., Schmitt, 1991: p. 49, DB I, § 5, 11–12; For more on Darius I see Sazonov/ Johandi, 2015: 329–352. 145 For more on the royal epithet “My Sun” see Sazonov, 2012a; Beckman, 2002: 37–43. 146 Beckman, 2002: 37. 147 For more on UR.SAĞ (akk. qurādu(m), qarrādu(m)) see Sazonov, 2010: 206–208: Sazonov, 2016b: 97. 148 Mineck, 2006: 257, § 28. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Some notes on the style of the annals of Muršili II It seems that the style of the Ten Year Annals of Muršili II is still quite dry, but not as dry as that of the Annals of Ḫattušili I or the Text of Anitta. It is longer and more detailed and elaborate. Both annals written by Muršili II, the Ten Year Annals of Muršili II and the Extensive Annals of Muršili II, comprise a clear introduction or prologue, then main text descriptions of military campaigns year on year, chronologically, and then at the end a clear but short epilogue which does not exist in the previous Annals of Ḫattušili I. 5. Summary Although Hittite literature (especially myths) was strongly influenced by the Mesopotamian cultural space through the Hurrians who were mediators between Hittite and Assyro-Babylonian culture (but in some cases directly from Assyria and Babylonia), it should be noted that historical texts from the Hittite kingdom differ from all preceding Mesopotamian literature, not least because the genre of annals was invented by the Hittites.149 The influence of Mesopotamian traditions upon Hittite historiographic texts is therefore visible, but unlikely to be particularly significant. Hittite annalistic writing as a unique literary genre in the whole Ancient Near East started in the 17th century BC and the next 400 years saw it change and develop until the fall of the Hittite kingdom (c. 1190/1180 BC). Generally, we can say that historical Hittite prose was always quite laconic, annals included. The Annals of Ḫattušili I (17th century BC) are the oldest example of the genre of historical Hittite literature. At the same time, the Annals of Ḫattušili I followed the tradition that began a century earlier in the Text of Anitta. Both texts (Text of Anitta and Annals of Ḫattušili I) tell us about the heroic deeds of kings, Anitta and Ḫattušili I, performed under the protection of gods and these deeds culminated at the end of the texts with their greatest achievement. Ḫattušili I wanted to show that he was not only as strong and powerful as the “king of the world” Sargon of Akkad, but even stronger and more powerful than Sargon. Several military campaigns waged by Hittite kings against cities in Anatolia and Northern Syria were described in Hittite royal annals, of which some of the best preserved are the annals of Muršili II (the Ten Year Annals of Muršili II and the Extensive Annals). We see that Hittite annals developed throughout the history of the Hittite kingdom. Later Hittite annals (15th–14th/13th century BC) are more formulaic in their expression than earlier examples. As B.J. Collins remarks “Ḫattusili I’s annals, in keeping with the style of the texts from his reign generally, were not stereotypical in their phrasing in the way that Mursili II’s were”.150 During the epoch of the 149 150

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Hittite empire (New Kingdom), annalistic literature developed in a more sophisticated way; descriptions of military campaigns were presented in greater detail, as in the Manly Deeds of Šuppiluliuma I or in the Ten Year Annals of Muršili II. They also created new phrasings, like the royal epithet “My Sun” introduced by the Hittites in the 15th century (most likely by Zidanta II).151 The annals from the New Kingdom are longer, with more detailed descriptions of battles, conquest, deportations, looting of cities, etc. Deportations, mentioned several times in the Hittite annals and res gestae (the Annals of Ḫattušili I, the Annals of Tutḫaliya I/II, the Annals of Arnuwanda, the Manly Deeds of Šuppiluliuma I, the Ten Year Annals of Muršili II, the Extensive Annals), were of course not a new invention in the Ancient Near East and were a well-known phenomenon far and wide. In the New Kingdom, however, deportations of people were mentioned more often in the annals and in other historiographic texts compared to older historiographic Hittite texts from the Old and Middle Hittite periods). Diplomatic relations with Egypt appear for the first time in New Kingdom annalistic literature in Manly Deeds of Šuppiluliuma I. We can say that the tradition of historiographic writing that began with the Text of Anitta, and the annalistic tradition which started with the Annals of Ḫattušili I, culminated in the annals of Muršili II. They also depict the theological justification of war, very well elaborated by Muršili II in his texts. The theological justification of wars, deeds and kingly actions also developed throughout Hittite history and is reflected in the annalistic genre. If in the Text of Anitta (not annals but pertinent here nonetheless) we can see almost any theological justification of his deeds, then Ḫattušili I who ruled 100 years later used this motif more elaborately, evoking gods to justify his aggressive politics (the Annals of Ḫattušili I). We find even more sophisticated and developed justification of war or ideology of divine warfare by Hittites in the period of the New Kingdom (1400–1190/1180 BC), especially in the annals written by Muršili II. As we can see, ideology and religion (theology) played a significant role in warfare, especially in the justification of wars in Hittite Anatolia from as early as ca. 1750 BC (or perhaps earlier). We have several pieces of evidence from Hittite sources where the ruler used theological justification for his military campaign or the invasion of another country. The ideology of (divine) warfare in the Hittite world developed with the new period and became better formulated and more complex over the course of history. So the ideology of war is a very old and traditional phenomenon, continually changing, developing, transforming with each new epoch or new period of rule, yet still retaining many similarities to its earlier manifestations. If we compare the theological justification of Muršili II with that of the period of Ḫattušili I we find

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a lot of similarities and certain differences. For example, the theological justification of deportation is a new phenomenon in Hittite texts which was only mentioned by Hittites in their annals from the period of the New Kingdom (in the Annals of Tutḫaliya I/II, the Annals of Arnuwanda, the Manly Deeds of Šuppiluliuma I, the Ten Year Annals of Muršili II, the Extensive Annals of Muršili II). Throughout his annals king Muršili II attributes all of his military accomplishments to divine favour and protection.152 This also makes both Muršili II annals (the Ten Year Annals of Muršili II and the Extensive Annals) quite different from the Annals of Ḫattušili I. Muršili II repeats several times, even constantly, the name of the sun-goddess of Arinna, patron of his dynasty, but also often mentions other deities and he constantly repeats that the sun-goddess of Arinna “ran before him in battle”. The Annals of Ḫattušili I had already mentioned that the sun-goddess of Arinna “ran before him in battle”153 but there is a difference: Muršili II declares that not only the sun-goddess of Arinna ran before him in battle like with Ḫattušili I, but also “the mighty storm god, Mezulla and all the gods ran before him”.154 So here is an expansion of the old tradition. Last but not least, annalistic writing at the time of king Muršili II had already approximately 400 years of tradition of developing this genre. The Hittite annals from the late period (New Kingdom) are more extensive and far more detailed, with a long, clear introduction and epilogue. The introductions became longer and more ideological as divine justification of royal deeds (e.g., military campaign, annexation of countries, killing, deportation, etc.) became more elaborate. Here I focused on some examples that have survived more or less intact, leaving aside several other Hittite annals that remain only in small fragments and new texts might change the picture given here. Bibliography Alparslan, M., 2013: “Recording the Past: Hittite Historiography”. In M. Alparslan / M. Doğan-Alparslan (eds.): Hittites: An Anatolian Empire. Istanbul. Pp. 48–61. Archi, A., 2000: “Hittite and Hurrian Literatures: An Overview”. In J.M. Sasson (ed.): Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Vol. 4. New York. Pp. 2367– 2377. — 2010: “When Did the Hittites Begin to Write in Hittite”. In Y. Cohen / A. Gilan / J.L. Miller (eds.): Pax Hethitica: Studies on the Hittites and Their Neighbours in Honour of Itamar Singer. Studien zu den Boğazköy-Texten 51. Wiesbaden. Pp. 37–46. Bachvarova, M., 2010: “Manly Deeds: Hittite Admonitory History and Eastern Mediterranean Didactic Epic”. In K. Raaflaub / D. Konstan (eds.): Epic and 152

Mineck / van den Hout / Hoffner, 2006: 253. Beckman, 2006b: 220, § 5. 154 Mineck, 2006: 256, Year 4; § 21. 153

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Arnuwandas”. SMEA 18, 156–165. — 2001: “Anitta res gestae: paralipomena I”. In G. Wilhelm (ed.): Akten des IV. Internationalen Kongresses für Hethitologie. Würzburg, 4.–8. Oktober 1999. Studien zu den Boğazköy-Texten 45. Wiesbaden. Pp. 51–72. — 2003: Annitae Res Gestae. Studia Mediterranea 13, Serises Hethea 1. Pavia. — 2005: “Dokumente für die Zeit Tuthaliyas I. und Hattusilis II”. In Süel (ed.): Acts of the Vth International Congress of Hittitology. Ankara. Pp. 179–205. — 2008: Annali etei del Medio Regno. Pavia. Collins, B.J., 1998: “Hattušili I, the Lion King”. JCS 50, 15–20. — 2007: The Hittites and Their World. Atlanta. Cornelius, F., 1958: “Die Annalen Hattušilis I”. OrNs 28, 292–296. CTH: Laroche, E., 1971: Catalogue des Textes Hittites. Paris. Dercksen, J.G., 2010: “Anitta and the Man of Purušhanda”. In Y. Hazırrlayan / S. Dönmez (eds.): Studies Presented in Honour of Veysel Donbaz. Istanbul. Pp. 71–75. de Martino, S., 1996: L’Anatolia occidentale nel Medio Regno ittita. Firenze. — 2003: Annali e Res Gestae antico ittiti. Pavia. — 2005. “Old Hittite Historiographical Texts: Problems of Classification”. In A. Süel (ed.): Acts of the V International Congress of Hittitology, Çorum, 02.–08. September 2002. Ankara. Pp. 225–230. — 2010: “Some Questions on the Political History and Chronology of the Early Hittite Empire”. AoF 37, 186–197. del Monte, G.F., 1993: L’annalistica ittita. Brescia. — 2003: Antologia della letteratura Ittita. Servizio Editoriale Universitario di Pisa. — 2009: Le gesta di Suppiluliuma. Traslitterazione, traduzione e commento. L’opera storiografica di Mursili II re di Hattusa. Vol. I. Pisa. Devecchi, E., 2005: Gli annali di Hattusili I nella versione accadica. Studia Mediterranea 16. Pavia. — 2013: “Historiography, ancient Near East”. In R.S. Bagnall / K. Brodersen / C.B. Champion / A. Erskine / S.R. Huebner (eds.): The Encyclopedia of Ancient History. Malden. Pp. 3250–3252. ETCSL: Black, J.A. / Cunningham, G. / Ebeling, J. / Flückiger-Hawker, E. / Robson, E. / Taylor, J. / Zólyomi, G., 1998–2006: The Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature (http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/). Oxford. Gerhards, M., 2013: “Hethitische und biblische Historiographie”. Biblische Notizen / Biblical Notes 156, 107–130. Gilan, A., 2010: “Epic and History in Hittite Anatolia: In Search of a Local Hero”. In D. Konstan / K.A. Raaflaub (eds.): Epic and History. Chichester. Pp. 51– 65. — 2015: Formen und Inhalte althethitischer historischer Literatur. Heidelberg. Götze, A., 1933: Die Annalen des Muršiliš. Leipzig. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Grayson, A.K., 1980: “Histories and Historians of the Ancient Near East: Assyria and Babylonia”. Orientalia N.S. 49, 140–194. Grélois, J.-P., 1988: “Les Annales décennales de Mursili II (CTH 61, I)”. Hethitica 9, 7–145. Güterbock, H.G., 1934: “Die historische Tradition und ihre literarische Gestaltung bei Babyloniern und Hethitern bis 1200”. ZA 42, 1–91. — 1938: “Die historische Tradition und ihre literarische Gestaltung bei Babyloniern und Hethitern bis 1200”. ZA 44, 45–149. — 1956: “The Deeds of Suppiluliuma as Told by His Son Mursili II”. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 10, 41–68, 75–98, 107–130. — 1964a: “Sargon of Akkad Mentioned by Ḫattušili I of Ḫatti”. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 18, 1–6. — 1964b: “A View of Hittite Literature”. Journal of the American Oriental Society 84, 107–115. — 1983: “Hittite historiography: a survey”. In H. Tadmor / M. Weinfeld (eds.): History, Historiography, and interpretation. Studies in biblical and cuneiform literatures. Jerusalem. Pp. 21–35. Haas, V., 1994: Die hethitische Religion. Leiden / New York / Köln. — 2006: Die hethitische Literatur. Texte, Stilistik, Motive. Berlin / New York. Haul, M., 2009: Stele und Legende, Untersuchungen zu den keilschriftlichen Erzählungen über die Könige von Akkade. Göttinger Beiträge zum Alten Orient 4. Göttingen. Hazenbos, J., 2006: “CTH 40: Manly Deeds of Shuppiluliuma”. In M.W. Chavalas (ed.): The Ancient Near East: Historical Sources in Translation. Malden. Pp. 235–239. Hoffner, H.A., 1975: “Propaganda and political justification in Hittite historiography.” In H. Goedicke / J.M.M. Roberts (eds.): Unity and Diversity: Essays in the History, Literature, and Religion of the Ancient Near East. Baltimore. Pp. 49–62. — 1980: “Histories and historians of the ancient Near East: the Hittites”. Orientalia N.S. 49, 283–332. — 1997: “Hittite Canonical Compositions – Historiography. Proclamation of Anitta of Kuššar”. In W.W. Hallo (ed.). The Contexts of Scripture. Vol. 1: Canonical Compositions from the Biblical World. Leiden / New York / Cologne. Pp. 182–204. Hoffmann, I., 1984: Erlaß Telepinus. Heidelberg. Houwink ten Cate, Ph.H.J., 1970: The Records of the Early Hittite Empire. Leiden. — 1983: “The History of Warfare According to Hittite Sources: The Annals of Hattusilis I (Part I)”. Anatolica 10, 91–109. — 1995–1996: “The Genealogy of Mursilis II. The Difference Between a Legalistic and a Genealogical Approach to the Descent of Suppiluliumas I”. Jaarbericht van het Vooraziatisch-Egyptisch Genootschap “Ex Oriente Lux” 34, © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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51–72. Kammenhuber, A., 1958: “Die hethitische Geshichtsschreibung”. Saeculum 9, 36–155. KBo: Keilschrifttexte aus Boghazköy. 1923ff. Osnabrück / Berlin. Kempinski, A. / Košak, S., 1982: “CTH 13: The Extensive Annals of Hattušili I (?)”. Tel Aviv 9/2, 87–116. Kimball, S.E. / Slocum, J., 2017: “The Proclamation of Anittas (Old Hittite)”. In Hittite Online. The University Texas at Austin. Linguistics Research Center, https://lrc.la.utexas.edu/eieol/hitol/10 (last visited 4.08.2018). Klinger, J., 1998: “‚Wer lehrte die Hethiter das Schreiben?‘ Zur Paläographie früher Texte in akkadischer Sprache aus Boğazköy: Skizze einiger Überlegungen und vorläufiger Ergebnisse”. UHKB 3, 365–375. — 2001: “Historiographie als Paradigma. Die Quellen zur hethitischen Geschichte und ihre Deutung”. In G. Wilhelm (ed.). Akten des 4. Hethitologischen Kongresses Würzburg 1999. Wiesbaden. Pp. 272–291. — 2005: “Herrscherinschriften und andere Dokumente zur politischen Geschichte des Hethiterreiches. 1. Der sogenannte Anitta-Text”. In B. Janowski / G. Wilhelm (eds.): Staatsverträge, Herrscherinschrifren und andere Dokumente zur politischen Geschichte. TUAT Neue Folge 2. Gütersloh. Pp. 139–141. — 2008: “Geschichte oder Geschichten – zum literarischen Character der hethitischen Historiographie”, In K.-P. Adam (ed.): Historiograhie in der Antike. Berlin. Pp. 27–48. Klock-Fontanille, I., 1996: “Le Testament Politique de Ḫattušili Ier ou les conditions d’exercice de la royaute dans l’ancien royaume Hittite”. Anatolia Antiqua 4, 33–66. — 2001: Les premiers rois hittites et la représentation de la royauté dans les textes de l’Ancien Royaume. Paris/Budapest/Torino. KUB: Keilschrifturkunden aus Boghazköy, 1921–1990. Berlin. Kümmel, H.M., 1985: “Die Annalen Hattusilis”. In O. Kaiser (ed.): Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments 1/5. Gütersloh. Pp. 455–463. Kuyper, J. de, 1998: “Some Aspects Related to Hittite-Accadian Bilinguism in Royal Inscriptions”. In H. Erkanal / V. Donbaz / A. Uguroglu (eds.): Relations between Anatolia and Mesopotamia, XXXIVème Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Istanbul, 6–10.VII.1987. Ankara. Pp. 93–98. Liverani, M., 1993: “Model and Actualization. The Kings of Akkad in the Historical Tradition”. In M. Liverani (ed.): Akkad, the First World Empire. History of the Ancient Near East: Studies 5. Padova. Pp. 43–64. — 2004: Myth and Politics in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography. Ithaca NY. McMahon, G., 1994: “History and Legend in Early Hittite Historiography”. In A.R. Millard / J.K. Hoffmeier / D.W. Baker (eds.): Faith, Tradition, and History. Old Testament Historiography in Its Near Eastern Context. Winona Lake. Pp. 149–157. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Melchert, H.C., 1978: “The Acts of Ḫattušili I”. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 37, 1–22. Miller, J.L., 1999: The Expeditions of Ḫattušili I to the Eastern Frontier. M.A. Diss., Tel-Aviv University. — 2001: “Ḫattušili I’s Expansion into Northern Syria in Light of the Tikunani Letter”. In G. Wilhelm (ed.): Akten des IV. Internationalen Kongress für Hethitologie, Würzburg, 4.–8. Oktober 1999. Studien zu den Boğazköy-Texten 45. Wiesbaden. Pp. 410–429. Mineck, K.R., 2006: In Mineck, K. R. / van den Hout, Th. / Hoffner, H.A. Jr. 2006: “Hittite Historical Texts II”. In M.W. Chavalas (ed.): The Ancient Near East: Historical Sources in Translation. Malden. Pp. 253–279. Mineck, K.R. / van den Hout, T. / Hoffner, H.A., Jr., 2006: “Hittite Historical Text II. Hittite Historical Texts II”. In M.W. Chavalas (ed.): The Ancient Near East: Historical Sources in Translation. Malden. Pp. 253–279. Mõttus, S., 2018: The Edict of Telepinu and the Hittite Royal Succission. University of Tartu Faculty of Arts and Humanities, Institute of History and Archaeology. Master’s thesis. Tartu. Nemirovski, A.A., 2005: Немировский, А.А.: “«Пространные анналы» Мурсилиса II – текстологическая условность?” ВДИ 1 (2005), 3–14. Neu, E., 1974: Der Anitta-Text. Studien zu den Boğazköy-Texten 18. Wiesbaden. — 1986: “Zum mittelhethitischen Alter der Tuthalija-Annalen (CTH 142)”. In W. Meid / H. Trenkwalder (eds.): Im Bannkreis des Alten Orients. Studien .... Karl Oberhuber zum 70. Geburtstag gewidmet. Innsbruck. Pp. 181–192. Oded, B., 1979: Mass Deportations and Deportees in the Neo-Assyrian Empire. Wiesbaden. Popko, M., 2009: Arinna. Eine heilige Stadt der Hethiter. Studien zu den Boğazköy-Texten 50. Wiesbaden. Richter, T., 2002: “Zur Frage der Entlehnung syrisch-mesopotamischer Kulturelemente nach Anatolien in der vor- und frühen althethitischen Zeit (19.–16. Jahrhundert v.Chr.) ”. In H. Blum / B. Faist / P. Pfälzner / A.-M. Wittke (eds.): Brückenland Anatolien? Ursachen, Extensität und Modi des Kulturaustausches zwischen Anatolien und seinen Nachbarn. Tübingen. Pp. 295–322. RIMA 2: Grayson, A.K., 1991: Assyrian Rulers of the Early Millennia BC I (to 1115 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia. Assyrian Periods 2. Toronto / Buffalo / London. RIME 1: Frayne, D.R., 2008: Presargonic Period (2700–2350 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia: Early Periods 1. Toronto/Buffalo/London. RIME 2: Frayne, D.R., 1993: Sargonic and Gutian Periods (2334–2113 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia. Early Periods 2. Toronto/Buffalo/London. RIME 3/2: Frayne, D.R., 1997: Ur III Period (2112–2004 BC). The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia, Early Periods 3/2. Toronto/Buffalo/London.

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Rollinger, R., 2013: Alexander und die großen Ströme: Die Flussüberquerungen im Lichte altorientalischer Pioniertechniken. Wiesbaden. Sazonov, V., 2009: “Hetiidi kuningate titulatuuri arengujoontest 1750–1190 saj eKr/ Some remarks concerning the development of Hittite royal titles 1750– 1190 BCE.” Eesti Akadeemilise Orientaalseltsi Aastaraamat 2008, 30–51. — 2010: Die Königstitel und -epitheta in Assyrien, im Hethiterreich und in Nordsyrien (Ugarit, Emar, Karkemiš) in der mittelassyrischen Zeit: Strukturelle Gemeinsamkeiten, Unterschiede und gegenseitige Beeinflussung. Tartu. — 2012a: “Der hethitische Sonnenkönig. Einige Bemerkungen zu dem hethitischen Königsepitheton „Meine Sonne“ (dUTUši)”. Forschungen zur Anthropologie und Religionsgeschichte 43, 199–219. — 2012b: “Mass deporations and terror in Middle-Assyrian and Neo-Assyrian empires/ Küüditamis- ja terroripoliitika Kesk-Assüüria ja Uus-Assüüria impeeriumites 13–7 saj eKr”. Estonian National Defence College Proceedings 16, 180–202. — 2010: Die Königstitel und -epitheta in Assyrien, im Hethiterreich und in Nordsyrien (Ugarit, Emar, Karkemiš) in der mittelassyrischen Zeit: Strukturelle Gemeinsamkeiten, Unterschiede und gegenseitige Beeinflussung. Tartu. — 2011: “Tabarna/Labarna – imperiaalse idee reflektsioon ühe hetiidi kuningliku tiitli näitel/ Tabarna/Labarna – Reflection of imperial idea Based on the Example of Hittite Royal Title”. Tuna. Ajalookultuuri ajakiri 2, 18–25. — 2016a: “Some Remarks Concerning the Development of the Theology of War in Ancient Mesopotamia” In K. Ulanowski (eds.): The Religious Aspects of War in the Ancient Near East, Greece, and Rome. Leiden. Pp. 23–50. — 2016b: Die Assyrischen Königstitel und -epitheta vom Anfang bis TukultiNinurta I und seinen Nachfolgern. State Archives of Assyria Studies XXV. Winona Lake. — 2017a: “Some Notes on Text of King Anitta”. Nouvelles Assyriologiques Bréves et Utilitaires 2017, 179−182. — 2017b: “Some Notes On Royal Hunt in Mesopotamia and Anatolia”. Nouvelles Assyriologiques Bréves et Utilitaires 2017, 153–154. Sazonov, V. / Johandi, A., 2015: “Royal Titulary used by Darius I in the Bīsitūn inscription: Mesopotamian influences”. In M. Läänemets / V. Sazonov / P. Espak (eds.): When Gods Spoke. Series Nova Vol. VI. Tartu. Pp. 329–352. Schmid, G., 1985: “Religiöse Geschichtsdeutung und politische Propaganda im Großen Text des Hattušili III”. Zeitschrift für Religions- und Geistesgeschichte 37, 1–21. Schmitt, R., 1991: The Bisitun Inscriptions of Darius the Great: Old Persian Text. London. Seeher, J., 2001: Die Zerstörung der Stadt Ḫattuša. In Wilhelm (ed.): Akten des IV. Internationalen Kongresses für Hethitologie, Würzburg, 4.–8. Oktober 1999. Wiesbaden. Pp. 623–634. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Shelestin, V., 2014: The Foreign Policy of the Late Old Hittite Kingdom – the Case of Ammuna. In P. Taracha / M. Kapełuś (eds.): Proceedings of the Eighth International Congress of Hittitology. Warsaw. Pp. 800–826. Singer, I., 2002: Hittite Prayers. Writings from the Ancient World 11. Atlanta. Soysal, O., 2005: “On the Origin of the Royal Title Tabarna / Labarna”. Anatolica 31, 189–209. Starke, F., 1979: “Halmašuit im Anitta-Text und die hethitische Ideologie vom Königtum”. ZA 69, 47–120. — 1985: “Der Erlaß Telipinus. Zur Beurteilung der Sprache des Textes anläßlich eines kürzlich erschienenen Buches”. Die Welt des Orients 16, 100–113. Stavi, B., 2011: “The Genealogy of Suppiluliuma I”. AoF 38, 226–239. Steiner, G., 1984: “Struktur und Bedeutung des sogenannten Anitta-Textes”. Orientalia 23, 54–73. Steitler, Ch.W., 2017: The Solar Deities of Bronze Age Anatolia. Studies in Texts of the Early Hittite Kingdom. StBoT 62. Wiesbaden. Strobel, K., 2011: “Die Geschichtsschreibung der Hethiter und fruhe griechische Historiographie, Wertungsfragen im Lichte der Anatolisch-Agaischen Kaine”. In M. Hutter / S. Hutter-Braunsar (eds.): Hethitische Literatur. Überlieferungsprozesse, Textsrukturen, Ausdruckformen und Nachwirken. Akten des Symposiums vom 18. bis 20. Februar 2010 in Bonn. AOAT 391. Pp. 245–274. Sürenhagen, D., 1981: “Zwei Gebete Ḫattušilis und der Puduḫepa”. AoF 8, 83– 168. Taracha, P., 1997: “Zu den Tutḫalija-Annalen (CTH 142)”. WdO 28, 74–84. — 2007: “More about Res Gestae in Hittite Historiography”. In D. Groddek / M. Zorman (eds.): Tabularia Hethaeorum. Hethitologische Beiträge Silvin Košak zum 65. Geburtstag. Wiesbaden. Pp. 659–664. Torri, G., 2009: “Sargon, Anitta, and the Hittite Kings against Purušḫanda”. AoF 36, 110–118. Ulanowski, K., 2015: “The Metaphor of the Lion in Mesopotamian and Greek Civilization”. In R. Rollinger / E. van Dongen (eds.): Mesopotamia in the Ancient World. Impact, Continuities, Parallels. Proceedings of the Seventh Symposium of the Melammu Project. Münster. Pp. 255–284. Ünal, A., 1989: “The Power of Narrative in Hittite Literature”. Biblical Archaeologist (June/September 1989), 130–143. van Seters, J., 1983: In Search of History. Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History. New Haven / London. — 1995: “The historiography of the ancient Near East.” In J.M. Sasson (ed.): Civilizations of the Ancient Near East. Vol. 4. New York. Pp. 2433–2444. Westenholz, J.G., 1997: Legends of the Kings of Akkade: the Texts. Mesopotamian Civilizations 7. Winona Lake. Wilhelmi, L., 2016: “Materiality and Presence of the Anitta Text in Original and Secondary Context: Considerations on the Original Nature of the Proclama© 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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tion of Annita (CTH 1) and its Transmission as Part of Hittite Traditional Literature”. In Th.E. Balke / Ch. Tsouparopoulou (eds.): Materiality of Writing in Early Mesopotamia. Berlin/Boston. Pp. 223–239. Wolf, H.M., 1994: The Historical Reliability of the Hittite Annals. In A.R. Millard / J.K. Hoffmeier / D.W. Baker (eds.): Faith, Tradition and History: Old Testament Historiography in its Near Eastern Context. Winona Lake. Pp. 159– 164. Yamada, Sh., 2009: “History and Ideology in the Inscriptions of Shalmaneser III: An Analysis of Stylistic Changes in the Assyrian Annals”. In I. Ephʽal / N. Naʼaman (eds.): Royal Assyrian Inscriptions: History, Historiography and Ideology. A Conference in Honour of Hayim Tadmor on Occasion of His Eightieth Birthday. 20 November 2003. Jerusalem. Pp. vii–xxx. Yoshida, D., 1996: Untersuchungen zu den Sonnengottheiten bei den Hethitern, Schwurgötterliste, helfende Gottheit, Feste. Heidelberg.

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The Evolution of the Festival of Dumuzi in the Light of Russian Assyriology Vladimir Emelianov1

Until now, the calendars of the peoples of the ancient Near East have been studied in only one aspect – in terms of their relation to the economic and political activities of citizens. Calendar periods delineate the fundamental processes in the production of food (cereals and vegetables). A calendar is the most important marker for rites connected with confirmation of the status of the rulers or with the approval of the new rulers on the throne. The calendar features a celebration of all the other events held in the cities of the country, and thus ensures the independence of the city in the politico-religious aspect. In short, the calendar is a system of conventional signs adopted by society to mark and highlight their industrial and political activities (Stern, 2012). We cannot say that religious scholars and ethnographers have ignored the calendar of the ancient East. Calendars are understood in their works as symbolic systems related to the perception of the numinous (M. Eliade, T. Jacobsen) or the regulation of sex-age ritual activities (calendar as a set of rites of passage) (A. van Gennep, V.Ya. Propp). In this case, consideration of the calendar does not go beyond the same representation of the conventional system, designed to mark an intellectual activity. Quite a different approach to the problem of time was demonstrated by the founder of the psychology of time (or chronopsychology) Paul Fraisse. In his view, time is, above all, rhythmically specified by order of different aspects: a) the cosmological aspect (solar, lunar, and seasonal rhythms); b) the biological aspect (rhythms of the heart, brain, respiratory, hormonal reproduction, body temperature, sleep and wakefulness of plants, animals and humans); c) the perception of time as a temporal experience (so-called rhythm perception of time) (Fraisse, 1994; Roeckelein, 2008: 33). Temporal experience is a characteristic of any living creature, because this creature eats, breathes, grows, experiences emotions, has consciousness. Psychology of time can give us the key to the study of issues not previously investigated in the history of the Ancient Eastern calendars. A symbolic calendar system, which by its nature is neither arbitrary nor abstract, caused by the effects of cosmobiological rhythms on the formation of temporal experience of the Ancient Near East farmers. It is necessary to study its semantics in psychophysiological terms – that is, as a series of psycho-emotional states, caused by the change 1

The study was supported by grant no. 16-18-10083 (Russian Science Foundation) “The study of religion in the social and cultural context of the epoch: the history of the religious studies and intellectual history of Russia in XIX – early XX centuries.” © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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of seasons and monthly adjustment period. Where all the four seasons of nature are expressed with sufficient clarity, more transformations of the collective consciousness can be traced back than in areas with only two seasons. And the culture of the ancient East with its two half-year and three or four seasons, fortunately, gives us the most abundant material. In 1922 Woldemar G. Schileico’s article “Dear Old Tradition” (“Rodnaya Starina”) came off the press in Soviet Russia. The non-Russian speaking Assyriologists did not have an opportunity to read this article, so I will present its main ideas to my Western colleagues below. Schileico referred to the verses by A.S. Pushkin “A Little Bird” (1823), where Russian Orthodox rite of releasing birds before the festival of Annunciation was described: ПТИЧКА В чужбине свято наблюдаю Родной обычай старины: На волю птичку выпускаю При светлом празднике весны. Я стал доступен утешенью; За что на бога мне роптать, Когда хоть одному творенью Я мог свободу даровать!2. He compared Pushkin’s text to the Babylonian incantation which mentions a bird released by its catcher. Now, this text is edited and translated into German in (Schramm, 2008: 208–211). 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

at-ta iṣṣūr(MUŠEN) šamê(AN)e bi-nu-ut [dA-nim] ana-ku a-mi-lu-tu bi-nu-ut dN[IN.MEN.AN.NA] al-[s]i-[i] lúušandâ(MUŠEN.DÙ) i-ba-a[r-ka] aṣ-ṣur napišta(ZI)-ka-ma ú-kal-lim-k[a nūra] at-ta dŠamši(UTU)ši u-ṣur n[apištī(-ma)] ki-i šá ana iṣṣūri(MUŠEN) an-ni-i na-piš-ta a-[qi-šu] ia-a-ši na-piš-ti qí-šá T[U6 EN]

17 Beschwörung. Du bist ein Vogel des Himmels, ein Geschöpf [des 18 ich bin ein Mensch, ein Geschöpf der N[inmenanna]. \ Anu], 19 Ich rief den Vogelfänger, er fing [dich]. 2

Here is its English translation: “In alien lands I keep the body / Of ancient native rites and things: / I gladly free a little birdie / At celebration of the spring. / I’m now free for consolation, / And thankful to almighty Lord: / At least, to one of his creations / I’ve given freedom in this world!” (by Yevgeny Bonver, see http://www.poetryloverspage.com/ poets/pushkin/little_bird.html). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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20 Ich bewahre (hiermit) dein Leben, lasse dich [das Licht] sehen – 21 bewahre (nun) du, Šamaš, [mein Leben]! 22 Ebenso, wie ich diesem Vogel (hiermit) das Leben schenke, schenke du mir ein Leben! He proposed that the sense of both rites is identical. Life and freedom were returned to a bird being released from captivity as a ransom for the life of the liberator. Then Schileico associated released birds with souls. He wrote: (in Russian) “Мифическая сущность птиц известна: это души, покинувшие землю мертвых. Последние стихи поэмы о сошествии Иштар рассказывают, что в дни Таммуза крылатым душам бывает позволено оставить свой темный дом для солнечного света и простора. Когда справлялся этот праздник душ? Таммуз рождается в Тебете – декабре – и умирает в июне, ‘месяце пленения Таммуза’. Его подземный плен, приравниваемый к утробной жизни младенца, кончается в Нисане – марте. В мистериях Аттиса сохранилась точная дата воскресения бога: 25 марта. Этот день есть вместе с тем и день зачатия Таммуза, родившегося 25 декабря, и день благовещения Иштар: отец Таммуза, Эа, зачинает сына словами извещения, передаваемого вестником богини Папсуккалем”. “The mythical nature of birds is well known: it is a soul who left the land of the dead3. The last verses of the poem of the descent of Ishtar say that in the days of Tammuz winged souls are allowed to leave their dark house for sunlight and space 4 . When this holiday of souls took place? Tammuz was born in Tebet, December, and died in June, ‘the month of the capture of Tammuz’5. His underground captivity, equated to the uterine life of a baby, ends in Nisan, March. In the Mysteries of Attis the exact date of the resurrection of God is testified: March 25. This day is at the same time the day of conception of Tammuz, who was born on December 25 and the day of the Annunciation of Ishtar: Ea, the father of Tammuz, conceives a son by means of words of notification transmitted by messenger of goddess Papsukkal.”6 (Schileico, 1922: 81)

3

Slavic material on the problem of souls in popular beliefs see in (Vinogradova, 1999: 141–160). 4 “On the day when Tammuz plays for me on the flute of lapis lazuli, playing it for me with the porphyry ring. / Together with him, play ye for me, ye weepers and lamenting women! / That the dead may rise up and inhale the incense” (Burger, 2015: 4). 5 ITI ki-mi-tum dD[UMU.ZI] (Reisner, SBH 145: III 12); see also (Schroeder, KAV 218: I 50). 6 All calendar dates of Attis ritual Schileico took from the III. chapter of De errore profanorum religionum (III. 1) by Firmicus Maternus (IV century A.D.) (ibid.). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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So, the main idea of his article has three points: a) birds released in Babylon and in the Christian world on the 25th of March are souls of the dead; b) souls of the dead usually leave their dark realm during the days of Tammuz; c) the cult of Tammuz had three calendar periods, which were Nisan (conceiving), Ṭebētu (birth), and Du’ūzu (capture and death). Can we verify this hypothesis by means of our modern scholarship? First of all, we know about the ritual of releasing birds in Nisan from recent publications by A. Livingstone. “You go to the house of the bird-catcher and buy two doves, male and female. Before Shamash you make a judgment for them. Like a god, he will achieve his wish. (You say) ‘Shamash, you are the judge of heaven and earth, The mighty fist of god or goddess, king, boss or prince, unclench for me!’ He releases the male to the east, the female to the west.” (Livingstone, 2000: 380) The second example is releasing birds in Tašrītu known from Bīt salā’ mê edited by C. Ambos (Ambos, 2009: 240). “A2 15’When in the month of Tašrītu (ritual) ‘House of water sprinkling’ you’re performing, 16’On the 4th day of Tašrītu king holds 7 marratu-birds, 17’ magician pronounces the incantation ‘You heavenly bird, a creature of Anu’ 18’three times, and to the Heaven he lets them.” Releasing birds in Nisan is intended to affect the elder or ruler, to impose his will, to force to fulfill people’s desires (expansion). Releasing captured birds in Tašrītu aims to self-cleaning during imprisonment in the dungeon. The common point of the two rites is a temporary setback in the rights of the king. On the 5th of Nisan priest named šešgallu selects signs of his power, puts him on his knees, pulling his ears and trembling his cheeks7. On the 4th–7th of Tašrītu the same šešgallu takes away the signs of power and enters him into šutukku being temporally deprived off the sun (Ambos, 2009: 240–251). As clearly follows from the texts, ritual actions and representations of spring are characterized by aggression resulting in expansion (which can be expressed in calendar mythology as a victory of king and hero over villain, exorcism, holy matrimony) and temporary humiliation of the king. Accordingly, in autumn one can see the rite of purification of the king and the country, return of the unclean, releasing prisoners, imprisonment of the king in šutukku-house, fasting, sacrifices 7

“When (the king) has arrived [before] Bel, the high priest will go out (of the cella) and lift up the scepter, the loop, the mace [of the king(?)]. He will (also) lift up the Crown of Kingship. He will make them enter [before Bē]1 (and), in front of Bel, he will place them [on] a seat. He will go out and strike the cheek of the king” (Linssen, 2004: 231). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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to ancestors and gods (Emelianov, 1999: 70–71, 98–107). So we can understand it as a semantic opposition of the two rites which preserved their common mythology. The reasons for such behavior underlie in physiological processes. In spring metabolism is accelerated, dramatically stimulated by the increasing amount of light, there is a surge of hormonal activity (e.g., thyroid strenuously produces thyroxine), but the work of internal organs poorly keeps pace with these processes, resulting in an aggressive agitation, leading in some cases to the crisis in mental activity. In autumn all hormonal processes are slowed down, the level of melatonin goes up, which protects the body from stress, as the amount of light decreases, the body begins to prepare for the cold season that makes people apathetic, depressive, causes lack of energy and attention, slows down reactions, facilitates the transition into auto-aggressive state (Ennis/McConville, 2004; Weil/Nelson, 2012). In particular, Ennis and McConville experimentally proved that the “disturbances in mood are the main psychological component of seasonality (...) This paper examines the hypothesis that elevated levels of mood variability, decreased average levels of positive affect and increased average levels of negative affect may be characteristic of the overall mood profile associated with acute seasonal disturbances in mood and behavior” (Ennis/McConville, 2004: 1305). The study made clear that “mood profile co-varied with the severity of seasonal disturbances in mood and behavior. While seasonality was unrelated to average mood levels, it was significantly positively associated with mood variability” (ibid.). Now, what about Dumuzi and two other months, Du’ūzu and Ṭebētu? Are there also periods for letting the birds out? From all the cuneiform sources we know that there were three periods of Dumuzi’s cult (Fritz, 2003: 136–149, 331–341). The most ancient known from Sargonic time is the XIIth month of Umma written as iti-dDumu-zi (Cohen, 1993: 186–188)8. According to Schileico, it is the time of Annunciation of Dumuzi. The second period is the middle of Summer. But here we have a big problem. According to the middle-Babylonian Astrolabe B, in Nippur the month of Dumuzi’s capture is šu-numun “sowing” (Cohen, 1993: 315). But in the Ur III texts, as stated by W. Sallaberger, there is no information about the connection of the IVth month with Dumuzi (Sallaberger, 1993 I: 123–124). M.E. Cohen found Dumuzi-Tammuz in Summer only in the Old Babylonian period, in administrative texts and letters from Mari and then Sippar (Cohen, 1993: 271, 289). We have a very im8

It was the time of festival named u2-saĝ-še3 e3-a “Rising to the Early Grass” which correlates to the cycle of songs for resurrected Dumuzi Edenna usagga (Sallaberger, 1993 I: 234). So it is the spring period before the New Year or soon after it. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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portant fragment from private letter A.1146 written in Mari (Mettinger, 2001: 201): “As for me, look at me. Not yet [?] ... I escaped from death, and from the midst of Ahuna [I escaped] ten times during uprising[s]. Why, now, [am I not] like Dumuzi? They kill him (idakkūšu), at the [time of] counting the year [munût šattim]. [In the spring(?),] he always comes back (it-ta-naa[r]) to the temple of Annunitum [...]” (lines 39–44). Moreover, the festival of Dumuzi lasted there from IV to V month of the local calendar. So, I think that the connotation of Dumuzi’s festival with mid-Summer is not elder than the XVIIIth century B.C. and it may be a result of West Semitic influence. All lamentations for Dumuzi connected to this period of Summer are known to us only from cuneiform tablets of the I mil. B.C. Thus they cannot stay in contradiction to my hypothesis9. In early autumn, we know Dumuzi’s festival in Girsu, mentioned in administrative texts of the Ur III period (Cohen, 1993: 74). But this festival is not well documented. Moreover, there was a festival of Ninazu in Ur held in the VIth month, and it might be some transformation of festivals from Ur to Girsu. So, early autumn is rather marginal time for the cult of Dumuzi. The third period of Dumuzi’s festival, or his birth, according to Schileico, is Ṭebētu. About it we know only two evidence in cuneiform texts. First is mentioning of Dumuzi in OECT XI 69 III 10’ in broken context: dDumu-zi u2-x[…], maybe u2-[ṣi] “entered (from the Nether World)” (Emelianov, 1999: 123). The second is more intricate, it is the Xth tablet of Uruammairrabi, where one can read: 3’ uru-ĝa2 ezen me-na-e itiab-e3 en-na […] i-na a-li-ni i-sin-nu ma-ti a-b[u ] 6’ ezen-dDumu-zi me-na-e it[i …]

9

In Neo-Assyrian and Late Babylonian texts the festival of Tammuz took place from 26 to 29th day of Du’ūzu. According to J.A. Scurlock, “the 26th was associated with Anu and the gruesome things which happened to him. Dumuzi was released from the Nether World on the 27th, accompanied by the family ghosts (…) The 28th was Dumuzi’s day, the day when the sheepfold was circumambulated and also the day of the burnt offering when grain was parched and scattered over Dumuzi by the ‘daughter’ (i.e., Geštinanna) and a figurine of him was soaked in beer (…) This context would also account for the fact that the ‘daughter’ is asked to bless the king and his seed; Geštinanna might indeed be expected to bring blessings with her for the living from Dumuzi and the grateful dead who had been allowed, through her self-sacrifice, to pay a short visit to the upper world. The 29th was the day of the bed when Dumuzi was prepared for his journey home to the Nether World, and consequently also the day of the captivity of Dumuzi which marked the end of the festival” (Scurlock, 1992: 62–64). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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“When will the festival be in our town? In the month of Ṭebētu (Sum.) / Abu (Akkad.). When is the festival of Dumuzi? In the month […]” (Civil, 1983: 49). I think it is a wordplay based not only on phonetics but also on semantic similarity of two months. Sumerian ab (Akkadian aptu) means “window, hole”, and Akkadian ab/pu also means “hole, opening in the ground” (CAD A/2: 197, 201). Both these places were used for memorial offerings and symbolic contacts with the dead10. In the Ur III period Old Sumerian month name ab-e3 “exit from a window” transformed to ab-ba-e3 “exit of the Elders (from the Nether World)” (Emelianov, 1999: 118–128). Akkadian abu became the name for the Vth month when the festival of Gilgamesh with special offerings for Ningishzida was performed. This festival was also called “festival of etemmu’s” (Cohen, 1993: 100–104). And in the next lines we see: 11’ Gilgameš umun-ki-ta […] be-el er-ṣe-ti […] 12’ Umun-mu-zi-da me-er-si i-na li-mit Gir-se-e […] “(With) Gilgamesh, The Lord of the Netherworld, (With) Ningishzida, from the borders of Girsu […].” (Civil, 1983: 49) So, in this tablet, two months of Dumuzi’s period were united. One period is JulyAugust when he was settled to the Nether World with Gilgamesh and Ningishzida. And the second is December-January when Dumuzi could arise from the Nether World together with the elders who annually came from the earth in this time. Nevertheless, the period of mid-Summer in the cult of Dumuzi won the victory over all other periods11. The IVth month of the middle-Babylonian calendar was

10

According to B. Jagersma, “there was no Dumuzi festival in Pre-Sargonic Lagash. Instead, two other festivals were celebrated in two different locations: the festival of LugalUrub (ezem dlugal-urubki) in Urub (cf. DP 212 i 5 – ii 4; RTC 59 ii 5 – iii 6) and the festival of Lugal-Iribar (ezem dlugal-iri-bar) in the town of Lagash (cf. DP 42 vii 2–7). In the year Lugalanda 6, the tenth month was named after the latter festival (RTC 54 xiv 8). For the first we have no direct evidence, but it was celebrated at roughly the same time, as the expenditures for both festivals could be recorded in a single document: VS 27:85 records two days of funerary offerings during the festival of Lugal-Urub (the lines i 1 – iv 6) and four days of such offerings during the festival of Lugal-Iribar (the lines iv 7 – ix 11). There is a further festival that may be related to the later Dumuzi festival: the Ab’e festival (ezem ab-è)” (Jagersma, 2007: 303–304). 11 On the contrary, the Late Babylonian menology quoted very strange rite on the end of Simānu: DIŠ i-na ITI.SIG4 ТА U4.21(?).KАМ2 EN U4.29.KAM2 ša2 dIš8-tar2 IR2 šak-[n]atu4 / [MU DUMU.MUNUS] dA-nim ib-ki tu-um-ru ina TUG2ḫa2].MEŠ-ša2 BAL-u2 © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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called Du’ūzu. We know from Arabic sources that this time was fixed on Dumuzi’s festivals in the calendar of the Harranian Sabeans. “Abū Bakr ibn Waḥshiyya says: This month of Tammūz is, according to the Nabateans as I found it in their books, called by the name of a man about whom there is a long and amazing story. They claim that he was killed time after time in horrible ways. In fact, all their months are called by the names of excellent and learned men of the past, who belonged to those Nabateans who lived in the climatea of Bābil before the Chaldeans. This Tammūz, namely, was neither Chaldean, nor Canaanite, nor Hebrew, nor one of the Jarāmiqa, but one of the ancient ḥasāsin. (…) All Sabians, both Babylonian and Harranian, weep and lament for Tammūz till our days in the month called Tammūz in a feast of theirs which is attributed to Tammūz. They read long litanies, especially the women who, both here and in Harran, weep and lament together for Tammūz and rave long ravings about him. Yet I have noticed that neither of the two groups possesses any true information concerning Tammūz and the reason for their weeping for him. (…) I read in it (= Nabatean books) that Tammūz was a man about whom there is a story and that he was killed in a horrible way only once, and there is no more to his story. They have no knowledge about him except that they say: ‘So we have known our forefathers to weep and lament during this feast ascribed to Tammūzā.’ So I say that this is a memorial feast which they held for Tammūz in the ancient times and which has continued until present although the story about him has been forgotten because of the remoteness of his time. In our times, no one of them knows what his story was and why they actually weep for him.” (Ibn Waḥshiyya, Nabatean Agriculture: 296–297) (Hämeen-Anttila, 2002: 98) “In the middle of the month (Tammuz) there is the Feast of al-Būqāt, that is, of the weeping women. It is the Tā-ūz, a feast celebrated for the god Tāūz (= Tammuz). The women weep for him because his master slew him by grinding his bones under a millstone and winnowing them in the wind. So the women eat nothing ground by a millstone, but rather moistened wheat, chick-peas, dates, raisins, and similar things.”12 (al-Nadīm, Fihrist: 9.1) (Hämeen-Anttila, 2002: 101) [xxxxxx d15 7 GAL5.LA2.ME u2-ni-u2-ma dDUMU.ZI iš-ḫi-iṭ “If from 21st to 29th of Simānu Ishtar sets wailing, (it is) because the daughter of Anum cried and sprinkled ashes to her clothes [xxxxx]x Ishtar chased 7 galla-demons and Dumuzi jumped up” (Gurney, OECT XI: 69+70, I 42’–44’). These lines contradicted to all other references, where Inanna and then Ishtar is a reason of Dumuzi’s capture who ordered demons to catch her spouse. 12 “[On the 28th day (of the fourth month)] Tammuz rises at the request of […] His [de]ath is when they burn the roasted barley, which they were casting on Tammuz, on the stones. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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In his turn, an Arabic writer Abu Zanad supposed the origin of fast in Ramadan from Mandaean and Harranian sects (Gündüz, 1994: 25). On the contrary, according to S.D. Goitein, fast in Ramadan emerged from the ten sacred days of I‘tiqāf (temple incubation) in Ramadan practiced by Ancient Arabs before Islam. Additionally, A.J. Wensinck proposed that Laylat-al-Qadar in 27th of Ramadan connected to the summer solstice, because in pre-Islamic calendar Ramadan correlated to June–July13 and derived from ramiḍa “to burn, to be dry” (Wagtendonk, 1968: 41–46)14. Correspondence of descending of souls to Nether World to summer solstice was known to Porphyry, who wrote in his work “On the Cave of the Nymphs”: “Theologists therefore assert, that these two gates are Cancer and Capricorn; but Plato calls them entrances. And of these, theologists say, that Cancer is the gate through which souls descend; but Capricorn that through which they ascend. Cancer is indeed northern, and adapted to descent; but Capricorn is southern, and adapted to ascent. The northern parts, likewise, pertain to souls descending into generation. And the gates of the cavern which are turned to the north, are rightly said to be pervious to the descent

The burned parts which are produced go up to the upper regions, as it is said. [The image of] your brother which they soak in beer lifts up the body of your brother, as it is said” (Livingstone, 1989: 38. 5’–8’). 13 Al-Biruni has noticed connection of Ashura-fast of Muharram (which is the first month of Arabic calendar) with Hebrew Yom Kippur: “Some people say that Ashura is an Arabized Hebrew word, viz. ‘Ashur, i.e. the 10th of the Jewish month Tishri, in which falls the fasting Kippur; that the date of this fasting was compared with the months of the Arabs, and that it was fixed on the 10th day of their first month, as it with the Jews falls on the 10th of their first month” (al-Biruni, Athar, 330). See also hadith in Sahih al-Bukhari: “Narrated: Ibn Abbas. The Prophet came to Medina and saw the Jews fasting on the day of Ashura. He asked them about that. They replied, ‘This is a good day, the day on which Allah rescued Bani Israel from their enemy. So, Moses (Musa) fasted this day.’ The Prophet said, ‘We have more claim over Moses than you.’ So, the Prophet fasted on that day and ordered (the Muslims) to fast (on that day)” (al-Bukhari web 31: 222). If Muharram is Tishri or Marheshwan (because of possible intercalation in most ancient time), then Ramadan might be ancient Tammuz (that is May–June or June–July). 14 Fast in Ramadan partially correlates to the fast from 17th of Tammuz the to 9th of Ab in Hebrew cultic calendar borrowed from Babylon after exile. It’s very important fact that all four months which according to Zechariah 8:19 were months of mourning and fast for Judaists (IV, V, VII, X) are connected to the Nether World in Sumerian and Babylonian tradition. Zechariah was born in exile and wrote his book under Darius I, thus all four months of fast should be of Babylonian origin. So, the question of God “When you fasted and mourned in the fifth and seventh months these seventy years, was it actually for Me that you fasted?” (7:5) is not without reason. IVth month devoted to Tammuz, Vth to Gilgamesh, VIIth to Shamash and ancestors of Enlil and Xth to the Elders who came from the Nether World (Schroeder, KAV 218). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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of men; but the southern gates are not the avenues of the Gods, but of souls ascending to the Gods.”15 (Porphyry web) Thus, we can conclude that the Summer and Winter periods of Dumuzi’s cult corresponded to mythological images of two gates for souls. And, if W.G. Schileico is right, it means that we can find for these periods two rites of releasing birds which are identical to those of Nisan and Tašrītu. For Ṭebētu I could not find such a rite. But for Du’ūzu it exists from Neo-Assyrian time (Jiménez/Adali, 2015: 163). The ‘Prostration Hemerology’: 13 [ina Du’ūzi] ūmi 3(?) meḫret bīni ša ina kamâti izzazzu ana Enlil liškēn pâ mutalla išakkan naplus ili u šarri immar 14 [ūmi x] šizba l[ā išatti x x Sîn u] Šamaš liškun ḫādīssu libassir rēmu iššakkanšu 15 [ūmi x i]ṣṣ[ūra ṣa]bta(?) ana Šamaš limaššir pû ša izzurūšu ikarrabšu 16 ūmi 20 [terikti(?) bū]li lipaṭṭerūšu kiṣir libbi ilīšu ippaṭṭaršu 13 [In the month of Du’ūzu] on the 3rd(?) day, facing tamarisk that grows in the open country he should prostrate himself to Enlil. Then he will give a lordly speech, he will enjoy the regard of both god and king. 14 [On the …th day] he should not [drink] milk. He should put [… to Sîn and] Šamaš. He should give (good news) to a female ill-wisher of his. Then mercy will be conceded to him16.

15 According to W. Burkert and F.E. Brenk, the idea of two gates (for the entry and departure of souls) probably came to Ancient tradition before Herakleides Ponticus (IV B.C.) and influenced on Vergil’s epic: “Souls ‘rising’ to earth take the exit of bodies, the Cancer gate; those descending to hypogeion take the entrance (Capricorn). Since Aeneas and the Sibyl are ‘bodily’ and are returning to earth, in this scheme they should not take the Capricornus gate but the Cancer gate” (Brenk, 1999: 106). But see also Odyssey 13. 109–112: “Two doors there are to the cave, one toward the North Wind, by which men go down, but that toward the South Wind is sacred, nor do men enter thereby; it is the way of the immortals.” I think that it is possible Near Eastern (esp. Babylonian) influence on this model of two gates, because in ancient Mesopotamian tradition the South Wind is the wind of winter time corresponded to “season of Ea” and the event of the Flood (cf. Ṭebētu “submergence” and Šabāṭu “sweeping” as the names for Xth (December–January) and XIth (January–February) months of the Standard Babylonian calendar; see also the South Wind as “favorite of Ea” (CAD Š 3: 410)). I am grateful for advice on classical philology to K. Liakou (Institute of Balkan Studies, Thessaloniki). 16 E. Jiménez correctly correlated line 14’ with Ludlul bēl nēmeqi 117–118 (Lambert, 1960: 46), “where the ill-wishers of the sufferer gloat over his misery: išmē-ma ḫādû’a immerū pānūšu / ḫādītī ubassirū kabattašu ipperdû “He who gloats over me heard it and his face lit up, they brought the news to she who gloats over me and her mind was cheerful” (Jiménez/Adali, 2015: 180).

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15 [On the …th day,] he should release a capt[ive bird] to Šamaš. Then the mouth that cursed him will bless him. 16 On the 20th day they should release for him [the fence of the catt]le. Then the anger of his personal god will be released for him.” Another recently published example of medical prescriptions for Du’ūzu is also Neo-Assyrian STT 300 from Huzirina. 12 DIŠ ina ITI.ŠU UD.10.KAM U[D.D]A.KÁM KI.ÁG NITA ana NITA UD.21.KÁM UD.D[A.K]ÁM [MUN]US.[GIN].NA UD.12. [KÁM LÍL].LÁ.EN.NA 13 KI.SIKIL.LÍL.LA.EN.NA ZIḫi UD.21.KÁM ˹UD.DA!.KÁM˺ K[I. Á]G NITA ana MUNUS ana ˹BÚRri˺ DÍM[ma AL].SILIM 12 “If in the month Du’ūzu on the 10th day at the usual time, you perform (the spells) for ‘a man to love a man’, on the 21st day (the spells) for ‘having a woman come’, on the 12th day (the spells) for getting rid of the Lilû (and) 13 Lilith demons, (or) on the 21st day at the usual time (you perform) the counterspells for ‘making a man love a woman’, it will pay off.” (Geller, 2014: 48). In Late Babylonian horoscope of death SpTU II 43 Rev. 4 the reason of death for man born in Du’ūzu is a-a-bu “enemy”. According to astrologers, it is a dangerous month. Finally, we can refer to prescriptions for Du’ūzu as an unpropitious month in Iqqur-ipuš (Labat, 1965). Only destructive actions (such as opening the foundations, diminishing or demolition of the house) or returning to his old home could bring positive results to a person. In contrast, all kinds of positive action are fraught with troubles for him: 16, 4 DIŠ ina ŠU ana É-šú TUub LÚ.NE ina É NA sad-rat “If in the month of Du’ūzu a man enters to his house – a feud in the house of the man will be continuous”. 33, 4 DIŠ ina ŠU lu suk-ki lu KUN.SAG.GÁ lu [ma-ḫaz DINGIR DÙuš] lu É.DINGIR GIBILiš INIM ina IGI-šu i-par-rik “If people in the month of Du’ūzu build home, shrine or plinth, or build a dwelling of god or God’s temple will erect, the word (= the obstacle) is in front of him (= opposed to him).” 38, 4 DIŠ ina ŠU LUGAL GARZA TIqe U4.MEŠ LUGÚD.DA.MEŠ “If in the month of Du’ūzu the king will perform a ritual, his days will be short.” 59, 4 DIŠ ina ŠU UD.29.KÁM K[Á NU È] DAM NA ÚS “On the 29th day of the month of Du’ūzu (a man) may not exit from gates, (otherwise) his wife will die.” © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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67, 4 DIŠ ina ŠU LUGAL ina É.GAL-šú ú-ta-sar “In the month of Du’ūzu the king in his palace locked.” O I 2’ UŠ₈ É BAD-ma SIG₄ ŠUB[di] “If he opens the foundations of a house and lays a brick, 3’ ina itiŠU É BI DINGIR TUKUši In (the month) Du’ūzu (IV), that man will have a god”. 8’ É DÙuš šá gišIG i-zaq-qa-pu “If he builds a house” (refers to the man) who erects a door, 10’ ina itiŠU É BI SUMUNbar In (the month) Du’ūzu (IV), that house will grow old”. 16’ É iq-qur šá SUMUN KÚR-ma GIBIL DÙšú “If he tears down a house” (refers to the man) who removes an old (house) and builds a new one, 18’ ina itiŠU DU₈ ḪUL In (the month) Du’ūzu (IV), evil will be dissolved”. 22’ É iṣ-ṣi šá si*-i-ri i-ḫal-la-šú “If he diminishes a house” (refers to the man) who scrapes off the wall-plaster, 25’ ina itiŠU lìb-bi DÙG.GA In (the month) Du’ūzu (IV), (there will be) gladdening of the heart” O II 18’ ana É-šú GUR šá la GISKIM È u ana É-šú GURru “If a person returns to his house” (refers to the man) who left before (he was given) notice and returned to his house, 22’ ina itiŠU lìb-bi DÙG.GA DINGIR u dLAMMA TUKUši In (the month) Du’ūzu (IV), (there will be) gladdening of the heart, the man will have (his) god and protective spirit (with him)” (CCP web: 3.8.1.B) From these prescriptions we can conclude that the main psychological conflict of this time was the conflict between masculine and feminine as positive and negative in the nature of the world and man. The conflict is pushing a man to love a person of his gender because his female ill-wisher exists now in the world. That is the reason why feminine mourners are weeping over a male deity. The habitable world in that time faces lack of masculine in all spheres of cultural activity and human behavior. In this regard releasing birds in Du’ūzu was aimed to return the of mercy of gods who cursed masculine to escape from female malevolence to the “Nether World” of his mysterious homosexual intentions. Natural conditions of the Middle East during periods of drought without any rain were harsh. It was the time of very hot temperature when nobody could go out for a long time. This creates a natural austerity, when people do not feel like eating or working actively in the daytime, and all the activities are shifted to the evening and night.

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The problem for both of human organism and earth in mid-Summer is dehydration. I propose that initially Dumuzi was some kind of moisture, maybe semen for beast or water for soil. In mid-winter he annually comes from night together with solstice as new water. In early spring he gives his semen to early grass in steppe. His entry into the Nether World is the metaphor of dry season. What is women’s wailing over Dumuzi? It a is lamentation for semen and male force of impregnation. We know from the final part of “Ishtar’s Descent” that after the descent of Ishtar to the Nether World all sexual intercourses were interrupted, and it needed to bring Tammuz out of the tomb: “After the lady Ishtar had gone down into the land of no return, The bull did not mount the cow, the ass approached not the she-ass, To the maid in the street, no man drew near The man slept in his apartment, The maid slept by herself” (Burger, 2015: 4) The symbol of resistance to drought in Mesopotamia was tamarisk. That’s why in “The Prostration Hemerology” cited above a man in Du’ūzu should face this plant. Tamarisk is a symbol of life in absence of water and semen17. Such a period of lack is also the time to reflect about spring and its joys. And lamentations for Dumuzi consisted of many formula and emotions of such reflection. Now let’s return to the psychology of time. Xenia Gonda in her group work “Association between affective temperaments and season of birth in a general student population” came to the conclusion that people born in summer are characterized by cyclothymic temperament, i.e. “rapid, frequent swings between sad and cheerful moods” (Rihmer et al., 2011: 64–70). In rituals of Dumuzi we also know many examples of such swings: capture of Dumuzi, crying of Duttur or Ninlurugu, wailing of women, joy of people after resurrection of Dumuzi. Such cyclothymic behavior was collective in this season, and rituals were meant to reflect and mitigate it. Thus, from the above facts, we can draw some conclusions regarding the application of chronopsychology to the study of ancient calendars of the Near East: 1. Calendar rites of spring and autumn in ancient times helped to adapt to the changing seasonal rhythms, they created a ritual framework for the expression of destructive emotions in socially acceptable ways, and thus prevented the extreme manifestations in the activities of mind.

17

See also: “Shepherd, lord Tammuz, spouse of Ištar, lord of the netherworld, lord of the sheep-fold. A tamarisk that in the garden has drunk no water, whose crown has not grown foliage out in the steppe. An ildakku-poplar which did not rejoice in its caisson, which was torn out by the roots. A herb that in the garden had drunk no water” (Rawlinson, IVR: 27.1). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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2. The psychophysiological basis of the calendar semantics contributed significantly to the political ideology of the ancient state and motivation of the rulers. Returning to W.G. Schileico’s article, it means that releasing birds in Nisan, Du’ūzu, Tašrītu and probably in Ṭebētu signifies psychophysiological process of adaptation to four separate stages of calendar year connected to equinoxes and solstices. This rite is absolutely necessary because cleansing men from sins and criminal deeds of the previous period is the first requirement for resurrection of mankind in the next season. Therefore, every human being of Ancient Near East is Tammuz who died in the past time and should be resurrected in the future within one calendar cycle. Christian rite of releasing birds during Annunciation continues this ancient tradition. Also Muslim fast in Ramadan became some kind of modification of this rite. Mentioning hajj, it annually takes place in Zu-l-hijja. This month in pre-Islamic calendar is September–October and corresponds to Babylonian Elūlu or Tašrītu with its main idea of self-cleansing and judgment of Sun and Saturn (Emelianov, 1999: 98–107). And Tašrītu also was the month of releasing birds in Babylonia. But that is quite a different story. Bibliography Ambos, C., 2009: Der König im Gefängnis und das Neujahrsfest im Herbst. Mechanismen der Legitimation des babylonischen Herrschers im 1. Jahrtausend v. Chr. und ihre Geschichte. Bd. II: Textbearbeitungen. Heidelberg. Al-Bukhari web: http://ahadith.co.uk/searchresults.php?page=2&q=ashura+muh arram &rows=10. Al-Biruni, A.-R., 1879: The Chronology of Ancient Nations. London: W.H. Allen and Co. Brenk, F.E., 1999: Clothed in Purple Light. Studies in Vergil and in Latin Literature, Including Aspects of Philosophy, Religion, Magic, Judaism, and the New Testament Background. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Burger, M., 2015: Sources for the History of Western Civilization. Vol. I. Toronto: Toronto University Press. CAD: The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Chicago, 1956ff. Civil, M., 1983: “The 10th Tablet of Uruammairrabi”. Aula Orientalis 1, 45–54. Cohen, M.E., 1993: The Cultic Calendars of the Ancient Near East. Bethesda, MD: CDL Press. CCP web: Cuneiform Commentaries Project: http://ccp.yale.edu. Emelianov, V.V., 1999: Nippurskij kalendar’ i rannyaya istoriya Zodiaka. St-Petersburg; Peterburgskoje vostokovedenije (in Russian with English Summary). Ennis, E. / McConville, C., 2004: “Stable Characteristics of Mood and Seasonality”. Personality and Individual Differences 36/6, 1305–1315. Finkelstein, J.J. / Gurney, O.R., 1957: The Sultantepe Tablets. 2 vols. London: The British Institute of Archaeology in Ankara. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Fraisse, P., 1994: Rhythm. Encyclopaedia of Psychology. N.Y.: Wiley. Fritz, M.M., 2003: “… und weinten um Tammuz”. Die Götter Dumuzi-Amaušumgalana und Damu. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Geller, M.J., 2014: Melothesia in Babylonia. Medicine, Magic, and Astrology in the Ancient Near East. Science, Technology and Medicine in Ancient Cultures 2. Boston/Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Gurney, O.R., 1989: Literary and Miscellaneous Texts in the Ashmolean Museum. Oxford Editions of Cuneiform Texts XI. Oxford. Gündüz, S., 1994: The Knowledge of Life. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hämeen-Anttila, J., 2002: “Continuity of Pagan Religious Traditions in TenthCentury Iraq”. In A. Panaino / G. Pettinato (eds.): Ideologies as Intercultural Phenomena. Melammu Symposia 3. Milan: Universita di Bologna & IsIAO 2002. Pp. 89–108. Jagersma, B., 2007: “The Calendar of the Funerary Cult in Ancient Lagash”. Bibliotheca Orientalis LXIV 3/4, 290–308. Jiménez, H. / Adali, S., 2015: “The ‘Prostration Hemerology’ Revisited: An Everyman’s Manual at the King’s Court”. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 105, 154– 191. Labat, R., 1965: Un calendrier babylonien des travaux: des signes et de mois. Paris: Librairie Honoré Champion. Linssen, M.J.H., 2004: The Cults of Uruk and Babylon. The Temple Ritual Texts as Evidence for Hellenistic Cult Practises. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Livingstone, A., 1989: Court Poetry and Literary Miscellanea. State Archives of Assyria 3. Helsinki. — 1997: “How the Common Man Influences the Gods of Sumer”. In I.L. Finkel / M.J. Geller (eds.): Sumerian Gods and Their Representations. Groningen. Styx. Pp. 215–220. — 2000: “On the Organized Release of Doves to Secure Compliance of Higher Authority” In A.R. George / I.L. Finkel (eds.): Wisdom, Gods, and Literature: Studies on Assyriology in Honor of W.G. Lambert. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Pp. 375–387. Mettinger, T.N.D., 2001: The Riddle of Resurrection. “Dying and Rising Gods in the Ancient Near East”. Stockholm. Porphyry web: http://www.tertullian.org/fathers/porphyry_cave_of_nymphs_02 _translation.htm. Rawlinson, H.C., 1875: The Cuneiform Inscriptions of Western Asia. Vol. IV: A Selection from the Miscellaneous Inscriptions of Assyria. London. Reisner, G.A., 1896: Sumerisch-babylonische Hymnen nach Thontafeln Griechischer Zeit. Berlin: W. Spemann. Rihmer, Z. / Erdos, P. / Ormos, M. / Fountoulakis, K.N. / Vasquez, G. / Pompili, M. / Gonda, X, 2011: “Association between affective temperaments and sea-

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son of birth in a general student population”. Journal of Affective Disorders 2, 64–70. Roeckelein, J.E., 2008: “History of Conceptions and Accounts of Time and Early Time Perception Research” In S. Grondin (ed.): Psychology of Time. Bingley: Howard House, Wagon Line. Pp. 1–50. Sallaberger, W., 1993: Der kultische Kalender der Ur III-Zeit. Bd. I. Berlin; N.Y. Schileico, W.G., 1922: “Rodnaya starina”. Vostok. Vol. I. Petrograd. Pp. 80–81 (in Russian). Schramm, W., 2008: Ein Compendium sumerisch-akkadischer Beschwörungen. Göttingen. Schroeder, O., 1920: Keilschrifttexte aus Assur Verschiedenen Inhalts. Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs’s Buchhandlung. Scurlock, J.A., 1992: “K. 164 (BA 2, P. 635): New Light on the Mourning Rites for Dumuzi?” Revue d’Assyriologie 86, 53–67. Stern, S., 2012: Calendars in Antiquity: Empires, States, and Societies. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Vinogradova, L.N., 1999: “Material’nyje i bestelesnyje formy suschchestvovanija dushi”. In E.E. Levkiyevskaya (ed.): Slavjanskiye etyudy. Moscow: Indrik. Pp. 141–160 (in Russian). von Weiher, E., 1983: Spätbabylonische Texte aus Uruk. Bd. II. Berlin: Mann. Wagtendonk, K., 1968: Fasting in the Koran. Leiden: Brill. Weil, Z.M. / Nelson, R.J., 2012: “Seasonal Rhythms in Psychoneuroimmunology” Oxford Handbook of Psychoneuroimmunology. New York. Pp. 291–305. http://www.oxfordhandbooks.com/view/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780195394399. 001.0001/oxfordhb-9780195394399-e-16>.

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Routes and Travellers between East and West Cultural Exchange in the Ancient World 3rd Workshop of the Melammu Project, University of Barcelona, 22–23 March 2017 Edited by Rocío Da Riva and Sebastian Fink

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Introduction Rocío Da Riva / Sebastian Fink

King and Queen of Cantelon, How many miles to Babylon? Eight and eight, and other eight. Will I get there by candle-light? If your horse be good and your spurs be bright. How mony men have ye? Mae nor ye daur come and see1

The third Workshop of the Melammu Project, dedicated to “Routes and Travellers between East and West: cultural exchange in the Ancient World”, was organized by Rocío Da Riva (University of Barcelona) and Sebastian Fink (University of Kassel / Helsinki) and sponsored by the Faculty of Geography and History, the Vice-Rectorate for Research, Innovation and Transfer and the Water Research Institute at the University of Barcelona; the Catalan Institution for Research and Advanced Studies (ICREA); and the Österreichisches Kulturforum Madrid of the BMeiA (Bundesministerium für europäische und internationale Angelegenheiten). The Melammu Project is dedicated to study the continuity, transformation and expansion of Mesopotamian culture by means of comparative analyses of the documentary and iconographic materials and the identification of parallels and mutual influences, in particular with the Classical world. In order to study how these parallels came into being, we decided to focus on the individuals who transmitted this knowledge. Land and sea-routes linking the East with the West were conduits for people and goods and fostered the spread of ideas, technologies and cultural exchange in both directions. A study of the itineraries, the conditions of travel and the modes of operation is crucial to an understanding of the ways of cultural exchange. In ancient times travel was arduous. An old Sumerian proverb reads as follows: “The good thing is the beer. The bad thing is the journey” nam-sag9-ga kašam3 nam-ḫul kaskal-am3 Sp 2.123 (Alster, 1997, 69; ETCSL c.6.1.02: 202). In the ancient world, as today, roads and other routes (by water, by land, through mountains and deserts) were crucial for connection and interchange be1

I. Opie / P. Opie (1997), The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes, Oxford, Oxfordshire: Oxford, Second Edition, pp. 73–75. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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tween peoples and for political and military control. Incidentally, the oldest known (written) word to designate road, or route, is probably the Sumerian sign KASKAL (ḫarrānu/gerru in Akkadian) represented by two sets of parallel lines crossing each other. So a road was not represented as a line (either straight or winding) but as a cross-roads, a network of communications. These arteries transported people (merchants, armies, pilgrims, ambassadors, artisans, scribes, fugitives, bandits and outlaws, princesses about to marry distant kings), ideas, divinities, and goods, and served to structure the interaction between areas, regions and cultures. New inventions and technologies, new religious beliefs, artistic styles, languages, and social customs, as well as goods and raw materials were transmitted by people moving from one place to another, either to conduct business, to carry out a diplomatic mission, as part of an invading army, or as religious pilgrims. Communication routes were so important that they were frequently the object of careful institutional sponsorship: among the examples are the king’s highways in Assyria in the first millennium BCE with their road stations, where messengers could get fresh teams of riding animals, find shelter for the night and were provisioned with food.2 Moving people, animals and goods (for military or commercial purposes) required efficient organization and the huge profits of trade as well as the dependency of Mesopotamia of foreign imports lead to frequent attempts to enhance state control over the main routes.3 It seems that many wars were conducted in the Ancient Near East (and elsewhere) in order to keep the trade routes open. Water routes were central for ancient communications, as transport on water was much faster and more efficient and in this regard, the Mediterranean, the Red Sea and the Gulf were as important for ANE history as the river and canal network crisscrossing the alluvial plane in southern Iraq. Ancient documentation is full of information about travelling and travellers. Especially literary texts and royal inscriptions describe the dangers and hardships that heroic travellers faced and how they mastered obstacles like mountains, rivers or deserts.4 Other texts, like letters or administrative documents provide us with a more adequate picture of the movements and the connections of the time. Travel and movement also contributed to shape the world-views of ancient people. The idea of the world of an Ancient Mesopotamian (and of a resident of the Classical world, for that matter) was probably very limited, as very few people 2

Obviously such systems fostering travelling and trade by different means existed already from very early times onwards. For a discussion see the contributions of Selz, Milano, Pomponio, Michel and Corò in Milano, 2014. 3 See Garfinkle, 2014 for a discussion of the situation in Ur III, where he concludes that the wish to protect the main trade routes lead to continuous warfare since the second half of Šulgi’s reign. 4 Ponchia, 2004 and Ponchia, 2006 provide a detailed discussion of the traversing of mountains in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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travelled beyond their region or even their village during their lifetimes. Knowledge of geography was imperfect, but there was an interest in knowing the shape and limits of the world. The famous mapamundi of Sippar represents the nec plus ultra of geographical knowledge. It is the first international map we know of (it represents the totality of the known world for a Babylonian resident of the 8–7 century BCE) and the representation of distant (peripheral) regions and their political and geographical connections with Babylonia. Water surrounds the earth: in fact, in ancient Mesopotamia, the sea was the physical and psychological limit of the world. So the image corresponds to the geographical description we encounter in contemporary documents. As Carlo Zaccagnini observed,5 here as in the later Medieval orbis terrarum T and O maps, like the one from the Etymologiae of Isidore of Seville, the physical space in the world is divided into two semispherical sections: the rivers and the oceans structure the space and function as points of reference. A study of routes, itineraries and travel in Antiquity should address questions related to landforms and geophysical variations in the landscape through which the routes passed, for they determined settlement activity and the positioning of the communication networks. We should also consider factors such as the availability of natural resources (especially water in arid environments) and other ecological features that may have affected traffic and settlements along the routes. Of course, actual sites along the routes are as important as the itineraries, and the economic, social and political organization of the regions crisscrossed by the roads determined the patterns of travel within these networks. A good example of the impact of movement is the phenomenon of long-distance trade, which played a major role in the cultural, religious, and artistic exchanges between Europe and the Near East. However, we should consider the impact of these exchanges not just on the purported “poles” of the network, but also, and more importantly, on the areas that connected these poles, the regions through which the routes passed, in order to be able to address questions of agency along the routes and of identity and interplay between populations. Cities and regions along the trade routes grew rich by providing services to merchants, acting as international marketplaces and policing the trade routes along their territories. They also became cultural and artistic centres where peoples of different ethnic and cultural backgrounds could meet and intermingle. A comprehensive analysis of this phenomenon should address questions such as how the ancient road systems and communication routes affected the lifestyles of the many small groups exploiting the regions along the way, and should investigate the relative importance of political and economic factors in the shaping of cultural landscapes. Finally, we could also approach ancient travel from a new perspective: a reflective, critical revision of old paradigms to explore and re-assess the interaction

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between Europe and the Near East in the definition, construction and use of past local identities, and the use of this past in our current representation of these regions. Old Eurocentric, nostalgic and anachronistic notions such as the “incense road” or the “silk road/s”, embedded in nineteenth-century orientalism, must be reconsidered. These grand narratives should be replaced by a new approach in which all the regions involved (particularly the ones that have been neglected) can be studied in their own contexts, and not treated as mere transit stations connecting that anachronistic “Europe” with exotic and remote regions. The programme of the workshop was designed in order to approach the topic from different perspectives. The first section (I. Routes between East and West) was chaired by Paola Corò and attempted at analysing the nature of the routes between East and West. Some of the papers focused on the role played by the sea (the Mediterranean but also the Red Sea) in the cultural exchange, while others dealt with the articulation of the land-routes, the kind of travellers that used them and the nature of the communication, be it a commercial venture or a military campaign. The second section (II. From West to East, chaired by Rocío Da Riva) dealt with the movement from West to East, and it was divided in two parts. In the first part the focus was put on the cuneiform sources available to study the reality of Western travellers in the Near East. And the second part analysed the view from the Classical sources, and traced the presence and impact of “Western” historians, philosophers and armies in the East. The third section of the workshop (III. From East to West, chaired by Mattia Chiriatti) was dedicated to review the tricky issue of the presence of Mesopotamian (or Oriental) people in the West using the Cuneiform and Classical sources at our disposal. As usual in the Melammu meetings, the last section was dedicated to a common final discussion and debate. Bibliography Alster, B., 1997: Proverbs of Ancient Sumer – The World’s Earliest Proverb Collection I–II. Bethesda, MD. Garfinkle, St.J., 2014: “The Economy of Warfare in Southern Iraq at the End of the Third Millennium BC”. In H. Neumann / R. Dittmann / S. Paulus / G. Neumann / A. Schuster-Brandis (eds.): Krieg und Frieden im Alten Vorderasien. 52e Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale. AOAT 401. Münster. Pp. 353–362. Milano, L., (ed.), 2014: Paloenutrition and Food Practices in the Ancient Near East. History of the Ancient Near East Monographs 14. Padova. Ponchia, S., 2004: “Mountain routes in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions (part I)”. Kaskal 1, 139–178. — 2006: “Mountain routes in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions (part II)”. State Archives of Assyria Bulletin 15, 193–271.

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Zaccagnini, C., 2012: “Maps of the World”. In G.B. Lanfranchi et al. (eds.): Leggo! Studies Presented to Frederick Mario Fales on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday. Wiesbaden. Pp. 865–873.

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Greek as Travellers in Near Eastern Sources Paola Corò

The present article aims at addressing the issue of Greek travellers in the Near East during the first millennium BC.1 The topic is multi-faceted and the task to address challenging. Approaching it entails taking into account different problems. First is the idea of traveller and mobility, and second is that of identifying Greeks in Near Eastern sources, which involves on the one hand finding a consensus on the idea of ‘Greekness’, and additionally verifying if and how Greeks are represented in the sources.2 Third comes the combination of the two: indeed, the next step is to verify the possibility of drawing a profile of Greek travellers, examining the available evidence, if any, on the routes they followed, how they moved, and why they travelled, in order to evaluate the characteristics and implications of their mobility. Given the size of the topic addressed, for the purpose of the present article I shall limit myself to exploring the last key issue, namely drawing a profile of Greeks as travellers in Near Eastern sources. After defining the ideas of mobility and travelling, I will thus explore the sources with the aim of identifying the specificities and characteristics of the mobility of the Greeks that are recorded in them. In doing so, I will however not reexamine the idea, the identity and the occurrences of the Greeks in Near Eastern sources (for which the reader is referred to the results of the many studies on the topic that have been published in the last decades). Rather, I shall use the term in its broader sense, to include people originating ‘from the far-removed Aegean region, where Greek-speaking elements are likely to have constituted an essential component’,3 as well as those individuals, mainly of Macedonian origin, who appear in the sources after Alexander’s conquest of Babylonia. These latter are usually excluded from ordinary analyses since, as has been suggested, either ‘they are no longer classified as foreigners at this time’ or they are not considered Greek strictu sensu.4 Thus, for the period between the eighth century BC to Alexander’s conquest, I will rely on the (few) sources 1

I wish to thank here the organisers of the workshop, Rocío Da Riva and Sebastian Fink, for their kind hospitality in Barcelona. I am especially grateful to Rocío Da Riva and Michael Jursa for commenting on this paper, offering useful suggestions and comments and to Heather D. Baker who undertook the task of correcting my English. 2 For the debate on the topic see, e.g., Rollinger, 2001 and Monerie, 2012 and 2014, with earlier bibliography. 3 Rollinger, 2009: 33, following Boiy, 2004 and Joannès, 1997. 4 On the problem of the debated Greek origin of the Macedonians, see e.g. Horrocks, 2010: 79. On the origins of Alexander and the Seleucids as they are recognised in the Babylonian sources see also Del Monte, 2001. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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that scholarship recognises as the first examples of the occurrence of Greeks in cuneiform, reexamining them with mobility as a focus. 5 I will then move on to the ideas of mobility and travelling as applied to the individuals of ‘Greek’ origin, who appear in the sources after Alexander’s conquest of Babylonia, focussing in particular on the mobility of the reigning king and his entourage, and of the group identified in the sources as ‘the citizens’ (puliṭē/puliṭānu, Gr. πολῖται), despite its rare occurrence. Individuals bearing Greek names are frequently attested in the sources, especially from Uruk; however, these sources will not be taken into consideration here, both because they mainly do not provide information on their movements, and because bearing a Greek name is not per se an indication that these individuals were in fact Greek.6 1. Mobility and the idea of travelling According to modern dictionaries a traveller is ‘a person who is travelling or who often travels’. A look at the synonyms helps to get a better idea of the semantic range of the noun: travellers are in fact ‘tourists, trippers, tourers, journeyers, voyagers, excursionists, holidaymakers, sightseers, visitors, globetrotters, jet-setters’.7 Still the definition remains unsatisfactory and requires that we look at it from a different perspective. If a traveller is in fact one ‘who travels’, the question arises what travelling means. The definition offered for the verb is in this respect somewhat more conclusive, as travelling is described as ‘(to make a) journey, usually of some length’. 8 Travelling thus implies two different dimensions, one concerned with space, i.e. mobility, and one with time, i.e. the duration. The idea of travelling is in general conveyed in the sources by the verb alāku ‘to go’, whose extensive semantic domain refers to the movement of persons and animals, including the movements of messengers, those of the king, and of the gods’ images. The means of transport (including e.g. ships) may vary, while the direction or purpose of the travel are in general specified using the verb in idiomatic expressions (with the accusative object or with a preposition), conveying specific meanings such as ‘to make a business trip’ or ‘a military campaign’, ‘to take flight’, ‘to march in front/stay beside/alongside’, ‘to lead the way’ etc.9 Also the idea of ‘traveller’ (ālik harrāni, ālikanu; allāku) is linked to the verb alāku. Different nuances focussing on a specific direction or characteristic of the mobility are conveyed by the antonym pair of verbs aṣû ‘to go out/down’ and elû ‘to go up’, which are also recorded in the sources in connection to the idea of travel5

For a synthesis see Rollinger, 2009 with earlier bibliography. See most recently Monerie, 2014: esp. 72–107 and the contribution by Van der Spek, 2009. 7 The English Oxford Living Dictionaries online, s.v. traveller (https://en.oxforddictio naries.com, last accessed 21.10.2017). 8 Ibid., s.v. ‘to travel’ (https://en.oxforddictionaries.com, last accessed 21.10.2017). 9 CAD A1, s.v. alāku. 6

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ling.10 The negative characterisation of mobility in Near Eastern imagery, as reflected by the Sumerian proverb ‘beer is a good thing, travelling is a bad thing’, underlines, as Streck pointed out, the dangers and difficulties of travelling in the Ancient Near East, mainly due to the absence of infrastructure and the risks connected with attacks by robbers and nomads. Although sometimes conceived as an ‘unpleasant necessity’, journeys were frequently undertaken by the Mesopotamians for many different practical reasons, including, among others, the need to acquire raw materials and goods, diplomacy, business ventures.11 The information on roads and mobility is especially rich in the first millennium BC, when the achievements of the Assyrians, Babylonians and Persians ruling over Mesopotamia in developing the extensive network of roads12 essential to imperial expansion are largely celebrated in the inscriptions and the king’s ability to make communication and rapid movements of troops between the capitals and the distant provinces more effective becomes a leitmotiv of the royal propaganda.13 At the same time, sources abound of information on the travels pursued by officials and troops at the king’s order,14 as well as on the joint ventures of businessmen and merchants, travelling either on their own initiative or as temple or private agents.15 Also relevant are the descriptions of the journeys of the gods,16 detailing the travel’s length in connection with the itinerary followed, its speed and the means of transportation used, as well as the food provisions supplied for them.17 Indeed,

10 CAD E, s.v. elû, ‘to go up’ also with the idea of ‘embarking, to put on a boat, to load on boats, to haul up (and drag a boat overland)’, and CAD A2, s.v. aṣû, ‘to leave, depart, go out’, (also with the idea of ‘to attack’), usually referring to the gods leaving the sanctuary on a procession. 11 As Streck (2006: 128) underlines, the difficulties of the journeys were exacerbated by the rarity of paved streets, usually confined within the cities or in their vicinities, while for the rest only old tracks, always in poor condition, were available; and also by the need to cross the rivers, and especially the raging mountain streams, for which special infrastructure like wooden bridges had to be built. 12 Streck, 2006: 128. 13 On the roads in the Neo-Assyrian period see Parpola, 1987: xiii–xiv; Kessler, 1980 and 1997; Fales, 1990: 98–99; on the Babylonian roads Jursa, 1995; on the network of roads in the Persian empire Briant, 2002: 357–364. 14 Favaro, 2007: 5–49. 15 The routes of inner-Babylonian communication and the exchange of goods are examined in Jursa, 2010: 62–150, where the role of the capital as the seat of government and as a religious centre, attracting people and goods from outside, that made it the hub of an interregional network of intensive exchange, is amply documented. 16 Pongratz-Leisten, 1994; Linssen, 2004: 78–86 and 217–237. 17 On the itineraries and their significance in the Ancient Near East, see RlA 5, s.v. Itinerare (Edzard, 1977: 216–220); recently Fales, 2006: 105–108; on the means of transport:

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the movement of people (kings, troops, craftsmen, diplomats and messengers etc.), and gods was a typical feature of the Near Eastern society.18 2. Greek travellers or Greeks travelling in the sources from the Neo-Assyrian to the Achaemenid period Sources dated to the Neo-Assyrian period do not offer many details for reconstructing the profile of Greek travellers in the east. As has been often underlined, the documents of this period referring to the Greeks focus more on the Assyrian king and the role he plays against his enemies (i.e. the Greeks), than on the characterisation of the enemies proper. Greeks (here translating ‘Yamnāya’) are, however, represented as ‘westerners from afar, acting as marauders and pirates’ who, as Rollinger points out, seem ‘to have been fairly mobile’.19 In fact, in the wellknown letter of Qurdi-Aššur-lāmur, 20 if the description of the activity of the Greeks is restricted to their ‘giving battle’ (probably against two cities on the Phoenician coast), their mobility is, conversely, characterised by three elements: a pair of verbal antonyms ‘to appear’ (alāku, here with the ventive suffix conveying the idea of motion towards the speaker, lit. ‘to come’) vs. ‘to disappear’ (halāqu) and the action of fleeing (elû; but note that only the first verbal form is preserved, the last two being restored): ‘The Greeks (lit. ‘Ionians’) came (i-talku-ni) (…); (…) when they saw my troops they embarked (e-te-li-ú) their boats and fled (ih-tal-qu) into the midst of the Sea (…)’ (SAA 19 25: obv. 3 and 10– 13).21 The ‘Greeks’ move by boat in the midst of that Sea that is considered their place of origin. There is no interest in further specifying the identity of these individuals, 22 nor in the itinerary they followed, expect for underlining that as Fales, 1995; Streck, 2006: 127–129, with relevant bibliography; also, for the Neo-Assyrian period, Favaro, 2007: 73–91 (with bibliography). On pilgrimages and festivals in Greece and Anatolia see e.g. Rutherford, 2004, 2013 and 2016. On the ‘food dimension’ of the journeys of the gods see the contributions by Selz, Milano, Pomponio, Michel and Corò in Milano (ed.), 2004. On travel provisions in a ‘secular’ context, Janković, 2008. 18 See Fales, 2006: 107 and Favaro, 2007: esp. 1–6 and 93–98. 19 See for example Rollinger, 2009: 33–34. On the limited role of Greek piracy see, however, Lanfranchi, 2000. 20 SAA 19 25, with fn. 25 for full bibliography. For the significance of this source in the context of the ‘dialogue’ between Greece and Mesopotamia, see recently Haubold, 2013: 100–102. Despite the anomalous spelling of his name (which appears here as Qurdi-ililāmur), the sender of the letter is likely to be identified with Qurdi-Aššūr-lāmur, the governor of Ṣimirra (see Luukko, 2012: 32, commentary to SAA 19 25, obv. 2, with previous bibliography). For the prosopography and career of Qurdi-Aššūr-lāmur see G. Van Buylaere in PNA 3/1: 1021–1022 and Yamada, 2008. 21 For this letter see also Rollinger, 2001: 237, fn. 20. 22 According to Rollinger, 2001: 238–239, Qurdi-Aššūr-lāmur may have met these plunderers previously, having had bad experiences with them, so that the ethnonym identified © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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quickly as they show up, they ‘vanish’ at the sight of the Assyrians. The ‘maritime’ nature of these people, also connoting their mobility, emerges again, later on, from Sargon II’s inscriptions, which are usually considered in the literature as the next occurrence of the Greeks in the eastern sources. But apart from the metaphor equating Greeks with fish captured in the sea by the Assyrian king,23 they play a purely passive role in these texts, only featuring as the object of the king’s conquest. Sargon’s claim that he had to travel ‘in the midst of Sea, by boat’ in order to defeat them, must imply that they also had to follow a similar (opposite) itinerary from their place of origin to there and back, but no details are offered, the focus being solely on the Assyrian king and his ability.24 An ability that, it is worth stressing, is striking when one considers that it refers to achievements on the sea, against a naval power like the Greeks, of a king (like the Assyrian) who ruled over a typically inland empire. 25 More details are available in the description of Sennacherib’s sixth campaign in the Annals, where the king describes how Tyrian, Sidonian and ‘Greek’ sailors, his captives, embarked on the Tigris at Nineveh to reach Opis: ‘(…) I gave orders to sailors of the cities of Tyre (and) Sidon, (and) the land Ionia, whom I had captured. They (my troops) let (the sailors) sail down the Tigris river with them, downstream to the city of Opis. Then from the city of Opis, they lifted them (the boats) up onto dry land and dragged them on rollers to Sippar? and guided them into the Arahtu canal (…)’. (RINAP 3/II 46: ll. 57–62). As the use of the causative form of the verb clearly shows, the Greeks in this passage are not moving by their own initiative: they follow an itinerary designed for them by the Assyrian king. Travelling by boat is described as their job and is thus a typical feature of theirs, which is characterised in a positive way (since, at least, it is useful from the Assyrian king’s perspective). The document offers the details of the route they followed that led southwards from Nineveh to Opis on the river Tigris, by boat; there the boats were put on chariots towards Sippar, a well-known entity in his eyes and needed no further explanation. 23 On the fish motif in the characterisation of conquered people see Ceccarelli, 1993: esp. 39–42. 24 Fuchs, 1994: 34 and 290; also Lanfranchi, 2000: 14. On the ideological implications of this texts and their connections to the earlier tradition see Rollinger, 2001: 239–240. 25 According to Schaudig, 2008: 543, the development of the maritime power of Near Eastern empires like the Babylonian and Persian empires is to be connected to their interest in the Phoenician colonies in North Africa and Spain. From the Levantines they learnt the know-how of building ships (sapīnatū) to cross the sea and not just the rivers (on a riverboat, eleppu). On the idea that for their expeditions in open sea the Assyrians relied on the Phoenician shipwrights and sailors and that the ‘clientship on technical bases’ may well have been a ‘non-negligable factor’ in shaping the status of the Phoenician city-states as ‘allies’ see recently also Fales, 2017: esp. 212. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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whence they proceeded via the Euphrates26 and beyond (towards the Persian Gulf). One should bear in mind that this itinerary reflects the choice of the Assyrian king, not a voluntary trip.27 Later occurrences of the Greeks in the sources mainly provide references to the names and/or the professions of individuals of (perhaps) western origin. Be they deportees, artisans employed in the royal building projects, or (the alleged) Greek soldiers employed as mercenaries in the Neo-Assyrian and/or Neo-Babylonian armies, it is only the fact that they are ‘foreigners’ that hints at their having travelled from their places of origin to the east, as the sources provide no direct information on these trips.28 Similar is the case of the sources from the Achaemenid period referring to the specialised activities of people from the east. We know that at this time westerners were part of the haṭru system, but they appear now incorporated in the textual record at a point where their mobility is not the focus. Thus we have evidence of how they were organised as a group, but not on how they travelled to the east.29 The documentary situation changes at the time of Alexander’s conquest, when the kings of Macedonian origin became the rulers of Babylonia. Precisely at the point when, according to some authors, Greeks become no longer foreigners in Babylonia,30 the sources begin to focus on the characteristics of their mobility. 3. The Seleucid period: the king, the city and the temple 3.1. One-way: entering or leaving the city and the temple Most informative in this respect are the Astronomical Diaries, whose historical 26 The designation Arahtu river, originally identifying the western branch of the Euphrates, is used in the first millennium BC as the name of the Euphrates: George, 1992: 351. 27 On the significance of this source, Rollinger, 2001: 242–243 and recently Monerie, 2012: 351. On the ability of the Assyrians in river navigation see recently Fales, 2017: 209–215 (with earlier bibliography). 28 On the Greek soldiers in the east see Rollinger/Korenjak, 2001, with previous bibliography. The idea that Greek mercenaries, such as the brother of the Greek poet Alcaeus, served routinely in the Neo-Babylonian army has been recently questioned by Fantalkin/ Lytle, 2016, who conclude that the evidence on it is insufficient and therefore they reject it. 29 See in general Rollinger, 2009: 36–43 and Monerie, 2012: 352–358; also Joannès, 1997 and Del Monte, 2001. The haṭrus were small fiscal units, connected to the land-for-service system, consisting of rural settlements belonging to individuals or families with the same ethnic (sometimes, professional) background, whose owners owed service to the crown. The haṭru-system is attested in several Babylonian archives during the fifth and sixth centuries (see e.g. Stolper, 1985 and more recently the synthesis by Jursa, 2010: 247, with bibliography). I will not deal here with the problem of the Persian kings and their mobility, for which the reader is referred to the works of Tuplin, 1998 and Briant, 1988. See, additionally, Kosmin, 2014: 142–143. 30 Most recently, Rollinger, 2009: 33.

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sections refer to the movements of the Hellenistic kings on many occasions. The typical setting for the king’s mobility is represented by the city and its temple: the king is either recorded entering, leaving, or even observed not to be entering.31 Entering the city (eki ku4, ‘to enter Babylon’) and its temples (é temple name ku4, ‘to enter the temple temple name’) to offer sacrifices is the typical act carried out by kings and court officials of the Seleucid and Parthian periods when they officially visited the Babylonian cities.32 The Astronomical Diaries of the period are particularly rich on details of this and other aspects of the king’s mobility, such as his own and his delegates’ participation in the traditional rituals and ceremonies of the Babylonian liturgical calendar, that, as Del Monte states: ‘significava naturalmente accettare, almeno agli occhi degli abitanti della Mesopotamia, l’ideologia della regalità babilonese, il concetto del re buon pastore del suo popolo, sulla cui condotta vigilano gli dèi che ogni anno gli confermano (ma possono anche togliergliela) la legittimità a governare’.33 In this framework, the idea of entering (erēbu) the city and its temples assumes a clearly positive connotation. Thus, in the Diary relating Alexander III’s conquest of Babylon, the king’s proclamation that he would not violate their houses is described as a promise on his part ‘not to enter’ (ul erēbu) them. The same idea (and verb) is therefore used to refer to a(n avoided) negative form of mobility that would have not been in line with the Diaries’s tradition of depicting the king as ‘the victor’ who ‘respects the cult of Marduk’.34 Alexander’s official entry into Babylon, after the Greeks of his army paid tribute to the temple, is recorded, in the same diary, only after the king’s proclamation, and must have happened a few days later when, as the title ‘king of the universe’ (šar kiššati) used to refer to his royal status suggests, he was already officially recognised as the legitimate king. It is remarkable that here again the act of entering (the city) is characterised as positive, not as a violation.35 31

On the increased abundance of information about the Seleucid kings and their entourage in the Diaries (especially from the time of Antiochus I), in connection to their increased participation in the official rites of the Babylonian temples, see Del Monte, 2001: esp. 148–154. The mobility of the Seleucid kings as a mark of monarchic ideology has been extensively treated by Kosmin, 2014: 142–180. 32 AD1 No. -273B: obv. 11. itu bi lúgal ú-qu 2-ú šá lugal ina kur uruki ú-man-nu-ú a-na eki ku4 (…); ‘on that day, the new general, which the king had appointed in the land of Akkad, entered Babylon (…)’. On the idea that in the Seleucid and Parthian periods the first official visit to Babylon of a court official included offerings to the temple see Del Monte, 2001: 152 and id., 1997: 74 (with a list of contexts and earlier bibliography). 33 Del Monte, 2001: 151–152. 34 Van der Spek, 2003: esp. 299. 35 AD1 -330: rev. 7’ ([x x ] a-na émeš-ku-nu ul er-ru-ub; ‘I will not enter your houses’) and rev. 11’ ([x x x] a-lik-sa-an-dar-ri-is lugal šú ana eki k[u4?]; ‘Alexander, king of the universe, entered Babylon’). On the interpretation of this source see Del Monte, 1997: 4– 5, Van der Spek, 2003, and Boiy, 2004. Tolini, 2012: 277–288 connects it to the tradition © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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The policy of the kings towards the maintenance of the temples was clearly of special concern for the priestly community. It thus comes as no surprise that the Diaries, which typically reflect the narrow interests of those who compiled them, offer some background information on the interaction of this community with the king (especially with respect to the upkeep of the temple and its cult), while the passages referring to the king and his entourage leaving the city (ta city name aṣû/è) are more laconic.36 Thus, while the poor conditions of AD2 -251 prevent us from understanding why the diarist recorded the piece of news referring to Antiochus (II) leaving Seleucia on the Tigris (Ian-ti-’u-uk-su lugal ta urusi-lu-ki-’a-a èṣa),37 the military setting of the king’s mobility is clearer in AD2 -249 which, despite the lacuna, reads ‘(the king) mustered his troops and his chariots and (went) out from Antiochia’.38 A similar (unclear) military setting characterises the mobility of the Greek soldiers appointed with the defence of the palace of Babylon, who are recorded leaving the palace against the royal garrison in the context of otherwise unknown internal rebellions: ‘the troops from the palace came out (ta é.gal ki è-ni) and with the guard troops of the king […]’.39 3.2. Itineraries between cities and within the city In addition to the generic, one-way action of ‘entering’ or ‘leaving’ the city or the temple, exemplified above, the Diaries record a number of cases of a more articulated mobility, where the ‘in’ and ‘out’ represent the extremes of an itinerary taking place within the boundaries of a city or extending between different centres, and often including various intermediate stages. The journey may develop, in its simplest form, as a movement between two places, as in AD1 -273B, where the king is recorded leaving Sardis to move in the direction of Transeuphratene (ana e-ber íd (…) duik), to fight against the Egyptians: ‘That year, the king left his troops!?, his wife and a high!? dignitary in Sardis (…) and went to Transeuphratene (…)’ (AD1 -273B: obv. 29′–30′). More often, however, it takes the form of a ‘back and forth’ trip, as in the case of the diary entry describing the movement of the satrap of Akkad and the king’s dignitaries in 36–37 SE: ‘(…) the satrap of Akkad and the king’s dignitaries who of the Nabonidus Chronicle and thinks it is used to legitimize the new power. For the relationship between the Babylonian temples and the king see, recently, Clancier/Monerie, 2014. 36 As Kosmin puts it, ‘the Mesopotamian scribes were obsessed with royal mobility’. He correctly points out that the closer the travel was to Babylon, the finer its description. According to him ‘traveling kings were integral to a coherent and specifically Seleucid system of kingship ideology and governmental practices’. Kosmin, 2014: 175–176. 37 AD2 -251: ri.e. 3: ‘Antiochus, the king, left Seleucia’. On the ideological background of the emphasys on the campaigns of the kings, see Kosmin, 2014: 148–161. 38 AD2 -249: rev. 6. 39 AD1 -237: obv. 13′: lúerin2meš ta é.gal ki è-ni ki lúerin2meš lugal šá en.nunmeš […]. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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in year 36 (SE) had gone (duu’) to Sardis towards the king, came back (gurmešni) to Seleucia, the royal seat, which is on the Tigris (…)’ (AD1 -273B: rev. 34– 35). The use of târu (gur) in the second case, with the meaning of returning to the place of origin, adds the idea of circularity to the satrap’s itinerary, with the city of Seleucia on the Tigris representing both the point of departure and the final destination of the travel (Fig. 1b), while the king’s mobility in the first example is described as a ‘linear’ trip between two points, as exemplified in Fig. 1 a:

SE 36 Sardis

Transeuphratene

Sardis

Seleucia on the Tigris SE 37

a)

b) Fig. 1. Schematization of the king’s trips. a) Linear trip. b) Circular trip 1.

A different phraseology, implying the sequence ‘entering – exiting – heading to’ (ana CITY1 erēbu … ta CITY1 ana CITY2 aṣû), may also be used to refer to a circular itinerary (Fig. 2) when the departure and arrival points overlap, as is the case for the descriptions of the movements of the generals who, visiting Babylon sacrificed there before going back to Seleucia on the Tigris where they resided.40

Seleucia on the Tigris

Babylon

Fig. 2. Schematization of the king’s trips. Circular trip 2.

In a different order, the same set of verbs describes a complex itinerary developing among different cities or locations, and over different stages: ‘exiting – entering 40

It is reasonable to assume, with Del Monte, that the official residence of the generals was in Seleucia, and that this is why they are often recorded entering Babylon (from Seleucia), and exiting it towards Seleucia: ‘(…) questi generali sembrano non risiedere a Babilonia ma a Seleucia: “entrano” a Babilonia, dove vengono festeggiati per poi “uscirne” ed andare a Seleucia’ (Del Monte, 1997: 55). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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– heading to’ (ta é.gal è-ni – a-na é ud.1.kám ku4 – ta CITY a-na GN) is used to record Antiochus III’s visit to Babylon on the occasion of his participation in the New Year’s festival in April 205 BC: That month, on the day 8, king Antiochus and … went out from the palace (ta é.gal è-ni); (description of offerings). (They/He?) entered the First Day temple (a-na é ud.1.kám ku4), (description of offerings for the life of the king); from (ta) Babylon towards (a-na) Elymais? (…) (AD2 -204: rev. 14–Up.e.2) The king’s journey originates within the city, in the royal palace, whence the king moves in the direction of the New Year temple for the sacrifices and continues outside of Babylon, when Antiochus leaves the city, heading to a different place (probably Elymais).41 Babylon palace

New Year temple

Elymais?

Fig. 3. Schematization of the king’s trips. Complex itinerary.

Antiochus III’s travels in Babylonia are even more richly described in AD2 -187, recording the ‘propagandistic journey’, undertaken by the king to reaffirm his royal legitimacy in the region after the defeat he suffered at Magnesia in 188 BC. The detailed report recorded in the historical section of this diary permits a reconstruction of the different stages of an itinerary lasting over ten days. It took the king from Babylon to Seleucia on the Tigris via Borsippa, including a number of stop-overs in the city’s temples to celebrate the appropriate rites for the life of the royal family, and for the king to receive presents from the local authorities and carry on the sacrifices:42

41

For the interpretation of this passage see Del Monte, 1997: 61–63. It is unclear whether the trip itself terminates when the king leaves the city or if this is just the reflection of the fact that the following part of the text is fragmentary. The king’s procession during the New Year festival in Babylon is described, e.g., in the ritual for the first New Year Festival: see Linssen, 2004: esp. 82–83. 42 On the reasons for Antiochus’ presence in Babylonia at this time and the significance of the offerings and celebrations recorded in the diary, see Del Monte, 1997: 68; also Boiy, 2004: 155–157 (with further bibliography) and Clancier/Monerie, 2014: 208–209. Recently also Haubold, 2017. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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‘(partially broken; description of the events that took place on day 4? in Babylon, including offerings for the life of the royal family) he entered (ku4ub); on the same day at the Pure Gate, the Gate of Esangila (description of the offerings and official salutations); the same day, he went up (e11) to Esangila and prostrated himself; the same day he entered (ku4ub) the New Year Temple (description of the offerings) […] ; he came out (è) of the sacristy; crossed (ebēru) the royal garden which is on the west bank. On that same day he entered (ku4ub) his palace. (…) On day 13 he entered (ku4) Borsippa (…) on day 14 at the ziqqurat of Ezida (fragmentary description of cultic activities). On day x, the king entered Babylon from Borsippa (ta urubar-sìpki [ana] eki ku4[ub]) went (e11) to Esangila […] that same day, in the afternoon, the king went out from Babylon to Seleucia on the Tigris (ta eki ˹ana uru˺si-[lu-ki-’a-a] è), the royal city’ (AD2 -187: rev. 4′–18′). The journey consists of three main parts: the first leg takes place in the city of Babylon and its immediate vicinity where, presumably on day 4, the king ‘enters’ an unknown cultic location to make offerings for the life of his family; it continues, on the same day, at the Main Entrance (Ka-sikilla) of Esangila,43 where he receives golden presents from the local authorities (the temple administrator, the temple assembly and the city governor), before entering (lit. ‘going up to’) the temple; then, moving out of the city walls, (probably on the procession road) the trip goes on to the akītu temple and through the royal gardens on the west bank of the Euphrates, back to the king’s palace (which must therefore have been located on the same east side of the Euphrates as the akītu temple).44 The passage does not explicitly mention crossing the river. However, as Van der Spek suggests, since the New Year temple and the palace were situated on the eastern side of the Euphrates, while the gardens were on the western side, clearly the king must have crossed it to go back to the palace. The verb ebēru with a direct object is usually associated with the idea of crossing water (a river, the sea, or a canal, especially in contexts involving the king). Its use without an object, with the meaning ‘to come over to’, is in general combined with a preposition+genitive. 45 It may well be that the otherwise anomalous use of ebēru with ‘garden’ as an object here is owed to the fact that, although the scribe did not explicitly mention the action of crossing the Euphrates, he implied it, thus constructing the verb as if he did. Even if this hypothesis proves true, it remains impossibile to determine how Antiochus 43

For the identification of Ka-sikilla as the main entrance to Esangila, see George, 1992: esp. 491–492, with earlier bibliography. 44 On the location of the Euphrates channel, the New Year temple, the palace and the royal gardens in the Hellenistic period see Van der Spek, 1995: 476–477 and Boiy, 2004: 79. For the topography of Babylon and in particular the Gates of Esangila see George, 1992: 89–98, also Pederśen, 2011. See also the synthesis by Boiy, 2004: 81–86. 45 CAD E, s.v. ebēru A. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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crossed the Euphrates, whether on boats or via a bridge, and where exactly he moved through.46. The second part of the journey begins on day 13, when the king reaches the city of Borsippa where, on the following day, he visits the Ezida. The third consists of the trip back to Babylon, on an unknown day, where the king makes offerings in the Esangila and from there moves towards the royal residence at Seleucia on the Tigris. The itinerary in Babylon, lasting one day, is conceived as circular: although the departure point is not explicitly indicated, it is likely that the journey began at the palace and proceeded through different locations within the city (including the temple’s main entrance and the main temple), in a northern direction, out of the city wall to the akītu temple, to terminate again in the palace via the royal gardens. We may expect the king to have used the Procession Street to move from Esangila to the New Year’s temple (i.e. the akītu) and on the way back, crossing the river, having reached the royal gardens, located on the other side of the Euphrates, to go back again to the palace from there.47 The second leg of the journey, taking place a few days later, is devised as a sequence of entering – leaving – entering, and lasted probably two days. Although the text is not explicit, it is conceivable that the starting point and the final destination overlap, so that the trip can be understood as a back and forth one. No information is offered on how the king moved from one place to the other. However, it is clear, despite the poor conditions of the tablet, that the return journey took place on a different day from his visit to the temple. Conversely, the visit to Babylon described as the final leg of the trip is shortlived: on the day of his arrival Antiochus III visited the Esangila, leaving the city in the direction of his palace in Seleucia in the afternoon; no information is provided by the source on the king’s arrival in the royal capital. It is interesting that the king moves from Borsippa to Babylon before going back northwards to Seleucia on the Tigris. The very short distance between the two cities, and the wellknown connections between their main temples, raises the question whether such a choice was dictated by the conditions of the network of royal roads linking the three cities or by the ceremonial calendar, requiring the king to attend to the rites in Borsippa first, and then in Babylon.48 That the movements of the kings through Babylonia played a big role in the Babylonian imagery follows from the fact that the compiler of AD3 -163C bothers to record, in an otherwise very fragmentary passage, the transit of people carrying the corpse of Antiochus IV at the end of year 164 BC. While clearly an 46

An inscription of Neriglissar (NeglB/B2) mentions the king’s minor repairs ‘at the river bank and the bridge’ (Da Riva, 2013: 30); reference courtesy R. Da Riva. 47 Boiy, 2004: 79. 48 On the connections between Babylon and Borsippa see Waerzeggers, 2010: 4–6; for the routes linking the two cities, Jursa, 2010: 77–79, with bibliography. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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indirect reference to the (last!) trip of a Seleucid king, this piece of news shows the importance of recording the king’s mobility through Babylonia during the time of Seleucid domination.49 This seems confirmed by the fact that when the king or his representatives do not show up in Babylon, the fact is not only recorded but also labelled as unexpected: ‘(…) that month, the commander of Akkad that fled (záh) from Seleucia on the Tigris and on the King’s canal, was not seen […] as (?) before’ (AD3 -162, rev. 16–17). In the context of the fights occurring in Babylon probably at the time of the accession of Antiochus V, the general of Akkad (i.e., the satrap of Babylonia) is described moving from Seleucia but unexpectedly never reaching Babylon (‘he was not seen as before’). The regular mobility that consisted of leaving Babylon to reach the royal city is not only turned upside down here, with Seleucia representing the point of departure for the general, but it is also described as a one-way trip instead of a journey connecting two cities: interrupting an expected back and forth itinerary, the trip shapes up as a flight, as is clear from the use of halāqu (záh) to label it. Interestingly, the troubles described in this episode had consequences on the regular mobility within the city at many levels, as the Diarist records: ‘the governor of Babylon and […] the rab sikkati did not exit on the street for the fear of […]’ (giškak la-pàn puluhtu šá […]), affecting also the ‘Greek citizens’ (AD -162: rev. 14–15). 4. Greek ‘citizens’ in Babylonia: the puliṭē’s movements From the 2nd century BC on a group identified in the Babylonian sources by the Akkadian puliṭē or puliṭānu for the Greek word πολῖται (‘citizens’) begins to appear in the cuneiform sources. Apparently the term was used to identify the Greeks living in Babylon.50 Despite the scanty evidence, the Diaries offer the pos-

49

On corpses and their symbolic value see e.g. Richardson, 2007 and Jursa, 2007. According to Del Monte the puliṭē/puliṭānu (πολῖται) were one of the three groups that populated the city of Babylon (Del Monte, 1997: 86–87; note that according to Van der Spek, 2009: 108 more groups may be identified). Boiy (2004: 206–209) who defines them as ‘citizens by Greek law’, identifies the first mention of the πολῖται in a fragmentary Diary dated to 187 BC, thus dating the introduction of the Greek community in Babylon to the reign of Antiochus III (2004: 204–205). Van der Spek, elaborating on a previous idea of his (Van der Spek, 1986 and 1987) recently argued on the basis of new evidence that the Greek community was established in Babylon by Antiochus IV; its members, the πολῖται, enjoyed a special political status and the related privileges (Van der Spek, 2009: 107–110). On the ‘Greekness’ of the individuals making up the community, see Boiy, 2004: 206–207 and Van der Spek, 2009: 107. The relative political weight of the Greek and Babylonian communities in Babylon is discussed in Sciandra, 2012: 239–241. On the ‘poliadisation’ of Babylon see, conversely, Clancier, 2012, 320–326; Clancier/Monerie, 2014: 211–220 and recently the synthesis by Clancier, 2017. 50

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sibility of examining a few explicit contexts where their mobility is described.51 The earliest reference is AD3 -162: rev. 11–13. Here a distinction is made between the citizens who resided in Babylon and those who lived in the countryside: the first group is seen leaving Babylon en masse (ta eki èú), with their women and their ‘people’, pushed by the fights following the death of Antiochus IV (mentioned above; rev. 11–12); those from the countryside (rev. 13) apparently did not move but were robbed. Interestingly, the flight of the Greek citizens is recorded with the neutral expression ‘leaving the city’, i.e. the one usually adopted to describe the king’s trips between Babylon and the royal city; conversely, the general’s departure from Seleucia on the Tigris, noted a few lines below, is referred to by the Diarist as a flight using halāqu (ta urusi-lu-ki-’a-a šá ana ugu ídidigna u ídlugal záh; ‘he fled from Seleucia on the Tigris and the King’s Canal’), probably, as shown above, in order to underline how the action deviates from the norm.52 The πολῖται used to convene in the theatre of Babylon on the occasion of the reading of official letters from the king: although we have no evidence as to how they were summoned there by the local authorities and how they reached it, it is clear that when the Greek community gathered in the bīt tāmarti some kind of inner mobility within the city took place.53 Finally, special movements of the πολῖται between the city of Babylon and the Arsacid king’s encampment, which can probably be explained in the context of the military events connected to the war against Antiochus VII, are recorded in the Diary entry for 130 BC.54 The action is again here described as ‘exiting’ (scil. from the city) in the direction of the encampment (a-na ma-dak-tu lugal èú; ‘the king went out in the direction of the encampment’), while the opposite movement of the satrap of Akkad, leaving the camp, is described as ‘entering the city from the king’s encampment’. The introduction of a new destination for the trip originating in Babylon, represented by the camp (instead of another city or a temple), in addition to the fact that in both cases it is prompted by a written order issued by the king (ina kušsi-piš-tú šá lugal), characterise what is otherwise apparently a

51

The puliṭē are also mentioned in two fragmentary Chronicles, namely BCHP 13 and BCHP 14 (Finkel / Van der Spek, Babylonian Chronicles of the Hellenistic Period, forthcoming; on-line preliminary edition available at http://www.livius.org/cg-cm/chronicles), but no explicit information is provided there on aspects related to their mobility (except for a reference in lacuna to the fact that they entered in Babylon at the command of Antiochus). 52 On this episode and the ‘dangerous and frightful’ situation in Babylon at the time it occurred see Van der Spek, 2009: 111. 53 On the theatre of Babylon in the cuneiform sources see in particular Van der Spek, 2001: 445–456. On the Babylonian correspondence of the Seleucid and Arsacid kings and its significance see Sciandra, 2012. 54 Del Monte, 1997: 131. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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regular journey as an official summons, in a time of war.55 The same elements (leaving the king’s camp, entering the city of Babylon and a written order issued by the king) characterize the description of the official appointment of ‘one of the πολῖται living in Babylon’ as governor of the city.56 It is noteworthy that, parallel to the introduction in the Arsacid-period sources of the king’s camp as one of the points from and to which the mobility of the Greek citizens and the king’s representatives develop, the references to the king’s mobility towards and within the city of Babylon disappear: this may well be interpreted as a reflection of the disengagement of royal interest in the temples, especially from the third century onwards, when the king is replaced by the royal administrators of the new Greek πόλεις.57 5. Conclusions To conclude, let us return back briefly on the terminology used in the sources to describe the mobility of the Greeks, as discussed so far (a synthesis is offered in Table 1, below). As the Table shows, this is rather poor, the journeys being mainly described as a sequence of entering and exiting from a limited number of places. Both elements (restricted terminology and places) do not however represent a limitation of the analysis, especially when we examine them in combination. In fact, depending on their spatial dimension, the journeys may either represent isolated episodes of one-way mobility (with individuals leaving a place, or entering another), or more or less detailed examples of articulated travels. These may include different stages and develop through different locations that, according to their extent, take the form of inner mobility, within the city, or of outer mobility, when one extreme of the trip is located in the city and the other outside of its boundaries. Going in and out of a place may be described as a neutral action, but it can also bear positive or negative connotations: thus, on the occasion of the proclamation of the new king, his entering the city (and temples of Babylon) is framed positively, as a ‘pious’ act to be performed in the stream of tradition (especially when connected to the act of making offerings to the Babylonian gods). Similarly, avoiding to do so can be acclaimed as positive when doing it in an untimely manner could have been perceived as a potential threat by a conqueror. Especially important in connoting apparently neutral actions such as ‘leaving a place towards another’ is the destination of the trip: the meaning of the sentence is different when the destination is one of the places that the king usually attends in the context of his regular movements in Babylonia (the temple, the palace or the king’s seat) from when it is an enemy or an enemy’s outpost and moving out 55

AD3 -129 A1: obv. 6’–8’. AD3 -129 A2: obv. 16’–17’. 57 On Babylon as a πόλις see Clancier, 2017 (with bibliography). On the impact that the crisis that resulted from the disengagement of royal interest towards the temples had on the literary production of the time see Jursa/Debourse, in press, with bibliography. 56

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of a place in the direction of another is connoted in the sense of ‘attacking’. When the destination of a journey is associated with its point of departure, this is always described first, both when the trip is meant to be an outward travel (ta GN1 ana GN2 aṣû, ‘to leave from GN1 to GN2’) and an inward (ta GN1 ana GN2 erēbu, ‘to enter from GN1 to GN2’). Also, complex journeys including a departure, a destination and an intermediate stage are described exactly in the order they took place (from → to → towards). Only circular trips, where the point of departure overlaps with the final destination, may be described omitting the indication of the point of departure and applying the verb târu to the description of the final destination: ‘to move in the direction of GN2 to come back to GN1’. The spatial dimension of the Greeks’ mobility is typically Babylonia-centered: point of departure, intermediate stages and destination of the journeys are mainly confined to the few focal points represented by the Babylonian cities of Babylon, Sippar and Borsippa, the Babylonian temples, the royal city of Seleucia on the Tigris and the king’s palace (replaced, from the Parthian period on, by the king’s camp). Such a limited geographical dimension of the texts reflects the narrow scope and world-view of the priestly community which produced these documents: it is therefore not purely coincidental that the trips extending beyond the traditional boundaries of the Babylonian spatial imagery are so rare and their descriptions so poor in details.58 Term alāku (+ ventive) elû (e11) halāqu (záh) neqelpû ebēru ana GN erēbu (ku4) / ul erēbu

ana GN alāku (du) ta GN aṣû (è)

ta GN1 ana GN2 aṣû (è) ta GN1 aṣû (è) … ana GN2 erēbu (ku4) … ta GN1 ana GN2 erēbu (ku4) ana GN3 e11 ana GN2 alāku (du) … ana GN1 târu

58

Translation and use to come to leave (or flee); to go up to vanish, disappear; to flee to sail downstream to cross (water?) to enter / not enter – official proclamation of the king – city will not be violated to move in the direction of … to leave from GN – neutral – in military contexts starting point of a journey for the king, the general, and the troops moving against the enemy to leave from GN1 to GN2 to leave from GN1 … to enter GN2 to enter GN2 from GN1 towards GN3 to move in the direction of GN1 … to come back to GN2

Joannès, 1997. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Term ana GN1 erēbu (ku4) … ta GN1 ana GN2 aṣû (è)

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Translation and use to enter GN1 … to exit from GN1 towards GN2

Table 1. Terminology of mobility Abbreviations AD1 Sachs, A.J. / Hunger, H., 1988: Astronomical Diaries and Related Texts from Babylonia. Vol. I: Diaries from 652 B.C. to 262 B.C. Wien AD2 Sachs, A.J. / Hunger, H., 1989: Astronomical Diaries and Related Texts from Babylonia. Vol. II: Diaries from 261 B.C. to 165 B.C. Wien AD3 Sachs, A.J. / Hunger, H., 1996: Astronomical Diaries and Related Texts from Babylonia. Vol. III: Diaries from 164 B.C. to 61 B.C. Wien PNA 3/1 Baker H.D. 2002, The Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire, Volume 3, Part I: P–Ṣ. Helsinki RINAP 3/2 Grayson, A.K. / Novotny, J. (eds.) 2014: The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704–681 BC). Part 2. RINAP 3/2. Winona Lake (Indiana) SAA 19 Luukko, M., 2012 Bibliography Baker, H.D., (ed.): 2002: The Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire. Volume 3.1. Part 1: P–Ṣ. Helsinki. Boiy, T., 2004: Late Achaemenid and Hellenistic Babylon. OLA 136. Leuven. Briant, P., 1988: “Le nomadisme du Grand Roi”. Iranica Antiqua 23, 253–273. — 2002: From Cyrus to Alexander. A History of the Persian Empire. (Engl. tr. by P.T. Daniels). Winona Lake (Indiana). Ceccarelli, P., 1993: “La fable des poissons de Cyrus (Hérodote, I, 141). Son origine et sa fonction dans l’économie des Histoires d’Hérodote”. Mètis. Anthropologie des mondes grecs anciens 8/1–2, 29–57. Clancier, Ph., 2012: “Le šatammu, les Babyloniens et l’assemblée de l’Esagil. Les notables de Babylone, du relais local à la marginalisation”. In Ch. Feyel / J. Fournier / L. Graslin-Thomé / Fr. Kirbihler (eds.): Communautés locales et pouvoir central dans l’Orient hellénistique et romain. Études Anciennes 47. Nancy. Pp. 197–325 — 2017: “The πόλεις of Babylon. An Historiographical Approach”. In B. Chrubasik / D. King (eds.): Hellenism and the Local Communities of the Eastern Mediterranean: 400 BCE – 250 CE. Oxford. Pp. 53–82. Clancier, Ph. / Monerie, J., 2014: “Les sanctuaires babyloniens à l’époque hellénistique: évolution d’un relais de pouvoir”. Topoi 19/1, 181–237. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Da Riva, R., 2013: The Inscriptions of Nabopolassar, Amel-Marduk and Neriglissar. SANER 3. Berlin. Del Monte, G.F., 1997: Testi dalla Babilonia Ellenistica. Vol. I: Testi Cronografici. Studi Ellenistici IX. Pisa/Roma. — 2001: “Da ‘barbari’ a ‘re di Babilonia’: i Greci in Mesopotamia”. In S. Settis (ed.): I Greci. Storia Cultura Arte società, 3. I Greci oltre la Grecia. Torino. Pp. 137–166. Edzard, D.O., 1977: “Itinerare”. In id. (ed.): Reallexikon der Assyriologie und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie. Bd. 5. Berlin. Pp. 216–220. Fales, F.M., 1990: “The Rural Landscape of the Neo-Assyrian Empire”. SAAB 4, 81–142. — 1995: “Rivers in Neo-Assyrian Geography”. In M. Liverani (ed.): Neo-Assyrian Geography. Roma. Pp. 203–215. — 2006: “Trading the (Military, Commercial, and Cultural) Itineraries of the Ancient Near East (Udine, September 1–3, 2004). An Introduction”. Kaskal 3, 105–108. — 2017: “Phoenicia in the Neo-Assyrian Period: An Updated Overview”. SAAB XXIII, 181–295. Fantalkin, A. / Lytle, E., 2016: “Alcaeus and Antimenidas: Reassessing the Evidence for Greek Mercenaries in the Neo-Babylonian Army”. Klio 98/1, 90– 117. Favaro, S., 2007: Voyages et voyageurs à l’époque néo-assyrienne. SAAS 18. Helsinki. Finkel, I.R. / Van der Spek, R., forthcoming: Babylonian Chronicles of the Hellenistic Period. Frahm, E., 1997: Einleitung in die Sanherib-Inschriften. AfO Beiheft 26. Wien. Fuchs, A., 1994: Die Inschriften Sargons II. aus Khorsabad. Göttingen. George, A.R., 1992: Babylonian Topographical Texts. OLA 40. Leuven. Haubold, J., 2013: Greece and Mesopotamia: dialogues in literature. Cambridge. — 2017: “Converging Perspectives on Antiochos III”. In B. Chrubasik / D. King (eds.): Hellenism and the Local Communities of the Eastern Mediterranean: 400 BCE–250 CE. Oxford. Pp. 111–130. Horrocks, G., 2010: Greek: A History of the Language and its Speakers. 2nd edition. Chichester–Malden (MA). Janković, B., 2008: “Travel Provisions in Babylonia in the First Millennium BC”. In P. Briant / F.M.W. Henkelman / M.W. Stolper (eds.): L’archive des Fortifications de Persépolis. État des questions et perspectives de recherches, Actes du colloque organisé au Collège de France par la “Chaire d’histoire et civilisation du monde achéménide et de l’empire d’Alexandre” et le “Réseau international d’études et de recherches achéménides” (GDR 2538 CNRS), 3– 4 novembre 2006. Persika 12. Paris. Pp. 429–464.

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Joannès, F., 1997: “Le monde Occidental vu de Mésopotamie, de l’époque néobabylonienne à l’époque hellénistique”. Transeuphratène 13, 141–153. Jursa, M., 1995: “Von Vermessungen und Straßen”. ArOr 63, 153–158. — 2007: “Die Söhne Kudurrus und die Herkunft der Neubabylonischen Dynastie”. RA 101, 125–136. — 2010: Aspects of the Economic History of Babylonia in the First Millennium BC. Economic Geography, Economic Mentalities, Agriculture, the Use of Money and the Problem of Economic Growth. AOAT 377. Münster. Jursa, M. / Debourse, C., in press. “Late Babylonian Priestly Literature from Babylon”. In P. Dubovsky (ed.): Proceedings of the International Conference “Stones, Tablets and Scrolls: Four Periods of the Formation of the Bible” at the Pontifical Biblical Institute, Rome, May 11th–13th 2017. Tübingen. Kessler, K., 1980: Untersuchungen zur historischen Topographie Nordmesopotamiens. Wiesbaden. — 1997: “Royal Roads and other Questions of the Neo-Assyrian Communication System”. In S. Parpola / R.M. Whiting (eds.): Assyria 1995. Proceedings of the 10th Anniversary Symposium of the Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Helsinki. Pp. 129–136. Kosmin, P.J., 2014: The Land of the Elephant Kings. Space, Territory, and Ideology in the Seleucid Empire. Cambridge, MA. Lanfranchi, G.B., 2000: “The Ideological and Political Impact of the Assyrian Imperial Expansion on the Greek World in the 8th and 7th Centuries BC”. In S. Aro / R.M. Whiting (eds.): The Heirs of Assyria. Helsinki. Pp. 7–34. Linssen, M.J.H., 2004: The Cults of Uruk and Babylon. The Temple Ritual Texts as Evidence for Hellenistic Cult Practices. CM 25. Leiden/Boston. Luukko, M., 2012: The Correspondence of Tiglath-Pileser III and Sargon II from Calah/Nimrud. SAA XIX. Helsinki. Milano, L., (ed.) 2004: Palaeonutrition and Food Practices in the Ancient Near East. Towards a Multidisciplinary Approach. HANEM XIV. Padua. Monerie, J., 2012: “Les communautés grecques en Babylonie (VIIe–IIIe s. av. J.C.)”. Pallas 89, 345–365. — 2014: D’Alexandre à Zoilos. Dictionnaire Prosopographique des porteurs de nom grec dans les sources cunéiformes. Oriens et Occidens 23. Stuttgart. Parpola, S., 1987: The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part I. Letters from Assyria and the West. SAA 1. Helsinki. Pederśen, O., 2011: “Work on a Digital Model of Babylon Using Archaeological and Textual Evidence”. Mesopotamia XLVI, 9–22. Pongratz-Leisten, B., 1994: Ina šulmi īrub: Die kulttopographische und ideologische Programmatik der akītu-Prozession in Babylonien und Assyrien im 1. Jahrtausend v.Chr. Baghdader Forschungen 16. Mainz. Richardson, S., 2007: “Death and Dismemberment in Mesopotamia: Discorporation between the Body and Body Politic”. In N. Laneri (ed.): Performing © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Death. Social Analysis of Funerary Traditions in the Ancient Near East and Mediterranean. OIS 3. Chicago. Pp. 189–208. Rollinger, R., 2001, “The Ancient Greeks and the Impact of the Ancient Near East: Textual Evidence and Historical Perspective”. In R. Whiting (ed.): Mythology and Mythologies. The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Melammu Symposia 2. Helsinki. Pp. 233–264. — 2009: “Near Eastern Perspectives on the Greeks”. In G. Boys-Stones / B. Graziosi / P. Vasunia (eds.): The Oxford Handbook of Hellenic Studies. Oxford. Pp. 32–47. Rollinger, R. / Korenjak, M., 2001: “Addikritušu. Ein namentlich genannter Grieche aus der Zeit Asarhaddons (680–669 v.Chr.). Überlegungen zu ABL140”. AoF 28/2, 325–337. Rutherford, I., 2004: “Khoros heis ek tesde tes poleos: State-Pilgrimage and SongDance in Athens”. In P. Murray / P. Wilson (eds.): Music and the Muses: the Culture of ‘Mousike’ in the Classical Athenian City. Oxford. Pp. 67–90. — 2013: State-Pilgrims and Sacred Observers in Ancient Greece: A Study of Theoria and Theoroi. Cambridge. — 2016: “‘Festival Culture’ Between the Aegean and Anatolia: Typology and Contact”. In G.G.W. Müller (Hrsg.): Liturgie oder Literatur? Die Kultrituale der Hethiter im transkulturellen Vergleich. Studien zu den Boğazköy-Texten 60. Wiesbaden. Pp. 67–89. Schaudig, H., 2008: “A Tanit-Sign from Babylon and the Conquest of Tyre by Nebuchadrezzar II”. UF 40, 533–546. Sciandra, R., 2012: “The Babylonian Correspondence of the Seleucid and Arsacid Dynasties: New Insights into the Relations between Court and City during the Late Babylonian Period”. In G. Wilhelm (ed.): Organization, Representation, and Symbols of Power in the Ancient Near East: Proceedings of the 54th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale at Würzburg, 20–25 July 2008. Winona Lake (Indiana). Pp. 225–248. Stolper, M., 1985. Entrepreneurs and Empire. The Murašû Archive, the Murašû Firm, and Persian Rule in Babylonia. PIHANS 54. Leiden. Streck, M., 2006: “Travels in the Ancient Near East”. Kaskal 3, 127–136. Tolini, G., 2012: “Le discours de domination de Cyrus, de Darius Ier et d’Alexandre le Grand sur la Babylonie (539–323)”. In Chr. Feyel / J. Fournier / L. Graslin-Thomé / Fr. Kirbihler (éds.): Communautés locales et pouvoir central dans l’Orient hellénistique et romain. Études anciennes 47. Nancy. Pp. 259–296. Tuplin, Chr., 1998: “The seasonal migration of Achaemenid Kings: A report on old and new evidence”. In M.Brosius / A.T.Kuhrt (eds.): Studies in Persian History: Essays in memory of David M. Lewis. Leiden. Pp. 63–114. Van der Spek, R., 1986: Grondbezit in het Seleucidische rijk. Amsterdam.

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— 1987: “The Babylonian City”. In A. Kuhrt / S. Sherwin-White (eds.): Hellenism in the East. London. Pp. 57–74. — 1995: review of Rollinger, R., 1993: Herodots Babylonischer Logos. Eine kritische Untersuchung der Glaubwürdigkeitsdiskussion an Hand ausgewählter Beispiele. Innsbruck. Orientalia 64, 474–477. — 2001: “The Theatre of Babylon in Cuneiform”. In W.H. van Soldt (ed.): Veenhof Anniversary Volume. Studies presented to Klaas R. Veenhof on the occasion of his sixty-fifth birthday. Leiden. Pp. 445–456. — 2003: “Darius III, Alexander the Great and Babylonian Scholarship”. In W. Henkelman / A. Kuhrt (eds.): A Persian Perspective. Essays in memory of Heleen Sancisi-Weerdenburg. Achaemenid History XIII. Leiden. Pp. 289–346. — 2009: “Multi-ethnicity and ethnic segregation in Hellenistic Babylon”. In T. Dercks / N. Roymans (eds.): Ethnic Constructs in Antiquity. Amsterdam. Pp. 101–116. Waerzeggers, C., 2010: The Ezida Temple of Borsippa. Priesthood, Cult and Archives. Achaemenid History XV. Leiden. Yamada, S., 2008: “Qurdi-Assur-lamur: his Letters and Career”. In M. Cogan / D. Kahn (eds.): Treasures on Camels’ Humps. Historical and Literary Studies from the Ancient Near East Presented to Israel Eph‘al. Jerusalem. Pp. 296– 311.

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Assyrians and Babylonians in Classical Sources Sebastian Fink / Kerstin Droß-Krüpe

Introduction1 Reflections of Assyrian and Babylonian history in classical sources have been treated extensively in recent research projects. Especially those on the depiction and reception of Babylon in classical antiquity up to modern ages have been flourishing during the last years.2 The general consensus is that the image of Babylon in classical sources was a very powerful one, that Babylon tends to show up in contexts where one would not necessarily expect it, and that the image of Babylon was rather based on imagination than on actual historical facts. The latter becomes particularly important the bigger the time lag between the Assyrian-Babylonian rule and the respective ancient author is. All these observations apply likewise to the characters of both, Semiramis and Sardanapalus, who certainly are among the two most impressive, and most prominent rulers of the Ancient Near East in classical (and modern) literature.3 Concerning the numerous contact zones between the Mediterranean and the Ancient Near East in classical times we could ask with André Heller:4 Why did the Greeks know so little about actual Assyrian and Babylonian History? He concluded that “the history of the Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian Empire is almost non-existent in the Histories of Herodotus”5, a fact that is rather surprising, as we are well informed about manifold and fairly close contacts between the Greek world and the Near East from at least the fifth century onwards.6 Heller argues that Herodotus did not treat the history of Mesopotamia in more detail as this would have led too far from his ‘leitmotif’, the causes and reasons of the Greco-Persian wars. Our second major Greek source of information of that time, Ctesias, in turn uses the Assyrian Empire as an earlier reflection of the Persian Empire and adds nothing substantial to our knowledge regarding historical facts.7 Consequently, we are aiming at approaching this topic from a different angle and modify Heller’s question: Why did the Greek historians write about Assyria and 1

We owe thanks to Markus Diedrich (Marburg) for revising the English of this paper. All remaining mistakes are obviously our own. 2 One may only think of the recent books by Michael Seymour, Kevin McGeough, Mario Liverani and Andrew Scheil: Seymour, 2014; McGeough, 2015; Liverani, 2016; Scheil, 2016. 3 Cf. Simonis, 2013. 4 Heller, 2015. 5 Heller, 2015: 340. 6 Heller, 2015: 332–334. 7 See Heller, 2015: 340–341 with further literature. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Babylonia at all? To answer this question, we need to delve into the notorious question of the setting and the context of these texts in classical Historiography.8 Therefore we will use the example of Enūma Eliš to demonstrate that reliable and instructive sources regarding the Ancient Near East were at least partially available to classical authors, who obviously decided not to bestow too much consideration upon them.9 The direct evidence for travellers and merchants on route between the Greek world and the Assyria or Babylonia one is rather meager for the sixth and fifth century and the tradition of travelling philosophers and historians is often doubted.10 Therefore, one needs to focus on indirect evidence in order to enhance our knowledge about the kind information, the ways of life and the history of the Ancient Near East may have been accessible for the Greeks. This indirect evidence includes e.g. the evidence of ‘oriental’ goods in the west11 and vice versa. However, we need sophisticated methods deriving from natural sciences to unequivocally detect where these goods originate. Moreover, even if we knew their exact place of origin, we may not automatically assume that this place of origin is identical with the place of origin of the person who brought the respective object to the place where it was found.12 As a consequence, these foreign goods do tell us something about contacts between the Eastern and Western world but they do not provide a lot of information when we try to understand the nature of these contacts. Hence, we will rather focus on written evidence or more specifically Greek sources dealing with ‘oriental’ cities and rulers. 13 The main issues addressed are: are the stories the classical authors presented to their audience about 8

Besides the abovementioned article of Heller, 2015, see also Tuplin, 2013 for an overview. 9 Bachvarova, 2016 undertakes to analyze the agents of the transfer of “oriental motifs” to Greece with a special focus on Homer and Hesiod. However, the character of these agents is mainly deduced from similarities in the sources, as also no concrete information about historical individuals is available for that period. 10 See Pòrtulas in this volume. 11 The evidence is collected and analysed by Braun-Holzinger and Rehm, 2005. 12 Cf. Droß-Krüpe, 2014: viii–ix. 13 In late antiquity, especially the Chaldeans were in the focus of the scholarly interest, and they are often called the Babylonian philosophers – for example by Diogenes Laertius – but unfortunately the term Chaldeans is vague. Not only that the Mesopotamian Chaldeans are sometimes mixed up with the northern Chaldoi (they lived in the area of the Lake Van) but “Chaldean” also becomes a rather general term for “sorcerer / astrologer” at some point. So not every Chaldean has to be from Mesopotamia, as the term loses its ethnical character. Therefore, we will stick to the Babylonians and Assyrians as a treatment of the Chaldeans would take much space and would most probably result in the Socratic wisdom that we at least know that we know nothing. (This task was taken up by Johannes Haubold, 2013 and in his talk during the Melammu Session at the Deutscher Orientalistentag [DOT] in Jena, 2017: “Die Weisheit der Chaldäer: Variation über ein Thema”). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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‘oriental’ cities and their rulers fabrications and pure phantasy, or are they – at least partly – reliable? What kind of material was available to these ancient authors? And finally: Do we have Ancient Near Eastern evidence that either confirms or falsifies the information given by Greek authors? This article consists of two parts. The first part is a case study of the transmission of Enūma Eliš into classical literature and the second part presents case studies of the outlines of Assyrian and Babylonian history in Herodotus, Ctesias, Berossus and Orosius. The treatment of Herodotus and Ctesias needs no explanation; Berossus is discussed here because he is generally seen as the only surviving Babylonian Historian writing in Greek. There would have been many later authors whose writings would have been interesting for our analysis, but as space and time is restricted, the decision went in favour of a particularly influential example, namely Orosius and his Historia adversus paganos, a history of mankind written from a Christian point of view. The Enūma Eliš in Berossus and Damasius We will start with the strange example of Enūma Eliš, a comprehensive Babylonian creation myth. 14 Two authors from classical antiquity treated this text in greater detail: the first author is Berossus,15 who is often supposed to be a Babylonian priest,16 who lived in Babylon and was born in the late 4th century BC and died in the 3rd century BC.17 Unfortunately, as it is often the case with interesting authors, Berossus’ Babyloniaca is lost and was handed down only fragmentarily by third parties.18 The second, and much later, author is Damascius, the last head of the Platonic academy, who was born in 458 AD in Damascus and died at some point after 538.19 At first sight things seem to be clear: During Berossus’ life time the Babylonian cuneiform archives still were available in the temples and an educated elite was still able to read and write cuneiform, a fact that can clearly be demonstrated by the many clay tablets with colophons from this late period. Even Sumerian 14

The latest edition is provided by Lambert, 2013. On various aspects of the life and work of Berossus see the contributions in Haubold et al., 2013. 16 It is generally assumed that Berossus was a Babylonian priest and scholar. However, we decided not to take this information for granted for the following discussion. See the discussion in de Breucker, 2013 and van der Spek, 2008. 17 “Berossus, a Babylonian, priest of their Belos, who was born in the time of Alexander, composed the history of the Chaldeans in three books for Antiochos, the third successor after him.” (BNJ 680 T 2). 18 The situation is perfectly described by Beaulieu, 2006, 116: “The Babyloniaca enyojed limited circulation in Antiquity. Most writers who quoted Berossus did so not from the original, but from such excerpts as they could glean form the works of other authors. As a result, the Babyloniaca are known largely from third and fourth hands quotations.” 19 For Damascius’ life see Hartmann, 2002 with further references. 15

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texts were still copied in the first century BC and we even have a cuneiform text that can be dated in the second half of the 1st century AD.20 In contrast to that, Damascius lived almost one thousand years after Berossus and therefore we would assume that his summary of Enūma Eliš is less reliable. Concerning the story pattern in Berossus already Talon stated that “[t]he fragments which come down to us are relatively different from the account of Enūma Eliš, at least in the beginning.”21 As Enūma Eliš was most probably still copied long after Berossus’ death in Babylonia,22 we might thus consider the fact that Berossus used another version of Enūma Eliš, a version that is lost to us. But let us look at things in greater detail: The extant fragments of Berossus (BNJ 680 F 1a/b) do not discuss the genealogy of the Babylonian gods, which is essential for the theological implications of the story, and consequently extensively dealt with in the cuneiform versions of Enūma Eliš. We are only presented with the name Omorka, which actually should be Tiāmat according to the cuneiform record, and, to make things even more complicated, Berossus explains her name as Thalatth.23 Also the rest of the account has not much in common with the cuneiform text. Apsû, the spouse of Tiāmat is completely missing, and no information is given concerning the origins of Belos (Marduk) and his relation to the other gods. Also Lambert recognizes the numerous differences between Berossus’ account and the cuneiform text. In the case of the monsters he argues that they “do not fit any known list of monsters, and since Berossus states that images of them existed in Marduk’s shrine, he probably depended on these images rather than on a written source.”24 Unfortunately these depictions are not available to us, so we cannot decide if they have indeed been misinterpreted, as Lambert suggests, or if they have simply been made up by Berossus or one of his later copyists. The Greek version of the text – also an existing Armenian text with more or less the same content – reads as follows: “There was a time, he says, when everything was [darkness and] water and that in it fabulous beings with peculiar forms came into life. For men with two wings were born and some with four wings and two faces, having one body and two heads, male and female, and double genitalia, male and female. Other men were born, some having legs and the horns of goats, other with the feet of horses. Yet others had the hind parts of horses, but the foreparts of men and were hippocentaurs in form. Bulls were also engendered having the heads of men as well as our-bodied dogs having the tails 20

See Geller, 1997 for a discussion of the end of cuneiform writing. Talon, 2001: 270. 22 The dating of the extant manuscripts is not always easy to determine but Lambert, 2013: 4 states: “Some of these Late Babylonian collections are extremely late, Seleucid or Parthian, to judge from script, textual corruption and other factors.” 23 On these names, see Talon, 2001: 271. 24 Lambert, 2013: 231. 21

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of a fish from their behind parts, dog-headed horses and men and other beings having head and bodies of horses, but tails of fish and still other beings having forms of all sorts of wild animals. In addition to these there were fish and reptiles and snakes and many other marvellous creatures differing in appearance from one another. Images of these were also set up in the temple of Belos. Over all these a woman ruled named Omorka. This means in Chaldean Thalatth, in Greek this is translated as ‘Sea’ (Thalassa) (BNJ 680 F 1a) […]. When everything was arranged in this way, Belos rose up and split the woman in two. Of one half of her he made earth, of the other half sky; and he destroyed all creatures in her.” (BNJ 680 F 1b, 6–7) Undoubtedly, stories do change over time as can be easily demonstrated by the evolution of the Gilgameš Epic,25 but we also know that texts belonging to a cultic context tend to be more stable than others because they were regularly performed.26 This was also the case for Enūma Eliš, which “was read complete to the statue of Marduk by a priest on the fourth day of Nisan”.27 As outlined above, the fact that Berossus’ Babyolonica are not preserved as a whole but only compiled by later Greek epitomes, complicates the situation further, as the authors of these summaries may simply have left out information that appeared less interesting or irrelevant to them. If one would still opt for the suggestion stated above, that Berossus used an alternative version of Enūma Eliš , then we would have to conclude that he, supposedly a priest from the main sanctuary of Mesopotamia’s most important city at that time, used a non-standard versions of a text that was of utmost importance for the New-Years-Festival. Additionally, names usually do not just consist of meaningless sounds. In the Mesopotamian tradition, they all are supposed to have a meaning, so one would expect all the names given by Berossus to have a certain meaning. As folktale research has abundantly demonstrated, story patterns easily travel around the world. This means that a wide distribution of a certain story pattern is in itself nothing extraordinary.28 A genealogy of foreign gods however, is something that ought to rely on more accurate sources than traveling storytellers, who usually adapted their stories, to better suit the changing contexts in which they were retold. This means that foreign names were usually substituted with more familiar ones, unfitting scenes were replaced or omitted and often the whole story was transferred to a setting more familiar to the new audience.29 Anyway, gene25

See the chapters about the forerunners of the so-called ‘standard version’ in George 2003 and the classical study of Tigay, 1982. 26 See Frahm, 2011: 362–363 for a discussion of Enuma Eliš in the times of Berossus. 27 Lambert, 2013: 459. 28 See for example the study of Henkelmann, 2006. 29 One may want to consult Alberto Bernabé’s work on the Hittite background of Hesiod, who has stressed the adaption of a text to its new setting. Bernabé, 2004. See now also © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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alogies of gods or rulers usually are not treated this way, which makes these name lists a very welcome test case for us, as they hint at “travelling written sources”. If we are not too critical for now, they may even hint at persons who themselves actually travelled between East in West (or at least wanted their book to travel) and thereby were active as transmitters of these details and stories in a rather exact way. However, how about Damascius, our second and much later Greek source reflecting Enūma Eliš? Different from Berossus, Damascius does present a genealogy of the Babylonian gods. The following illustration a comparison of the family trees as presented in Enūma Eliš and Damascius: Enūma Eliš 1 Apsû ∞ Tiāmat ∕? Mummu

Damascius

2 Laḫmu ∞ Laḫāmu Anšar ∞ Kišar 3 Anu Ea ∞ (Damkina) │ Marduk Fig. 1: The genealogy of the Babylonian goods according to Enūma Eliš and Damascius (based on Talon with own adaptions)

It is evident how well almost all the names of the gods Damascius mentions connect with the ones in the cuneiform text. Lambert even observed that Damascius explains things, which are not explicitly mentioned in the cuneiform text, such as the creation of Mummu by Tiāmat and Apsû. For him it is most striking that Damascius’ account sticks to the rather unusual mother-father sequence of the cuneiform text.30 This observation, combined with the date of origin of the Greek source material discussed earlier, raises the question of how Damascius was able to give an obviously more accurate account of the cosmological scheme of Babylon than Berossus one thousand years earlier.31 In theory, two possibilities ought to be considered: First that Damascius had access to the story in the original cuneiform text or in an Aramaic version of it.32 Bachvarova, 2016. 30 Lambert, 2013: 422–423. 31 Again, we have to remind ourselves that our understanding of Berossus is hampered by the transmission process. 32 Frahm, 2011: 364 considers the option that Damascius knowledge might be based on © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Damascius came from the East, he was born in Damascus, and after the academy had been closed, he and some of his fellow-philosophers from the academy, went to the court of Khosrau I of Persia.33 So, at least theoretically, Damascius might have had access to the royal libraries of Sasanians – unfortunately we have no clear idea what they contained and also the remaining writings of Damascius do not give us any details concerning this question. Considering the time lag between the usually assumed end of cuneiform writing in the first century AD and the life of Damascius it would be rather surprising if he (or one of his contemporary middlemen) still had been able to read cuneiform. Consequently, an Aramaic (or Syriac) version of the Enūma Elis would be the more probable option. The second option is that the source used by Damascius is a Greek one: Eudemus of Rhodes, who was either a contemporary of or slightly older than Berossus, could have been the source of this passage. But as Talon already stated, this attribution is not absolutely certain,34 as Damascius does not explicitly say that his information comes from Eudemus. In his short chapter on the Babylonian Gods, Damascius does not mention any source and only in the following chapters, which treat Persian, Sidonian and Egyptian theology, does he mentions Eudemus along with other sources.35 If we – despite these uncertainties – assume that Damascius source really was Eudemus it leads to the question why someone from the school of Aristotle, most probably writing in Athens, had better sources available on Babylonian mythology than a contemporary Babylonian priest, namely Berossus. An answer to this question is quite difficult, if not impossible and forces us to question the common picture of Berossus as a Babylonian priest. Nevertheless, we might assume that at least during the lifetime of Eudemus (maybe fostered by the military campaigns in the east of Alexander III of Macedonia) reliable knowledge on Mesopotamian mythology already was or became available to Greek authors. This in turn means that this information must have been available in Greek, both, to reach a broader audience and, as there is little evidence for a broad knowledge of foreign languages among the Greek elites.36 Obviously, some people were able to collect and translate cuneiform texts into Greek language – unfortunately, we can only speculate about these agents of this cultural transfer. In addition, with due care, we may assume the same for other Mesopotamian material. However – and here things get confusing – who else should have translated Mesopotamian accounts something that he had read or heard in Syrian centers of learning. No Aramean version of the text is known, but it seems quite probable that one existed, as Aramean was the vernacular language of a large part of the Babylonian population at least since Persian times. 33 For this episode, see Hartmann, 2002. 34 Talon, 2001: 273. 35 For a translation of the text, see Damascius, Problems & Solutions Concerning First Principles. Translated by Sara Ahbel-Rappe, Oxford 2010, 418. 36 See Werner, 1992. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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of creation into Greek than a Mesopotamian scholar or priest? This supposed translator-priest, being slightly older than Berossus, was able to give a completely accurate account of Enūma Eliš. As unfortunately Eudemus’ work on the Babylonian cosmology is lost, Damascius is the only source providing us with some information about this part of Eudemus’s work. It might well be that Eudemus’ work, like so many of the highly scholarly works connected to the school of Aristotle, was rather unpopular in later times and was consequently consulted only by very few scholars. Vitruvius informs us that Berossus was a travelling philosopher who moved to the island of Kos, where he founded a school, mainly occupied with casting horoscopes.37 This information is mostly regarded as unreliable as Vitruvius is the only extant source, which tells us so. If we are willing to believe that Vitruvius found this information in some sources available to him and lost today, we could imagine that this Berossus, who knows if he is identical with the author of the of the Babyloniaca, as a charlatan who just pretended to be one of the famous Babylonian astronomers and used some half-knowledge he picked up somewhere about the Orient in order to make his claim more credible. To drive that line of argumentation even further, we could argue that it might have been sufficient for him to read what was available in Greek literature at his time. Obviously, the source situation makes it almost impossible to give a final judgement on the nature and quality of Berossus’ original work.38 What we may conclude from the rather complex discussion above with its many assumptions is that the literary dependencies of the above mentioned authors are really hard to determine, especially if we consider the fact that an enormous part of literature circulating in Hellenistic times is simply lost. Even if we encounter such a straightforward evidence for a dependency on a cuneiform text like in the case of Damascius, we cannot be sure how the information was transmitted from Mesopotamia to Damascius. Therefore, the result of the first part of this investigation is a mostly negative one. We can find no clear evidence for travellers as cultural transmitters in these texts. Rather – not unlike in the case of Mesopotamian archaeological evidence – we find evidence for the knowledge of Mesopotamian text in Greek texts and are at loss to explain with certainty how this knowledge got there. Despite the fact that Enūma Eliš was one of the most important Mesopotamian texts in the first millennium, it is mentioned only twice in the extant Greek texts: in Berossus and in Damascius. Berossus seems to touch this text only in passing, again, if we are not mislead by the fragmentary evidence, while he evolves his 37

De architectura 9, 6, 2. Cf. Haubold, 2013: 5: “The present collection as a whole suggests that the issue of authenticity in the Babyloniaca is far less straightforward than has often been assumed, and that the question of what is authentically Babylonian in Berossos is intimately bound with his attempt to engage a political dominant Greek readership.” 38

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own account of how civilization came into being and Damascius describes it in a few lines in his encyclopedic approach to the question of the first principle. In a next step, we will turn to the above mentioned classical authors who present us with some information about Assyria and Babylonia, in particular information on the most prominent rulers of Mesopotamia, Semiramis and Sardanapalus. Assyria and Babylonia in Classical Historiography Assyria and Babylonia are ‘concepts’ that are not kept strictly apart by basically all classical authors, but there is a rather general agreement among them – and here some actual knowledge about historical facts might have been available – that the oldest empire was Assyria.39 In contrast to that, Plato and Herodotus consider Egypt to be the oldest culture on earth.40 According to the vast majority of Greek authors history seems to begin when kings try to expand their ancestral dominion and ‘interstate-conflicts’ arise. It seems that the particular charm to write about Assyria or Babylonia lay in the fact that these empires did not exist anymore during the lifetime of the Greek authors. Despite their immense power and wealth, they decayed and crumbled.41 Thus, they were often used to demonstrate how empires grow and fall. Not unlike in the recent discussion on empires also the ancient historians were tempted to extract general rules from their historical case studies. Therefore it is quite clear that the occupation with past empires already in antiquity also was an attempt to analyze and understand contemporary empires or empire-like structures and the laws of their rise and fall.42 Herodotus is the first Greek author available to us who extensively wrote about the Assyrian Empire. Although we do not have his Assyrian logos, which is either lost or was never written, his Histories contain quite a lot information on Assyria.43 One has to keep in mind that for Herodotus the causes for the rise and fall of empires are quite obvious: manly, warlike behavior is necessary to make a 39

In world history begins with Ninus, king of the Assyrians (BNJ 618 F 1b). See Rollinger, 2011: 325. Orosius sees Ninus as a contemporary of Abraham (1, 1, 5: sunt autem ab Adam primo homine usque ad Ninum ‘magnum’ ut dicunt regem, quando natus est Abraham, anni III:CLXXXIIII, qui ab omnibus historiographis uel omissi uel ignorati sunt.) and states that most Greek and Latin authors see Ninus as the one who started history, namely the series of conquests that we call history (1, 1, 1: Et quoniam omnes propemodum tam apud Graecos quam apud Latinos studiosi ad scribendum uiri, qui res gestas regum populorumque ob diuturnam memoriam uerbis propagauerunt, initium scribendi a Nino Beli filio, rege Assyriorum, fecere). See Rollinger, 2011: 312 for a detailed analysis and further references. 40 See Hdt. 2, 142 and Plato Nomoi 2, 656–657. 41 On the riches of Assyria and Babylonia see Bichler, 2007, Ruffing, 2011 and 2016. 42 See Bichler, 2004 and 2008. 43 For a short overview, see Rollinger, 2011: 333 with further literature. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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country strong and great, whereas exaggerated luxury, decadence as well as imperial/royal hubris lead the path to disaster and demise.44 This determines his perspective on all Empires, also on the Assyrian one. In 1, 178, 1 Herodotus states that Assyria has many huge cities, of which Babylon is the most famous and most important after the destruction of Ninus.45 Herodotus also mentions king Sanacharibus and his campaign against Egypt and then recounts the story of the fall of Ninus.46 It is likewise in Herodotus that king Sardanapalus appears for the first time in a Greek source, though he is mainly mentioned because of his enormous treasures and not dealt with in detail.47 According to Herodotus he is the son of Ninus, the founder of the royal dynasty after whom the city of Ninus (Nineveh) is named. Finally, Ninus falls and Assyria is defeated by the Medes, with the exception of the Babylonian part.48 Again, it is demonstrated that Herodotus regards Babylonia and Assyria not as two different empires but as a unity. The royal names of Assyrian kings and queens we encounter in Herodotus reoccur in the other Greek sources. Chronologically next in line is Ctesias, whose Persian history (Persika) is only known from later compilations of fragments and excerpts.49 His work is particularly remarkable as – despite all obvious implausibility of most of his stories – he was able to create certain ‘oriental’ prototypes and topoi that have proven extremely powerful in later times.50 Among others he is to be held responsible for painting the picture of the ‘oriental’ ruler to be considered the archetype of all oriental effeminate despots, Sardanapalus,51 as well

44 See Bernhardt, 2003 for a study of the motif of the ruinous influences of luxury in classical authors. For a detailed treatment of Herodotus’ ideas about the rise and fall of empires see Ruffing, 2016a. 45 Again, we can see that it was hard for classical authors to make a difference between Babylonia and Assyria, they rather conceive them as a unity. 46 2, 141. 47 2, 150, 3. 48 2, 7, 2. 49 As with Berossus (and many other ancient authors) this fact makes dealing with this source particularly tricky as any later author presenting passages stated to originate in Ctesias’ Persica follows his own general intentions, thus all these fragments are not necessarily to be considered as unaltered reproduction of Ctesias’ record but better considered as being “only an interpretation and/or adaption – or at best an unbiased and reliable quotation or epitome”. Stronk, 2010: 3. Likewise Lenfant, 2004: CXC and note 784. 50 “Ctesias has been assigned a large measure of responsibility for popularizing among his contemporaries and later generations the concept of Eastern decadence.” Gorman/Gorman, 2014: 270. Likewise Madreiter, 2011: 130. 51 Bernhardt, 2009 gives a highly interesting overview of the development of this motif. On the possible oriental background of Sardanapalus’ hedonism, see Fink, 2014 with further literature.

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as the dangerous, power-hungry and man-devouring ‘oriental’ queen Semiramis. A more or less complete history of reception regarding these two figures still has to be written. Both occur in countless novels, paintings, plays, operas and even (though to a lesser extent) in films.52 In Ctesias, world history does begin in Assyria. As Diodorus’ account of his Persica informs us, Ninus is the first king of the Assyrians, who forms a warlike people and subjugates neighboring countries. He successfully overruns Babylonia, Armenia, Media, Persia and the whole of Asia Minor and likewise succeeds in conquering the entire area of Asia between the Nile and Tanais in as little as 17 years. Only Bactria and India are not part of his empire. In Assyria, he founds a capital for his new empire (Nineveh), marries Semiramis, becomes a father of a son and finally dies. His widow Semiramis takes over his throne. She, as well, achieves fame by founding a city – Babylon. In the footsteps of Ninus, Diodorus depicts her as successful warrior queen who adds Egypt, Libya and a huge part of Ethiopia to the Assyrian Empire. Only India manages to escape her grasp, though she also tries to conquer this part of the world. Only after losing the decisive battle against the Indians, does she hand over the reign to the son she had born Ninus, Ninyas.53 Until recently, it was a common agreement, that Diodorus’ account is a more or less unaltered transcript of the Persica.54 But in fact it is difficult to distinguish between Ctesias’ and Diodorus’ characterization of Semiramis, as it seem they take slightly different perspectives on this ‘oriental queen’ par excellence. Diodo52 For Semiramis: 1910 Sémiramis (director: Camille de Morlhon); 1954 La cortigiana di Babilonia (director: Carlo Ludovico Bragaglia) and 1963 Io Semiramide (director: Primo Zeglio); for Sardanapal: 1910 Sardanapalo, Re dell’Assiria (director: Giuseppe De Liguoro) and 1962 The Seven Thunderbolds (director: Silvio Amadio), also released as Syria against Babylon, War Gods of Babylon and La sette foglori di Assur (cf. Solomon, 2001, 240–241). 53 Diod. 2, 1–28= F 1b § 1–28 Lenfant. 54 So for example Krumbholz, 1886: 327 regarding Diod. 2, 20, 3. Also Sancisi-Weerdenburg, 1987: 40–43 and Stronk, 2017 think along similar lines. Stronk states: “Diodorus claims that his account of ‘Semiramis’ is completely based upon Ctesias’ story” (Stronk, 2017: 529) – this statement is rather surprising in a new, commented edition oft he text as Diodorus explicitly refers to Ctesias, but with little exception only when it comes to numbers. Additionally he refers to other sources (Cleitarchus, Athenaius) and never clearly states, that his account is based on Ctesias only. Diod. 2, 20, 3 (Κτησίας μὲν οὖν ὁ Κνίδιος περὶ Σεμιράμιδος τοιαῦθ’ ἱστόρηκεν) does not necessarily refer to the whole part on Semiramis, it is also possible that it only refers to the transformation of Semiramis to a dove. Accordingly Gerhard Wirth and Otto Veh translate “Dies erzählt Ktesias aus Knidos.” (Diodoros, Griechische Weltgeschichte Buch I–X, erster Teil, transl. by G. Wirth and O. Veh, Stuttgart 1992 [Bibliothek der griechischen Literatur 34]), while Jan P. Stronk decided to translate that passage with a much broader implication “Such, then, is the account that Ctesias of Cnidus has given about Semiramis” (Stronk, 2017). See also Comploi, 2000: 227–228 with n. 50.

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rus’ account, dating to the 1st century BC is rather ambivalent: Semiramis certainly commands his admiration – he calls her “τὴν ἐπιφανεστάτην ἁπασῶν τῶν γυναικῶν ὧν παρειλήφαμεν – the most famous of all women”. Several times he emphasizes her beauty55 and reflects on her manifold virtues, and puts particular emphasis on courage and intelligence.56 As Sabine Comploi rightly stressed, his description lacks any negative undertone, in particular he fails to characterise her husbands, Onnes and Ninus, as weak, effeminate men that are submissively dependent on Semiramis. 57 Semiramis’ building activities for both aesthetic and practical purposes are especially commended – Diodorus describes palaces and other representative architecture but devotes particular attention to sacral buildings and engineering structures.58 It becomes clear that Semiramis is not only presented as a warrior queen but also as a pious sovereign, a thoughtful mother of her country, acting wisely and conclusively.59 Whenever Didorus includes notes of criticism, they are to be seen in the wider context of public discourses criticising luxury and decadence60: During her stay in the Median city of Chauon, she is supposed to have enjoyed sundry luxuries (πάντων τρυφὴν) – without further specification. And describing her military campaign against India, Diodorus states that her sole motivation were the riches and luxuries of India (τρυφή καὶ πλοῦτος) that enticed her to commence hostilities (ὑπὲρ ὧν τὰ κατὰ μέρος ἡ Σεμίραμις ἀκούσασα προήχθη μηδὲν προαδικηθεῖσα τὸν πρὸς Ἰνδοὺς ἐξενεγκεῖν πόλεμον)61, although the Indians had not harmed her.62 Also another remark of Diodorus contains a rather sinister undertone, even though his wording is neutral: Legal marriage, he states, has not been an option for Semiramis, as she feared by re-marring her rule might come to an end (γῆμαι μὲν νομίμως οὐκ ἠθέλησεν, εὐλαβουμένη μήποτε στερηθῇ τῆς ἀρχῆς).63 Instead, Diodorus continues, she had chosen her most beautiful soldiers as lovers and had them killed after she had enjoyed their company.64 55

Diod. 2, 4, 5; 2, 5, 1; 2, 5, 2 and 2, 6, 9. His emphasis of her beauty is rather uncommon. Simonetti Agostinetti, 1991 was able to demonstrate that Diodorus usually omits the appearance of exemplary women, but focusses on her strengths in character. 56 Diod. 2, 5, 2; 2, 6, 5; 2, 6, 9; 2, 7, 2; 2, 13, 5; 2, 16, 1. 57 Comploi, 2000: 223. 58 See also Rollinger, 2008. 59 Cf. Comploi, 2000: 225–226. 60 Scheil, 2016 focusses on these few negative aspects of Diodorus’ account along with Semiramis’ efforts in further expanding her empire, when he judges Semiramis an “ambitious imperial leader” (25), who is anxious to expound her ambitious plans by monumental buildings and by doing so aims at immortality. However, Diodorus’ words of praise and admiration go unmentioned. 61 2, 16, 3. 62 2, 16, 4. 63 2, 13, 4. 64 2, 13, 4. Cf. Auberger, 1993: 260. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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To cut a long story short, in Diodorus’ she is not an entirely bad queen, but – as it seems to be the fate of women taking over typically male tasks – her exuberant sexuality seals her fate. However, fragments of Ctesias’ account recorded elsewhere suggest that Diodorus’ tends to whitewash Semiramis.65 It seems that Ctesias’ version was much more bloodthirsty and sexually charged, creating a somewhat stronger negative image of the Babylonian queen. Ninyas, the son of Ninus and Semiramis, is thoroughly designed as an oriental despot. As Ctesias confines, he does not further expand the empire but rather decides to stay, or even hides himself in the palace to enjoy all his riches. It seems that Assyrian history, in reference to the history of an impressive and independent Empire, ends at this point, as Ctesias informs us that there are no deeds of the 30 kings who follow Ninyas, which are worth mentioning.66 By not providing any more information about the kings to follow, Ctesias neglects most of Assyria’s history. Nevertheless, his model of Assyrian history becomes very influential.67 The dynasty ends with the infamous Sardanapalus who surpasses all his predecessors in decadence. Ctesias states that he completely gave up any male way of living and even dressed like a woman.68 But when Sardanapalus is pressed to go to war he successfully defeats his foes three times,69 but all this victories are futile and finally he loses two battles, Ninus is besieged and Sardanapalus burns himself with all his treasures. According to Ctesias, the succession of the rulers of the Assyrian Empire was as follows: Ninus ∞ Semiramis │ Niniyas │ 30 generations of inactive kings │ Sardanapalus Fig. 2: The rulers of the Assyrian Empire according to Ctesias

65

FGrHist 90, 1 – Nicolaos of Damascus: her sons from her first marriage with Onnes plan to kill Semiramis, as they consider her lechery a disgrace; BNJ 93, 1a and 1b – Kephalion: Semiramis kills her sons from her first marriage and is finally killed by her youngest, Ninus; FGrHist 688, 1 i – Syncellus, making reference to Ctesias: under the pretext of flood protection Semiramis has dikes tipped; in truth these dikes are her lovers burial mounds; cf. Comploi, 2000: 233–234. 66 FGrHist 688 1b (ed. Lenfant; = Diodorus 2, 22 [1]). 67 Sancisi-Weerdenburg, 1987 and Bichler, 2010. See also Heller, 2010: 62: “Es war Ktesias selbst, der das Bild eines dekadenten Orient maßgeblich prägte und für seine Tradierung bis auf den heutigen Tag verantwortlich ist.” 68 See Bernhardt, 2009. 69 FGrHist 688 1b (ed. Lenfant; = Diodorus 2, 24 [5]); Lenfant, 2004: 56. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Having said this, we will return to Berossus. It is interesting to observe that Berossus does not follow this account of Ctesias. Following Robert Rollinger one might even interpret his book as a kind of counter-project to Ctesias’ Persica, as it is rather organized by dynasties than giving a sequence of empires.70 An impressive part of his book, which is in some way dependent on Mesopotamian king lists, is supposed to have contained up to 163 names of different kings before Semiramis (BNJ 680 F 1b).71 It is quite remarkable that Semiramis shows up here. A fact which is – at least according to our opinion – demonstrating that Berossus writes in a ‘Western’ tradition, where it has become more or less obligatory to mention Semiramis, the famous queen of Assyria.72 Nevertheless he explicitly criticizes the idea that it was Semiramis who founded Babylon.73 After Semiramis Berossus lists 45 kings, altogether reigning for 526 years. Somewhat later he mentions Senecherib, who is said to have conducted war against Asia and Egypt and to have invaded Babylonia. For Berossus the last king of the Assyrian Empire is not Sardanapalus as in Ctesias but a certain Sarkos, who is the king of the Chaldeans. He has to suffer the same fate as Sardanapalus in Ctesias and ends up burning himself in his palace. How influential Ctesias’ picture of Assyrian history has been, can be demonstrated by looking at authors from late antiquity, who picked up upon his topoi without explicitly mentioning Ctesias as their originator. Orosius for example, who has written his Historiae adversum paganos between the years 416 and 418, mentions that nearly all Greek and Roman scholars let world history begin with Ninus, son of Belus. In Orosius, Ninus is a contemporary of Abraham – and this fact paves the way for him (and Semiramis) to enter all late antique and medieval chronicles.74 According to Orosius, Ninus wanted to increase his domination and thus conducts war for a period of 50 years. After his death he is succeeded by his former wife Semiramis, who is also depicted as a successful warrior-queen – up to that point the narrative resembles Ctesias/Herodotus. Orosius, however, puts emphasis on the very negative aspect that holds the tendency to dominate the later picture of Semiramis up until Humanism and Renaissance: her appetite for man without any regard to moral standards. She not only has sex with a huge number of men, but she even has her lovers killed afterwards.75

70

Rollinger, 2011: 330. See Tuplin, 2013 for a careful discussion of Berossus’ oftensupposed engagement with Greek historians. 71 For the historical events, which we can reconstruct from the extant parts of this list, see Rollinger, 2011: 331–332. 72 E.g. Ctesias (BNJ 688 F 1 b and more often), Megasthenes (BNJ 715 F 11a) or Nearchus (BNJ 133 F3a and b) – and marginally mentioned in Herodotus (1, 84). 73 FGrHist 680 F 8 (142) – Josephus. 74 1, 1, 5. 75 1, 4, 7. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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After Semiramis, Orosius mentions 50 kings. In contrast to Ctesias account, these 50 kings are occupied with warfare. Only the last king of the Assyrians, for Orosius Sardanapalus, is depicted as an inactive king, surrounding himself with harlots and spinning purple wool.76 Again Sardanapalus is depicted as a completely feminized ruler who finally loses his rule (and life) due to an uprising. Ninus ∞ Semiramis │ 50 generations of warrior kings │ Sardanapalus Fig. 3: The rulers of the Assyrian Empire according to Orosius

Conclusion As the case studies chosen have shown, the ideas of the classical authors about Assyrian and Babylonian mythology and history are very vague. They use the Assyrian Empire mainly for two reasons: to describe the ‘first empire in world history’ and to teach their readers lessons about both empires and kings. The Assyrian Empire was founded by Ninus, a great warrior king, followed by his wife Semiramis. Semiramis was either succeeded by her son, whose deeds are described in some detail, or by a certain number of anonymous unimportant kings. Only later sources, as Orosius, paint these follow-up kings as also warlike, clearly aiming at further elaborating on the contrast to Sardanapalus. The end of the Assyrian empire is usually marked with this very Sardanapalus, the most decadent of all kings. So the lesson to learn is clearly one of moral nature: Rulers should be modest and warlike, if they do not take care of their manly qualities, things might go bad for them – especially if a strong and manly foe arises. The discussion regarding the sources of Herodotus is a never-ending one.77 It is clear that he had some information on the Ancient Near East available, but in most cases it is impossible to retrace where this information came from, in which form it reached Herodotus and how he transformed it. If Herodotus actually travelled to Mesopotamia, being a traveller between east and west himself therefore, is also highly disputed. Mainly because of the density of factual errors regarding Mesopotamia, it seems rather unlikely that his writings are based on his own expertise as an eyewitness.78 The case of Ctesias is somehow more promising as he – and his reader Xenophon79 – states that he was a physician at the Persian court.80 If this information 76

I, 19, 1. See the controversial positions in Dunsch/Ruffing, 2013. 78 So, with many details, Rollinger, 1993 – but the discussion is never-ending. 79 Anabasis 1, 8. 80 Suda, κ, 2521. Cf. Tuplin, 2004. 77

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is correct, what might be doubted, Ctesias would actually have to be considered being one of those travellers between east and west we are looking for. Unfortunately, many of his stories are obviously exaggerated or even inaccurate and above all the fragmentary conditions of his work encumbers our understanding of this author. Berossus claims to be a Babylonian priest – an inhabitant of Mesopotamia, who, according to Vitruvius, later moved to the island of Kos. If this was the case, Berossus would also be a traveller between east and west. However, as in the case of Ctesias, the fragmentary condition of Berossus’ works causes more problems than solutions for our investigation and our understanding of the nature of his writings. In addition, the problems with his version of Enūma Eliš, as discussed above, confronts us with serious problems (if we do not want to blame all the errors on corrupt translations and manuscripts). So, what does this examination of some important classical sources on the Near East tells us in the context of a workshop (and a resulting anthology) that aims at collecting information on routes and travellers between East and West? Maybe that historiography is not the best or most reliable genre to look for accurate information or even for indirect evidence concerning actual persons travelling between East and West. Bibliography Auberger, J., 1993: “Ctésias et les femmes”. Dialogues d’histoire ancienne 19, 253–272. Bachvarova, M.R., 2016: From Hittite to Homer: The Anatolian Background of Ancient Greek Epic. Cambridge. Beaulieu, P.-A., 2006: “Berossus on Late Babylonian History”. In Oriental Studies (Special Issue: A Collection of Papers an Ancient Civilizations of Western Asia, Asia Minor and North Africa). Beijing. Pp. 116–149. Bernabé, A., 2004: “Hittites and Greeks. Mythical Influences and Methodological Considerations”. In R. Rollinger / Chr. Ulf (eds.): Griechische Archaik. Interne Entwicklungen – Externe Impulse. Berlin. Pp. 291–310. Bernhardt, R., 2003: Luxuskritik und Aufwandsbeschränkung in der griechischen Welt. Historia Einzelschriften 168. Stuttgart. — 2009: “Sardanapal – Urbild des lasterhaften Despoten”. Tyche 21, 1–25. Bichler, R., 2004: “Some Observations on the Image of the Assyrian and Babylonian Kingdoms within the Greek Tradition”. In R. Rollinger / Chr. Ulf (eds.): Commerce and Monetary Systems in the Ancient World: Means of Transmission and Cultural Interaction. Proceedings of the Fifth Annual Symposium of the Assyrian and Babylonian Intellectual Heritage Project Held in Innsbruck, Austria, October 3rd–8th 2002. Oriens et Occidens 6. Stuttgart. Pp. 499–518.

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— 2007: “Herodot und die Macht des Geldes”. In R. Rollinger (ed.): Reinhold Bichler. Historiographie – Ethnographie – Utopie. Gesammelte Schriften. Teil 1: Studien zu Herodots Kunst der Historie. Philippika 18,1. Wiesbaden. Pp. 11–26. — 2008: “Phantastische Bauten in der Residenz ‘asiatischer Despoten’. Ein Essay zu Herodot, Ktesias und Platon”. In R. Rollinger (ed.): Reinhold Bichler. Historiographie – Ethnographie – Utopie. Gesammelte Schriften. Teil 2: Studien zur Utopie und der Imagination fremder Welten. Philippika 18,2. Wiesbaden. Pp. 149–162. — 2010: “ Ktesias spielt mit Herodot. Zur literarischen Einschätzung der Persika”. In J. Wiesehöfer et al. (eds.): Ktesias Welt / Ctesias’ World. Classica et Orientalia 1. Wiesbaden. Pp. 21–52. Braun-Holzinger, E.A. / Rehm, E., 2005: Orientalischer Import in Griechenland im frühen 1. Jahrtausend v. Chr. Münster. Comploi, S., 2000: “Die Darstellung der Semiramis bei Diodorus Siculus”. In R. Rollinger / Chr. Ulf (eds.): Geschlechterrollen und Frauenbild in der Perspektive antiker Autoren. Innsbruck. Pp. 223–244. de Breucker, G., 2013: “Berossos: His Life and His Work”. In J. Haubold / G.B. Lanfranchi / R. Rollinger / J. Steele (eds.): The World of Berossos. Classica et Orientalia 5. Wiesbaden. Pp. 15–28. Droß-Krüpe, K., 2014: “Textiles Between Trade and Distribution. In Lieu of a Preface”. In K. Droß-Krüpe (ed.): Textile Trade and Distribution in Antiquity / Textilhandel und -distribution in der Antike. Philippika 73. Wiesbaden. Pp. vii–xii. Dunsch, B. / Ruffing, K., (eds.), 2013: Herodots Quellen – Die Quellen Herodots. Classica et Orientalia 6. Wiesbaden. Fink, S., 2014: “Sardanapal – Ein Hedonist aus Mesopotamien?” In S. Gaspa et al. (eds.): From Source to History. Studies on Ancient Near Eastern Worlds and Beyond Dedicated to Giovanni Battista Lanfranchi on the Occassion of his 65th Birthday. Münster. Pp. 239–250. Frahm, E., 2011: Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries. Origins of Interpretation. Guides to the Mesopotamian Textual Record 5. Münster. Geller, M.J., 1997: “The Last Wedge”. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 87, 43–95. George, A., 2003: The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts. Oxford. Gorman, R.J. / Gorman, V.B., 2014: Corrupting Luxury in Ancient Greece. Ann Arbor, Mich. Hartmann, U., 2002: “Geist im Exil. Römische Philosophen am Hof der Sasaniden”. In M. Schuol, U. Hartmann & A. Luther (eds.): Grenzüberschreitungen. Formen des Kontakts zwischen Orient und Okzident im Altertum. Oriens et Occidens 3. Stuttgart. Pp. 123–160.

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Haubold, J. / Lanfranchi, G.B. / Rollinger, R. / Steele, J., (eds.), 2013: The World of Berossos. Classica et Orientalia 5. Wiesbaden. Heller, A., 2010: Das Babylon der Spätzeit (7.–4. Jh.) in den klassischen und keilschriftlichen Quellen. Oikumene – Studien zur Weltgeschichte 7. Berlin. — 2015: “Why the Greeks Know so little about Assyrian and Babylonian History”. In R. Rollinger / E. van Dongen (eds.): Mesopotamia in the Ancient World. Melammu Symposia 7. Münster. Pp. 331–348. Henkelman, W.F.M., 2006: “The Birth of Gilgameš (Ael. NA XII.21). A CaseStudy in Literary Receptivity”. In R. Rollinger / B. Truschnegg (eds.): Altertum und Mittelmeerraum. Die antike Welt diesseits und jenseits der Levante – Festschrift für Peter W. Haider zum 60. Geburtstag. Oriens et Occidens 12. Stuttgart. Pp. 807–856. Krumbholz, P., 1886: Diodors Assyrische Geschichte. Rheinisches Museum 41, 321–341. Lambert, W.G., 2013: Babylonian Creation Myths. Mesopotamian Civilizations 16. Winona Lake, IN. Lenfant, D., 2004: Ctésias de Cnide. La Perse. L’Inde. Autres fragments. Collection des Universités de France publiée sous le patronage de l’Association Guillaume Budé, Paris. Liverani, M., 2016: Imagining Babylon. The Modern Story of an Ancient City. Berlin et al. Madreiter, I., 2011: “Ktesias und Babylonien. Über eine nicht existierende Größe in den Persika”. In J. Wiesehöfer et al. (eds.): Die Welt des Ktesias. Classica et Orientalia 1. Stuttgart. Pp. 247–278. McGeough, K.M., 2015: The Ancient Near East in the Nineteenth Century. Appreciations and Appropriations, 3 vols. Hebrew Bible Monographs 67–69. Sheffield. Rollinger, R., 1993: Herodots babylonischer Logos. Innsbruck. — 2008: “Babylon in der antiken Tradition – Herodot, Ktesias, Semiramis und die Hängenden Gärten”. In J. Marzahn / G. Schauerte (eds.): Babylon. Wahrheit. Berlin. Pp. 487–502. — 2011: “Assur, Assyrien und die klassische Überlieferung. Nachwirken, Deutungsmuster und historische Reflexion”. In J. Renger (ed.): Assur – Gott, Stadt und Land. CDOG 5. Wiesbaden. Pp. 311–345. Ruffing, K., 2011: “Herdot und die Wirtschaft des Achaimeniden-Reichs”. In R. Rollinger / B. Truschnegg / R. Bichler (eds.): Herodot und das Persische Weltreich. Akten des 3. Internationalen Kolloquiums zum Thema “Vorderasien im Spannungsfeld klassischer und altorientalischer Überlieferungen”, Innsbruck 24.–28. November 2008. Classica et Orientalia 3. Wiesbaden. Pp. 75–102. — 2016: “Von der Macht des Geldes”. In B. Eckhart / K. Martin (eds.): Eine neue Prägung. Innovationspotentiale von Münzen in der griechisch-römischen Antike. Philippika 102. Wiesbaden. Pp. 177–197. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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— 2016a: “Alloisi douleuein und der Rat des Artembares. Überlegungen zum Schlußkapitel in Herodots Historien”. In C. Binder / H. Börm / A. Luther (eds.): Diwan. Untersuchungen zu Geschichte und Kultur des Nahen Ostens und des östlichen Mittelmeerraumes im Altertum. Festschrift für Josef Wiesehöfer zum 65. Geburtstag. Duisburg. Pp. 183–203. Sancisi-Weerdenburg, H., 1987. “Decadence in the Empire of Decadence in the Sources”. In H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg (ed.): Achaemenid History. Sources, Structures and Synthesis. Leiden. Pp. 33–45. Scheil, A., 2016: Babylon under Western Eyes. A Study of Allusion and Myth. Toronto et al. Seymour, M., 2014: Babylon. Legend, History and the Ancient City. London. Simonetti Agostinetti, A., 1991: “Presenze femminili nei libri XVIII–XX della Biblioteca storica di Diodoro Siculo”. In E. Galvagno / C. Molè Ventura (eds.): Mito storia traditione. Diodoro Siculo e la storiografia classica. Catania. Pp. 77–87. Simonis, A., 2013: “Semiramis”. In DNP Suppl. 8, 879–892. Solomon, J., 2001: The Ancient World in the Cinema. New Haven. Stronk, J.P., 2010: Ctesias’ Persian History. Introduction, text, and translation. Düsseldorf. — 2017: Semiramis’ Legacy. The History of Persia According to Diodorus of Sicily. Edinburgh Studies in Ancient Persia. Edinburgh. Talon, Ph., 2001: “Enūma Eliš and the Transmission of the Babylonian Cosmology to the West”. In R.M. Whiting (ed.): Mythology and Mythologies. Methodological Approaches to Intercultural Influences. Helsinki. Pp. 265– 277. Tigay, J.H., 1982: The Evolution of the Gilamesh Epic. Philadelphia. Tuplin, Chr., 2004: “Doctoring the Persians. Ctesias of Cnidus, Physician and Historian”. Klio 86, 305–347. — 2013: “Berossos and Greek Historiography”. In J. Haubold, / G.B. Lanfranchi / R. Rollinger / J. Steele (eds.): The World of Berossos. Classica et Orientalia 5. Wiesbaden. Pp. 177–197. van der Spek, R.J., 2008: “Berossus as a Babylonian chronicler and Greek historian”. In R.J. van der Speck et al. (eds.): Studies in Ancient Near Eastern World View and Society Presented to Marten Stol on the Ocassion of his 65th Birthday. Bethedsa, MD. Pp. 277–318. Werner, J., 1992: “Zur Fremdsprachenproblematik in der griechisch-römischen Antike”. In C.W. Müller / K. Sier / J. Werner (eds.): Zum Umgang mit fremden Sprachen in der griechisch-römischen Antike. Palingenesia 36. Stuttgart. Pp. 1–20.

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Invading Mesopotamia, from Alexander the Great to Antiochus VII Julien Monerie

In the course of the two centuries between Alexander’s entry in Babylon (331 BC) and the last Seleucid attempt to regain control of Mesopotamia (130/29 BC), the Land between the Rivers was targeted by no less than nineteen campaigns, half of which came from the Syro-Levantine area.1 Unsurprisingly, most of these campaigns are dated either to the very beginning of the Hellenistic period, when Macedonian control was established over Mesopotamia, or to the middle of the second century BC, when the region was lost to the Parthians.2 These campaigns, which differed widely from each other in scale, aims, tactics and outcome, are unevenly documented by the extant Graeco-Roman and Akkadian sources: some of them, like Alexander’s conquest or Antiochus III’s crushing of Molon’s rebellion (221/20 BC), are known in some detail while others, like Antiochus IV’s victory over Artaxias I of Armenia in upper Mesopotamia (165 BC), are little more than names and dates to us. All of them, however, were subject to unchanging environmental conditions, which military commanders had to consider in order to ensure the success of their endeavour. These were particularly acute in the Mesopotamian floodplain, where the limited resources in food, water and fodder in the North and the inextricable network of irrigation canals in the South considerably constrained the armies’ movements, not to mention the significant seasonal variations of weather conditions and river regime. The present article aims at studying the choices made by invaders and defenders in the context of campaigns launched against the Mesopotamian plain from the Syro-Levantine area in the course of the Hellenistic period, with a focus on river crossings, itineraries and military confrontations.3 The outline of each of the campaigns under review, which will be 1

I am most grateful to Philippe Clancier and Aurélie Paci for their precious advice on Mesopotamian campaigns and itineraries, as well as to the organizers of the Melammu workshop for their kind patience. 2 Seven of the nineteen recorded campaigns launched against Mesopotamia in the course of the Hellenistic period occurred between 331 and 309 BC and eight between 145 and 129 BC. Conversely, only four of these campaigns are dated to the period between 308 and 146 BC, when the Seleucids firmly controlled the Land between the Rivers. 3 The architecture of this study owes much to an article published in 2009 by D. Kahn and O. Tammuz, who studied all the campaigns launched against Egypt between 673 and 306 BC in a comparative perspective. The lesser known invasions coming from the Iranian plateau for the period under review are Nikanor and Evagoras’ attempted invasion of Babylonia (311 BC), Seleucus’ reconquest after the second Antigonian invasion (311/10 BC), © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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referred to by a corresponding number (1. to 10.) throughout the article, is presented in appendix below. I. Crossing the Rivers The Euphrates crossing

Fig. 1: Minimal and maximal discharges of Euphrates at Ramadi and Tigris at Baghdad between 1906 and 1932, prior to the building of the hydroelectric dams – a single year is inserted for comparison (after Rzóska, 1980: 50).

The first step for any army invading Mesopotamia from the West was naturally to cross the river Euphrates. This crossing usually took place in the sector of the so-called Great Bend, which formed a natural boundary between the northern Levant and upper Mesopotamia.4 In low-water periods (from August to November, cf. Fig. 1), the river was easily fordable through the many gravel reaches found in the area (Fig. 2),5 but during the rest of the year, a party of thousands of men and animals could not cross the river as easily as travellers and traders did: single Molon’s occupation of lower Mesopotamia (222/21 BC), three Elymaean raids against Babylonia (145/44 BC, 141/40 BC, 138/37 BC, cf. Potts, 2002) and the three successive Parthian conquests of Mesopotamia (141 BC, 138 BC and 129 BC). Although some aspects of these campaigns will occasionally be addressed here, they generally involved completely different issues for both invaders and defenders and would therefore require a study of their own. 4 The central and southern Levantine area, for its part, was separated from lower Mesopotamia by the Syro-Arabic desert, which could hardly be used as an invasion route due to the logistic difficulties involved by the crossing of this area with great numbers of men and animals. See however the unique case of the expeditionary force sent by Ptolemy to Seleucus in 309 BC (5.), which seems to have reached Babylonia along this route. 5 Gaborit, 2015: 65–66. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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ferries, for instance, which were perfectly suitable for small travelling parties, were out of the question when it came to getting a whole army across. As a result, it appears that most of the armies trying to get to the other bank of the Euphrates when it was not fordable (from December to July) actually crossed on pontoon bridges, which ensured a reasonably quick and safe crossing, though it also required proper building materials, advanced engineering and, above all, suitable locations.6

Fig. 2: Satellite photograph of gravel reaches in the mid-section of the Euphrates’ Great Bend in low-water period, some kilometres downstream from the modern city of Jarabulus. The photograph was taken on the 1st of August, 1969 (source: http://corona.cast.uark.edu/atlas#zoom=13¢er=4236943,4407168).

By the time Alexander invaded the Persian Empire, the traditional crossing point for armies campaigning in this area was Thapsacus, a “large and prosperous city” (Xenophon, Anab. 1. 4. 11) located on the right bank of the river. The city operated both as a boarding point for ships travelling downstream, as a transloading point between river and land for trade goods going both ways and as a crossing point between Mesopotamia and the Levantine area for travellers and armies.7 As implied by the very etymology of its name (< Sem. tpsḥ, “ford”), the 6

On pontoon bridges over the Euphrates, see Gaborit, 2015: 66–70. The earliest occurrence of Thapsacus in the cuneiform sources dates back to the 550s BC (cf. Graslin-Thomé/Lemaire, 2004). For Thapsacus as a transloading point for trade goods going up and down the river, see Strabo, 16. 1. 11 and 16. 3. 3, as well as Arrian, Anab. 7. 7

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city controlled a ford which was practicable during low water periods, while during the rest of the year, when the Euphrates could not be forded, ferries and temporary pontoon bridges seem to have allowed travellers and armies to cross without difficulty. It was there that Cyrus the Younger had made his crossing on his way to meet his brother’s army by the end of July 401 BC8, there also that Darius III had withdrawn to Babylonia with the remnants of his army after Issus in November 333 BC, and that Alexander entered Mesopotamia two years later (1.). Although its location has been much debated over the past decades, it now seems generally accepted that Thapsacus lied in the middle section of the Great Bend, near the modern city of Jarabulus9. The extant documentation strongly suggests that there was no permanent bridge there, as each army crossing the river at Thapsacus apparently had to build its own pontoon bridge: Cyrus the Younger was apparently planning to build such a bridge when he reached the city in 401 BC,10 Darius III had built one on his way to meet Alexander in northern Syria in 333 BC, 11 and Alexander built two in 331 BC for his invasion of Mesopotamia (1.).12 In the course of the Hellenistic period, however, the main crossing point over the river apparently shifted towards the twin cities of Seleucia and Apameia-onthe-Euphrates, some 35 km upstream from Thapsacus.13 The main difference between the two crossings was that the latter possessed a permanent pontoon bridge which, according to Pliny (N.H. 5. 86.), was built by Seleucus I, who founded the twin cities around 300 BC.14 In the following decades, this bridge became the

19. 3; as a boarding point for travellers, see Diodorus, 14. 81. 4. 8 Cf. Xenophon, Anab., 1. 4. 17–18. Since the city was located on a well-known fording site, the Thapsaceans’ alleged amazement at Cyrus’ successful fording of the Euphrates there should probably be taken with a pinch of salt (cf. Briant, 1996: 641). 9 On these matters, see recently Kennedy, 2015 and Gaborit, 2015: 255–257, who both provide the relevant bibliography. The latter concludes her study by proposing Tell Amarna as the most likely candidate for the site of ancient Thapsacus. 10 Cf. Xenophon, Anab. 1. 4. 11. 11 Curtius (3. 7. 1) mentions the building of a pontoon bridge allowing the Persian army to cross of the Euphrates on its way to the northern Levant, while Arrian (Anab. 2. 13) recounts Darius’ retreat to Mesopotamia by Thapsacus after the battle of Issus. Although the former does not provide any location for the crossing and the latter does not mention any bridge, it seems reasonable to assume that Darius’ forces crossed back the Euphrates by the same pontoon bridge he had ordered to build a few weeks before and that this bridge was located at Thapsacus. 12 Arrian, Anab. 3. 7. 1–2 (cf. Curtius, 4. 9. 12). 13 On this double Seleucid foundation, see Abadie-Reynal, 2001. M. Gawlikowski’s hypothesis (1996) that Thapsacus and Seleucia were successive designations of the same city is contradicted by both Classical sources (cf. Strabo, 16. 1. 22–23; Pliny, N.H. 5. 86–87) and archaeological material (cf. Kennedy, 2015: 298) and must therefore be rejected. 14 The accuracy of this piece of information, however, may be doubted, since the same © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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main crossing point over the Great Bend for both travellers and armies, and the city of Seleucia, on the western bank of the river, gradually came to be referred to as Seleucia-on-the-Zeugma (< Gr. ζεῦγμα, “linking”, “pontoon bridge”), and then simply as Zeugma from the first century BC onwards.15 Although the available sources remain silent on the location of the armies’ crossings after Alexander’s invasion (1.), it does not seem unreasonable to assume that this shift from Thapsacus to Seleucia-Zeugma occurred quite early in the Hellenistic period, perhaps as early as the beginning of the third century BC, in the context of the road network’s adjustment to the urban centres created by the first Seleucids throughout Mesopotamia, northern Syria and Asia Minor.16 The fact that Zeugma’s permanent bridge of spared the invading armies the long and tedious task of building a new pontoon bridge for each crossing probably played a major part in this process.17 Be it in Thapsacus or Seleucia-Zeugma, the use of pontoon bridges therefore enabled the armies’ safe crossing all year round, even when the river was not fordable. In other words, despite its considerable width in the sector of the Great Bend, the Euphrates does not appear to have been a prominent obstacle for invading armies.18

author elsewhere spuriously credits Alexander the Great for building that same bridge (ibid. 34. 150, cf. Gaborit, 2015: 69). 15 On Seleucia-Zeugma and its bridge as the main crossing point over the Euphrates, see Strabo, 16. 1. 22–23; Isidore of Charax, Parth. St. 1; Pliny, N.H. 5. 86–87. On the probable location of this bridge, see Abadie-Reynal 2001: 18–19. On the gradual change of denomination from Seleucia-on-the-Euphrates to Zeugma, cf. Gaborit, 2015: 69. 16 On the Seleucid urban foundation policy, see Capdetrey, 2007: 51–76. The earliest explicit mention of an army crossing at Seleucia-Zeugma is Crassus’ second campaign against the Parthians in spring 53 BC (cf. Plutarch, Crass. 19. 3; Cassius Dio, 40. 17. 3). However, Polybius (5. 43. 1) states that Antiochus III met his bride Laodike of Pontus there in 222 BC, which can support the idea of Seleucia-Zeugma’s importance in the Seleucid communication network already in the third century BC. Conversely, no mention of Thapsacus as an active port or crossing point postdates Alexander’s death. Although nothing is said in the extant sources concerning the crossing points for campaigns 2., 3., 4. and 5., we can reasonably assume that the invading armies also crossed the Euphrates at Thapsacus, since these campaigns predate the foundation of Seleucia and Apameia. 17 According to Plutarch (Crass. 17. 2.), Crassus did build a bridge to cross the Euphrates for his first Parthian campaign in 54 BC, but it must be noted that he does not state that Crassus crossed at Zeugma that year. The fact that Cassius Dio (40. 12. 2) records a crossing at an unguarded ford which took the enemy by surprise advocates for an alternate crossing site that year. 18 For invading armies crossing in spring, see 3., 9.; in summer, 1., 5., 10.; in autumn, 4., 6., 8.; in winter, 2., 7. According to Xenophon (Anab. 1. 4. 11), the Euphrates’ width at Thapsacus was four stadia (ca. 740 m). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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The northern Tigris crossing

Fig. 3: Schematic map of the main roads connecting the Syro-Levantine coast with Mesopotamia in the Hellenistic period

Crossing the tumultuous Tigris river, on the other hand, was a totally different matter.19 Pontoon bridges were apparently out of the question due to the lack of proper building material in the area. Consequently, the armies invading along the high road (Fig. 3) had to find another way to cross the river. 20 In low-water periods (from July to November, cf. Fig. 1), the river could be forded at some points, though not without difficulty, as can be seen from Alexander’s crossing in mid-September 331 BC (1.): although the army was marching along the main road across upper Mesopotamia, the Macedonian high command had to rely on local inhabitants to find a suitable fording spot;21 the river was then at its lowest 19

See the common etymology of the name of the Tigris given by Classical authors (cf. Curtius, 4. 9. 16; Strabo, 11. 14. 8; Pliny, N.H. 6. 127), who derive it from the Median word for “arrow”, in reference to the river’s swiftness. This etymology, however, must be spurious, since the river was already called “Idigna” in Sumerian and “Idiglat” in Akkadian as early as the third millennium BC. 20 To my knowledge, the earliest example of an army crossing this part of the Tigris on a pontoon bridge is Trajan’s Parthian campaign in spring 116 AD. According to Cassius Dio (68. 26. 1), the Roman army had to convey barges by waggons all the way from the forests of Nisibis, some 120 km to the West, to build that bridge. See also the somewhat impractical solution of a floating bridge contemplated by the retreating Ten Thousand to cross the Tigris westward in that area in November 401 BC (Xenophon, Anab. 3. 5. 8–12). 21 Diodorus, 17. 55. 3. The army apparently crossed the Tigris around 50 km upstream from modern Mosul (cf. Bernard, 1990: 518 n. 18). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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but men and horses soon had water up to their neck, and both the slippery stones of the riverbed and the violence of the stream made their progression difficult;22 despite the cavalry’s deployment on either side of the fording column to break the current and prevent men, beasts and burden from being carried away, the loss of some packs could not be avoided.23 During flood periods (from December to June), the water level was simply too high for fording, and armies had to be ferried across the river. However common this means of transport may have been for small parties,24 the gathering of multiple crafts for ferrying thousands of men and beasts with their burden within reasonable delays was a difficult task which required careful organization, as can be seen from Antiochus III’s division of his army into three groups to ferry them across the Tigris, in February 220 BC (7.).25 Other crossings Once on the other bank of the Tigris, armies invading along the high road still had to cross the two Zabs, the Diyala and the Tigris again, near Opis, to get to Babylonia (cf. Fig. 3). Herodotus (5. 52) mentions the existence of regular ferries across these streams but these, as we have seen, could hardly be suitable for large armies. 26 Contrarily to the northern Tigris crossing, however, there usually was enough building material available in the Zagros piedmont to build pontoon bridges when these rivers were too high to be forded:27 Artaxerxes II had built such bridges across the Diyala at Sittake and across the Tigris at Opis in 401 BC, Darius III built one in 331 BC across the Greater Zab (1.), as did Molon across the Tigris when he retreated towards Media, in February 220 BC (7.).28 22

Curtius, 4. 9. 18; Diodorus, 17. 55. 4. Curtius, 4. 9. 17–21; Diodorus, 17. 55. 5. 24 On the existence of regular ferries crossing the Tigris at this point of the high road, see Herodotus, 5. 52. 25 Cf. Polybius, 5. 52. 1, who specifically uses the verb διαπεραιόω (“to take across”, “to ferry over”) instead of διαβαίνω (“to walk across”, “to ford”, cf. ibid. 5. 104. 1) in reference to this crossing. 26 The case of Eumenes’ crossing back of the Tigris near Opis, by the end of winter 318/17 BC (2.) is eloquent in this respect: although he had taken care of gathering as many crafts as possible before crossing the river, he failed to get his whole army to the other side and had to abandon his baggage as well as part of his men on the western bank, which he later managed to retrieve on a truce with Seleucus (Diodorus, 19. 13. 3–5). 27 The Ten Thousand’s fording (διαβάντες) of the Greater Zab in October 401 BC (Xenophon, Anab. 3. 3. 6) shows that this stream at least was fordable in low-water season. 28 For Artaxerxes II, see Xenophon, Anab. 2. 4. 24–25 (with the well-known swap between Opis and Sittake in Xenophon’s account, cf. Reade, 2015: 187–188); for Darius III, see Curtius, 4. 9. 9; for Molon, see Polybius, 5. 52. 4. These repeated instances of bridge building over the same streams advocate for an interpretation of these bridges as temporary structures built in wartime in order to ease the defending armies’ movements instead of 23

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Defending the banks Because they implied a great deal of logistics and a temporary breaking of combat formation, river crossings usually provided good opportunities for defenders to delay and harass their enemy. Their primary task in this respect was to cut all the temporary bridges which might remain on the river, and make sure that the boats forming these bridges would not fall into the hands of the invaders. Abrocomas’ burning of the boats of Thapsacus after his crossing of the Euphrates in July 401 BC,29 Darius III’s cutting, on his crossing back towards Mesopotamia in November 333 BC, of the pontoon bridge he had built a few weeks earlier at Thapsacus (1.),30 as well as Zeuxis’ seizure of the river boats on the Tigris near Opis by the end of 222 BC in order to prevent Molon from invading Babylonia (7.),31 all confirm the paramount importance of such a measure. One must concede that neither Xenophon for Abrocomas nor Polybius for Zeuxis explicitly states that these boats were pontoon barges: both authors only mention πλοῖα (“boats”) – a word which can be understood either as ferries used for getting troops across the river or as barges for building temporary pontoon bridges. If, as I believe, the latter meaning is the correct one, it would imply that such barges were left permanently at regular crossing points, such as Thapsacus on the Euphrates or Opis on the Tigris, to be used by royal armies for building pontoon bridges more readily when needed. The corollary to this practice naturally was that, in case of invasion, these barges had to be secured so that the enemy could not use them to his own advantage. Once no bridge remained on the river, a strong guard on the opposite bank usually provided a major defensive line. Some invaders even had to reconsider their itinerary in front of such defences, as did Antiochus III in February 220 BC, when he learned that Molon’s troops were guarding the Royal Canal, near Seleucia-on-the-Tigris (7.).32 As a matter of fact, even when the balance of power was not strongly in favour of the defenders, putting a guard on the banks of a river permanent structures as is sometimes thought. 29 Xenophon, Anab. 1. 4. 18. Cf. also the rumour recorded by Xenophon (ibid. 2. 4. 17– 20) that Tissaphernes was planning to destroy the pontoon bridge across the Tigris, near Opis, in order to cut off the Ten Thousand’s retreat in September 401 BC, after the battle of Cunaxa. 30 The destruction of this bridge is not explicitly mentioned in the sources but is implied by the fact that the Macedonians had to build a new (double) bridge at Thapsacus in summer 331 BC. Cf. also Darius’ hesitation to cut the boat bridge on the Greater Zab in October 331 BC, after Gaugamela (Curtius, 4. 16. 8–9 and 16–17; Arrian, Anab. 3. 15. 4). 31 Polybius 5. 45. 3–4. 32 Polybius, 5. 51. 6–7. Cf. also the Ten Thousand’s decision not to cross the Tigris towards upper Mesopotamia due to the presence of enemy cavalry on the opposite bank in November 401 BC (Xenophon, Anab. 3. 5. 12), as well as Mark Anthony’s decision to avoid crossing at Zeugma in spring 36 BC, when he found that the Euphrates banks were already guarded by Parthian forces (Cassius Dio, 49. 25. 1). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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could delay the enemy’s advance. The defence organized on the left bank of the Euphrates by Mazday, who hampered the Macedonian building of a double pontoon bridge in July 331 BC before withdrawing his troops at the news of Alexander’s arrival (1.), is a good example of such tactics:33 despite what the Classical accounts seem to imply, Mazday’s orders were probably not to stand and fight on the bank but more likely to buy as much time as possible for Darius to reinforce his army in Mesopotamia. When Alexander reached Thapsacus with the main body of his forces, Mazday was no longer in position to delay the Macedonian building works, so he quickly left to preserve his men and get enough ahead of the invaders to carry out an efficient scorched earth policy (cf. infra). Conversely, invading armies who wanted to cross a guarded bank had to avoid the defender’s attention at all cost.34 A good way of doing so was to gather enough boats to ferry a substantial force across the river before the enemy could react. Unlike fording and bridging, ferrying could be carried out almost anywhere along the river, which meant that the defenders had to cover much greater distances to watch the banks. This way, Eumenes managed to get most of his army across the Tigris near Opis by the beginning of 317 BC (2.), 35 and Antiochus’ general Xenoitas, who wanted to repel Molon’s invasion by attacking him on the left bank of the Tigris, managed to cross the river by night in spring 221 BC (7.).36 II. Marching across the plain Three possible routes With the exception of Antiochus IV’s campaign in 165 BC, which aimed at reconquering the territory lost to Artaxias I in upper Mesopotamia (8.), the primary target of all the campaigns under review was the rich and fertile lands of Babylonia, and especially its northern part, around Babylon and Seleucia-on-the-Tigris, which formed both the political and economic core of the region and a communication node between the Mediterranean world, the upper Satrapies and the Ara33

Curtius, 4. 9. 7 and 12; Arrian, Anab. 3. 7. 1–2. Cf. also Mazday’s failed defence on the banks of the Tigris in September 331 BC (Curtius, 4. 9. 23; Diodorus, 17. 55. 1–2). 34 Cf. Diodorus’ account (18. 73. 3) of Eumenes being attacked by night by local inhabitants near the Tigris by the end of 318 BC, in undetermined circumstances (2.). 35 Diodorus, 19. 13. 3, who states that Seleucus, having taken only a small cavalry detachment with him, was unable to prevent Eumenes’ crossing. 36 Polybius (5. 46. 8–12) states that Xenoitas had first tried to deceive Molon by feigning to prepare a pontoon bridge over the Tigris, but that the ruse failed because Xenoitas had not gathered the necessary material for bridge building. Such a strategic error can probably be explained by the dearth of building materials on the Babylonian side of the river rather than by Xenoitas’ alleged carelessness. Polybius (5. 47. 1–2) then records that the cavalry detachment sent by Molon to counter his enemy’s crossing ca. 14 km downstream from Opis did not know the area very well and got bogged down in the marshes surrounding Xenoitas’ newly established camp on the left bank. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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bian Peninsula.37 Invaders who wanted to get there from the Syro-Levantine coast had three options (cf. Fig. 3): •

•

•

A “high road”, which crossed the upper Djezireh along the foothills of the Tur Abdin before turning south across the Transtigridian lowlands towards Babylonia. This was the most common itinerary between the Mediterranean and Mesopotamia in the first millennium BC.38 A “middle road” following the course of the Euphrates down to Babylon, which actually combined two roads: a river route for boats and a land itinerary snaking along the river. This was the road that Cyrus the Younger had chosen for his invasion of Babylonia in 401 BC.39 A “lower road” crossing the Syro-Arabian desert through Palmyra towards the middle Euphrates, which later became prominent as a trade route between the Mediterranean and the Persian Gulf.40

All these routes are well-attested by the extant documentation from the second millennium BC onwards, and each had its drawbacks and advantages.41 The lower road was obviously the least practical for an army, due to its lack of proper supplies for great numbers of men and beasts, and it seems to have been used only exceptionally for military purposes: only one example is attested for the period under review, namely when Ptolemy sent an expeditionary force on camels’ back to Babylonia to help Seleucus in his struggle against Antigonus in 309 BC (5.).42 Between the two other roads, the middle one was certainly quicker, but food and fodder were scarcer there in comparison to the well-supplied high road.43 The latter, however, was not accessible all year round and although the upper Djezireh was certainly cooler than the middle Euphrates in summertime, it was impassable in winter due to snow and bad weather.44 Moreover, campaigns involving the use 37

In this respect, the city of Uruk, which was the metropolis of southern Babylonia, was a military dead end. 38 During the Achaemenid period, this route formed the Mesopotamian section of the socalled “Royal Road” described by Herodotus (5. 52–54) as part of the itinerary from Sardis to Susa (cf. Briant, 1991). A junction of this road led to Babylonia, after crossing the Tigris at Opis. 39 Cf. Joannès 1995: 185–186 and Clancier, 2006: 260–263. 40 On this matter, see recently Seland, 2016. 41 Joannès, 1995: 182–186. 42 Cf. Arrian, Ind. 43. 4–5. The identification of this itinerary cannot be determined with absolute certainty. Another (less likely) interpretation would be the desert road crossing the northern part of the Arabian Peninsula from Gaza to Babylonia via Dumatha (mod. Dumat al-Jandal). 43 According to Arrian (Anab. 3. 7. 3), the better supply of the high road decided Alexander to choose it over the middle road in summer 331 BC (1.). On supply problems along the Euphrates route, see e.g. Xenophon, Anab. 1. 5. 5–7. 44 For the comparative coolness of the high road in summer, see Arrian, Anab. 3. 7. 3; for © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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of heavy siege equipment virtually compelled the invaders to advance along the middle road due to the scarcity of timber in Mesopotamia, which implied that siege engines had to be conveyed from the Syro-Levantine coast – an enterprise which was much more readily achieved by transport ships down the Euphrates than by land through the Djezireh, not to mention the additional logistical challenge of carrying heavy equipment over the many streams which crossed the way of the high road. Here again, however, seasonality played its part, for the Euphrates was neither navigable in spring, during the high-water period, nor by the end of summer, when the water level was not high enough to allow heavy ships to manoeuvre, as Antiochus III discovered at his own expense in summer 210 BC (cf. Fig. 1).45 Taken together, these factors seem to have influenced the course to be taken for each of the campaigns under review: •

•

•

In most cases (1., 2., 7., 8., 9., 10.), the better supplied high road seems to have been favoured, despite the additional river crossings involved (the northern Tigris crossing being undoubtedly the most difficult one) and the impracticalities of the road in winter. The only campaigns which seem to have been undertaken along the middle road seem to have been the ones involving the conveyance of siege equipment on transport ships (6., and quite probably 4.).46 In only one instance, an expeditionary force was sent through the lower, desert road (5.).47

Where did the high and middle roads part? It must be said, however, that the invaders did not necessarily have to decide which road they were to take as soon as they set foot on Mesopotamian soil, for

its impracticality during wintertime, see Antigonus’ (2.) and Antiochos III’s (7.) forced wintering in upper Mesopotamia, in 318/17 BC and 221/20 BC respectively (cf. Diodorus 19. 13. 5 for Antigonus, and Polybius, 5. 51. 1–2 for Antiochus). Cf. also Afranius difficulties in the same area in winter 65 BC (Cassius Dio, 37. 5. 5). 45 Polybius, 9. 43. 6. Cf. also Isidore of Charax (Parth. St. 1), who explicitly states that boats were regularly wrecked during summer in the middle Euphrates area. 46 In this regard, the choice of Cyrus the Younger to take the land road along the Euphrates in 401 BC despite the fact that he did not have a fleet remains exceptional and seems to have been dictated as much by Cyrus’ uncertainty concerning the loyalty of some of his troops (since the low supplies along the road forbade any turning back, cf. Joannès, 1995: 185–186) as by his need to confront his brother’s army before it could receive substantial reinforcements (cf. Briant, 1996: 648). 47 It must be said, however that the troops sent along this road were only reinforcements sent to Seleucus and not a proper invasion force. The route followed by Seleucus for his reconquest of Babylonia (3.) and by Antigonus for this third attempt to invade Babylonia (5.) cannot be determined from the extant sources. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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the high and middle roads only parted on the Balikh river, a hundred kilometres east of the Euphrates’ Bend as the crow flies. This fact is clearly indicated by both Xenophon, who records that Cyrus’ army first went from Thapsacus to the Araxes (mod. Balikh) before turning south to reach the Euphrates again along the middle road,48 and Isidore of Charax, who records in his Parthian Stations that the middle road from Zeugma to Seleucia-on-the-Tigris first crossed twenty schoeni (ca. 120 km) of upper Mesopotamian steppe to the banks of the Balikh before turning south towards Nikephorion (mod. Raqqah), where it flowed into the Euphrates.49 This deviation of the middle road from the course of the Euphrates is easily explained by the fact that the lower part of the Great Bend was marked with rocky passes, swamps and arid plains which would have hampered the progression of land armies to a considerable point.50 As a result, while ships going downstream were compelled to follow the long and winding course of the lower Bend, land travellers willing to reach Babylonia by the middle road could avoid unnecessary difficulties by leaving the banks of Euphrates immediately after they crossed the river, following the high road eastward for some 100 km to the Balikh, and turn south to reach back the Euphrates at Nikephorion.51 Taking this configuration into account also provides an alternative explanation for an event which lies outside the scope of our study, but is nonetheless important: namely the course of M. Licinius Crassus’ last campaign in spring 53 BC. After an initial incursion beyond the Euphrates in 54 BC, Crassus launched a major operation from Zeugma on the following year.52 This operation, which gathered a large army along with transport ships, was aimed at capturing both Seleucia-on-the-Tigris and the nearby Parthian residence of Ctesiphon.53 The army initially intended to follow the ships southward along the Great Bend but Abgar of Osrhoene, who was Crassus’ ally at the time, convinced the Roman high command to leave the fleet and advance eastward into the steppe towards the surroundings of Carrhae, on the Balikh:54 48

Xenophon, Anab. 1. 4. 19. On the identification of the Araxes river as the Balikh, cf. Farrell, 1961. 49 Isidore, Parth. St. 1 (cf. Chaumont, 1984: 72–79). 50 Cf. Gaborit, 2015: 34–38 and Kennedy, 2015: 283–284. 51 This branch-off between the high and middle roads on the Balikh, which can be identified in the itinerary of several campaigns, has often been interpreted as a feint of the invaders to deceive the defenders concerning their invasion route (cf. e.g. Farrell, 1961: 154– 155 for Cyrus the Younger’s campaign in 401 BC; and Bowersock, 2008: 139 for Julian’s Parthian campaign in 363 AD). These interpretations should now be abandoned in view of the above-mentioned conformation of the middle road. 52 For Crassus’ operations in 54 BC, see Plutarch, Crass. 17. 2–4 and Cassius Dio, 40. 12– 13. 53 For the capture of Seleucia and Ctesiphon as the campaign’s main goal, cf. Plutarch, Crass. 18. 2, as well as Cassius Dio, 40. 16. 3 and 20. 3. 54 For the army’s initial following of the river banks, see Plutarch, Crass. 20. 1–2 and Cassius Dio, 40. 20. 3–4. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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“At this time, accordingly, after the Barbarian (i.e. Abgar) had persuaded Crassus, he drew him away from the river and led him through the midst of the plains, by a way that was suitable and easy at first, but soon became troublesome when deep sand succeeded, and plains which had no trees, no water, and no limit anywhere which the eye could reach, so that not only did thirst and the difficulties of the march exhaust men, but also whatever met their gaze filled them with an obstinate dejection. For they saw no plant, no stream, no projection of sloping hill, and no growing grass, but only sea-like billows of innumerable desert sand-heaps enveloping the army. This of itself was enough to induce suspicion and treachery.”55 The desolation of the countryside described by Plutarch has led some scholars to interpret this itinerary as a side road.56 A comparison with other campaigns, however, suggests: a) that the Roman army, who reached the Balikh a little to the south of Carrhae, followed the common section of the high and middle roads; b) that Crassus was most probably intending to turn south on the Balikh and take the middle road to reach back his fleet on the Euphrates; and c) that Abgar, far from misguiding the Romans to a desolate waste, actually prevented them from engaging in the difficult path of the lower Great Bend by redirecting the army towards the most common invasion route.57 Burning the land, drowning the land The defenders, for their part, basically had two options for disorganizing the invaders on the march: destroy all the supplies which could be of use to their enemy and/or impede their moves by opening dykes and canals to flood the countryside. The best-known example of the former is undoubtedly Mazday’s action against Alexander in the upper Djezireh, in the course of summer 331 BC (1.):58 55

Plutarch, Crass. 22. 1–2. Cf. e.g. Tarn, 1932: 608 and Traina, 2011: 65, who both link it with the so-called “nomad route” described by Strabo, 16. 1. 27. Dillemann (1962: 185), for his part, rejects this identification, though he still interpreted the itinerary as a side route. Against these views, see Debevoise, 1968: 85, who deems Plutarch’s description as dubious and seems to identify the route followed by the army as a common itinerary. 57 Cf. Abgar’s cynical reminder to the discouraged Roman soldiers that they should not expect to find a rolling Campanian landscape in the upper Djezireh (Plutarch, Crass. 22. 3). Note that this interpretation does not necessarily imply that Abgar was genuinely trying to help the Romans at this point: if Abgar, who later defected to the Parthians in the battle of Carrhae, was actually luring Crassus to Suren’s trap, as stated by Plutarch (Crass. 21) and Cassius Dio (40. 20. 4 – 21. 1), it was his interest that the Roman army would not take an unexpected route such as the one that Crassus was engaging in by following the course of the Great Bend. 58 See also Xenophon, Anab. 1. 6. 1 for Artaxerxes II’s burning of resources along the middle road before his brother’s advance in 401 BC, and ibid. 3. 5. 3 for Tissaphernes’ burning of the Transtigridian countryside along the high road against the Ten Thousand a 56

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when he learned that the main body of the Macedonian army was approaching Thapsacus, Mazday quickly withdrew his troops to the East and began to scorch the countryside along the high road up to Gaugamela, where Darius intended to confront his enemy.59 These destructions were obviously aimed at disrupting the invaders who were then unable to find enough food and, most importantly, enough fodder to sustain themselves on the road and had to speed up to cover the burnt territory as fast as possible.60 Timing was indeed paramount for the success of this policy, and Mazday had to put the right distance between his force and Alexander’s army, viz. not too far away to ensure that the Macedonian scouts would not discover that the resources along the high road were being destroyed before it was too late for Alexander’s army to turn back and take the middle road, and not too close to prevent the enemy cavalry from putting out the fires started by Mazday’s forces.61 Although this scorched earth policy became less efficient on the northern Transtigridian section of the road – precisely because of the Macedonian cavalry’s proximity –,62 it was by and large reasonably successful, judging by Alexander’s inaction for several days after his crossing of the Tigris, which was probably aimed as much at resting his troops after their hasty crossing of the Djezireh as at giving enough time to the stragglers to join the rest of the army before the oncoming confrontation against the Great King’s huge forces.63 If the invaders had already reached the irrigated area of lower Mesopotamia, the defenders could also try to hinder the enemy’s movements by opening the canals and breaching the dykes to drown the countryside under water. Although the actuality of these measures is not always clear,64 one case is quite explicit in few weeks later. 59 Cf. Curtius, 4. 9. 8 and 13–15; ibid., 4. 10. 11–14; Diodorus, 17. 55. 2. 60 The importance of destroying fodder in this context, which was vital to both cavalry horses and pack animals, is explicitly stated by Diodorus (17. 55. 2), as well as by Xenophon (Anab. 1. 6. 1) for Cyrus’ campaign in 401 BC. For the faster pace of Alexander’s army across the upper Djezireh, see Curtius, 4. 9. 13–14 (cf. Arrian, Anab. 3. 7. 5). 61 This importance of putting the right distance between his force and Alexander’s army probably explains why Mazday left the defence of the Euphrates’ banks as soon as he heard that the main body of the Macedonian army was approaching (Arrian, Anab. 3. 7. 2.). Moreover, we can presume that Mazday only began to burn the available supplies at some distance east of the Balikh (where the high and the middle roads parted) in order to ensure that Alexander would not become aware of his destructions, decide to take the Euphratic road, rush on Babylon and outflank Darius’ army. 62 Curtius, 4. 10. 11–14. 63 Cf. Curtius, 4. 9. 13 and 10. 1; Arrian, Anab. 3. 7. 6 and 9. 1. 64 Cf. Joannès, 1995: 188–190, who questions the accuracy of Xenophon’s account (Anab. 2. 3. 13) concerning Artaxerxes’ flooding of northern Babylonia to hamper his brother’s advance in September 401 BC. Cf. also Patrocles’ measures against Demetrius in 311 BC (4.) recorded by Diodorus (19. 100. 6), which might have implied the flooding of the countryside surrounding Babylon. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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this regard: it is the flooding of Eumenes’ camp near Opis in early 317 BC by order of Seleucus, who was satrap of Babylonia at the time (2.). Diodorus (19. 13. 2) records that Seleucus, having failed to convince the Eumenes’ Silver Shields to change sides: “sailed off to a certain ancient canal and cleared its intake, which had been filled up in the course of time. Since the Macedonian camp was surrounded by water and the neighbouring land on all sides was now inundated, there was danger that the entire encamped army would be destroyed in the flood.” Despite these dire straits, Eumenes was able to overcome this situation: having crossed the Tigris on punts with some of his troops, he came back to his camp on the right bank by night and “under the guidance of one of the inhabitants of the region he began to excavate a certain place through which it was easy to turn the canal and make the neighbouring land passable”.65 III. Meeting the enemy Most of the time, however, neither a defence on river banks nor the burning or flooding of the countryside were sufficient to rid the defenders of an impending invasion. The only efficient ways to avert this danger were either to defeat the enemy on the battlefield or to hold on fortified positions for enough time to force the invaders to give up their plans. Pitched battles If the defenders judged that they had a reasonable chance to defeat their enemy on the battlefield, a direct confrontation could be considered. Interestingly, most of the battles attested in the sources seem to concentrate around specific areas: if their invaders came along the high road, the defenders willing to engage their opponent seem to have favoured the northern Transtigridian lowlands, in the heart of ancient Assyria, for doing so: the battle of Gaugamela, in October 331 BC (1.), is naturally the most famous of these battles but other, lesser known examples are attested, such as Demetrius II’s possible battle against the Parthian prince Bagayaša in spring 138 BC (9.), as well as Antiochus VII’s defeat of Indates, a general of Phraates II, on the Greater Zab in 130 BC (10.).66 If, on the contrary, the invasion route was the middle road, the defenders usu65

Diodorus, 19. 13. 4. (cf. also ibid., 18. 73. 3). Although the occurrence of a battle between Demetrius II and Bagayaša (9.) cannot be ascertained, its existence is suggested by the fragmentary notice of a Babylonian astronomical diary (AD 3 -137 A, obv. 17’–18’) mentioning Bagayaša’s troops in connection to “the cities of the province of the land of Aššur” in the context of the defence of Babylonia against Demetrius’ invasion. For Antiochus VII’s battle against Indates (10.), see Josephus, Ant. Jud. 13. 8. 4. 66

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ally seem to have met their enemy around the ancient city of Sippar, in northwestern Babylonia. The available examples are not as clear as for the northern Transtigridian plain, for this road is much less frequently attested as an invasion route in the Hellenistic period, but the case of Artaxerxes II’s defence at Cunaxa in 401 BC provides an eloquent illustration of this line of defence.67 Finally, the case of Molon’s battle against Antiochus III in 220 BC (7.) must be mentioned here, since it did not take place in either of these areas but in Apolloniatis, around the Oreikon mountains (mod. Jebel Hamrin), along the lower course of the Diyala river.68 This unusual location can be explained by Molon’s lack of control over the northern Transtigridian lowlands,69 and by the fact that he met Antiochus III while attempting to withdraw towards Media by the so-called Khorasan road, which was the main road to the Upper Satrapies.70 As a matter of fact, the lower Diyala was a common location for setting up a defensive battle against invaders coming down this road from the East, as can be seen from the battle of Opis, where Nabonidus had tried to repel Cyrus II’s invasion in 539 BC.71 Unsurprisingly, then, it appears that the pitched battles set up to confront invaders were located along the main roads leading to lower Mesopotamia, at the gates of strategical areas such as the Transtigridian plain or northern Babylonia.72 As mentioned above, the natural constraints of the area narrowed down the options available to the armies invading from the West to a single alternative – either the high or the middle road –, and scouts could easily inform the defenders about

67 The only probable case of invasion along the middle road during the period under review is the Ptolemaic invasion of 246 BC (6.). Unfortunately, the Babylonian Chronicle of Ptolemy III (BCHP 11), which is the only detailed document about this campaign, begins abruptly with the siege of Seleucia-on-the-Euphrates and virtually nothing is known about the preceding events. 68 On this battle, see Polybius, 5. 52. 7 – 54. 2. 69 Cf. Polybius’ mention (5. 52. 2) of Molon’s siege of Dura on the Tigris (probably identical to mod. Al-Daur) in winter 221/20 BC. 70 Cf. Molon’s earlier confrontation against Xenoitas in the same area in spring 221 BC (ibid., 5. 48. 1–9). 71 Cf. ABC 7, col. iii, ll. 12–14. 72 In three cases, the sources do mention a pitched battle set up by the defenders to repel the invasion but do not provide any information concerning the location of this battle: the first one (3.) is the Antigonian defence of Babylonia against Seleucus’ invasion in spring 311 BC (cf. BCHP txt. BM 35920, l. 5’); the second (5.) is Seleucus’ defence against the third Antigonian invasion of Babylonia in summer 310 BC (cf. BCHP 3, rev. 14’–15’); and the last one (8.) is Artaxias’ defence against Antiochus IV’s reconquest of upper Mesopotamia in autumn 165 BC (cf. Diodorus, 31. 17a). The latter probably took place in the Khabur triangle, possibly along the course of the high road. As for the first two, their location cannot be determined, for in both cases we do not know which road had been chosen by the invaders.

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the path taken by the enemy long before their arrival. In such circumstances, the defenders who were willing to confront their opponents on the battlefield could prepare their defence on appropriate strategic positions and even drill their army on the spot and prepare the battleground to make it more suitable for their own manoeuvres, as Darius III did at Gaugamela.73 Siege warfare If the invaders were not beaten on the battlefield (as in the case of campaigns 3. and 5.) or if the defenders saw no chance of success in a direct confrontation (4. and maybe 6.), their best remaining chance was to man the fortresses of the area and hold on as long as possible, while waiting for reinforcements (4., 5., 6.) and harassing the enemy as often as possible (4., 5.). Several fortresses are attested in Babylonia for the Hellenistic period, such as the fortified city of Seleucia-on-theEuphrates, located ca. 120 km upstream from Babylon, which guarded the access to northern Babylonia (6.),74 or the Babylonian fortress of Bēlet-Ninua, on the western bank of the city (4., 6.),75 but the main stronghold of the area seems to have been the palatial citadel of Babylon, on the eastern bank of the Euphrates, which had been heavily fortified by the first Neo-Babylonian kings at the turn of the seventh and sixth centuries BC.76 This citadel was apparently very difficult to capture, be it by storm or starvation, and many invaders seem to have experienced difficulties in their attempts to take it (3., 4., 5., 6.).77 In one instance (3.), Seleucus seems to have been able to take the citadel by storm, after weakening the citadel walls built of clay bricks by diverting water from the Euphrates,78 but most of the time, as often in a siege, victory seems to have gone to the most enduring side, as can be seen e.g. from Demetrius’ hasty withdrawal in 311 BC, while Babylon’s palatial citadel apparently was the only stronghold still standing up against the Antigonians, and Seleucus’ subsequent retaking of the whole region after the departure of Demetrius’ army (4.). Conclusion As we can see, the armies campaigning in the Land between the Rivers were subject to natural constraints, which narrowed their options and strategic choices to a considerable point in their dealing with campaign calendar, choice of itinerary, 73

If Curtius’ account (4. 9. 6–10) is to be trusted here, Darius prepared the battleground of Gaugamela even before Alexander’s arrival at Thapsacus i.e. before knowing for certain which route would be chosen by the Macedonian. 74 On this fortress and its role, cf. Clancier, 2012: 17–18. 75 Bergamini, 2011: 29; Clancier, 2012: 20–21. 76 On this palace, see e.g. Kuhrt, 2001. 77 Cf. Curtius (5. 1. 17), who states that Alexander felt relieved at the news of Mazday’s surrender of Babylon in October 331 BC, which spared him the effort of a long siege (1.). 78 BCHP 3, rev. 7’–8’. Cf. Bergamini, 2011: 27. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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river crossings, army supply or defensive and offensive strategies. However, it must be stressed that despite these heavy constraints, most of these campaigns seem to have been reasonably successful, at least in the short term: over the nineteen campaigns launched against Mesopotamia in the course of the Hellenistic period from both East and West, only three can be deemed as proper failures, in the sense that they did not achieve their initial purpose, regardless of their strategic outcome in the long run.79 Interestingly, this situation lies in stark contrast with the following centuries, when campaigns of the Late Republic and Early Roman Empire were much less successful in their military actions against Parthian Mesopotamia. Appendix: Overview of the Hellenistic invasions of Mesopotamia from the West 1. Alexander’s conquest of Mesopotamia (summer – autumn 331 BC) After his defeat at Issus (1st of November 333 BC), Darius III withdrew towards Mesopotamia by crossing the Euphrates at Thapsacus with 4.000 men, leaving his opponent with the tiresome task of conquering the Levant and Egypt, which Alexander spent eighteen months to carry out.80 In the meantime, the Great King gathered a new army in Babylon, introducing military innovations to match the Macedonian army.81 A suitable location was then chosen to confront the Macedonian army near Arbela, along the course of the high road, which Alexander was expected to take. The terrain was levelled to suit the Persian cavalry and chariotry, troops were drilled daily on the field, and iron spikes hidden where the Macedonian cavalry was expected to manoeuvre.82 By mid-summer 331 BC, Alexander prepared his army, which was around 47.000 men strong at the time, for crossing the Euphrates.83 Macedonian engineers had been sent ahead to build pontoon bridges at Thapsacus but did not dare 79

Oddly enough, these three campaigns are the Antigonian attempts at reconquering Babylonia launched from both East and West between 311 and 309 BC. The reasons of these failures in comparison to the otherwise generally successful campaigns of the Hellenistic period remain to be assessed. 80 Arrian, Anab. 2. 13. 1. On this campaign, see conveniently Briant, 1996: 837–891. 81 Diodorus, 17. 53. 1–3; Curtius, 4. 9. 3–4. These were dictated by the lessons of the Issus defeat. The main innovations mentioned in these accounts are longer weapons for foot soldiers, shields and swords for javeliners, better armour for cavalry, and the introduction of new scythe-bearing chariot units. 82 For the levelling of the battleground, see Curtius, 4. 9. 10 and Arrian, Anab. 3. 8. 7; for the daily drill of the troops, Diodorus, 17. 53. 4 and 55. 1; for the hidden spikes, Curtius, 4. 13. 36 and Polyaenus, 4. 3. 17. 83 Arrian, Anab. 3. 7. 1. For the size of Alexander’s army in summer 331 BC, see ibid. 3. 12. 5. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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to get too close to the left bank by fear of Mazday, who had been dispatched with 6.000 men to buy time for Darius by disrupting the invaders’ advance.84 When the Macedonian army reached the river banks, Mazday simply withdrew his troops and began to burn the land in order to impede Alexander’s progression across the upper Djezireh.85 As predicted by the Persian high command, Alexander chose the better supplied high road over the shorter Euphratic route, though he seems to have been compelled to advance along that road at a fast pace, due to Mazday’s scorched earth policy.86 By mid-September 331 BC, Alexander reached the banks of the Tigris.87 Although the opposite bank laid undefended, the army experienced some difficulties in fording the river.88 After the crossing, Mazday carried on his scorched earth policy, though less efficiently due to of the growing proximity of the invading army.89 The ensuing battle of Gaugamela (1st of October 331 BC) turned to Alexander’s advantage, despite the smaller number of his troops.90 After the battle, Darius III withdrew to the Iranian plateau, with the intention of gathering another army.91 The following weeks saw diplomatic negotiations between Alexander, who soon resumed his advance along the high road, and Mazday, who had withdrawn to Babylon with some of his troops after the battle.92 The latter’s voluntary surrender, which earned him an appointment as satrap of Babylonia, saved Alexander the trouble of losing precious weeks besieging Babylon93 – the conqueror’s

84

Curtius, 4. 9. 7 and 12; Arrian, Anab. 3. 7. 1.–2. Curtius, 4. 9. 8 and 13–15. 86 For the choice of itinerary, see Arrian, Anab. 3. 7. 3. For the fast pace of the army along the high road, see Curtius, 4. 9. 13.–14., whose assertion that the Macedonian army covered the ca. 400 km separating the Euphrates from the Tigris in only three days is, however, obviously erroneous (cf. also Arrian, Anab. 3. 7. 5). 87 This event can be dated with some precision thanks to the mention of a lunar eclipse, which is recorded by the sources just after the crossing (Curtius, 4. 10. 2; Arrian, Anab. 3. 7. 6; Plutarch, Alex. 31. 8, cf. AD 1 -330, obv. 3’) and occurred on the 20th of September 331 BC (cf. van der Spek, 2003). 88 Alexander apparently had been reported otherwise by prisoners and rushed to the bank of the Tigris, only to discover that the bank was actually not defended (cf. Arrian, Anab., 3, 7, 5). For the difficulties experienced by the army to cross the river, see Diodorus, 17. 55. 3–6 and Curtius, 4. 9. 15–23. 89 Curtius, 4. 10. 11–14. 90 Diodorus, 17. 56–61; Curtius, 4. 12–16; Arrian, Anab. 3. 8–15; as well as AD 1 -330, obv. 14’–18’, which is the only contemporary account of the events. 91 Diodorus, 17. 64. 1–2; Curtius, 5. 1. 8–9; Arrian, Anab. 3. 16. 1–2. 92 The existence of these diplomatic negotiations can be inferred from AD 1 -330, rev. 3’– 10’. On Alexander’s advance after Gaugamela, see Curtius, 5. 1. 10–16. On Mazday’s withdrawal to Babylon, ibid. 5. 1. 17. 93 Cf. Curtius, 5. 1. 17. On Mazday’s designation as satrap, see ibid. 5. 1. 44 and Arrian, Anab. 3. 16. 4. 85

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triumphal entry in the city by the end of October 331 BC was only the symbolic, carefully staged conclusion of these negotiations.94 2. Eumenes’ retreat to the upper Satrapies (winter 318/17 BC) Although the labelling of this campaign as an invasion is debatable, the detailed information given by Diodorus on this expedition provides a valuable insight on the living conditions of Hellenistic armies campaigning in the Land between the Rivers. By the end of 318 BC, Eumenes, who had previously retreated to Phoenicia after two years of fighting in Anatolia, managed to avoid Antigonus’ oncoming army by crossing the Euphrates. He probably chose to follow the high road, for Diodorus records that his army was attacked by local inhabitants near the Tigris. 95 Eumenes then proceeded to Babylonia, where he wintered his troops – which included the elite corps of the Silver Shields – in “Carian villages” located in central Babylonia.96 Hoping to gain support from the local authorities, Eumenes dispatched embassies to the satrap Seleucus and his colleague Peithon, who first answered mildly to his request before trying to convince the Silver Shields to remove Eumenes from command, though to no avail.97 By the end of winter, the army’s provisions became scarce due to repeated plunder and Eumenes decided to leave for Susiana, while Antigonus’ army was still wintering in upper Mesopotamia.98 While Eumenes’ army was gathering boats for crossing the Tigris, which was probably quite high at that time of year, Seleucus and Peithon tried again to convince the Silver Shields to change sides.99 Their repeated refusal decided Seleucus to take action and flood his enemy’s camp by opening an irrigation canal. Eumenes managed to gather enough punts to allow most of his army to cross on the next day. Seleucus, who only had a small cavalry detachment with him, was unable to prevent him from doing so.100 Eumenes, however, had been compelled to leave 94

Cf. AD 1 -330, rev. 11’–15’; Curtius, 5. 1. 17–23; Arrian, Anab. 3. 16. 3. On these matters, see Briant, 2009: 49–53 and Clancier/Monerie, 2014: 184–187. 95 Diodorus, 18. 73. 3. 96 Ibid., 19. 12. 1. On these so-called Carian villages (karôn komai) and their probable location, see Boiy, 2007: 55 n. 122 and recently Potts, 2018. 97 Ibid., 19. 12. 1–3. Peithon, who was officially satrap of Media, had been driven out of his satrapy and forced to withdraw to Babylonia by a coalition of neighbouring satraps, who had joined forces after Peithon had the satrap of Parthia killed to replace him by his own brother (ibid. 19. 14. 1–3). 98 Ibid., 19. 12. 4. 99 Ibid., 19. 12. 3 – 13. 2. According to Diodorus, Eumenes’ army pitched camp on the banks the Tigris just three hundred stadia (ca. 55 km) from Babylon. If this figure is correct, it could imply that Eumenes tried to reach the high road where he had left it, in the vicinity of Opis, before turning South to Susiana. 100 Ibid., 19. 13. 2–3. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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his baggage behind, and had to send a party back on the following night to fetch it with the help of a local guide.101 With most of his opponent’s army now across the Tigris, Seleucus apparently thought it best to see him off for good: he granted Eumenes a truce allowing him to complete his crossing but covered his own rear by sending a dispatch to Antigonus in upper Mesopotamia, asking him to come in haste before his opponent could find reinforcements. 102 After his crossing, Eumenes advanced along the high road towards Susiana but faced supply problems in the Transtigridian lowlands, where he was unable to find grain. He then divided his army into three corps and feed them on rice, sesame and dates, which allowed him to reach Susa.103 The final part of the war, which ended with Eumenes’ death in 316 BC, lies outside the scope of this study.104 3. Seleucus’ return to Babylonia (spring – summer 311 BC) After the Antigonian defeat of Gaza (autumn 312 BC), Seleucus, who had been stripped of his satrapy by Antigonus in 316 BC, was given a small expeditionary force of 1.000 men by his host Ptolemy to reconquer Babylonia.105 By the beginning of spring 311 BC, Seleucus set out from Egypt, marched through the Levant and crossed the Euphrates towards upper Mesopotamia. In Carrhae, he received additional soldiers from the local Macedonian settlers, recruited other men forcibly and proceeded towards Babylonia, where he gained support from the local population as well as from an Antigonian district commander, who brought him 1.000 more soldiers in April 311 BC.106 The Antigonian forces may have attempted to oppose Seleucus’ advance but soon had to withdraw to the palace of Babylon and wait for reinforcements.107 101

Ibid., 19. 13. 4. Diodorus description is not quite clear here but it seems that Eumenes’ guide showed the rescuing party which dykes had to be opened to let the water drain off, thereby making the crossing practicable for the army’s baggage. Cf. also ibid., 18. 73. 3, which most probably refers to the same event, though Diodorus wrongly locates it near the Euphrates this time. 102 Ibid., 19. 13. 5. 103 Ibid., 19. 13. 6. The absence of grain is not surprising here, since Eumenes was travelling by the end of winter, during the “hunger gap” preceding the barley harvest in early spring. Dates and sesame, on the other hand, were harvested in autumn. On rice cultivation in Mesopotamia, see Potts, 1991. 104 On the events and chronology of the Second Diadochi War, see Boiy, 2007: 50–59 and 135–141. 105 Diodorus, 19. 90. 106 Ibid. 19. 91. 1–3. The precise date of Seleucus’ return to Babylonia is known thanks to a fragmentary cuneiform tablet which may have originally been part of the Babylonian Diadochi Chronicle (BCHP txt. BM 35920, ll. 1’–4’). 107 A battle is mentioned in a very fragmentary context by BCHP txt. BM 35920, l. 5’. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Seleucus laid siege to the citadel by May 311 BC but failed to capture it in the following months. In August 311 BC, an attempt was made to weaken the palace defences by diverting water from the Euphrates, which seems to have enabled the besieging troops to take the citadel by storm.108 4. Second Antigonian attempt to reconquer Babylonia (end of 311 BC) Once back in control of Babylonia, Seleucus quickly had to face two successive Antigonian invasions: the first one came from the East under the command of Antigonus’ satrap of Media, Nikanor, who was repulsed on the banks of the Tigris in autumn 311 BC and had to retreat with Seleucus on his tail; 109 Antigonus immediately sent a second army, commanded by his son Demetrius, in order to strike Babylonia with a swift blow, recover it while Seleucus’ army was still in the Iranian plateau and come back as fast as possible to deal with Ptolemy in the Mediterranean.110 By the end of 311 BC, Demetrius then set out from Damascus and crossed the Euphrates with 19.000 men.111 Patrokles, who had been left by Seleucus with a small force in Babylonia, did not dare to confront him on the field. He ordered the civilians to evacuate the area, manned the two citadels of Babylon and began to roam the countryside with the rest of his forces, trying to elude his opponent by using watercourses as defences and sending dispatches to Seleucus for reinforcements.112 Demetrius therefore met no resistance on his attempt to enter Babylon and began to besiege the city’s fortresses. One of them – most likely the citadel of Bēlet-Ninua, on the western bank of the city – was soon taken and plundered, but the other one – the palatial citadel, on the eastern bank – was much harder to capture. Demetrius soon ran out of time and left his philos Archelaus with six or Diodorus (19. 91. 3), for his part, only says that the Antigonian forces retreated to the citadel of Babylon in front of Seleucus growing army. 108 Although no record of the capture of the palace of Babylon is preserved in the Diadochi Chronicle (BCHP 3), it may have been mentioned in the now broken second half of line rev. 8’ (cf. van der Spek, 2006: 301). Diodorus’ account (19. 91. 4–5) suggests that the palace was taken before Seleucus’ departure from Babylon, in September 311 BC (BCHP 3, rev. 9’–10’, cf. Diodorus 19. 92). Although caution is required here – for Diodorus can be notoriously sloppy when it comes to chronology –, the following lines of the Diadochi Chronicle do not seem to mention the siege anymore, which advocates for a capture of the palace before the end of summer 311 BC. 109 Cf. BCHP 3, rev. 8’–12’ and Diodorus, 19. 92. 1–4. 110 Diodorus, 19. 100. 3–4. 111 Oddly enough, this invasion is only documented by Classical sources: it is apparently not mentioned in the Diadochi Chronicle (BCHP 3) or in any other known cuneiform texts. As a result, it remains difficult to date it with certainty. On the intricated chronological debates concerning this period, see Boiy, 2007: 124–29. 112 Diodorus, 19. 100. 5–6. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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seven thousand men to complete the task and garrison the western fortress, while he hurried back West with the rest of his army.113 The citadel of Bēlet-Ninua was probably recaptured by Seleucus’ forces in the months which followed Demetrius’ withdrawal. 5. Third Antigonian attempt to reconquer Babylonia (summer 310 BC – summer 309 BC) The so-called “Peace of the Dynasts” (end of 311 BC) freed Antigonus’ hands in the West, allowing him to focus on the reconquest of the eastern territories he had lost against Seleucus in the preceding months. In August 310 BC, an army commanded by Antigonus himself set foot in northern Babylonia. Seleucus’ troops were not able to repel the invaders and the following months seem to have been marked by a series of engagements with no clear victor.114 In January 309 BC, Antigonus apparently broke into Babylon, though he does not seem to have managed to take control of the whole city.115 By the end of winter, the need to supply his troops drove Antigonus to plunder the countryside.116 Seleucus, for his part, was waiting for reinforcements before risking a direct confrontation: Ptolemy soon sent him an expeditionary force on camels’ back across the desert,117 which allowed him to engage and defeat his opponent’s army on the 30th of August 309 BC.118 6. Ptolemy III’s expedition to Babylonia (autumn 246 BC – winter 246/45 BC) After the Ptolemaic occupation of Syria Seleukis, Ptolemy III turned his attention to the eastern core of the Seleucid empire.119 By the end of autumn 246 BC, his army crossed the Euphrates, probably advanced along the middle road and reached northern Babylonia by December 246 BC. The cuneiform Chronicle of 113

Diodorus, 19. 100. 7; Plutarch, Dem. 7. 3–4. BCHP 3, rev. 14’–17’. Cf. AD 1 -309, f. 14. 115 BCHP 3, rev. 17’–23’. These lines of the Diadochi Chronicle are damaged. Any reconstruction of the events which occurred during these weeks shall therefore remain provisional. 116 Ibid., rev. 24’–31’. 117 Arrian, Ind. 43. 4–5. The itinerary of this expeditionary force can reasonably be identified with the lower road. 118 BCHP 3, l.e. 1’–2’. Antigonus probably left Babylonia before summer, since the Diadochi Chronicle only refers to Archelaus, who had been appointed as satrap of Babylonia by Antigonus in March 309 BC (ibid., rev. 28’), as the commander of the Antigonian forces. Cf. also Polyaenus, 4. 9. 1, which may refer to this battle. 119 Although Ptolemy’s eastern campaign is referred to in works of Classical authors (Appian, Syr. 65; Hieronymus, In Dan. 11. 7–9) and well-known Hellenistic inscriptions (OGIS 54), our knowledge of this invasion has recently been substantially improved by the publication of the Babylonian Chronicle of Ptolemy III (BCHP 11, cf. Clancier, 2012). 114

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Ptolemy III, which documents this campaign in detail, does not allow to determine whether the Seleucid army stationed in Babylonia tried to prevent the Ptolemaic invasion on the battlefield.120 If this was the case, however, this attempt was probably unsuccessful, for Seleucia-on-the-Euphrates, which lied ca. 120 km upstream from Babylon, was soon besieged by the Ptolemaic army. In the meantime, the Seleucid garrison commander of the palace (rab sikkāti ša ina ekalli) of Babylon withdrew to the citadel and closed the city gates.121 By early January 245 BC, a detachment of heavy troops was sent along with military equipment to besiege Babylon’s western fortress, the Bēlet-Ninua citadel.122 The citadel was stormed on the 13th of January, and the Seleucid troops withdrew to the palatial citadel with the invaders at their heels slashing their way across the city.123 The palace was then quickly surrounded and, on the 18th of January, more troops arrived from Seleucia-on-the-Euphrates to besiege the heavily fortified palatial citadel of Babylon.124 In the following days, two assaults were launched against the palace and repulsed with heavy losses on the defending side.125 In the beginning of February, the Seleucid epistates of Seleucia-on-the-Euphrates, still under siege at the time, made a sortie with a detachment to rescue Babylon’s palace garrison. His soldiers apparently managed to get into the city but were soon beaten and killed by the enemy. This event probably hastened the capture of Seleucia-on-the-Euphrates, which apparently fell in the course of February 245 BC.126 The Ptolemaic army could therefore concentrate on the siege of Babylon’s palace, though the present state of the documentation does not allow to determine the outcome of the siege: the chronicle ends abruptly with a break, after reporting another assault, which was apparently repulsed by the Seleucid

120

The only extant manuscript of the Chronicle of Ptolemy III (BCHP 11) is not fully preserved and begins in medias res with the siege of Seleucia-on-the-Euphrates. On the route taken by the Ptolemaic army, see Clancier, 2012: 18–20. 121 BCHP 11, obv. 1’–5’. 122 Ibid., obv. 6’–8’. 123 Ibid., obv. 9’–11’. 124 Ibid., obv. 11’–14’. This detachment was under the command of a “renowned prince” (rubû edû) which, according to the editors of BCHP 11, may have been Xanthippus, who was later appointed by Ptolemy III as governor of the “provinces beyond the Euphrates” (Hieronymus, In Dan., 11, 7–9). On the 20th of January, this “renowned prince” made an offering to the gods in the Esagil temple, on the eastern bank of the city (BCHP 11, obv. 14’ – rev. 4’). 125 Ibid., rev. 4’–8’. Despite the factual tone of the text, it seems that the chronicler meant to point out the cowardice of the garrison commander, who remained unharmed while many of his soldiers were killed or wounded defending the citadel (cf. ibid., rev. 5’ and 8’). 126 Ibid., rev. 9’–12’. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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garrison. 127 Given the growing strength of the besieging army and the heavy losses suffered by the defenders, it is not unreasonable to assume that the citadel eventually fell.128 Be it as it may, the Ptolemaic occupation of Babylonia was short lived, for Ptolemy’s attention was soon driven back to Egypt by domestic troubles, and the region seems to have been retaken by Seleucus II’s forces in the following months.129 7. Antiochus III’s crushing of Molon’s rebellion (winter 221/20 BC) In 222 BC, Molon, who was then satrap of Media, decided to rebel against Antiochus III: he gathered troops, secured the support of neighbouring officials in the Iranian satrapies and launched a campaign against Mesopotamia. Apolloniatis was conquered in autumn, and Babylonia and Susiana in the following spring, despite several Seleucid attempts to prevent him from doing so.130 Antiochus III, who had been delayed by court intrigues and army mutinies in Syria Seleukis, 131 could only cross the Euphrates in December 221 BC, from which he took the high road. The army, however, was forced to stop for forty days at Antioch-in-Mygdonia (mod. Nusaybin), in the Khabur triangle, due to bad weather conditions. By the beginning of February 220 BC, Antiochus resumed his advance and soon reached Libba, on the Tigris (probably identical to ancient Aššur, mod. Qal’at Sherqat).132 There, the king took advice from his counsellors 127

Ibid., rev. 13’–15’. Clancier, 2012: 23. 129 Cf. Justin, 27. 1. 9; Hieronymus, In Dan. 11. 7. 9. The latter states that Ptolemy III carried off a heavy booty, including divine statues taken from Egypt by Cambyses (cf. Winnicki, 1994: 175–177). It was apparently this achievement which owed him his epithet of Euergetes (“benefactor”). The date of the Ptolemaic withdrawal remains unknown: no cuneiform document recording the name of the reigning king has been preserved for northern Babylonia between 246 and 242 BC. Our best piece of evidence in this regard comes from Uruk, in southern Babylonia, where documents were dated to the name of Seleucus II in July 245 BC (cf. BRM 2 17), but this does not necessarily imply that Babylon was under Seleucid control at the time. According to J. Grainger (2010: 168), Seleucus’ foundation of the city of Kallinikon (which may or may not be identified with Nikephorion, cf. Cohen 2016: 77, 85–86) in 244 BC could have been aimed at celebrating the expulsion of the remnants of the Ptolemaic forces from Mesopotamia. 130 Cf. Polybius, 5. 43. 5 – 48. 16. The astronomical diary AD 2 -221, which was written in Babylon around February 221 BC and records the name of Antiochus III as king, provides a terminus post quem to Molon’s invasion of lower Mesopotamia. On his revolt, see recently Richter 2017, who cites the relevant bibliography. On Antiochus III’s subsequent campaign, see conveniently Bar-Kochva, 1976: 117–123 and Potts, 2017. 131 Polybius, 5. 50. 132 Ibid. 5. 51. 1–2. On the identification of Libba as ancient Aššur – possibly by conflation of libbi āli, which was a common Neo-Assyrian designation of this city, see Herzfeld, 1907: 231. 128

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concerning the route to be taken, viz. either follow the right bank of the river down to Seleucia-on-the-Tigris, where the rebel satrap was stationed at the moment, or cross the Tigris and rush towards Apolloniatis in order to prevent Molon from retreating to Media. Since the former itinerary implied a difficult passage across the arid Wadi Tharthar and a confrontation against Molon’s defences on the Royal Canal, Antiochus III preferred the latter option.133 The army was then divided up to cross the Tigris in three locations, before following the left bank down to the city of Dura (probably identical to mod. Al-Daur), which was being besieged by Molon’s forces at the time. The rebels apparently lifted the siege before Antiochus’ arrival, and the Seleucid army could then turn East across the Oreikon range (mod. Jebel Hamrin) to reach Apollonia in eight days.134 Being unsure of the loyalty of the recently conquered populations of Babylonia and Susiana, Molon opted for a strategic withdrawal to Media: he threw a bridge over the Tigris and went up along the Diyala river on forced marches, in the hope of outrunning his opponent.135 Antiochus, however, had reached Apollonia before him, and was able to prevent Molon from crossing the Oreikon. After a skirmish on the mountain pass and an aborted night attack against Antiochus’ camp, the two armies met in pitched battle: part of the Molon’s army defected to Antiochus III, and the rebel, seeing that his cause was lost, committed suicide.136 Babylonia was then quickly recovered by the Seleucid king.137 8. Antiochus IV campaign against Artaxias I of Armenia (autumn 165 BC) Almost nothing is known about this campaign, which formed the initial part of Antiochus IV’s anabasis. At an unknown date, the Armenian king Artaxias I had expanded his territory to include the Khabur triangle, through which passed the main road between northern Syria and Babylonia.138 By autumn 165 BC, Antiochus IV crossed the Euphrates, inflicted a crushing defeat on Artaxias’ army in 133

Ibid. 5. 51. 3–11. Ibid. 5. 52. 1–3. On the identification of Dura and the Oreikon mountains, see Potts, 2017: 72–79. 135 Ibid. 5. 52. 4–6. 136 Ibid. 5. 52. 7 – 54. 3. According to B. Bar-Kochva (1976: 121–122), Polybius’ assertion that the defections from Molon’s side were inspired by the appearance of Antiochus on the battlefield (5. 54. 1) is doubtful, and the main factor that decided the soldiers to change sides was most likely the overwhelming size of the Seleucid army. The confrontation probably took place near the Sūhānīyah pass across the Jebel Hamrin (cf. Potts, 2017: 82–84). 137 Cf. ibid. 5. 54. 9. The terminus ante quem for this reconquest is given by a lease contract from Uruk (NCTU 1), which bears the name of Antiochus as king and is dated to May or June 221 BC. 138 Artaxias’ expansion is mainly attested by the fragmentary astronomical diary AD 2 -164, obv. B15’–C14’ (cf. also Hieronymus, In Dan., 11, 44–45). On these events, see Clancier, 2014: 359–369. 134

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the upper Djezireh, captured the rebel king and quickly re-established Seleucid control over the area.139 9. First Seleucid reconquest of Mesopotamia (spring 138 BC) Having lost much of his territory to Diodotus in the Levant (144 BC) and Mithridates I of Parthia in the East (141 BC), the Seleucid king Demetrius II undertook to reconquer Mesopotamia by crossing the Euphrates in spring 138 BC.140 The Babylonian astronomical diaries record troop movements in lower Mesopotamia during this period which are likely to be part of the Parthian defence against the Seleucid invader: on the 14th of May 138 BC, Parthian royal troops going from Babylon to Uruk stopped halfway and came back to Babylon, and around the 30th, the Arsacid prince Bagayaša apparently proceeded towards the “district of Assyria”, possibly with the intention of forbidding the Seleucid advance along the high road.141 Demetrius then won a series of engagements against the Parthians, which allowed him to re-establish Macedonian control over upper and lower Mesopotamia142. This success, however, was short lived, for a Parthian counter-attack launched from Media led to Demetrius’ defeat and capture in July 138 BC. Mithridates I then regained control of the Land between the Rivers, less than two months after having lost it to the Seleucids.143 10. Second Seleucid reconquest of Mesopotamia (summer 130 BC) Antiochus VII, who succeeded his brother Demetrius II after the latter’s capture in 138 BC, launched a campaign eight years later to recover Mesopotamia from the Parthians. In the course of summer 130 BC, he gathered a large army (80.000 soldiers according to Justin) with the help of the Hasmonean Hyrcanus and took 139

Cf. Diodorus, 31. 17a; Appian, Syr. 45 and 66; Hieronymus, In Dan. 11. 44–45. The date is known thanks to AD 2 -164, obv. B15’–C14’, which states that the news of the king’s campaign reached Babylon in October 165 BC. 140 According to Josephus (Ant. Jud. 13. 5. 11), his endeavour was supported by the poleis of Mesopotamia, who resented the new Parthian domination and had sent embassies to Demetrius to ask for help (cf. Justin 36. 1. 3). 141 AD 3 -137 A, obv. 16’–18’. If this assumption is correct, the mention of a subsequent movement “towards the cities of Media” (ibid., obv. 19’) might be linked to a withdrawal of the defeated Parthian troops. However, caution must be exerted in view of the fragmentary state of the document. 142 Cf. 1 Macc. 14. 2; Josephus, Ant. Jud. 13. 5. 11; and Justin 36. 1. 4, who states that Demetrius II obtained reinforcements from Persia, Elymais and Bactria. Demetrius’ control over Babylonia is implied by AD 3 -137 A, rev. 9’–10’, which locates Demetrius’ ultimate defeat in “the land of Akkad”. 143 Ibid., rev. 8’–11’ (cf. 1 Macc. 14. 2–3; Josephus, Ant. Jud. 13. 5. 11; Justin, 36. 1. 5– 6). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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the high road to confront the Parthians.144 He then defeated his opponents in three engagements – including one against a general Indates on the river Lycus (mod. Greater Zab) – and managed to reconquer Mesopotamia before the end of summer 130 BC.145 Antiochus kept control over these regions for about a year, but he was finally defeated and killed in battle against king Phraates II in autumn 129 BC. Mesopotamia was then quickly reconquered by the Parthians.146 Abbreviations ABC Grayson, A.K.: Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles. Locust Valley. 1975 AD 1 Sachs, A. / Hunger, H.: Astronomical Diaries and Related Texts from Babylonia vol. 1 (652 BC – 262 BC). Vienna. 1988 AD 2 Sachs, A. / Hunger, H.: Astronomical Diaries and Related Texts from Babylonia vol. 2 (261 BC – 165 BC). Vienna. 1989 AD 3 Sachs, A. / Hunger, H.: Astronomical Diaries and Related Texts from Babylonia vol. 3 (164 BC – 61 BC). Vienna. 1996 BCHP Finkel, I. / van der Spek, R.: Babylonian Chronicles of the Hellenistic Period. forthcoming (a provisional digital edition of these texts is available at http://www.livius.org/sources/about/mesopotamian-chroni cles/?) BRM 2 Clay, A.: Legal Documents from Erech dated in the Seleucid Era (312– 65 BC). New York. 1913 NCTU Sarkisian, G.: “New cuneiform Texts from Uruk of the Seleucid Period in the Staatliche Museen zu Berlin”. Forschungen und Berichte 16 (1974), 15–76 OGIS Dittenberger, W.: Orientis Graeci Inscriptiones Selectae (2 vol.). Leipzig. 1903–1905 Bibliography Abadie-Reynal, C., 2001: “Séleucie-Zeugma et Apamée sur l’Euphrate: étude d’un cas de villes jumelles dans l’Antiquité”. Histoire urbaine 3, 7–24. Assar, G., 2006: “A revised Parthian chronology of the Period 165–91 BC”. In E. Dabrowa (ed.): Greek and Hellenistic Studies. Electrum 11. Krakow. Pp. 87– 158. 144

On the chronology of this campaign, see Assar, 2006: 99–103. On the gathering of the army, see Josephus, Ant. Jud. 13. 8. 4; Justin, 38. 10. 2 (cf. also Diodorus, 35. 17). The campaign’s itinerary is implied by Josephus’ mention of the battle on the Lycus. 145 Cf. Josephus, Ant. Jud., 13. 8. 4 and Justin, 38. 10. 6, who states that Antiochus began to style himself as “the Great” after this campaign. 146 On the end of Antiochus VII, see the conflicting versions of Diodorus 35. 15–17; Porphyry (FGrH 260) F 32, 19; Justin, 38. 10. 8–10. On the chronology of these events, see Assar, 2006: 104–105. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Bar-Kochva, B., 1976: The Seleucid Army. Cambridge. Bergamini, G., 2011: “Babylon in the Achaemenid and Hellenistic Period: the Changing Landscape of a Myth”. Mesopotamia 46, 23–34. Bernard, P., 1990: “Nouvelle contribution de l’épigraphie cunéiforme à l’histoire hellénistique”. Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 114, 513–541. Boiy, T., 2007: Between High and Low. A Chronology of the Early Hellenistic Period. Oikumene 5. Frankfurt. Bowersock, G., 2008: Julien l’Apostat. Paris (original ed. Cambridge MA.1978). Briant, P., 1991: “De Sardes à Suse”. In H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg / A. Kuhrt (ed.): Asia Minor and Egypt: Old Cultures in a New Empire. Achaemenid History 6. Leiden. Pp. 65–82. –– 1996: Histoire de l’Empire perse, de Cyrus à Alexandre. Paris. –– 2009: “Entrées royales et mises en scène du pouvoir dans l’empire achéménide et les royaumes hellénistiques”. In A. Béranger / E. Perrin-Saminadayar (eds.): Les entrées royales et impériales. Histoire, représentation et diffusion d’une cérémonie publique, de l’Orient ancien à Byzance. Paris. Pp. 47–64. Capdetrey, L., 2007: Le Pouvoir séleucide. Territoire, administration et finances d’un royaume hellénistique (312–129 av. J.-C.). Rennes. Chaumont, M.L., 1984: “Études d’histoire parthe V. La route royale des Parthes de Zeugma à Séleucie du Tigre d’après l’itinéraire d’Isidore de Charax”. Syria 61, 63–107. Clancier, Ph., 2006: “Le moyen Euphrate de l’implantation des Araméens à la période romaine”. In Chr. Kepinski / O. Lecomte / A. Tenu (eds.): Studia Euphratica. Le moyen Euphrate iraquien révélé par les fouilles préventives de Haditha. Travaux de la Maison René-Ginouvès 3. Paris. Pp. 247–289. –– 2012: “Le rab sikkati de Babylone contre l’homme de renom venu d’Égypte: la troisième guerre syrienne dans les rues de Babylone”. In P. Goukowsky / Chr. Feyel (eds.): Folia Graeca in honorem Edouard Will. Historica. Études Anciennes 51. Nancy. Pp. 9–31. –– 2014: “Antiochos IV dans les sources babyloniennes”. In Chr. Feyel / L. Graslin-Thomé (eds.): Le projet politique d’Antiochos IV. Études Anciennes 56. Nancy. Pp. 353–376. Clancier, Ph. / Monerie, J., 2014: “Les sanctuaires babyloniens à l’époque hellénistique: évolution d’un relais de pouvoir”. Topoi 19/1, 181–237. Cohen, G., 2016: The Hellenistic Settlements in the East from Armenia and Mesopotamia to Bactria and India. Berkeley. Debevoise, N., 1968: A Political History of Parthia. New York. Dillemann, L., 1962: Haute Mésopotamie Orientale et pays adjacents. Paris. Farrell, W., 1961: “A Revised Itinerary of the Route Followed by Cyrus the Younger through Syria, 401 BC”. Journal of Hellenic Studies 81, 153–155. Gaborit, J., 2015: La vallée engloutie. Géographie historique du Moyen-Euphrate (du IVe s. av. J.-C. au VIIe s. ap. J.-C.). Volume 1. BAH 199. Beyrouth. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Gawlikowski, M., 1996: “Thapsacus and Zeugma. The Crossing of the Euphrates in Antiquity”. Iraq 58, 123–133. Grainger, J., 2010: The Syrian Wars. Mnemosyne Suppl. 320. Leiden/Boston. Graslin-Thomé, L. / Lemaire, A., 2004: “Tapsuhu, «Thapsaque»?”. NABU 2004/55. Herzfeld, E., 1907: Untersuchungen über die historische Topographie der Landschaft am Tigris, Kleinen Zab und Gebel Hamrin. Leipzig. Joannès, F., 1995: “L’itinéraire des Dix-Mille en Mésopotamie et l’apport des sources cunéiformes”. In P. Briant (ed.): Dans les Pas des Dix-Mille. Pallas 43. Toulouse. Pp. 173–199. Kahn, D. / Tammuz, O., 2009: “Egypt is Difficult to Enter: Invading Egypt – A Game Plan (Seventh – Fourth Centuries BCE)”. Journal of the Society for the Study of Egyptian Antiquities 36, 37–66. Kennedy, D., 2015: “Thapsacus and Zeugma”. In P. Wheatley / E. Baynham (eds.): East and West in the World Empire of Alexander. Essays in Honour of Brian Bosworth. Oxford. Pp. 277–298. Kuhrt, A., 2001: “The palace(s) of Babylon”. In I. Nielsen (ed.): The Royal Palace Institution in the First Millennium BC: regional development and cultural interchange between east and west. Monographs of the Danish Institute at Athens 4. Aarhus. Pp. 77–94. Potts, D.T., 1991: “Rice cultivation in Mesopotamia and Susiana”. NABU 1991/2. –– 2002: “Five Episodes in the History of Elymais 145–124 BC: new Data from the Astronomical Diaries”. Cahiers de Studia Iranica 25, 349–362. –– 2017: “Appointment in Apollonia”. Anabasis 8, 71–89. –– 2018: “The Carian Villages”. Cuneiform Digital Library Bulletin 2018/2 (https://cdli.ucla.edu/pubs/cdlb/2018/cdlb2018_002.html). Richter, S., 2017: “Antiochos III and the Revolt of Molon”. In Chr. Feyel / L. Graslin-Thomé (eds.): Antiochos III et l’Orient. Études nancéennes d’histoire grecque. Nancy. Pp. 255–269. Rzóska, J., 1980: Euphrates and Tigris, Mesopotamian Ecology and Destiny. Wiesbaden. Seland, E.H., 2016: Ships of the Desert and Ships of the Sea. Philippika 101. The Hague/Boston/London. Tarn, W.W., 1932: “Parthia”. In S. Cook / F. Alcock / M. Charlesworth (eds.). The Cambridge Ancient History. Volume IX. The Roman Republic 133–44 BC. Cambridge. Pp. 574–613. Traina, G., 2011: Carrhes. 9 juin 53 av. J.-C. Anatomie d’une défaite. Paris. van der Spek, R., 2003: “Darius III, Alexander the Great and Babylonian Scholarship”. In W. Henkelman / A. Kuhrt (eds.): A Persian Perspective. Essays in memory of Heleen Sancisi-Weerdenburg. Achaemenid History 13. Leiden. Pp. 289–346.

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–– 2006: “The size and significance of the Babylonian Temples under the Successors”. In P. Briant / F. Joannès (eds.): La transition entre l’empire achéménide et les royaumes hellénistiques (vers 350–300 av. J.-C.). Persika 9. Paris. Pp. 261–307. Winnicki, J., 1994: “Carrying off and bringing home the statues of the gods: on an aspect of the religious policy of the Ptolemies towards the Egyptians”. Journal of Juristic Papyrology 24, 149–190.

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Travelers in Upper Mesopotamia during the Middle and Early Neo-Assyrian Periods Itineraries and Objectives, from East to West Aurélie Paci1

Introduction This article focuses on travels within the Assyrian territory, and in order to stick to the workshop’s theme, we will mainly focus on westbound travels. The article is divided into three parts. In the first, we will propose a reconstruction of the itineraries that were used and that we know of. Then we will focus on regular travelers, who testify of the ordinary running of the Assyrian State, and we will present the reasons and factors that lead travelers to favor one itinerary over another. Finally, we will study military campaigns undertaken by kings and their itineraries. We will mainly focus on roads. Waterways did exist, and were also used. The Euphrates was navigable on most of its course in Upper Mesopotamia.2 For example, during his 7th campaign, Aššurnaṣirpal II (883–859 BC) used boats from the Middle Habur to the Middle Euphrates, both as logistical support and as a means of crossing the Euphrates.3 The Tigris was more difficult to navigate, but it was used nonetheless: the king Tukultī-Ninurta I (1233–1197 BC) evoked the construction of boats to transport the booty taken from Babylon after one of his victorious campaign.4 There were also canals, and some could have been navigable.5 However waterways had different needs and logics, and are less attested in the sources.

1

I would like to thank the organizers, and Rocío Da Riva for inviting me. I would also like to thank P. Clancier for allowing me to read and use information from his habilitation thesis (HDR), and J. Monerie and A. Tenu for reviewing my paper. 2 Joannès, 1996: 334. 3 RIMA 2, A.0.101.1, col iii, l.33–34. 4 MARV IV, 34, l.17. 5 Archaeological evidence of canals on the banks of the Habur has been found: Ergenzinger/Kühne, 1991; Kühne, 2000: fig.3; Masetti-Rouault, 2010. Canals are also mentioned in some texts, as in BATSH 4, 17. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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The geographical context of Upper Mesopotamia Upper Mesopotamia is a wide area of uplands and plains. The region is crisscrossed by rivers: the Tigris, the Euphrates (which sometimes passes through incised valleys) and its tributaries, the Balih and the Habur. The area between the two rivers is also known as the Jezireh. The region, which has some mountainous massifs (Sinjar Mountains, Tur Abdin, Jebel Bišri, Jebel Abd-el Aziz, etc.), is characterized by the presence of several wadis, most of which are not in water throughout the year. The local climate is continental-arid: rainfalls are low and irregular. 6 The whole region is a steppe zone (an environment conducive to a transhumant and nomadic way of life). There is also a pluviometric difference between the north and the south of the Jezireh. The isohyet of 250mm, which traditionally delimits the rainfed agriculture from the irrigated agriculture, divides the Jezireh into two parts. The southern Jezireh is therefore marked by harder climatic conditions than the north, and apart from the direct proximity of the rivers, essential for agriculture and water supply, it is a more arid region than the Upper Jezireh, and sometimes desertic (particularly during the dry season, from May to October). The climate affects travel, as we will see. There are several geographical indications in Assyrian royal inscriptions regarding this aridity. For example, Tiglath-pileser I (1114–1076 BC) wrote about hunting in the desert, while he was in the western part of Upper Mesopotamia: “By the command of the god Ninurta, who loves me, with my strong bow, iron arrowheads, and sharp arrows, I slew four extraordinarily strong wild virile bulls in the desert, in the land Mittani, and at the city Araziqu which is before the land Hatti”.7 Tukultī-Ninurta II (890–884 BC) also evoked hunts in the desert, while his army was camping on the banks of the Euphrates: “I pitched camp (and) spent the night. Hindānu lies on the other bank of the Euphrates. I killed ostriches on my hunting forays in the desert”.8 Historical context: the construction of the Assyrian State We will focus now on the Middle Assyrian period and the beginning of the NeoAssyrian period (that is to say between the 14th century and the 9th century BC). In the 14th century, Assyria gained international prominence and renewed exchanges with the royal courts of other countries, which led to the sending of diplomatic missions.9 The state also extended its borders, began to conquer territo-

6

Sanlaville, 2000: 96; Reculeau, 2011: 14. RIMA 2, A.0.87.1, col vi, l. 61–66. 8 RIMA 2, A.0.100.5, l. 79–80. 9 Diplomatic relations with Egypt already existed in the 15th century. In a letter sent to the 7

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ries, and, in the 13th century, invaded and then included its western neighbour, Mittani. Assyria gradually established a provincial administration in the territories under its direct control.10 This had a direct impact on the circulation of messengers and officials in Upper Mesopotamia, whose travels were essential to the life and running of the state. The changes in the urban network, with the abandonment of certain sites, or the creation of new settlements, such as the Assyrian city of Dūr-Katlimmu (Tell Sheikh Hamad, on the Habur), also impacted the road networks. In the 9th century, Assyria, after losing control of several territories in Upper Mesopotamia due to the pressure of Aramaean tribes, began to undertake new conquests in order to extend its territory again. 1. Main road networks The roads were not built on the ground (or paved), but were defined by a succession of stopover points, and thus formed a network. Written sources from the Middle Assyrian period provide little information on the itineraries taken. However, they testify to numerous and regular displacements throughout the Assyrian territory. The circulation partly depended on topography but also on the urban network. Some cities represented strategic crossing points. That is why we rely partly on this network to determine the main roads. The numerous itineraries known for the other periods (in particular for the Old Babylonian and Old Assyrian periods)11 also give us some elements to reconstitute several routes. The historical geography of Upper Mesopotamia in the 2nd millennium has been studied in particular by E. Cancik-Kirschbaum and N. Ziegler, through the HIGEOMES and TEXTELSEM projects.12 For the Middle Assyrian period, we can mention the syntheses of E. Cancik-Kirschbaum and B. Faist.13

Pharaoh, the Assyrian king Aššur-uballiṭ mentions one of his predecessors, the king Aššurnadin-ahhe I, who had diplomatic relations with Egypt: EA 16, l.19–21 (Moran, 1987). 10 Regarding the Assyrian provincial administration, see for example: Cancik-Kirschbaum, 2014; Faist, 2010; Jakob, 2003; Jakob, 2015; Llop, 2011; Llop, 2012; Machinist, 1982; Maul, 2013; Postgate, 1992; Postgate, 2014; Radner, 2006; Radner, 2014. 11 See for example: Charpin, 2004; Forlanini, 2006; Guichard, 2008; Joannès, 1996; Joannès, 1997; Michel, 2001; Sevalie, 2006. For the first millennium, see for example: Kessler, 1997 ; Favaro, 2007; Graslin-Thomé, 2009. 12 The HIGEOMES and TEXTELSEM projects (2011–2018; E. Cancik-Kirschbaum, N. Ziegler, A. Otto, K.-Ch. Bruhn and Ch. Cruz). See Ziegler/Langlois, 2016; and CancikKirschbaum/Hess, 2016. See also Cancik-Kirschbaum/Ziegler, 2009; and Ziegler/CancikKirschbaum, 2014. 13 Cancik-Kirschbaum, 1996 and Faist, 2006. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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1.1. The river valleys The river valleys, where there were many urban settlements, form “natural” communication channels, allowing an easy supply of water and food. However, the topography of river valleys does not always make it possible to strictly follow the immediate banks of the rivers. The Euphrates valley, for example, is particularly incised, especially in the Middle Euphrates region. Moreover, the many meanders of the river result in the fact that sometimes, the routes moved away from the river. While these detours may seem harmless, since travelers did not stay very far from the river, they could be problematic for the armies, because of the aridity of the surroundings. These detours required preparation, as shown by the passage through “the land of thirst” mentioned by Tukultī-Ninurta II during his 6th campaign.14 The king was then downstream of the peninsula of al-Marzukijje (Euphrates). He did not take a route that followed the immediate banks of the river, but cut into the steppe in order to reach directly the city of Hudubilu, which may be the modern Glei’eh.15 He then crossed an area that seemed particularly arid and which required a lot of logistical preparation to make a reserve of water for a night in the arid steppe.16 The question of fords to cross rivers must also be asked, because, although the tributaries of the Euphrates seem easy to cross, this is not the case of the Euphrates itself, which is wider and experiences periods of floods that make it difficult to cross. It is probable that there were ferries at certain points in order to allow people to cross (we know about such boat on the Habur for the Old Babylonian period). 1.2. Crossing the steppe: from east to west Regarding the crossing of Upper Mesopotamia from east to west, three types of itineraries existed. 1.2.1. The northern routes These roads passed through the northern Jezireh in an area where water and food supply were not a logistical problem, because of the large hydrographic network, especially in the Habur triangle, and because many cities were present, which allowed regular stopovers. We find more attestations of the northern routes in the sources, but this does not necessarily mean that these roads were the most used. The routes started from the Tigris where there were many Assyrian settlements (Nineveh, Tell Mohammed Arab, Tell Jikan, Anza, Tell Durdara), including the capitals of this period (Aššur, and Kalhu in the 9th century). These routes sometimes followed the Tigris, sometimes another road further inland that lay along a chain of small anticlines, west of the Tigris, and that passed through the modern

14

RIMA 2, A.0.100.5, l. 63–65. Clancier, 2017, 184–185. 16 To see the route: Clancier, 2017, 277 (map 22). 15

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Tell ar-Rimah17 or Abu Marya. Then the itineraries crossed north of the Sinjar Mountain where there were the sites of Tell Hamidah18 and Tell el-Hawa,19 before reaching the Habur triangle.20 Many roads went through the Habur triangle. At least two main routes were attested, and are represented on the map of B. Faist.21 The first route passed to the north, near the foothills of the Tur Abdin,22 where there were also Middle Assyrian settlements,23 but also fortresses.24 The second route passed through the south of the triangle, by the Wadi Radd near which Assyrian settlements were found.25 It is also possible to propose a median itinerary, which is not clearly attested in the texts, but which is made plausible by the location of several Assyrian sites, such as Ta’idu, which would be the present Tell Hamidiye.26 Several roads crossing the Habur triangle were then to pass through Waššukkanni (maybe Tell Fehheriye)27, which was one of the major centers of the Middle Assyrian administration in the region, since it was the seat of the sukkallu, one of the highest dignitaries of the empire. 17 The road through Tell ar-Rimah was linked, during the Old Assyrian period, to the road of the Assyrian merchants heading towards Kaneš. A Middle Assyrian presence at Tell arRimah is attested by the discovery of Middle Assyrian levels (Postgate, Oates and Oates, 1997) and tablets (Saggs, 1968 and Wiseman, 1968). An identification with the ancient city of Karana has been proposed, which would make this site the seat of an administrative unit, since a hazi’ānu (“mayor”) was attested for the reigns of Adad-nārārī I and TukultīNinurta I (Jakob, 2003: 150; see also Llop, 2012: 90–91). 18 Subartu XIII, map 53; Tenu, 2009: map 2. 19 The portion of road, starting at Nineveh and passing through Tell el-Hawa or Tell Hamidah, is also known for the Old Babylonian period and the Old Assyrian Period (see Michel, 2001). 20 The site of Tell Mohammed Diyab, which is located on the eastern part of the Habur triangle, has a Middle Assyrian occupation, and perhaps an administrative presence (at least one tablet, of a judicial nature, has been discovered on the site: Castel/Charpin/Faivre/ Nicolle/Sauvage, 1993: 9). 21 Faist, 2006: 149. 22 This portion running along the foothills of the Tur Abdin is known for the Neo Assyrian period as a “royal road” (Favaro, 2007: Pl. XVII, map 17). 23 Tell Amuda, Kiziltepe, Ginarvaz. 24 The presence of fortresses in the foothills of the Tur Abdin is attested by a letter from Dūr Katlimmu: BATSH 4, 7, l.9’’–10’’ (“The fortresses of Harrān and those of the edges of Kašiyeri mountain”). The royal inscriptions of Adad-nārārī I and Shalmaneser I in the 13th century, also mention the fortress of Harrān (A.0.76.1, l.13; A.0.76.3, l.40; A.0.77.1, l.84). 25 Tell Bari is identified with Kahat, and Tell Brak is identified with Nagar. According to D. Shibata, the city of Kulišhinaš would be on this southern route: Shibata, 2017. 26 Wäfler, 1994. Röllig, 1997, 282. 27 Its identification with an archaeological site is not assured, but it seems that the city of Waššukkanni was in the vicinity of Tell Fehheriye, if not in Fehheriye itself.

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The archives (dated for most of them to the reign of Tukultī-Ninurta I) found at Tell Chuera, the ancient Harbe, shed light on the connections between the Habur and the Balih: from Waššukkanni, the travelers stopped at Harbe (a residence of an Assyrian administration), and then could reach one of the many Assyrian settlements on the Balih.28 We could lastly ask the question of the existence of a road that would have linked directly Tell Fehheriye to Altinbaçak (the ancient Harrān) on the Balih, without going through Harbe. This itinerary is attested for the Neo-Assyrian period,29 and proposed by B. Faist for the Middle Assyrian period.30 Furthermore, the existence of Assyrian fortresses of the north could make it possible. But no textual evidence confirms this itinerary for the Middle Assyrian period. 1.2.2. The median routes The median routes, which went through the southern Jezireh are less attested in the texts but many archaeological elements testify in favor of their existence. These roads, which allowed direct access to the heart of the Assyrian empire, and between different administrative units, passed through particularly arid regions. The first itinerary started from the region of Nineveh, passed through the southern foothills of the Sinjar,31 and reached the Middle Habur where many Assyrian settlements existed.32 The region was arid, but water resources were available: rainfall was more significant in the foothills of the Sinjar than further south due to the presence of mountains that form a barrier. The hydrographic network, composed of wadis, was important, and the water could be potable. The second itinerary was a road which connected Aššur, the capital, to DūrKatlimmu, the second main city of the country, and seat of the sukkallu rabi’u, the most important dignitary after the king, in charge of the management of the west of the empire. This steppe road, reconstructed by R. Bernbeck,33 has been highlighted by surveys carried out in the Wadi Agig in 1983–1984,34 which identified several sites and wells connecting the two Assyrian cities.35 This road would 28

Sahlalu and Amīmu for example are the most frequently cited toponyms in those archives. 29 Favaro, 2007: Pl. XVII. 30 Faist, 2006, 149. 31 The cities of Tell ar-Rimah and Tell Khoshi (where a Middle Assyrian presence was supposed: Tenu, 2009: map 2), could have been stopovers. 32 For example Tell Šaddada, Tell Fagdami, or Tell Ašamsâni. This itinerary is proposed by E. Cancik-Kirschbaum in the edition of the texts of Dūr-Katlimmu (BATSH 4). This route was also taken during the Old Assyrian and Old Babylonian periods (Michel, 2001: 593 and Joannès, 1996: 325). 33 For the map: Bernbeck, 1994: Abb. 10. 34 Pfälzner, 1995: 172. 35 It is also an itinerary that was attested for the Neo Assyrian period: Favaro, 2007: Pl. XVII. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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thus form a major and essential axis of communication for administrative communication and the functioning of the empire. Other research shows that this route continued west of the Habur, to reach the Euphrates or the Balih. H. Kühne, after surveys allowing to identify several wells at regular interval, proposed the site of Malhat ed-Deru as a stopover on a route linking Dūr-Katlimmu (Tell Sheikh Hamad) to the site of Tell Sabi Abyad.36 A. Tenu, J.-L. Montero Fenollos et F. Caramelo propose a variant to this route, and focus on the site of Qabar abu al-’Atiq, on the Euphrates, which could have been a potential stopover on a route linking Dūr-Katlimmu to the Euphrates.37 The existence of these roads in a steppe-arid environment (such as the south Jezireh) was conditioned by a vital element: the supply of water and the existence of wells. If the steppe’s aridity did not prevent the movement of small group of people, the wells and water points determined the route that crossed the steppe, which remained challenging anyway. The study of these routes remains difficult: few wells appear in the texts, and if some of them are found in surveys, their period of use is difficult to identify. The conditions of use of these wells at this time remain without precise answers: were the wells filled with water all year round? Were they controlled by nomadic groups, or by the Assyrian power? Was their access conditioned by a tax? In any case, these itineraries required a knowledge of these wells, either by the travelers themselves or by the guides who could escort them. We have testimony of guides in the texts indeed. They were most of the time nomads. To travel in the steppe areas, the Assyrians took advantage, among other things, of the knowledge of the routes that nomads had, and of their ability to move inherent in their way of life. The Suteans, at least some tribes, seemed to have the most sustained relations with the Assyrians.38 They served as guides, sometimes as messengers.39 The Suteans have also been solicited in a more private setting for commercial affairs.40

36

Kühne, 1983. A Middle Assyrian presence on this site has been shown by archaeologists. Two Middle Assyrian administrative tablets (one dated from the reign of Tukultī-Ninurta I) have also been found. See Tenu / Montero Fenollos / Caramelo, in press. 38 TCh 92.G.218 shows the arrival of Aššur-iddin, the sukkallu rabi’u, in Harbe, probably for a meeting with a delegation of Suteans. This text is not the only example of a meeting between the Assyrian and Sutean authorities: an unpublished text found in 2004 at Tell Sabi Abyad is a treaty between Ilī-pada, son of Aššur-iddin, and the chiefs of the Sutean tribe of Nihsanu (Tenu, 2009: 240). The text was found at Tell Sabi Abyad and it is not impossible that this site was the meeting place between the two authorities. 39 For example: TCh 92.G.184 and BATSH 4, 2. 40 Tenu, 2009: 240. See also Postgate, 1981, 51. About the Suteans, see also Liverani, 2004. 37

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1.2.3. The southern routes From Aššur, it was possible, thanks to numerous wells (again), to cross the steppe down to the Middle Euphrates. This route passed by the Wadi Tharthar (Šiššar in the Assyrian sources), whose waters were not drinkable all throughout the year, but where there were wells.41 A text, VAT 9968, seems to suggest that this route was followed by the king Adad-nārārī I,42 perhaps during a military campaign, to join the Sūhu (but the text is in very bad condition).43 The Middle Euphrates was a strategic region both from a geopolitical point of view, given its position at the confluence of the Assyrian and Babylonian spheres of influence, and from the point of view of road control.44 This region was at the crossroads of fluvial roads that connected the Upper and the Lower Mesopotamia, and of land routes that followed the river valley or that crossed the river to travel either in Upper Mesopotamia (Aššur, the Sinjar mountains, the Habur)45, or on the Levantine coast via Tadmor.46 The works of A. Tenu show that the Assyrian kings of the 12th–11th centuries, in particular Tiglath-pileser I,47 built in the Sūhu a dozen fortresses,48 in order to control communication routes, to monitor the movements of Aramaean population, to mark the border with Babylonia, and to defend territory and population.49 A text found in Khirbet ed-Diniyeh (the ancient Harādu) confirms the role of the fortress in controlling trade routes.50 As highlighted by P. Clancier, these for41

There is mention of wells in the Tharthar in an inscription of Tukultī-Ninurta II (A.0.100.5, l.41–45), as well as in VAT 9968 (obv. l. 13’–14’). 42 An Adad-nārārī king is mentioned, but the text is in too bad condition to have more information about the context. K. Deller, J.N. Postgate and A. Baruchi-Unna, relying on the palaeography and the language, propose a Middle Assyrian dating, which would make the mentioned king the first Adad-nārārī (Bloch, 2013: 47). 43 For a recent transcription of the document, see Bloch, 2013: 47–48. 44 See the recent works of P. Clancier, and in particular his dissertation about the Sūhu (Clancier, 2017). Because of its strategic positioning, the Sūhu was a highly coveted and regularly troubled area. Although the Assyrians occupied this region from the reign of Tiglath-pileser I until the end of the 11th century or beginning of the 10th century, they seem to fall back because of the Arameans in the 10th–9th centuries, before returning to the region in the 9th century (Tenu, 2006: 228–234). 45 Clancier, 2017: 142–147. 46 The road passing through Tadmor was used during the Old Babylonian period (Joannès, 1997), and during the first millennium BC. 47 See for example a royal inscription recounting a campaign of Tiglath-pileser I in the Sūhu, during which the king seized several cities and islands of the Middle Euphrates: MS 2004: l.24–33 (Frame, 2011: 127–134). 48 Tenu, 2006 and Tenu, 2008. Among these fortified points, some fortresses present a relatively similar plan: Khirbet ed-Diniyeh, Glei’eh, Sur Telbis, ’Usiyeh, Sur Jur’eh, Sur Mureh. To see the map: Clancier, 2017: 82 (map 5). 49 See also Clancier, 2017: 85–91. 50 KD 1 (Clancier, 2012: 242–243 in Kepinski, 2012). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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tresses were concentrated on a specific portion of the region, from Khirbet edDiniyeh to Sur Mureh,51 which corresponds to the crossing area of land and river routes. 1.3. From the Balih to the Euphrates Assyrians were present on the banks of the Balih.52 Several sites were Assyrian administrative centers (Sahlalu and Amīmu, 53 possibly Harrān 54 and Tuttul)55 , which implied messenger traffic. Others were sites with special status: the dunnu. The dunnu were centers of agricultural production, sometimes fortified, which belonged to high officials of the empire, but which sometimes had an administrative role. The best known is Tell Sabi Abyad, whose owner was the sukkallu rabi’u, who resided in Dūr-Katlimmu (at the latest no later than under the reign of Tukultī-Ninurta I). Many texts have been found there, and document both private activities, and activities related to the road control. The site may have been a commercial halt and a customs post, as evidenced by an unpublished letter requesting the sealing of goods carried by caravans coming from Karkemiš.56 Another dunnu, Dunnu-Aššur, owned by the sukkallu residing in Waššukkanni, was also located on the bank of the Balih.57 Finally, other toponyms are mentioned in the texts, but it is not yet possible to identify them.58 The itineraries to reach the Euphrates from the Balih seemed mostly determined by the positions of the fords on the Euphrates. We know of three main fords on the river: one in the vicinity of Karkemiš, one near Tell Ahmar,59 and one upstream from Karkemiš.60 51

Clancier, 2017: 180. Numerous sites with Middle Assyrian occupation have been detected: Tell es-Sahlan, Tell Jittal, Tell Abbara, Khirbet es-Shenef, Tell Hammam et-Tukman, Tell Sabi Abyad, Tell Bi’a (Lyon, 2000: 100–101). 53 There are mention of governors in Sahlalu and in Amīmu: TCh 92.G.209, 211 and 222. 54 Akkermans/Wiggermann, 1999: 64. 55 Excavations did not reveal any Middle Assyrian material on the site, but an Assyrian governor would be attested during the reign of Tukultī-Ninurta I according to a text from Tell Sabi Abyad (T 97–3, Wiggermann, 2000: 172). 56 Akkerman/Wiggermann, 1999. 57 BATSH 4, 2, l. 6: Dunnu-Aššur is mentioned as the dunnu of Sîn-mudammeq. His title is never given in the texts, and his function is established according to the hierarchical relations that are documented in the texts between him and other administrators: Jakob, 2003, 60–62. The site of Dunnu-Aššur was probably in the vicinity of Sahlalu (BATSH 4, 4). 58 As the city of Gilma, Sirda, or Terqa (not the modern Tell Ashara; see note 135). 59 Shalmaneser III, during a military campaign, crosses the steppe without apparent problem from Sahlalu to Til Barsip (Tell Ahmar), before crossing the Euphrates at this point (A.0.102.2, col. ii, 81–82). 60 See Faist, 2006: 148, note 6. 52

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The Assyrians had established some temporary installations on the Euphrates during the Middle Assyrian period.61 However the region was a strategic area at the confluence of the Assyrian and Hittite spheres, and given the complex geopolitical relations between the two states (notably in the thirteenth century), the region could not have been very stable. But many flows and exchanges (commercial and diplomatic in particular) are nonetheless attested. The presence of roads leading to Hatti and to the Levantine coast was one of the elements that explained why the Assyrians have sought to position themselves on the Euphrates: the control of the region between the Balih and the Euphrates was, among other things, a commercial and geopolitical issue.62 2. Ordinary travelers We will now focus on the “ordinary” travelers and their choice of itinerary. By ordinary we mean those who circulate currently, customarily, daily, and who participated in the usual running of the administration and life in Upper Mesopotamia. 2.1. Who travels? The sources we have for this period are almost exclusively archives from the central and provincial administration.63 These sources highlight a certain type of travelers, those who depended on the administration, whereas those who did not depend on the administration for their travel, such as the merchants, rarely appear in the texts. The sources at our disposal therefore induce a very specific and oriented vision of the communication roads, in which the Assyrian administrative staff is overrepresented. The purpose here is not to make an exhaustive list, but to present some types of travelers. First, there were the messengers: they were witnesses to a part of the running of the administrative network and to the circulation within the Assyrian territory. They were usually alone or in pairs, and traveled on horseback or in a chariot.64 Administrative staff would also travel regularly, for various missions, to manage and control the region. Among the high officials, we can mention the example of Sîn-mudammeq, the sukkallu.65 His travels seemed have been fairly regular (we have at least eight texts that evoke his movements, perhaps eleven).66 61

Tenu, 2009: 206. Tenu, 2009: 249. 63 We can mention, among others, archives from Qal’at Sherqat (Aššur), Tell Sheikh Hamad (Dūr-Katlimmu), Tell Chuera (Harbe), Tell Sabi Abyad, or Tell Ta’bân (Ṭabētu/Ṭabîtu). 64 Jakob, 2003: 303 and 355. 65 See note 57. 66 BATSH 4, 2; BATSH 4, 3; BATSH 4, 4; BATSH 4, 7; TCh 92.G.128; TCh 92.G.143; TCh 92.G.184; TCh 92.G.207. A Sîn-mudammeq is also attested in: TCh 92.G.197; TCh 92.G.203; TCh 92.G.217. 62

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His tasks were numerous,67 and they were all related to the management of the region. His sphere of action seems to have been exclusively turned towards the west of the empire, and particularly towards the Balih region. He was certainly traveling on horseback or in a chariot, and probably with a small escort.68 Assyria had also many relations with other countries, which resulted in the circulation of foreign diplomats within the Assyrian territory. We have attestations of envoys from Hatti, Egypt, or the Levantine coast. Finally, in the Middle Assyrian period, merchants are not much attested, but some trips are recorded in letters. Trade appears to have been private and relatively independent of the Assyrian administration, at least for supply. Since there are few merchants archives, the vision we have of them remains limited. Contrary to what we know of the Old Assyrian period,69 the caravans attested in the Middle Assyrian sources were of fairly small size, and usually consisted of one or two dozen donkeys70. 2.2. The choice of itineraries The choice of the road depended on many factors that were different in nature and were not always mentioned in the sources. First, there were the geographical and topographical factors that are inherent to the region. Then, there were the geopolitical factors that were specific to the period. Finally, there were the factors specific to the reason for traveling and probably the status of travelers. We will study three examples of travels whose objectives were different. In each case, travelers moved westward or eastward, and we intercept them as they pass through Harbe. 2.2.1. The messenger “(1–2)Say to Sutī’u, thus (speaks) Sîn-mudammeq: (3–4) In front of the chariot driver from Sahlalu, whose food ration for? Waššukkanni […]. […] (10–13)Give to Urad-kūbe, 3 sūtu 71 of grain and 67

The reasons for his travels are not always known in the letters, but sometimes appear: to organize harvests, to recruit soldiers, to catch up with prisoners, or perhaps for diplomatic missions, when he traveled to Karkemiš. There is little evidence of the function of the sukkallu, and little is known about his responsibilities, but we see that he had significant administrative and military powers (Jakob, 2003: 60–61). 68 The rations allocated to him show that he did not move on foot, but with horses. The rations distributed in TCh 92.G.217 allow us to estimate that his group consisted of ten horses, three donkeys and ten mules. 69 These caravans could count up to several hundred donkeys: Guichard, 2008: 43. 70 For example, ten donkeys are mentioned in BATSH 4, 6. About the merchants, see Faist, 2001. 71 The sūtu was a measure of capacity. Its equivalence is not established with certainty, but researchers have traditionally accepted that 1 sūtu = 8.4L of barley (Reculeau, 2011: 123). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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straw, bread (and) beer for his way. […] (25–26)Month of Muhur-ilāne, 25th day, eponymat of Enlil-nādin-aplī”.72 The messenger took the road that was commonly followed, and that connected, via Harbe, the Balih and the Habur. The road connected directly two administrative centers of the empire (Waššukkanni and Sahlalu). The archives of Tell Chuera are particularly interesting regarding the roads, because they reveal that a supply system for some travelers existed at the time of Tukultī-Ninurta I. A relay system is known for the Neo-Assyrian period,73 and a system coming close to it may have already existed in Harbe during the Middle Assyrian period. This system was set up and managed by the administration, to facilitate the travel of officials and diplomats. It seems that the local administration (Harbe) was in charge of supplying and housing messengers, diplomats and some officials,74 and that the regional administration (Waššukkanni) monitored and gave specific instructions for some travelers. Most of these travelers are known via the distribution notes, which are more or less detailed, but which are built on the same model. While there is no perfectly identical formula, there is a standardization of administrative notes regarding the supply for travelers, which shows that the system was already set up and organized. It seems that each distribution was recorded on a short administrative note. The date was almost always marked (the month, the day, the eponym), which underlines an archival purpose: they kept track of the outflows of commodities and the passage of travelers. Other travelers were announced in advance by more or less precise letters. This was the case of several diplomatic missions of the year of Ninu’āju, which we will discuss later, but which seem to be linked to a particular context. Other travelers, who are difficult to identify, were also announced by letters. These letters were only summarily dated, which shows us that the travelers were supposed to arrive shortly after the letter, and which presupposes a monitoring of the travelers. We do not know exactly how the goods were distributed, and this raises several questions. Were all the travelers announced by letters? This seems unlikely. But in this case, who were the travelers announced by letters? It was maybe only 72

According to the translation of S. Jakob: Jakob, 2009: TCh 92.G.128. About the Neo Assyrian Relay System, see: Kessler, 1980: 183–236; Parpola, 1987; Favaro, 2007. The access to this system generally required a written authorization, and its maintenance was the responsibility of provincial governors. 74 The letters and the distribution notes show that it was up to the city, and therefore to the local administration, to take care of the supply and reception of travelers. However, it seems that for important diplomats, there was a system of reimbursement of costs by a higher administrative authority (perhaps at the regional level, perhaps at the state level). The compensation is mentioned in some letters (for example: TCh 92.G.208 or TCh 92.G.209). 73

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in the case of some diplomats,75 for special requests,76 or for travelers probably with a high rank.77 In this case, how did messengers and unannounced travelers have access to the system? We may wonder whether they carried with them an authorization or a safe-conduct that allowed them to receive the ration (as for the Neo-Assyrian period), or if they were known by the administrative services in Harbe. We should recall that not all travelers were beneficiaries of this system. Although the status of travelers is not always identified, those we know of belonged to the administrative framework (high officials, messengers) or to the sphere of international relationships (diplomats). Distributed commodities seemed to depend on the status of the traveler (some, including high ranking diplomats,78 received meat, or quality beer). The quantities supplied in Harbe represented two days of travel,79 corresponding to what the travelers needed to reach from Harbe the Habur on one side or the Balih on the other (both destinations are about fifty kilometres away from Harbe). It also indicates that there were no other stopping points in the steppe that would have allowed the travelers supported by the administration to obtain supplies.80 Harbe (and its surroundings) was therefore a strategic point for anyone who wanted to move from the Balih to the Habur. Such a system may have existed in other Middle Assyrian cities. The administration had also established certain settlements to improve the road network. This is the case for example of Tell Umm ’Aqrêbe, a site which is located 45 km east of the Habur on the road that linked Dūr-Katlimmu to Aššur. This little settlement had a close relationship to Dūr-Katlimmu:81 the ceramics found on the 75 Apart from the diplomats of the year of Ninu’āju, the text TCh. 92.G.226 (dated with the eponymate of Enlil-nādin-apli) tells that Hittites, who went to Aššur, are supplied “by order of a message from Ninu’āju”, which presupposes that a letter announcing their arrival has been sent beforehand. 76 See for example TCh 92.G.151. 77 Two chariot drivers were thus invited to eat at the table of an official: TCh 92.G.155. 78 A diplomatic mission from Hatti was led by Teli-šarruma (TCh 92.G.209/211/222) who was possibly a Hittite prince (Jakob, 2009, 87). 79 It is mentioned in a letter that food was distributed for two days (TCh 92.G.235+ 239+240). Calculations suggest that the diplomatic envoys of the year of Ninu’āju received foodstuff for two days. 80 There were certainly some small villages around Harbe (Jakob, 2009: 8). One of them, Penkibe (or Pandibe in the texts of Tell Chuera) is mentioned a few times in the texts. Penkibe appeared to be an alternative supply point to Harbe, which is probably related to the fact that the place was home to food storages (Jakob, 2009: 12). Penkibe was administratively dependent on Harbe, and was located in its immediate vicinity, as shown by a text mentioning a traveler getting supplies in Penkibe but spending the night at Harbe (TCh 92.G.220). In the current state of knowledge, it is difficult to place Penkibe more specifically. 81 Kühne, 2000: 273.

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site belonged to the official Middle Assyrian corpus (as defined by P. Pfälzner),82 and shows that the site was integrated into the administrative framework of the empire, and played an important role in the transportation system of various commodities.83 2.2.2. The merchant caravan The second example is the itinerary of a merchant caravan,84 found in a letter from Dūr-Katlimmu (BATSH 4, 6). The caravan left Karkemiš, and probably intended to go to the Habur area, but they were attacked in the Upper Jezireh, shortly after their passage in Penkibe. “(16’–18’)The merchants of the king of Karkemiš […] crossed downstream Kumahu. (19’–21’)They stopped at Huzîrânu, Ajjânu, and Harrān. They traded. [...] (24’–26’)They went through (and) they took the rest of their way. They left. They did not stop at Harbe (but) they stopped at Penkibe. [...] (29’–32’) […] What they were carrying, the enemies took them by force. They beat the two merchants. (32’)(The merchants) went to Harbe. [...]”.85 The difficulty in determining this itinerary is essentially due to the fact that not all sites have clearly been identified. But there seems to be a consensus on the general route.86 The merchants left from the west bank of the Euphrates where Karkemiš was located, and crossed the river downstream from Kumahu, which was probably upstream from Karkemiš. Then they stopped at Huzîrânu (identified with Sultantepe),87 Ajjânu and Harrān (Altinbaçak). These three stopping points were on the Balih, and, if the identification of Huzîrânu is correct, at a short distance from each other (there are approximately 24 km between Sultantepe and Altinbaçak). The caravan did not hurry, but made short stages: its objective was not to travel quickly, but to go through points where trade could take place, i.e. urban centers. The caravan then crossed the steppe, passed at Penkibe (in the immediate vicinity of Harbe), and had certainly intended to join the Habur triangle (perhaps Waššukkanni). But then the caravan was attacked, and the merchants took refuge in Harbe.

82

Pfälzner, 1995. According to P. Pfälzner, The ceramics found on the site were used for transport and storage: Pfälzner, 1994: 90 and Tab. 46. 84 The little evidence that we have of merchants shows a great diversity of origins of the caravans, and testifies to the importance of the commercial circuits. 85 According to the translation of E. Cancik-Kirschbaum: Cancik-Kirschbaum, 1996, BATSH 4, 6. 86 See Cancik-Kirschbaum, 1996: 122 and Röllig, 1997: 286. 87 For the bibliography, see the HIGEOMES project: https://books.openedition.org/cdf/ 4564 (page retrieved in March 2019). 83

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It is interesting to note that this attack was part of a seemingly troubled regional context, since other letters, all dating to a few months of the same year (eponymate of Ina-Aššur-šumī-aṣbat, during the reign of Tukultī-Ninurta I), evoke disturbances, the presence of enemies, and even a plundering in Harbe.88 More generally, disorder existed in this region under the reign of Tukultī-Ninurta I: aside from this year, other documents mention troubles in the Jezireh. A letter from Tell Sheikh Hamad (BATSH 9, 79) mentions that for two consecutive years the harvest could not take place in some fields around Dur-Katlimmu because of the presence of enemies. A text from Aššur (MARV II, 17) even evokes an expedition that Tukultī-Ninurta I had to lead in the Hanigalbat, during the eponymates of Abī-ilu and Šulmanu-suma-uṣur. This expedition, however, seemed to be conducted not so much against disturbances, than against a city that may have rebelled against the Assyrian power (and which may not have paid a barley tax?).89 But it reflects a limit to the control of the region by the Assyrian authorities. In order to face those travel insecurities, the fortresses, which we have already mentioned, had a role of control, protection and surveillance of the roads. Besides, the fortresses of the north were solicited to deal with the disorders evoked in a letter from Dūr-Katlimmu (BATSH 4, 7, l. 8’–12’’). It should also be noted that some Assyrian settlements on the Balih were fortified, such as Tell Sabi Abyad or Tell Jittal.90 Some travelers were also escorted.91 However, it is sometimes difficult to distinguish an escort from a guide, and they could play both roles at the same time. Insecurity had a definite impact on traffic (interruptions,92 perhaps diverting of itineraries, hiring of an escort, etc.). However, insecurity did not prevent movements: during that same troubled year (eponymate of Ina-Aššur-šumī-aṣbat), messengers and officials traveled in the region, Emar merchants were also attested in Aššur (BATSH 4, 13), and the attack that took place in Harbe a month before their passage did not dissuade the merchants of Karkemiš from trading in the area (BATSH 4, 6).

88

BATSH 4, 4, l. 5–9. A text mentions a troop of 1500 men not far from the Habur few weeks earlier (BATSH 4, 3, l.10–16). See also Jakob, 2015: 180–181. Two other texts from the same archive also evoke troubles in the region, but the dates are broken, so they cannot be linked with certainty to the eponymate of Ina-Aššur-šumī-aṣbat: BATSH 4, 7 (the letter reports the presence of a hostile troop of soldiers, and evokes plunder) and BATSH 4, 8 (the letter evokes plundering around Nihriya). 89 Jakob, 2015: 184. 90 Tenu, 2009: 146. 91 See, for example, TCh 92.G.215 (Abī-ilī escorts envoys of unknown provenance), and TCh 92.G.226 (Adad-mešar escorts an envoy from Canaan). 92 BATSH 4, 2 may also testifies to the attack of a merchant caravan in the Habur region. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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On the other hand, geopolitical issues and tensions between states were more likely to modify circulation, especially commercial traffic. But it is difficult to measure the actual impact of these events. In the 13th century, probably during the reign of Tukultī-Ninurta I, while Hatti and Assyria were in open conflict, the king Tudhaliya IV of Hatti concluded a treaty with Amurru, a country of the Levantine coast, and one of the clauses was to impose a commercial blockade on Assyria.93 BATSH 4, 6, dated to the reign of Tukultī-Ninurta I, and which evokes the caravan from Karkemiš crossing Assyria, was certainly written several years after the conflict between Assyria and Hatti (the eponymate of Ina-Aššur-šumī-aṣbat would be in the middle or in the end of the reign of Tukultī-Ninurta I). But the sources do not make it possible to establish the state of the relationship between the two powers at that moment. 94 The caravan kept circulating, its route was known by the Assyrian authorities; moreover, a compensation system in case of loss (which is also found in BATSH 4, 2) seems have been in place 95. But it should be noted that, the same year, another letter mentions prisoners from Karkemiš. It would be interesting to know whether this caravan was circulating in times of peace, war or tension. 2.2.3. The diplomatic mission Diplomatic exchanges between the courts were fairly regular, although temporary breaks have been reported. From the beginning of the Middle Assyrian period, during the reigns of the kings Aššur-nadin-ahhe I (1452–1430) and Aššur-uballiṭ (1353–1318), Assyria had relations with Egypt. During the 13th century, exchanges also took place with the Levantine countries and with Hatti.96 “(1–4)Say to the governor of Harbe, thus (speaks) Šulmānu-mušabši: […] (This is the ration) of Milku-rāmu, the envoy of Sidon, who carries the tablets of the king of Egypt; He went to the king, in Libbi-āli (i.e. Aššur), he received instructions, and he set out to his country. […] (29–30)Month of Kalmartu, 2nd day, eponymat of Ninu’āju”.97 (11–20)

93

KUB XXIII 1. The dating of this text is not assured, as the name of the Assyrian king is broken, but it is likely that the event took place at the beginning of the reign of TukultīNinurta I: Lackenbacher, 2002: 154–155. 94 The Assyro-Hittite relationship was complex and was marked by episodes of hostility, cordiality, strong tensions, and open wars. 95 There were protection agreements during the Old Assyrian period: when a caravan was attacked and looted, the state whose territory was crossed, and which was probably in charge of road safety, reimbursed the losses to the foreign merchants. 96 At least six Hittite diplomats are attested in the texts of Tell Chuera (TCh 92.G.209, TCh 92.G.226, TCh 92.G.234) and Tell Sheikh Hamad (BATSH 4, 8). 97 According to the translation of S. Jakob: Jakob, 2009, TCh 92.G.208. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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This text (TCh 92.G.208) is part of a group of tablets dated to the eponymate of Ninu’āju. These are letters sent a few months apart to Harbe announcing the passage of several delegations of diplomats, from Sidon (this delegation brought the tablets of the king of Egypt in Assyria), from Hatti, and from Amurru. These delegations came back from Aššur to their respective country. These diplomatic missions do not reflect an ordinary diplomatic activity. Several other foreign diplomats are indeed mentioned in the documents of Tell Chuera, but those of the year of Ninu’āju were unusual on several aspects: they were numerous, of diverse origin, and concentrated over a few months. These delegations were also larger (whereas ordinary diplomats often traveled alone or in pairs).98 We can also mention the high status of travelers,99 and the fact that these delegations were announced by sealed letters, which shows their importance. These elements tend to show that an important event on the international scene was going to be celebrated in Aššur, and that foreign rulers were paying homage to the king. It happened in a year that cannot be placed precisely in the middle or in the end of the reign of Tukultī-Ninurta I. Several hypotheses regarding the precise nature of the event have been formulated, but what is certain is that it was an event that took place at the court of Aššur (a royal wedding, a particularly important ceremony for the Assyrians?). It is also possible that it was linked to the celebration of an Assyria’s victory over Babylon. Indeed, a few years after his first campaign in Babylonia, which resulted in the capture of the king Kaštiliaš IV of Babylon, Tukultī-Ninurta I led new expeditions. The date of these actions is not known with precision, but they would have happened towards the middle or the end of the king’s reign.100 The diplomats of the year of Ninu’āju passed by Harbe on their way back. We will focus on the delegation from Sidon (on the Levantine coast). Indeed, if for the envoy of Hatti the northern route passing through Harbe seemed clear, for the diplomats from Sidon this road represented a detour compared to the other potential itineraries (the most direct routes linking the Levantine coast to the heart of Assyria passed through Tadmor (Palmyra)101 or through the bend of the Euphrates where there was the city of Emar). Several hypotheses can be formulated to account for such a choice of itinerary. Perhaps travelers did not take a direct route because of a punctual impediment that would have blocked them: possibly the absence of water in the wells during 98

Examples can be found in the texts of Tell Chuera: most ordinary diplomats traveled alone (TCh 92.G. 226, TCh 92.G.234). By comparison, it can be deduced, from the rations distributed at Harbe, that the Hittite delegation of the year of Ninu’āju was composed of about fifteen persons. 99 See note 79. 100 That is a hypothesis defended by S. Jakob: Jakob, 2015. 101 Diplomats sent to the Pharaoh by the king Aššur-balliṭ (in the 14th century) passed by the road through Tadmor to reach Egypt (Liverani, 2004). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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the dry season,102 or because of geopolitical tensions or troubles. It could also be linked to strategic monitoring. Indeed, if all travelers did not appear in the requests for supplies, the sources suggest that they were more or less monitored by the Assyrian authorities.103 So the authorities could have imposed to those diplomats in particular (who came to Aššur for a specific reason) the itinerary passing through Harbe. However, the mention of the passage of a diplomat from Canaan at Harbe (TCh 92.G.226) during another year allows us to doubt it: this route seemed to be the most common (for diplomats at least, or during the dry season).104 The most likely hypothesis links this choice to a question of comfort, prestige and safety. As we have mentioned, the northern route offered indeed much more comfortable conditions and security than the more difficult routes through the steppes and desert. To get back to the envoys of the king Aššur-uballiṭ, who came from Egypt and passed through Tadmor to join Assyria, they faced real difficulties and could not take this desert road without a guide.105 The road was difficult, and it is likely that if their reason for following it was that no other route was available: Hatti and Mittani blocked the other ways. We can also note that the Assyrian kings on the move seemed to use this northern route.106 This was the case of a journey of Tukultī-Ninurta I (BATSH 4, 10). The king, who was traveling to the Habur region with a large court (among which there was a defeated Babylonian king), went through Apku, identified with the modern Abu Marya, Northeast of the Sinjar. This is also the case of Shalmaneser I who went through the Habur triangle to go to Karkemiš.107 It is interesting to put in parallel the route taken by Shalmaneser (Aššur, the Habur triangle, Karkemiš) and the itinerary followed by the Hittite diplomats in the year of Ninu’āju (Aššur, Harbe, Karkemiš). The same route (or approximately the same route), could have been followed in both cases (maybe through Harbe), and the fact that a king and his court used it reinforces the idea that this route was much more convenient. 102

The letters announcing the diplomats are dated to the months of Qarratu and Kalmartu (see Jakob, 2009). These two months would correspond to the months of July/August and August/September, i.e. towards the end of the dry season: Cancik-Kirschbaum / Cale Johnson, 2013: 116. 103 Several texts mention the exchange of information about travelers, such as for example BATSH 4, 17. 104 TCh 92.G.226 is dated from the month Sîn, which would correspond to the months of September/October, i.e. the end of the dry season: Cancik-Kirschbaum / Cale Johnson, 2013, 116. 105 “As to your messengers having been delayed: (the reason is that) the Suteans, their guides/escort, had died. So I had to detain them (i.e. the messengers) until I wrote and (other) Sutean guides/escort were taken (i.e. recruited, engaged).” (Translation by M. Liverani: Liverani, 2004: 118). 106 For the travels of the kings during the Middle Assyrian period, see Llop/Shibata, 2016. 107 Tab T05A-609 (Shibata, 2017). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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2.3. Speed travel Speed played an important part in journeys. The travel speed was evidently determined in part by the means of transport, the chosen route, and the reasons for traveling. We can, by crossing data, estimate that a day of travel, for a man on foot, represented around 20 and 30 km.108 But a horseman or a chariot traveled at a greater speed. We have for example a letter sent from Waššukkanni to Harbe (TCh 92.G.151). In this letter, an official asked for a chariot to go to Sahlalu (to take something he needed) and to come back to Harbe in two days. The chariot driver who brought the letter from Waššukkanni had to come back the day after. So it shows us that these distances (54 km and 46 km) could be covered quickly when needed. In general, it is estimated that a distance of 60–80 km could be covered daily for the fastest travelers (provided that the same horses were not used several days in a row). We can also mention the existence, for the Neo-Assyrian period, of a system of fast messengers, called kalliu-service.109 This service functioned thanks to regular relays, called bît mardīti, which punctuated the royal roads and which were maintained by the local administration. Some of these bît mardīti were used to change horses. We may wonder if such a system already existed in the Middle Assyrian period. Middle Assyrian texts mention this term “kalliu”,110 in connection with the circulation of messengers. A text attests the passing of a “courier” or an “express courier” (lúkal-li-ú): this mention implies that there existed a distinct category of messengers which had to travel faster. Another text mentions a kind of service “ina kallie” or “ana kallie”: “for horses that had been brought to him from the service of the couriers”.111 These few elements do not prove that a system as organized as the one of the Neo-Assyrian period existed, but that certain elements were already in place, elements that the Neo-Assyrian system inherited. This kind of messengers, on the condition of the existence of such road stations, could transport messages quickly through the whole Assyrian Empire. For example, the steppe route from Aššur to Dūr-Katlimmu, which was about 230–240 km long, could be crossed in three or four days.112 3. Military campaigns The sources on which we rely are royal inscriptions left by the Assyrian kings. If, at the beginning of the Middle Assyrian period, they were not very detailed and 108

According to the text DeZ 2521, which details the daily itinerary followed by a troop of soldiers, it is possible to average around 25/30km per day. See also Faist, 2006. 109 Favaro, 2007: 67–72. About the Royal Roads see Kessler, 1997. 110 TCh 92.G.238; TCh 90.G.002; BATSH 4, 5 (but this tablet is too damaged to understand the context). 111 According to S. Jakob: TCh 92.G.002. 112 Faist, 2006: 156. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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simply listed the places of battles and victories (with booty and captures), they became detailed annals at the beginning of the Neo Assyrian period. The inscriptions of Tukultī-Ninurta II and Aššurnaṣirpal II are the most detailed, and give the advances of the army in the form of an itinerary.113 However, a critical look at the royal inscriptions must be maintained. While itineraries and places can often be considered reliable, some descriptions were put forward, such as the passage of mountains or the crossing of rivers, in order to show the power of the king who triumphs over wilderness.114 Regarding the strength of the armed forces, we do not have accurate information, but for the Assyrian army, the order of magnitude is about several thousand men.115 The movement of an army was quite specific and responded to particular constraints. It supposed a good planning and organization of the journey. The issue of water and food supply116 was thus central, and in the context of a military campaign, river valleys were preferably followed, because they allowed much easier logistics. The choice of the route, especially because of the geographical and topographical constraints that were stronger with an army than with a small group of travelers, was also a concern. For armies, the crossing of a river represented important logistics, mobilizing guides and scouts (for the recognition of the terrain, the condition of the fords, etc…). Similarly, the paths through the mountains had to be known in advance. Scouts were to be sent ahead of the army, and guides were to accompany the armies, as evidenced by an inscription of Tukultī-Ninurta II which indicates that he passed through a forest without a guide, which seems sufficiently unusual to be mentioned.117 3.1. Supply of water in the royal inscriptions One of the first constraints of the armies’ movement was water supply. Indeed, if the existence of wells allowed small groups to cross the steppe, the question was 113

The inscriptions of Aššurnaṣirpal II have been studied by M. Liverani (Liverani, 1992). For example, in a royal inscription of Shalmaneser III: “Moving on from the city Aridu, I smashed out with copper picks rough paths in mighty mountains (20) which rose perpendicularly to the sky like the points of daggers (and) into which no one among the kings my fathers had ever passed. I moved (my) chariots (and) troops over (those paths and) approached the city Hubuškia” (RIMA 3, A.0.102.1, l.19–22). 115 Royal inscriptions are not always reliable on the numbers, because there were there to highlight the prowess of the king. However, they give us an idea of the size, which is corroborated by other sources. See M. de Odorico, 1995. 116 It is unclear for the period whether the soldiers were in charge of the local governor or whether chariots or other means of transport were part of the convoy. It seems probable that as long as the army crossed the Assyrian territory, a part of the food should came from the granaries of the cities crossed. 117 RIMA 2, A.0.100.5, l. 51: “Moving on from the city Asusu, on the third day I continued through forest without a leader or guide.” 114

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much more delicate for an army, because it was necessary to provide several thousand soldiers and animals with water throughout the march. So water resources conditioned largely the movements of the armies. We see that water resources were a concern that was often mentioned in the royal inscriptions. For example, during a campaign led by Shalmaneser I (in the 13th century) in Hanigalbat, it appears that the absence of water was a real danger. “Šattuara, king of the land Hanigalbat, with the aid of the armies of the Hittites and Ahlamu, captured the passes and watering-places (in) my (path). When my army was thirsty and fatigued (lit. because of the thirst and fatigue of my army) their army made a fierce attack in strength”.118 It was also an issue in a royal inscription of Tukultī-Ninurta II: “By midday all the water was drawn (and) I had exhausted (lit. destroyed) 470 wells in the environs. [...] On the second day at the well [...] the water was too bitter to satisfy the troops”.119 This inscription shows the difficulty for an army to sustain itself in the steppe region. It is possible that if he had left later in the year, Tukultī-Ninurta II could not have taken this route.120 It should be noted that the king Adad-nārārī I, who also passed through the Wadi Tharthar, seemed to have problems with water supply.121 In general, we see that when the armies moved away from the rivers, it became immediately very complicated. This fact is particularly apparent in the 6th campaign of Tukultī-Ninurta II: when the king passed through a steppe zone, the question of water became omnipresent in his inscriptions (the Wadi Tharthar, the “land of thirst”), while nothing is indicated about this subject when he followed the river. The control of water points appears to be a crucial and strategic issue for the progress of the army. 3.2. Objectives and itineraries: the case of three military campaigns We will now discuss the factors of choice of route, through the example of three military campaigns, going to the same geographical region, but following three different itineraries. These three campaigns were led by two kings in the 9th century. Several kingdoms of the Habur and the Euphrates were then vassalized.

118

RIMA 1, A.0.77.1, l. 60–66. RIMA 2, A.0.100.5, l.42–44. 120 Clancier, 2017, 144–145. 121 See the text VAT 9968 republished by Y. Bloch (Bloch, 2013: 47). About the dating of this text, see note 42. 119

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3.2.1. Tukultī-Ninurta II, 6th campaign122 The first one is a campaign conducted by Tukultī-Ninurta II. He had several objectives: to affirm the Assyrian domination, to show its presence, and to collect tributes from the small kingdoms. His destination was the Middle Euphrates and the Lower Habur, where these kingdoms laid. The chosen itinerary went to the south. However, the king did not follow the Tigris, but went through the Wadi Tharthar, maybe to control the Aramaean tribes settled in the region,123 before coming back to the Tigris. This campaign was not a real war of conquest, it was more a way to show the Assyrian’s might. The king even took the time to hunt several times. The passage through the Tharthar was particularly difficult, which may reveal a lack of preparation for this campaign (we have already noted the absence of guides). Then, the king descended towards Babylonia, before going up to the Middle Euphrates, where he began to levy tributes,124 and the Habur. 3.2.2. Aššurnaṣirpal II, 6th campaign125 The second campaign was led by his successor, Aššurnaṣirpal II. It is difficult to establish with certainty the ultimate goal of this campaign. If the first part of the expedition began as a classic tour to expose the might of the Assyrian king and to collect tributes, it ended with the battle of Sūru (in the Sūhu). This time, Aššurnaṣirpal II took the north road (by the Habur triangle).126 Such a choice could be explained by the fact that tensions existed during his reign between Aššur and Babylon. Indeed, at the beginning of the reign of Aššurnaṣirpal II, a governor of the Sūhu, vassal of the Assyrians, seemed to have been driven out of his territory and to have sought refuge with the Assyrian king.127 His territory was invaded by another governor of Sūhu with the help of Babylonia.128 The road previously followed by Tukultī-Ninurta II passed through Babylonian territories, but if at the time this passage did not seem to have been a casus belli, at the time of Aššurnaṣirpal II, going through the Babylonian territories would probably have created a direct conflict with Babylonia (and the road was surely blocked by Babylonian armies).

122

RIMA 2, A.0.100.5, l.41–127. For the map, see Clancier, 2017, 276 (map 21). See Clancier, 2017: 278. 124 The tribute was collected only from the city of Ānat: RIMA 2, A.0.100.5, l.69–73. 125 RIMA 2, A.0.101.1, col. iii, l.1–26. For the map, see Liverani, 1992: fig.7. 126 The itinerary between Kalhu and the Habur is not precisely described in the royal inscription. But there is no doubt that the king, who was leaving Kalhu, took the road that passed through the north of the Sinjar, reached the Habur triangle, and followed the Wadi Radd to the city of Magarisu. See Liverani, 1992: 63–68 and fig. 7. 127 Clancier, 2017: 281. 128 About this campaign, see Clancier, 2017: 280–284. 123

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3.2.3. Aššurnaṣirpal II, 7th campaign129 The last campaign is very interesting to study a quite different case of military action. The Lower Habur and the Middle Euphrates were once again the destinations of Aššurnaṣirpal II, but the campaign was triggered by a generalized revolt of the local kingdoms. The situation was therefore critical, and the king wanted to reach the region before the revolt spread on the Habur. He chose the direct route, which crossed the steppe. We do not know precisely which itinerary he took, but he seemingly directly reached the city of Sūru (on the Habur), which was then part of the kingdom of Bīt-Halupê. To shorten his path, he probably followed the foothills of the Sinjar Mountains,130 which allowed easier access than the road further south, and crossed the arid zone to the Middle Habur. Unfortunately, we do not have any indications regarding his speed, but the crossing had to be done by forced march. These three examples show us that Assyrian kings had a certain choice regarding their itineraries. Water supply (and most likely also food supply) was one of the main factors that prevailed in the choice of the road followed, and as far as possible, the armies stayed close to the rivers and water points. But it was not the only factor, because we see that the choice of the road was also influenced by another element which, for military campaigns, was just as fundamental: geopolitics. It is even clear that sometimes the geopolitical factor inflected on the water supply factor (which did not disappear entirely otherwise): during his 7th campaign, Aššurnaṣirpal II thus chose a difficult route to respond to the urgency of the situation; Tukultī-Ninurta II entered an arid zone to control a region close to the heart of Assyria. 3.4. Travel speeds The inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian kings allow calculation. Speed depended greatly of the ground and goals. In the mountainous region, M. Liverani proposes an average between 13.5 and 15 km/day,131 and in plain, as for the campaigns we mentioned, the pace was faster: M. Liverani talks about an average speed of 18 km/day for the 6th campaign of Tukultī-Ninurta II 132 and takes an average of 30km/day for the campaigns of Aššurnaṣirpal II.133 When we look at it in detail, the majority of the daily stages of Tukultī-Ninurta II, in the region of the Habur and the Middle Euphrates, was indeed between 15 and 25 km134 (see Table 1). These were fairly classic distances for the armies. 129

RIMA 2, A.0.101.1, col. iii, l.26–50. For the map, see Liverani, 1992: fig.8. Liverani, 1992: 69–72 and fig. 8. 131 Liverani, 1992: 145. 132 Liverani, 1992: 145. 133 Liverani, 1992: 145. He specifies that for the Habur/Middle Euphrates section, the stages were rather around 36 km (Liverani, 1992: 145). 134 For the daily stages of the Middle Euphrates, see the work of P. Clancier: Clancier, 130

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It should be noted that the king did not particularly rush, he took the time to hunt several times, and he stopped from city to city to collect many tributes. Stages of the journey

Identification with present sites

Sirqu135 → Sūru (Bīt- Tell Ashara → Tell FiHalupê) dēn? 136

Distance

~50–60 km137 2

Sūru → Dūr-Katlimmu

Tell Fidēn? → Tell Sheikh ~35 km Hamad

Dūr-Katlimmu → Qatnu

Tell Sheikh Hamad → Tell Ašamsâni or Tell Fagdami138

Qatnu → Šadikannu

Tell Ašamsâni or Tell Fagdami → Tell ’Agaga139

Tell Ta’bân → Hassake?140

25–30 km/d

2

17–18 km/d

~30–35 km

2

15–18 km/d

~35–40 km

2

17–20 km/d

1

18 km/d

1

20–25 km/d

Šadikannu → Ṭabîtu Tell ’Agaga → Tell Ta’- ~18 km bân Ṭabîtu → Magarisu

Days of Average travel speed

~20–25 km

Table 1: Stages and travel speed of the Assyrian Army during a part of the 6th campaign of Tukultī-Ninurta II.141

2017: 277 (map 22). 135 Sirqu (or Terqa during the Old babylonian period) is identified with Tell Ashara: Liverani, 1992: 64–65. For the bibliography, see the HIGEOMES project: https://books. openedition.org/cdf/4565 (page retrieved in March 2019). 136 Sūru (Bīt-Halupê), on the bank of the Habur, is identified with Tell Fidēn (Kühne, 1991: 183; see also Parpola/Porter, 2001: map 9). 137 See note 148. 138 Two identifications have been proposed for Qatnu (also known as Qaṭṭunan during the Old and the Middle Assyrian periods): Tell Fagdami, or Tell Ašamsâni. Both sites are 4 or 5km apart. For the bibliography, see the HIGEOMES project: https://books.openedition. org/cdf/4565 (page retrieved in March 2019). 139 Šadikannu is identified with the modern Tell ’Agaga. For the bibliography, see the HIGEOMES project: https://books.openedition.org/cdf/4565 (page retrieved in March 2019). 140 Magarisu (also known as Magrisi) is not well identified. The city was certainly located in the vicinity of the southern tip of the Habur triangle, perhaps close to the confluence of the Wadi Radd and the Habur. The modern city of Hassaké was proposed, but other sites were also plausible. For the bibliography, see the HIGEOMES project: https://books. openedition.org/cdf/4564 (page retrieved in March 2019). 141 RIMA 2, A.0.100.5, l.95–115. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Aššurnaṣirpal II, who during his 6th campaign followed the same road, but in the opposite direction, imposed a more sustained rhythm on his army, at least during the part of his campaign in which he descended the Habur and traveled to the Middle Euphrates region (see Table 2). Such a speed is high but remains plausible for an army on foot.142 Errors in the identification of the ancient sites and approximations cannot be excluded, but the order of magnitude of this speed reflects the fact that the king’s army was well organized, and that the campaign was sufficiently prepared.143 It also reflects that the campaign took place on plains, and in a region likely controlled by Assyrians (the king collected few tributes, but apparently without special difficulties). The length of the stages may also reflect the fact that the load train, a logistical element that an army could not do without, but which slowed down the march, was reduced. Two elements could make this possible. On the one hand, the army could have supplied itself directly from the areas crossed (it seems that they were in an area where it was easy for the king to provide his army. Aššurnaṣirpal II received herds of oxen and sheep among the tributes.144 Tukultī-Ninurta II, in the same region, received sheep, oxen, ducks, bread, beer and fodder – straw).145 However, it should be noted that during his campaign, the king also received precious metals and miscellaneous objects that had to be transported.146 On the other hand, we may suppose that, even if it is not indicated, boats were built and accompanied the army to transport a part of the equipment or the tributes.147 The geopolitical circumstances, namely the fact that part of the Sūhu had escaped the control of Assyria, is perhaps also to be taken into account to explain the rhythm given by the king to his army, even if no urgency seems to be reflected in the royal inscription (unlike the 7th campaign).

142

For other periods of antiquity, stages around 30km are known for armies: Gabrielli, 1995, 110. 143 On the preparation of military campaigns, see for example the tamītu texts (oracle questions addressed to the god). Lambert, 2007, n°1-3-4-5-6-7-8. 144 RIMA 2, A.0.101.1, col. iii, l.9–10: “I received tribute from the people of the city Ṣupru […] oxen, (and) sheep”. 145 RIMA 2, A.0.100.5, l.103: “[I] received tribute [from Usalâ]: 200 sheep, 30 oxen, bread, beer, grain, (and) straw”. 146 RIMA 2, A.0.101.1, col. iii, l.9–10: “I received tribute from the people of the city Ṣupru, silver, gold, tin, casseroles […]”. 147 The royal inscription of Aššurnaṣirpal II evokes this usage for the 7th campaign: RIMA 2, A.0.101.1, col. iii, l.33–34: “I crossed the Euphrates at the city Haridu by means of the boats which I had made, rafts (made of inflated) goatskins which had moved along the road simultaneously (with the army)”. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

Travelers in Upper Mesopotamia during the Middle and Early Neo-Assyrian Periods 213

Stages of the journey

Identification with present sites

Distance

Days of travel

Average speed

Magarisu → Šadikannu

Hassaké? → Tell ’Agaga ~35–40 km 1

38 km/d

Šadikannu → Qatnu

Tell ’Agaga → Tell Aša- ~35–40 km 1 msâni or Tell Fagdami

38 km/d

Qatnu → Dūr-Katlim- Tell Ašamsâni or Tell mu Fagdami → Tell Sheikh Hamad

~30–35 km 1

33 km/d

Dūr-Katlimmu → Sirqu Tell Sheikh Hamad → Tell Ashara

~82 km148

2

41 km/d

Sirqu → Hindānu

Tell Ashara → Karable?149

~78 km

3

26 km/d

Hindānu → Haridu (Harādu)

Karable? → Khirbet edDiniye

~48–50 km 2

25 km/d

Haridu → Ānat

Khirbet ed-Diniye → Ja- ~35–40 km 1 zirat al-Qal’a150

38 km/d

Ānat → Sūru (Sūhu)

Jazirat al-Qal’a → Sur Telbis151

12 km/d

12 km

1

Table 2: Stages and travel speed of the Assyrian Army during a part of the 6th campaign of Aššurnaṣirpal II.152 148

Between Dūr-Katlimmu and Sirqu, there is ~90 km of distance (if the rivers are followed). However, there was a canal, the Nergal-Eresh’s canal or the Nahr Dawrin, which connected the Lower Habur to the region in front of Hindānu, and which made it possible to cut off the confluence zone between the Habur and the Euphrates (Masetti-Rouault, 2010, 133: fig. 1 and 137–138). The route along the canal would have shortened the distance between Dūr-Katlimmu and Terqa, and it may have been followed by the army of Aššurnaṣirpal II (personal communication of P. Clancier). It is possible that this canal is the one mentioned in the inscription of Tukultī-Ninurta II (RIMA 2, A.0.100.5, l.96: “I* pitched camp (and) spent the night in the meadow of the Euphrates by the city Rummunina where lies the canal of the River Habur”), and that it was followed by this king to reach the city of Sūru (Bīt-Halupê). 149 Hindānu is not identified with certainty. The site of Karable has been proposed, but other tells in the same area are also plausible. For the bibliography, see the Higeomes project: http://higeomes.checksem.fr/ficheInfoMASS.html#topo634 (page retrieved in December 2018). 150 Ānat is identified with the modern site of Jazirat al-Qal’a. For the bibliography, see the Higeomes project: http://higeomes.checksem.fr/ficheInfoMASS.html#topo69 (page retrieved in December 2018). 151 Sūru (Sūhu) on the bank of the Middle Euphrates, is identified with Sur Telbis: Clancier, 2017, 66. 152 RIMA 2, A.0.101.1, col. iii, l.3–26. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Conclusion The itineraries depended on many factors, including those inherent to the region: the geography, the topography, the climate and the water resources. The journey itself was only rarely described in the Middle Assyrian texts, just as the type of route taken, but mentions of displacement was numerous. If very few documents describe precisely the itineraries, it is nevertheless possible to reconstitute some of the main axes of communication. Without having drawn up an exhaustive list, we see that the travelers on the Middle Assyrian roads were relatively numerous: merchants, officials and messengers, diplomats; the army; and other cases that do not appear in our sources. The organization of a trip involved several aspects, some of which were specific to the period (the geopolitics, the road station network, etc.), or to the reasons of the travel (mode of transport, speed of movement, status of the traveler, size of the group, etc.). Some factors were more important than others (such as water supply), but the Assyrians could influence these factors when the situation demanded it. The good functioning of the circulation was essential to the running of the empire: the transport of the messages, the travel of the officials for questions of management, the circulation of the goods to supply the cities, the displacement of the armies to ensure the control on the territory, etc. Problems were not uncommon, but we can see through the texts that the circulation continued, in a sufficiently efficient way. Since the Middle Assyrian period, the state has been involved in the organization of certain trips, and in the taking charge of the travelers necessary for its running. Abbreviations AOAT Alter Orient und Altes Testament AoF Altorientalische Forschungen BAR British Archaeological Reports BATSH Berichte der Ausgrabung Tall Sêh Hamad/Dûr-Katlimmu; BATSH 1: Kühne, 1991; BATSH 4: Cancik-Kirschbaum, 1996 BBVO Berliner Beiträge zum Vorderer Orient CM Cuneiform Monographs CUSAS Cornell University Studies in Assyriology and Sumerology; CUSAS 17: George, 2011 DeZ Museum siglum of Der ez-Zor EA Texts from Tell el-Amarna; Moran, 1987 HANE History of the Ancient Near East HSAO Heidelberger Studien zum Alten Orient HDR Habilitation à diriger des recherches JAOS Journal of the American Oriental Society JCS Journal of Cuneiform Studies © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

Travelers in Upper Mesopotamia during the Middle and Early Neo-Assyrian Periods 215

KD KUB LAPO MARV MS NABU O.E. PIHANS RA RlA RIMA SAA SAAB SAAS SÉPOA TCh VAT VS WVDOG

Texts from Khirbet ed-Diniyeh Keilschrifturkunden aus Boghazköi; Harrak, 1998 Littératures Anciennes du Proche-Orient Mittelassyrische Rechtsurkunden und Verwaltungstexte; MARV II: Freydank, 1982; MARV IV: Freydank, 2001 Tablet numbers in the Schøyen Collection; Frame, 2011 (in George, 2011) Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires Orient Express, Notes et nouvelles d’archéologie orientale Publications de l’Institut historique-archéologique néerlandais de Stamboul Revue d’Assyriologie et d’Archéologie Orientale Reallexikon der Assyriologie (und Vorderasiatischen Archäologie) The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia. Assyrian Periods; RIMA 1: Grayson, 1987; RIMA 2: Grayson, 1991 State Archives of Assyria State Archives of Assyria. Bulletin State Archive of Assyria, Studies Société pour l’étude du Proche-Orient ancien Texts from Tell Chuera; Jakob, 2009 Museum siglum of the Vorderasiatisches Museum, Berlin Vorderasiatische Schriftdenkmäler der (Königlichen) Museen zu Berlin Wissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft

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du second millénaire av. J.-C., tendances dans l’interprétation historique des données nouvelles. Subartu VII. Brepols/Turnhout. Pp. 271–279. Lackenbacher, S., 2002: Textes akkadiens d’Ugarit. LAPO 20. Paris. Lambert, W.G., 2007: Babylonian Oracle Questions. Winona Lake. Liverani, M., 1992: Studies on the Annals of Ashurnasirpal II. Vol. 2: Topographical Analysis. Quaderni di Geografia Storica 4. Rome. — 2004: “The Fate of Ashur-Uballit’s Messengers in EA 16”. In H. Waetzoldt (ed.): Von Sumer nach Ebla und zurück. HSAO 9. Heidelberg. Pp. 117–120. Llop, J., 2011: “The creation of the Middle Assyrian provinces”. JAOS 131, 591– 603. — 2012: “The Development of the Middle Assyrian Provinces”. AoF 39, 87–111. Llop, J. / Shibata, D., 2016: “The Royal Journey in the Middle Assyrian Period”. JCS 68, 67–98. Lyon, J.D., 2000: “Middle Assyrian Expansion and Settlement Development in the Syrian Jazira – The View from the Balikh Valley”. In R.M. Jas (ed.): Rainfall and Agriculture in Northern Mesopotamia. PIHANS 88. Leiden/Istanbul. Pp. 89–126. Machinist, P., 1982: “Provincial governance in Middle Assyria and some new texts from Yale”. Assur 3/ii, 65–101. Masetti-Rouault, M.G., 2010: “Rural Economy and Steppe Management in an Assyrian Colony in the West”. In H. Kühne (ed.): Dūr-Katlimmu 2008 and Beyond. Studia Chaburensia 1. Wiesbaden. Pp. 129–150. Maul, S., 2013: “Die tägliche Speisung des Assur (gināʾu) und deren politische Bedeutung”. In L. Feliu / J. Llop / A. Millet Alba / J. San Martin (eds.): Time and History in the Ancient Near East. Winona Lake, IN. Pp. 561–574. Michel, C., 2001: Correspondance des marchands assyriens de Kaneš au début du IIe millénaire avant J.-C. LAPO 19. Paris. Moran, W.L., 1987: Les Lettres d’el-Amarna. LAPO 13. Paris. De Odorico, M., 1995: The Use of Numbers and Quantifications in the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions. SAAS III. Helsinki. Parpola, S., 1987: The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part I: Letters from Assyria and the West. SAA I. Helsinki. Parpola, S. / Porter, M., 2001: The Helsinki Atlas of the Near East in the NeoAssyrian Period. Helsinki. Pfälzner, P., 1995: Mittanische und mittelassyrische Keramik: Eine chronologische, funktionale und produktionsökonomische Analyse. BATSH 3. Berlin. Postgate, C. / Oates, D. / Oates, J., 1997: The Excavations at Tell al-Rimah: The Pottery. Iraq archaeological reports 4. Warminster. Postgate, J.N., 1981: “Nomads and Sedentaries in the Middle Assyrian Sources”. In J.S. Castillo (ed.): Nomads and Sedentary People. 30th International Congress of Human Sciences in Asia and North Africa: Seminars. Mexico. Pp. 47–56. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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— 1992: “The Land of Assur and the Yoke of Assur”. World Archaeology 23/iii, 247–263. — 2014: Bronze Age Bureaucracy, Writing and the Practice of Government in Assyria. Cambridge. Radner, K., 2006: “Provinz: C. Assyrien”. RIA 11, 42–68. — 2014: “An imperial communication Network: The State Correspondence of the Ancient World from the New Kingdom to the Roman Empire”. In K. Radner (ed.): State Correspondence in the Ancient World: From New Kingdom Egypt to the Roman Empire. Oxford studies in early empires. Oxford. Pp. 64– 93. Reculeau, H., 2011: Climate, Environment and Agriculture in Assyria in the 2nd Half of the 2nd Millennium BCE. Studia Chaburensia 2. Wiesbaden. Röllig, W., 1983: “Ein Itinerar aus Dur-Katlimmu”. Damaszener Mitteilungen 1, 279–284. — 1997: “Aspects of the Historical Geography of Northeastern Syria from Middle Assyrian to Neo-Assyrian Times”. In S. Parpola / R.M. Whiting (eds.): Assyria 1995. SAA. Helsinki. Pp. 281–293. Saggs, H.W.F., 1968: “The Tell al-Rimah Tablets”. Iraq 30, 154–174. Sanlaville, P., 2000: Le Moyen-Orient arabe: le milieu et l’homme. Paris. Sevalie, D., 2006: “Les itinéraires de la communication à Mari sous le règne de Zimri-Lim”. Kaskal 3, 177–201. Shibata, D., 2017: “An Expedition of King Shalmaneser I and Prince TukultīNinurta to Carchemish”. In Y. Heffron / A. Stone / M. Worthington (eds.): At the Dawn of History, Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honour of J. N. Postgate. Vol. 1. Winona Lake, IN. Pp. 491–506. Tenu, A., 2006: “Le moyen Euphrate à l’époque médio-assyrienne”. In Ch. Kepinski / O. Lecomte / A. Tenu (eds.): Studia Euphratica. Le moyen Euphrate iraquien révélé par les fouilles préventives de Haditha. Travaux de la Maison René-Ginouvès 3. Paris. Pp. 217–245. – 2008: “Les forteresses assyriennes de la vallée du moyen Euphrate”. In Ph. Abrahami / L. Battini (eds.): Les armées du Proche-Orient ancien: IIIe–Ier mill. av. J.-C. BAR/International series 1855. Oxford. Pp. 151–176. – 2009: L’expansion médio-assyrienne. Approche archéologique. BAR/International series 1906. Oxford. Tenu, A. / Montero Fenollos, J.-L. / Caramelo, F., “Tell Qabar Abu al-Atiq: une nouvelle étape sur la route steppique”. In press. Wäfler, M., 1994: “Taddum, Tîdu und Ta’idu(m)/Tâdu(m)”. In P. Calmeyer / K. Hecker / L. Jakob-Rost / C.B.F. Walker (eds.): Beiträge zur Altorientalischen Archäologie und Altertumskunde: Festschrift für Barthel Hrouda zum 65. Geburtstag. Wiesbaden. Pp. 293–302. Wilkinson, T.J. / French, Ch. / Ur, J. / Semple, M., 2010: “The Geoarchaeology of Route Systems in Northern Syria”. Geoarchaeology 25, 745–771. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Wiseman, D.J., 1968: “The Tell al-Rimah Tablets”. Iraq 30, 175–185. Ziegler, N. / Cancik-Kirschbaum, E., (eds.), 2014: Entre les fleuves – II. D’Aššur à Mari et au-delà. BBVO 24. Gladbeck. Ziegler, N. / Langlois, A.-I., (eds.), 2016 : Toponymie der mittelassyrischen Texte: Der Westen des mittelassyrischen Reiches. SÉPOA. Paris.

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The Sage’s Lehrjahre Jaume Pòrtulas

I This paper examines several issues related to the accounts we find in classical sources of journeys made by archaic Greek thinkers to the lands of Egypt and the Middle East.1 I will be referring to figures who are historical but are all wrapped in an aura of legend such as Thales and Solon, and to the biographical (or more often pseudo-biographical) accounts of their pursuits that can be found in Diels/ Kranz or in any similar work. The issue is caught up in a curious contradiction. Few scholars today would contest the idea that the Greeks were massively influenced by their Eastern neighbours; but many of the accounts by the Greeks (perhaps even the majority) generally used to illustrate this influence have every appearance of being a web of half-truths, conjectures, and pure and simple inventions unable to stand up to even a minimally rigorous analysis. II To illustrate what I mean, I’ll refer first of all to Solon’s hypothetical trip to Egypt. Since it is not the biography of Solon as a historical figure that interests us here, I will not mention his other possible journeys (to Cyprus or Sardis, or anywhere else that any source say he visited). The trip to Egypt meets the requirements as an illustration of the point at issue here: (1) It is a journey to a site of ancient culture, where, a priori, Solon could have gathered together a great deal of information and knowledge; (2) it is documented in a fair number of sources; and (3), in spite of this, the discrepancies between these sources are so significant that many scholars have rejected the historical veracity of the story. The positive accounts of this journey transmitted to us by classical Antiquity all seem to derive from the tradition (probably Athenian) reflected by Herodotus.2 However, Herodotus’ indications are not exempt from inaccuracies and novelistic elements; and from the chronological point of view especially, they raise insurmountable difficulties and contradictions. First, Herodotus (i 30) states that Solon travelled to Egypt after his archonship, to avoid having to make changes in his

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A number of friends (Bernardo Berruecos, Sergi Grau, Teresa Magadán and Jordi Vidal) have read the previous version of this text and have made useful comments, for which I am very grateful. Translated by Michael Maudsley. 2 Plutarch’s idea (Life of Solon, xxvi 6) that Solon’s fragment 28 West (= 10 GP) “Νείλου ἐπὶ προχοῇσι Κανωβίδος ἐγγύθεν ἀκτῆς” (without context) definitively confirms the existence of the journey does not deserve any further consideration. The Athenian sage could have mentioned the mouth of the Nile for any number of reasons. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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reforms;3 but in a second passage he notes that certain aspects of his legislation were borrowed from the reforms that Amasis imposed in Egypt.4 Three remarks are in order here: (1) Amasis came to power after Solon’s archonship – and therefore after his reforms. (2) The notion of borrowing tends to locate the journey of the sage before his reforms rather than after, as Herodotus himself had said at first. Supposing the existence of two trips (or two waves of Solonic reforms) seems excessive, in the absence of any other testimony.5 (3) The motif of a legislator leaving, more or less voluntarily, the country in which he legislated, and in some cases never returning, in order not to be obliged to change his own laws, appears regularly in the ‘biographies’ of Greek legislators. To complicate matters further, it turns out that the longer the time that has passed between the hypothetical journey and the source that reports it, the more specific, and rich, are the details that the source sees fit to transmit to us. For example, Plato, ‘knew’ (Timaeus 21e–22a) that it was thanks to Solon’s trip to Egypt that some important news about Atlantis reached Athens. The philosopher even knew where this communication had taken place (in the Temple of Neith, in Sais) and some details concerning the informant, who turns out to have been a very old priest. But the privilege of giving the names of Solon’s main Egyptian interlocutors was reserved to Plutarch (Life of Solon, xxvi 1), a few centuries later, at a time when Egyptomania was in full sway.6 However, a good many scholars conclude that it is better to accept the historical veracity of Solon’s trip,7 for a number of converging reasons: (1) The ancient Greeks accepted Herodotus’ account, despite its contradictions, and never explicitly questioned the veracity of the journey; (2) for all it is worth, this traditional communis opinio is to be taken seriously; (3) we have no reason to doubt that Solon travelled a great deal; and (4) Egypt (specifically, the entrepôt of Naukratis) would have been a highly attractive destination for someone of Solon’s interests and capabilities. It goes without saying that these arguments are, from a methodological point of view, extremely weak; but this does not necessarily imply that the conclusion is false. It is not inherently unlikely that Solon would have travelled to Egypt. The

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Aristotle (Ath. Pol. xi 1) and Plutarch (see note above) tell the same story, and in terms that closely follow Herodotus’ text. If they do not derive from it directly, in any case they hark back to the same tradition. 4 Hdt. ii 177: λαβὼν ἐξ Αἰγύπτου τοῦτον τὸν νόμον Ἀθηναίοισι ἔθετο. 5 With characteristic bluntness, Lloyd (1975: 56–57) dismisses it all as “chronological nonsense”. 6 Fairweather (1974: 268); Lefkowitz (1981: 44; 2007: 109–110); Kivilo (2010: 211). 7 Cfr. Domínguez Monedero (2001: 100–106); Irwin (2005: 147–151); Noussia-Fantuzzi (2010: 297–300; 302). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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problem lies in the difficulty of conclusively demonstrating historical realities, however plausible.8 III Of course, all this derives from the inadequate nature of the documentation. A subject such as the influence of the East on archaic Greek culture and its routes of penetration is not easy to debate when all we have at our disposal are a handful of para-biographical accounts about eminent characters. Even if we limit the issue to their more strictly intellectual aspects, and even if not all the accounts were subject to suspicion, it would be very difficult to derive any conclusions of a general kind from them.9 And, as it happens, the reports transmitted by the ancient Greeks are practically all para-biographical or pseudo-biographical, almost by definition. One can justifiably speak of “a Greek taste for a single source from which all things came […] a predilection for simple schematized linear sequences”.10 This way of presenting the origins of complex cultural realities has spawned a very productive interpretive model: the inventio of a πρῶτος εὑρετής for most of the relevant innovations.11 But even if this model was able to keep alive a certain memory of the past, as part of a basic oral culture with few resources to preserve copious documentation, it cannot be claimed that the accounts of πρῶτοι εὑρεταί meet modern standards of rigor and precision. Moreover, the Eastern influence was, of course, more important in some areas than in others; and from one area to another, the difficulties in tracing this influence may also vary considerably.12 This is also true of the informative capacity of an event such as the Lehrjahre of a σοφός to the lands of the East. I’ll try to illustrate this with some remarks about Thales of Miletus’ trip to Egypt.

8

Solon’s fr. 19 West (= 11 GP) presents similar methodological difficulties, in this case concerning his trip to Cyprus. Herodotus (v 113, 2) mentions the fragment, and Plutarch (Vita Solonis xxvi 2–4) quotes it verbatim, both of them with the object of documenting the trip. But it is clear that both sources depend for their information only on their reading of the fragment itself – a reading which may be right or not. (Actually, some modern scholars had considered this fragment spurious). 9 We need not address here and now the serious problems raised e.g. by a remark such as Kahn’s (1979: 298): “Of course the possibility of direct (or indirect) borrowing cannot be ruled out; but there is no reason to assume that significant parallels are to be regarded only, or even primarily, as evidence for historical diffusion of ideas from one culture to another”. 10 A.B. Lloyd (1975: 60); my emphasis. 11 See Kleingünther (1933, passim); Baumbach (2001: cols. 466–467). 12 As G. Lloyd (1991: 278–302 = 1982: 1–19) stressed. Lloyd proposed four specific domains for this kind of research: 1. Technological innovations; 2. Religion and mythology; 3. Mathematics and astronomy; 4. Medicine. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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IV At no time does Herodotus say expressis verbis that Thales visited Egypt; but many people have deduced it a posteriori, e.g. from the passage (Hdt ii 20) which lists the explanations of the flooding of the Nile proposed by certain Greeks. There, the name of Thales is not mentioned at all; but later authorities do mention him in their discussions of Herodotus’ account.13 In fact, Thales’ hypothesis of the presumed impact of the Etesian winds on the flow of the Nile does not require an observation in situ; nor can we conclude from it that a journey was made.14 Speaking in general terms, the ‘naturalist’ explanations for the Nile’s flooding became common at many levels and were the object of many discussions in Greece. The three great Athenian tragedians, for example, all allude to this problem at one point or another; 15 and it was also obviously of interest to philosophers and sophists.16 At the same time a series of tales about trips to Egypt by Greek intellectuals started to circulate, most of which were totally implausible. To give just one striking example, Diogenes Laertius, with an absolute disregard for chronology, tells about Plato and Euripides travelling together to Egypt.17 This is certainly not an appropiate place to review all the testimonia of Thales’ voyage to Egypt. I will offer just a formal classification of the materials, based on the recurrence of certain narrative and historiographical topoi, and discuss only a few specific issues. The classification of the reports of Thales’ trip I propose is the following: 1. Sources that speak of Thales’ journey in connection with the origins of Greek geometry (Diog. Laert. i 24; Proclus, Commentary on the first book of Euclid 65, 3–11 Friedlein). 2. Novelistic reports which, with a characteristic reversal of the above motif, describe how Thales taught the Egyptians to measure their pyramids (Diog. Laert. i 27; Pliny, Hist. Nat. xxxvi 82; Plutarch, Banquet of the Seven Wise Men ii 147a). 3. Texts imbued with the Greek fascination for Egyptian priests, capable of teaching a profound esoteric wisdom. Some of these texts are excellent examples of Egyptomania (Diog. Laert. i 24; schol. in Plato’s Republic 600a 1–10; 13

See Diodorus Sic. i 38, Diogenes Laertius i 38; Pseudo-Plutarch, Placita phil. iv 1, 897f. Cf. Kirk/Raven/Schofield (1983: 80): “He could easily have got the relevant information (that the Etesian winds blow in Egypt too), an even the idea, from Milesian traders”. 15 Aeschylus Suppl. 559–561, TrGF 300 Radt; Sophocles TrGF 882 Radt; Euripides Hel. 1–3, TrGF 228 Kannicht. 16 See e.g. Anaxagoras 25 D 66 Laks-Most; Aetius, Plac. iv 1 (= Doxogr. 384–86 Diels). On the Greeks’ continued interest in the flooding of the Nile, cf. Vasunia (2001: 259–261; 275–282). 17 Diog. Laert. iii 6 (= Euripides T 230 Kannicht). For a discussion about this piece of information, see Lefkowitz (2007: 101–105). 14

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Plutarch, De Iside et Osir. xxxiv 364c–d; Iamblichus, Life of Pythagoras ii 12, 5–12; ‘Thales of Miletus’, Epistologr. Gr. 740 Hercher; Aetius i 3, 1 [Doxogr. 276 Diels]). In addition to these three groups, there are some reports that refer in more general terms to the Egyptian influence on Thales,18 or to this sage’s commercial activities – in connection with Egypt? –, but without specifying anything regarding any particular trip.19 The vagueness of these accounts advises against their use to confirm the historicity of any trip, even though more than one scholar has attempted to do so. V The first specific comment I would like to make is that, although the pieces of information linking Thales with the Egyptian origins of Greek geometry have ended up converging with the accounts of a biographical character, these different kinds of materials must have had a quite different origin and development. In the prologue of the Commentary on Euclid (65, 3–11 Friedlein) by the fifth-century Neoplatonist philosopher Proclus, we find the following account:20 “Just as among the Phoenicians the necessities of trade and exchange gave the impetus to the accurate study of number, so also among the Egyptians the invention of geometry came about from the cause mentioned. Thales [= 11 A 11 DK], who had travelled to Egypt, was the first to introduce this science into Greece. He made many discoveries himself and taught the principles for many others to his successors, attacking some problems in a general way and others more empirically.” It is generally accepted that Proclus’ source is Eudemus of Rhodes (c. 370 BC – c. 300 BC), a disciple of Aristotle, considered as the first historian of Greek science.21 But this attribution seems to apply to the scientific information only and not (or not necessarily) to biographical details. It would be excessive to deduce from the passage from Proclus that Eudemus devoted himself to telling the story of Thales’s journeys (although this is not inconceivable). Eudemus did not usually collect materials of this kind; this is confirmed by the fact that, on the five occasions he mentions Thales,22 he always does so with regard to scientific sub18

Such as for example Josephus, Against Apion, xiv 2 (= Eusebius, Praepar. evang. x, 7, 10). 19 E.g. Plutarch, Life of Solon ii 8: “Thales is said to have engaged in trade, as well as Hippocrates the mathematician; and Plato defrayed the expenses of his sojourn in Egypt by the sale of oil”. 20 Translation by G.R. Morrow (1970: 52). 21 See Heath (1921 i: 118–120); Mejer (2002: 243–261); Zhmud (2002: 263–306). 22 Namely Eudemus’ fragments 134, 135 and 143–145 Wehrli = Thales’ testimonia nos 43– 47 in the new collection Traditio Presocratica (Wöhrle, 2009), corresponding grosso modo © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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jects – never with regard to biographical traits. It must be said, however, that this argument only has a certain amount of weight, given the fragmentary nature of the materials of Eudemus that have come down to us. Details of a biographical nature usually have other, more colourful origins. A glimpse of sources of this kind can be gained from the passage in which Diogenes Laertius (i 24–25 = 11 A 1 DK), speaking precisely of Thales’ intellectual debt to Egypt, mentions the “Historical Commentaries” (Σύμμικτα Ἱστορικῶν ὑπομνημάτων) of Pamphila of Epidaurus, an author from the time of Nero.23 VI To conclude, I would like to stress for a moment the obvious fact that if the Greeks themselves established a link between certain aspects of the thought of Thales and his travels in Egypt, this can tell us something about the mentality of authors who make this link; but it does not always demonstrate the rigor of the link itself. I will illustrate this with two reports of the impact of the old Egyptian religion on Thales’ cosmological ideas. The two stories have some common traits. Plutarch, De Iside et Osiride xxxiv 364c–d (11A 11 DK = TP 115 Wöhrle)24: “They believe also that Homer as well as Thales had relied on Egyptian knowledge when he stated that the water was the first principle and origin of everything;25 for they explain Oceanus as Osiris and Tēthys as Isis, since she it is who nurses and nourishes everything together.” Iamblichus, The Life of Pythagoras ii 12, 5–12 (11A 11 DK = TP 249 Wöhrle)26: “Thales advised him [= Pythagoras] to go to Egypt, to get in touch with the priests of Memphis and Diospolis; he confessed that the instruction of these priests was the source of his own reputation for wisdom.” From these passages, scholars specialising in Late Greek Thought deduced that the esoteric prestige of the Egyptian priests had not diminished (if in fact it had not grown) during the Hellenistic-Roman period; and that Neoplatonist philosophers like Plutarch and Iamblichus liked to cultivate, each in his own way, the ‘Egyptian mirage’ so dear to Plato himself.27 The fact that, long before the theoto A 1, 5b, 17, 20 Diels/Kranz. 23 FHG iii 520, fr. 1 Müller. On this author, quoted eight times by Diogenes Laertius and twice by Aulus Gellius, see the accounts in the Suda (π 139) and the Bibliotheca of Photius (codex 175). See also the entry in the PW (Regenbogen, 1949: cols. 309–328); Grau (2009: 78 sgg.), etc. 24 Translated by J.G. Griffiths (1970). 25 See Iliad xiv 201. 26 Translated by K.S. Guthrie (1920). 27 On the ‘Egyptian mirage’ and Plato, see e.g. Froidefond (1971: 267–342); Vasunia © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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ries of transcultural diffusion propounded by modern historians, the Greeks had already sought bold connections between the cosmological systems of the ancient Middle Eastern cultures and the early Greek thinkers is significant, and we must bear it in mind. But it does not automatically ‘prove’ that Thales travelled to Egypt in person. Bibliography Baumbach, M., 2001: “Protos heuretes”. In H. Cancik / H. Schneider (eds.): Der Neue Pauly. Enzyklopädie der Antike. Stuttgart: Metzler. Bodnár, I. / Fortenbaugh, W.W., (eds.), 2002: Eudemus of Rhodes. RUSCH XI. New Brunswick (USA) / London: Transaction Publishers. Brisson, L., 1992: Platon. Timée. Critias. Traduction, introduction et notes. Paris: Flammarion. De Temmerman, K. / Demoen, K., (eds.), 2016: Writing Biography in Greece and Rome. Narrative Technique and Fictionalization. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Domínguez Monedero, A.J., 2001: Solón de Atenas. Barcelona. Crítica. Fairweather, J., 1974: “Fiction in the Biographies of Ancient Writers”. Ancient Society v, 231–75. Fairweather, J., 1983: “Traditional Narrative, Inference and Truth in the Lives of Greek Poets”. Papers of the Liverpool Latin Seminar iv, 315–369. Froidefond, C., 1971: Le mirage égyptien dans la littérature grecque d’Homère à Aristote. Aix-en-Provence: Ophrys. Grau, S., 2009: La imatge del filòsof i de l’activitat filosòfica a la Grècia antiga. Anàlisi dels tòpics biogràfics presents a les Vides i doctrines dels filòsofs més il·lustres de Diògenes Laerci. Barcelona: PPU / Món Juïc. Griffiths, J.G., 1970: PLUTARCH. De Iside et Osiride. Edited with and Introduction, Translation and Commentary. Cardiff: University of Wales Press. Guthrie, K.S., 1987 [1920]: The Pythagorean Sourcebook and Library. Introduced and Edited by D.R. Fideler. Grand Rapids (MI): Phanes Books. Heath, T., 1921: A History of Greek Mathematics. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Irwin, E., 2005: Solon and Early Greek Poetry. Cambridge / New York / Melbourne: Cambridge University Press. Kahn, C.H., 1979: The Art and Thought of Heraclitus. London / New York / Melbourne: Cambridge University Press. Kirk, G.S. / Raven, J.E. / Schofield, M., 1983: The Presocratic Philosophers. Cambridge / New York / Melbourne: Cambridge University Press. Kivilo, M., 2010: Early Greek Poets’ Lives. The Shaping of the Tradition. Leiden/ Boston: Brill.

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Kleingünther, A., 1933: Πρῶτος εὑρετής. Untersuchungen zur Geschichte einer Fragestellung. Leipzig: Dieterich’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung. Lefkowitz, M.R., 1981: The Lives of the Greek Poets. London: Duckworth. — 2007: “Visits to Aegypt in the Biographical Tradition”. In M. Erler / S. Schorn (eds.): Die griechische Biographie in hellenistischer Zeit. Berlin: De Gruyter. Pp. 101–114 Lloyd, A.B., 1975–1988: Herodotus. Book II. (3 vols.). Leiden: E.J. Brill. Lloyd, G.E.R., 1991 [1982]: “The debt of Greek Philosophy and Science to the Ancient Near East”. In Methods and Problems in Greek Science. Selected Papers. Cambridge / New York / Melbourne: Cambridge University Press. Pp. 278–302. Mejer, J., 2002: “Eudemus and the History of Science”. In Bodnár/Fortenbaugh, 2002: 243–261. Montiglio, S., 2000: “Wandering Philosophers in Classical Greece”. Journal of Hellenic Studies cxx, 86–105. Morrow, G.R., 1970: Proclus. A Commentary on the First Book of Euclid’s Elements. Translated with Introduction and Notes. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Müller, C.W., 1997: “Fremderfahrung und Eigenerfahrung. Griechische Ägyptenreisende von Menelaos bis Herodot”. Philologus clxi, 200–214. Noussia-Fantuzzi, M., 2010: Solon the Athenian. The Poetic Fragments. Leiden/ Boston: E.J. Brill. Pòrtulas, J. / Grau, S., 2011: Saviesa grega arcaica. Martorell/Barcelona: Adesiara. Regenbogen, O., 1949: “Pamphila”. In Realenzyklopädie der Altertumswissenschaft xviii, 2, cols. 309–328. Vasunia, P., 2001: The Gift of the Nile. Hellenizing Egypt from Aeschylus to Alexander. Berkeley / Los Angeles / London: University of California Press. Wöhrle, G., 2009: Die Milesier: Thales. ‘Traditio Presocratica’. Zeugnisse frühgriechischer Philosophe und ihres Fortlebens. Berlin: De Gruyter. Zhmud, L., 2002: “Eudemus’ History of Mathematics”. In Bodnár/Fortenbaugh, 2002, 263–306.

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Religious Networks and Cultural Exchange Some Cases from the Eastern Mediterranean and Aegean in the 3rd–1st Millennia BC Ian Rutherford

Mobility is part of what makes us human. Even in the most sedentary societies, most people make regular short journeys away from their homes, while some develop expertise in routes of travel far beyond their immediate territory for the sake of trade, exploration or religious knowledge.1 Such patterns of movement over shorter or longer distances naturally lead to regular contact between people from different communities, and it may be that over time certain locations become recognised as preferred meeting places, and as important centres defined in terms of power, economy and/or religion. Scholars have recently become interested in the role of such nodes or hubs – as they are known in network theory – as facilitators of cultural or religious change.2 In this paper I want to examine the role of religious hubs as contributing to the transmission of religious ideas in the ancient world. One way this can happen is that the hub is the site of a festival which draws people in from a broad geographical area, acting as a focus both for a limited social group who know each other anyway, but also for a broader range of people from different social groups.3 In the last few decades there has been a trend to interpret archaeological sites that show signs of being early religious centres as hubs of major religious networks and pilgrimage. They include Göbeklitepe in SE Anatolia from the 11th century BC (see Schmidt, 2006; Schmidt, 2007: 238), Gilat in Israel (Chalcolithic period = 4500–3500 BC; see Aron/Levy, 1989), and the site of Kavos on the Aegean island of Keros (mid 3rd millennium BC).4 It is a reasonable hypothesis that “pilgrimage” of this sort, if it happened, had a social effect, creating communication and cohesion and ultimately facilitating the emergence and self-definition of a social group.5 It is even possible that participation in religious networks may have played a part in the formation of states,

1

Helms, 1988 is a good general study of this phenomenon. Cf. Meinert, 2015: 9, Jaspert, 2012: 170–71. 3 See already Bachvarova, 2016: 224, 344–5; Rutherford, 2017. 4 Renfrew/Boyd/Ramsey, 2012. Renfrew, 2001 rejects the term “pilgrimage” in favour of “high devotional expression”. Bintliff, 2012: 103–4 discusses festival visitation in in the Aegean Saliagos culture of the Final Neolithic period. 5 See McCorriston, 2011: 52; McCorriston 2013: 608; for the Greco-Roman period Rutherford, 2017. 2

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as has in fact been suggested for the Ancient Near East.6 The Greek philosopher Plato, who was perhaps closer to ancient festival culture than we are, defined the purpose of civic festivals as being “so that ... people may fraternize with one another at the sacrifices and gain knowledge and intimacy, since nothing is of more benefit to the state than this mutual acquaintance” (Laws Book 5.738d–e). As well as creating the possibility of communication and thus cohesion within narrow group of primary participants, it could also be argued that such network hubs encourage a broader cultural movement between groups of participants. This could happen in two ways: first, if the festival or cult centre brings together people from two or more overlapping group networks, allowing for the transmission of information between them; alternatively, it might happen if, besides a core network of primary participants, secondary participants from more distant locations were also present. These broader patterns might be expected to be found particularly in the context of large festivals held at major religious centres, the appeal of which could easily have been transregional. It makes sense to look first at Greek religious networks of the 1st millennium BC, because the evidence for this period is relatively good. Many of them seem to have been more or less confined to Greek participants, e.g. the great festival networks of Olympia and Delphi, or Athens’ imperial network, in which major religious festivals in the city were used to collect and assess tribute from its subject -allies. Others seem to have had a broader scope. A good example is the sanctuary of Artemis at Ephesos, whose origins may well lie in the Late Bronze Age when Apasa was a major city of Arzawa in contact with the Hittites (see Büyükkolancı, 2007, Günnel, 2017: 123, Gander, 2017: 269–70). In the 1st millennium this cult was known for its numerous secondary foundations dispersed widely the Mediterranean, 7 including one in Marseilles and another at Empúries north of Barcelona.8 Ephesos itself can be shown to have been a meeting place for different cultures, primarily between Greeks and Western Anatolians, but there is evidence of Near Eastern interest as well, for example a fragment of an ivory plaque was found depicting a griffin and a tree of life.9 There are also signs of Phoenician involvement (see Bammer, 1985), and a degree of Persian influence in the mid 1st millennium BC seems to be indicated by the fact that at that period the chief priest had a Persian title: megabyzos (Bremmer, 2004). It thus seems that Ephesos functioned a sort of hub for a number of different cultures, 6

See Yoffee, 2004: 91. The Roman writer Pausanias (4.31. 8) says: “All cities worship Artemis of Ephesos, and individuals hold her in honor above all the gods.”. See further Elsner, 1997 for dissemination of the distinctive ‘multi-breasted’ iconography of the goddess. 8 See Malkin, 2011: 197–204. 9 Braun-Holzinger/Rehm, 2005: 143, E2. 7

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probably facilitating the transmission of religious ideas and practices. Another example would be the cult of Apollo on the Aegean island of Delos, whose origins may go back to the Late Bronze Age, but in the mid 1st millennium was primarily cultivated by Greeks from Ionia and the Aegean, as well as from Athens, but also attracted visitors from further afield. According to one tradition a key role in establishing the Delian cult was played by the poet Olen from Lycia in S. Anatolia (Apollo himself was thought to have links to Lycia), and it was supposed to be the terminus for regular offerings from the Hyperboreans in the distant and semi-mythological north.10 An early hymn to Apollo (Homeric Hymn to Apollo 162–4) reports that a group of female singers on the island, the so-called Delian Maidens, could sing in any language, imitating visiting pilgrims. In the Hellenistic period, Delos was cultivated by people from a number of eastern Mediterranean cultures, including Phoenicians and Egyptians. Like other Greco-Roman sanctuaries, Delos functioned as a major trading hub, at least in the late Hellenistic and Roman period.11 It is usually thought that patterns of human movement are very different in the Late Bronze Age, reflecting the power of centralised royal palaces, which may act alone or in concert.12 This is not, however, incompatible with the model outlined above because centres of royal power (palaces or capital cities) could also function as religious hubs. Let us consider one of the main festivals of the Hittite state, the KI.LAM-festival.13 “KI.LAM” is usually translated “gatehouse” in this context, though an earlier meaning of it was “market”, which suggests that trade might have played a part in the festival, as it did in Greek ones.14 This was a major event, attended by people from all over the Hittite kingdom, from the Hittite homeland to the Lower Land in SE Anatolia and the Upper Land in the North West. Some groups from more local towns performed dances and took part in processions. Officials from different parts of the Hittite kingdom made symbolic

10

See Brill’s New Pauly (Leiden/Boston 2002–), s. Olen (vol.10.86) and s. Hyperborei (vol.6.633). 11 For sanctuaries and markets, see Frayn, 1993: 133–44; de Ligt, 1993: 56–105 and appendix 1, 243–246; Horden/Purcell, 2000: 432–434; McCorriston, 2011: 28–3. MacMullen, 1981: 26 points to the example of the festival of Olympia, known as “mercatus Olympicus” (Justin 1.3.5) and the market-festival of Isis at Tithoreia in Boeotia, as described by Pausanias, 10.32.15. 12 The classics statement of this is by Zaccagnini, 1983, who, considering craftsmen distinguished three types of movement: 1) redistributive, i.e. controlled by a single palace; 2) reciprocative, i.e. taking place between palaces; and 3) commercial, which he saw as emerging in the 1st millennium. 13 See Singer, 1983–1984. 14 KI.LAM meaning “gate-house”: Singer, 1975: 91–5; at Ebla KI.LAM may have meant “a festival during which a fair was held”: Biga, 2002; for trade and festivals: Biga, 2003; Rutherford, forthcoming a. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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offerings of grain, which were inspected by the king.15 The effect of this festival can only have been to level out cultural differences between different parts of the Hittite empire. Among the groups of attenders were “ubaru-men” (Ubaru is an Akkadian word used by the scribes; the corresponding Hittite term is unknown) who appear in many rituals alongside Hittite officials, and take part in the “grand assembly”. These are usually interpreted as foreigners of high status dignitaries, possibly diplomats of some sort, with long-term residence at the Hittite court.16 They are attested in many other festivals as well; in a fragment of one of the main festivals they seem to take part in a feast, along with other dignitaries.17 One way of understanding this is that one of the main aims of the festival was to display the power and religious expertise of the king. To use the terminology of recent anthropology, the festival was a “costly signal”, which needed to be witnessed by as broad an audience as possible to have its intended effect.18 Another class of foreign witnesses to Hittite festivals might have been bearers of tribute. That the offering of tribute could have a religious dimension in Hittite mentality is shown by the decree of king Suppiluliuma II issued after the conquest of Alashiya (around 1200 BC), in which Alashiya was ordered to send tribute to four of the main Hittite deities and apparently to present these offerings in the Hittite capital. It seems unlikely that this case is unique. 19 For the presence of foreigners at festivals there are Mesopotamian parallels. Tonya Sharlach has discussed the role of foreign diplomats at festivals at Ur in the Ur III period: they seem to have witnessed the great festival of Tummal at Nippur and also at the two Akitu festivals in spring and autumn; in the autumn they may have accompanied the king to the Akitu-house at Ga’eš to witness his ritual act of ploughing.20 The same pattern is attested at Mari where a new year festival is witnessed by “messengers” from the city of Esnunna.21 Ubaru-men, including some from Assur, are also attested in texts from Nuzi, both at festivals and (apparently) accompanying the king on religious missions in the region.22 Some Amarna Letters refer ubaru-men as being present on festive occasions at

15

See Singer, 1984. Süel, 1976–7; Bodi, 2003, Na’aman, 2005; Görke, 2014; CAD s.v. Wilhelm, 2005 argues that the meaning could have been “exile” on the basis of a parallel Hurrian word which seems to be derived from a root meaning “loosen, release”. 17 KUB25.3, iii.17–24. They also play a part in the festivals of thunder, CTH 631; Barsacchi, 2017. 18 For the model of “costly signalling” see Kantner and Vaughn 2012. 19 KBo12.38; Güterbock, 1967; translation in COS 1.192–3. For tribute in general, see J. Siegelova in RlA s. “Tribut. D. Bei den Hethitern” (2014, 133). 20 Sharlach, 2005: 21–2; cf. also Sallaberger 2014: 17. 21 ARM1.50; see Sharlach, 2005: 23; Cohen, 1993: 417. 22 See Zaccaginini, 2016: 48. 16

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the Hurrian court.23 The expectation was that kings attended each others’ festivals through the proxy of their representatives, as we see from EA 3 (Kadashman-Enlil complains about not being invited to a festival, or being sent a greeting gift, and seems to invite the Pharaoh to a palace opening), and EA 34 (the king of Cyprus answers the complaint that he did not send a messenger (with gifts) to an Egyptian sacrifice).24 The point of having foreign delegates present was at least partly to ensure an international audience for the ceremonies, in other words to generate international prestige. But a bi-product may well have been to bring about the dissemination of religious practice not just within region but internationally, leading perhaps to an “international style” of ceremony.25 This pattern of being witnessed by foreign dignitaries must have been common, but there were other forms of religious “hub” as well. Some sacred centres may have functioned as points of communication between different populations. For example, it has been suggested that the prominence of the Sumerian centre of Nippur “was derived (…) from its geographic position on an ethnic and linguistic frontier. To the south lay Sumer, to the north lay Akkad; the city was open to the people from both areas and probably functioned as an arbiter in disputes between these potential enemies.”26 Perhaps Aleppo’s geopolitical location explains why Hadad of Aleppo was of interest to so many different groups in the Ancient Near East at different periods: in the late 3rd millennium it was controlled by Ebla, and records from there document visitors from a number of places (Archi, 2010: 9); in the early 2nd millennium BC it was of interest to Mari and in the later 2nd millennium BC to Hatti, Nuzi, Ugarit, Emar, Tunip and Alalah (Schwemer, 2001: 490). Notice also the sanctuaries of Dagan at Tuttul and Terqa, which were not major centres of political power, but shared sources of religious prestige, where leaders from a wide area of Syria and Mesopotamia made pilgrimages (see Feliu, 2003: 83, 123–124, 303). One document from Ebla refers to the copresence at Tuttul of sacrificers from Ebla and Mari (Sallaberger, 2008: 105–8).27 23

E.g. EA 29, 87–90 and EA 20, 72–3: see Zaccagnini, 1999: 199–20; with Kühne, 1973: 29 n. 128. For the Amarna letters see Moran, 1992 and Rainey, 2015. 24 See on these Bachvarova, 2016: 225–6. 25 Cf. the “international style” of art promoted by diplomatic contact: Feldman, 2006. 26 Gibson, 1993: 3–4. 27 It should be noted that Joy McCorriston has argued recently that there was no pilgrimage in Bronze Age Mesopotamia (McCorriston, 2011: 10–17 and passim; McCorriston, 2017). She sees different ancient societies as characterised by different “ethnoepochs” and “meta structures”: for South Arabian pastoralists the ethnoepoch was “Pilgrimage”, meaning that a key dynamic of their society was meeting together at religious festivals, which served as a mechanism of communication. For Mesopotamian farmers the ethnoepoch was “Household”, which means that the grounding metaphor for social organisation in Mesopotamia was not coming together at a common sanctuary, but being part of the same household. I’m not convinced this is correct: Festival networks seem to have existed in Mesopotamia and Anatolia in the Late Bronze Age. In fact, there is reason to think that there were © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Another interregional or international religious hub could have been Ugarit, which was a meeting place for many cultures and religious traditions: Amorite, Hurrian, Hittite, Aegean and even Egyptian. The chief deity of Ugarit, Baal Sapanu (i.e. the Baal of Mt. Sapanu) had an international dimension, known widely and “translated” into local religious idioms.28 The religious horizons of Ugarit were wide, as we see from the ritual which Pardee calls “Ritual for National Unity” (RS 1.002; Pardee, 2002: no 22; see also Wyatt, 1998: 342–47), the liturgy of which takes account of various different groups of foreigners, including the Hurrians, Hittites, people of Qode, and Alashians (Cypriots). Egypt also had links to Ugarit: there had been intense influence in the 14th century BC, and contact also apparently at the end of the 13th, when a stele was dedicated there to Baal Sapanu by an Egyptian called Mamy.29 Ugarit had close religious links to many towns in Syria and also Cyprus and Caphthor/Crete.30 Should we think of an international festival at Ugarit, as in Hattusa, attended by delegates representing at least some of the groups referenced in the “Ritual for National Unity”? This must be likely. The word ubaru is also attested in Akkadian texts from Ugarit (referring to citizens who are given an exemption from the usual duty of hosting them), though these do not allow us to determine the exact sense (Vargyas, 1995; see Vita, 1999: 457–460). The delegates might also have been traders, like the famous merchants of Ura whose disruptive presence at Ugarit is referred to in a Hittite decree (see Beckman, 1999: no. 32).31 A similar religious hub may also have existed in Bronze Age Aegean, on the island of Lesbos, known to the Hittites as Lazpa. This toponym occurs in two Hittite texts relating to Ahhiyawa, now generally thought to be Mycenaean Greece. In an oracular text (AhT20) dating from the early 13th century BC the deities of Ahhiyawa and Lazpa are apparently present at the Hittite court, probably having been brought there because of the illness of a Hittite king. We know nothing about the identity of these deities, and while it is understandable that a major Mycenaean deity was famous enough to be summoned to the Hittite court, it is surprising that a deity of Lesbos had a comparable international reputation. The only other relevant piece of information comes from another Ahhiyawa text, a letter (AhT7) from the king of the Seha River land to the king of Hatti, which narrates a crisis in international relations: groups of so-called “SARIPUTU-men” belonging to the king of Hatti and the king of the Seha River Land have been abducted by a West temples in Mesopotamia whose main function was to serve as common ground for groups from different cities. Nippur seems to be such a case, and it may only be chance that we lack evidence for pilgrimages there. 28 See Smith, 2016: 85; for the deity see Fauth, 1990, Koch, 1993 etc. 29 See now Levy, 2014; Morris, 2015: 335–6, Singer, 1999: 711. For Egyptian influence at Ugarit in general see Singer, 1999: 621–7, 708–15. 30 See Dietrich, 2007, Dietrich/Loretz, 1998. 31 On Ura, see now M. Forlanini in Weeden/Ullmann, 2017: 244–5. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Anatolian warlord called Piyamaradu, who brought them to Atpa, governor of Millawanda who seems to have been an agent of Ahhiyawa. Under Hittite pressure they were eventually released. Itamar Singer has argued that the SARIPUTU men were “purple dyers”, who were making an offering, so that the context would again be again religious, perhaps the cult of a goddess.32 It seems to follow from this that Lesbos may have been a key religious site in the Aegean in this period. The primary state that recognized it was perhaps the adjacent Seha-River Land, in whose territory it may at this point have been. It was also recognised by the more distant Hittites who wanted to sustain their influence in the West in this period. Wilusa in the NW might be expected to have had an interest in it as well, but it would not be surprising if it was also of interest to Mycenaean Greece, and indeed Piyamaradu’s raid on the SARIPUTU-men could perhaps be seen as an attempt to assert control there on behalf of Ahhiyawa. It is possible to be more specific than that: there is reason to believe that Lesbos was one of a number of NW Aegean islands which were the object of a dispute between the kings of Ahhiyawa and Assuwa, a territory in NW Anatolia, around 1300 BC; in letter dating from this period (AhT6) the king of Ahhiyawa seems to base his claim to the islands on events that had happened three generations earlier, around 1400 BC, when the Hittite king Tudhaliya I/II defeated and apparently eliminated the land of Assuwa in the North West of Anatolia; the Greek king was apparently claiming that the islands had belonged to Assuwa and were ceded to him at that time.33 The surviving texts thus give the impression that Lesbos was a contested territory. However, ordinary religious life many have been more a matter of peaceful coexistence, and we should imagine both Anatolians and Greeks as interested in it. Its mediating role was perhaps similar to that of 1st millennium religious sanctuaries such as that of Artemis at Ephesos and that of Apollo on Delos.34 To sum up, I have suggested that cross-cultural exchange of religious ideas might have come about via key religious hubs – common cult centres and festivals – in which people from different regions participate. The surviving evidence allows us to reconstruct only a few examples, but it is not implausible to imagine that states all over Anatolia, the Levant, Cyprus, Crete and the Aegean, hosted such festivals. If religious ideas and practices are transmitted between cultures in this period, as they surely were, a key factor in the process may well have been the cross-cultural encounters that these festivals allowed and encouraged.

32

See Singer, 2008. For further background, see Mason, 2008. See AhT6, with the comments in Beckman/Bryce/Cline, 2011 and Teffeteller, 2013. For the location of Assuwa, see now M. Gander in Weeden/Ullmann, 2017: 265. 34 See further Rutherford, forthcoming b. 33

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Na’aman, N., 2005: “Resident-Alien or Residing Foreign Delegate? On the ubaru in Some Late Bronze Age Texts”. Ugarit-Forschungen 37, 475–478. Pardee, D., 2002: Ritual and Cult at Ugarit. Atlanta. Rainey, A.F., 2015: The El-Amarna Correspondence: A New Edition of the Cuneiform Letters from the Site of El-Amarna Based on Collations of All Extant Tablets. Leiden. Renfrew, C. / Boyd, M. / Ramsey, C.B., 2012: “The oldest maritime sanctuary? Dating the sanctuary at Keros and the Cycladic Early Bronze Age”. Antiquity 86, 144–160. Ristvet, L., 2015, Ritual, performance, and politics in the ancient Near East. Cambridge. Rutherford, I., 2005: “The Dance of the Wolf-men of Ankuwa. Networks, Amphictionies and Pilgrimage in Hittite Religion”. In A. Süel (ed.): V. Uluslararası Hititoloji Kongresi bildirileri / Acts of the Vth International Congress of Hittitology. Ankara. Pp. 623–640. — 2017: “Pilgrimage and Communication”. In R.J.A. Talbert / F. Naiden (eds.): Mercury’s Wings. Exploring Modes of Communication in the Ancient World. Oxford. Pp. 192–207. — forthcoming a: “Gods of the market place: Merchants, economics and religious innovation”. — forthcoming b: “Assuwa, Aswiya and Asia: Religious Interaction in the 15th century BC”. In M. Bianconi (ed.): In Search of the Golden Fleece. Leiden. Sallaberger, W., 2008: “Rechtsbrüche in Handel, Diplomatie und Kult. Ein Memorandum aus Ebla über Verfehlungen Maris (ARET 13, 15)”. Kaskal 5, 93– 110. — 2014: “Kulturelle Kohärenz durch Prestige. Die Feste der mesopotamischen Königsstadt Ur”. In B. Backes / C. von Nicolai (eds.): Kulturelle Kohärenz durch Prestige. Münchner Studien zur Alten Welt 10. Munich. Pp. 9–28. Schmidt, K., 2006: “‘Ritual centers’ and the Neolithisation of Upper Mesopotamia”. Neo-Lithics 2/05, 13–21. — 2007: Göbekli-tepe. A Stone Age Sanctuary in South-Eastern Anatolia. Munich. Schwemer, D., 2001: Die Wettergottgestalten Mesopotamiens und Nordsyriens im Zeitalter der Keilschriftkulturen: Materialien und Studien nach den schriftlichen Quellen. Würzburg. Sharlach, T.M., 2005: “Diplomacy and the Rituals of Politics at the Ur III Court”. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 57, 17–29. Singer, I., 1975: “Hittite ḫilammar and Hieroglyphic Luwian *ḫilana”. Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 65, 69–103. — 1983–4: The Hittite KI.LAM festival. StBoT 27–28. Wiesbaden. — 1984: “The AGRIG in the Hittite Texts”. Anatolian Studies 34, 97–127.

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— 1999: “A Political History of Ugarit”. In W.G.E. Watson / N. Wyatt (eds.): Handbook of Ugaritic Studies. Leiden. Pp. 603–733. — 2008: “Purple Dyers of Lazpa”. In B. Collins / M. Bachvarova / I. Rutherford (eds.): Anatolian Interfaces. Oxford. Pp. 21–43. Smith, M., 2016: Where the Gods Are: Spatial Dimensions of Anthropomorphism in the Biblical World. Yale. Süel, A., 1976/7: “In den Urkunden von Bogazköy verwendete Wort LÚUBARU”. Anadolu 20, 121–140. Teffeteller, A., 2013: “Singers of Lazpa: Reconstructing Identities on Bronze Age Lesbos”. In A. Mouton / I.C. Rutherford / I. Yakubovich (eds.): Luwian Identities. Leiden. Pp. 567–589. Vargyas, P., 1995: “Immigration into Ugarit”. In K. van Lerberghe / A. Schoors (eds.): Immigration and Emigration within the Ancient Near East: Festschrift E. Lipinski. Leuven. Pp. 395–402. Vita, J.-P., 1999: “The Society of Ugarit”. In W.G.E. Watson / N. Wyatt (eds.): Handbook of Ugaritic Studies. Leiden. Pp. 455–498. Wilhelm, G., 2005: “fīradi ‘auswärtiger Gast’, fīradošhe ‘Gästehaus’”. Studies on the Civilization and Culture of Nuzi and the Hurrians 15, 175–186 Wyatt, N., 1998: Religious texts from Ugarit. Sheffield. Yoffee, N., 2004: Myths of the archaic state: evolution of the earliest cities, states, and civilizations. Cambridge. Zaccagnini, C., 1983: “Patterns of Mobility among Ancient near Eastern Craftsmen”. Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 42, 245–264. — 1999: “Aspetti della diplomazia nel Vicino Oriente antico (XIV–XIII secolo a.C.)”. Studi Storici 40, 181–217. — 2016: “The last parades of the King of Nuzi”. Kaskal 13, 21–56.

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Through the Middle Sea An Overview of the Main Mediterranean Sea-Routes in Antiquity Christoph Schäfer / Pascal Warnking1

Academic battlefield When Karl Bücher, an economist,2 published his well-known work on the emergence of national economics in 1893, he started an ongoing dispute between “primitivistic” and “modernistic” interpretations of the ancient economy3. He saw autarky as the main goal of ancient economic activity and emphasized the differences between this and modern economies. Eduard Meyer argued against this. Both colleagues found followers who developed their own theories even further. In 1983, Keith Hopkins described scholarly research into the ancient economy as an “academic battlefield”.4 Nowadays this dispute is well-known as the BücherMeyer controversy. During the last fifteen years, new theoretical approaches have been tried and adapted, especially by using Transaction Cost Theory and New Institutional Economics (NIE). Neville Morley has, on the other hand, argued persuasively that the new controversy between formalists and substantivists is largely due to a misunderstanding of economist theory.5 In recent research, Heribert Graßl has identified characteristics of ancient economic activity since the 6th century B.C. which could appropriately be said to indicate the existence of a market economy.6 In 2013, Peter Temin agreed with this assessment in his monograph on “The Roman Market Economy”.7 The dynamic development of the Roman economy, already identified in the works of Rostovtzeff and De Martino, has also been at the centre of recent research, particularly in the chapters of the 2007 “Cambridge Economic History of the Greco-Roman World”.8 This wide array of approaches is representative for a new kind of ancient economic history, as is the work of Alan K. Bowman and Andrew Wilson, which attempts to quantify the performance levels 1

This paper is drawn from previous publications of the two authors. For the first time, the findings are presented together in one paper. 2 On Bücher, see Ruffing, 2008a: I 1; Wagner-Hasel, 2011: 315ff.; Wagner-Hasel, 2013. 3 The relevant works by Karl Bücher and Eduard Meyer are printed in Finley, 1979; on the debate see also Tschirner, 1994: 22ff.; Schneider, 1990; Schneider, 1999; Drexhage/Konen/Ruffing, 2002a: 19f.; Drexhage/Konen/Ruffing, 2002b: 1–5; Ruffing, 2008a: 1ff.; Schneider, 2009; Wagner-Hasel, 2009; Ruffing, 2012: 8f. 4 Hopkins, 1983: IX. 5 Morley, 2007. 6 Graßl, 2004. 7 Temin, 2013; see also Temin, 2001. 8 E.g. Jongman, 2007; Lo Cascio, 2007. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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of the Roman economy.9 While maritime trade and transport was considered to have been more efficient than overland transport by the neo-primitivists, the latter nevertheless argued that maritime trade was only rudimentarily developed. There was not sufficient source material to support rare deviations from this orthodoxy. In contrast to overland transport, maritime trade was not recorded extensively in the remaining papyri and ostraka and can only be traced in epigraphic and literary sources. The vast number of shipwrecks discovered across the Mediterranean, while no doubt impressive and highly informative, do not easily lend themselves to quantifying analyses.10 Recently, however, advances have been made which may lead to a further quantification of maritime trade: in 2005, Pascal Arnaud published an influential monograph on ancient Mediterranean sea routes.11 Wim Broekaert has published a prosopographical database of navicularii and negotiantes,12 and Thomas Schmidts has recorded the actors and organizational facets of maritime trade in the north-western provinces. 13 Pascal Warnking, finally, has very recently published a new take on the complicated problem of Roman sea trade and its contextualization within the economic history of the ancient world and the organizational and structural framework of the Roman Empire. In combining modern nautical software and traditional source hermeneutics, and based on much of the aforementioned works of recent years, he accomplished a stimulating synthesis which is recalled in this paper. Direct routes This paper does not attempt to present a detailed discussion of ancient navigation.14 However, there is widespread agreement that during antiquity, captains sailing near the coast would use topographical or physical landmarks, such as mountains or temples, for orientation. On the open sea, wind and stars provided guidance until land was again in sight.15 Islands were used as way points for keeping the course, even if the ships did not land on them.16 There is broad consensus about the direct trade routes, which can be described as follows: routes over the open sea – out of sight of the coast – were sailed on a steady course, following the straightest line possible. Later, when the ship came in sight of land again, the

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Bowman/Wilson, 2007; see also Andreau, 2002: 37ff. Cf., e.g., Parker, 1992. 11 Arnaud, 2005. 12 Broekaert, 2013. 13 Schmidts, 2011. 14 In addition to Rougé, 1966 and Casson, 1995, see Morton, 2001 and Davis, 2009. 15 Rougé, 1966: 83. Plin. HN. 19.1.3–6 leaves no doubt: if one follows the coastline, it is impossible to achieve the minimum stated travel times, even with modern racing yachts. 16 Gambin, 2013. 10

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navigators could use landmarks to reorient themselves.17 The portion of the trip on the open sea could last several days and nights. Sometimes storms or adverse wind conditions forced a change in course; when favourable winds later returned, the crew may not have been able to return to the original route. The ship’s position could only be determined reliably once land was again in sight. Based on knowledge of ancient navigation methods, it was not consistently possible for Roman trade ships to choose the fastest or most direct route from harbour to harbour. Instead, the voyage was comprised of a combination of several segments – some along the coast and some crossing the open sea – that were affected by geographical and meteorological conditions. Arnaud elaborated this idea in his 2005 work.18 Ancient seafaring was neither solely coasting nor opensea sailing – it was both.19 ORBIS Walter Scheidel und Elijah Meeks, in collaboration with a team of IT specialists and students at Stanford, developed a complex web-based model for sea travel. It calculates routes and sailing times between all the cities of the ancient world. This work is based on the earlier work of Arnaud. At first glance, the task of determining routes and sailing duration seems to have been accomplished; however, there are limitations in the methodology that can lead to incorrect conclusions. Overall, ORBIS characterizes many of the key concepts of ancient travel well; however, when calculating a specific route, some of the results seem implausible.20 For example, a problem that ORBIS does not address is the cumulative effects of the uncertainties of ocean sailing. As the length of the route increases, so does the probability that adverse conditions will be encountered, leading to longer travel

17 Jul. Or. 6.184d. This passage alludes to Hom. Od. 3.165–185. Sailors always had a choice between different routes, either following the coast, or sailing straight through. μέσον (“straight through the middle”) is mentioned multiple times in Homer and also in the Periplus Maris Erythraei (Peripl. M. Rubr. 20:7,8). At another point in the Periplus, the choice between alternatives is described: (Peripl. M. Rubr. 14:5,13f.): Καὶ οἱ μὲν προηγουμένως εἰς ταῦτα τὰ ἐμπόρια πλέουσιν, οἱ δὲ ⟨κατὰ⟩ τὸν παράπλουν ἀντιφορτίζονται τὰ ἐμπόριον. Some of the ships sailed principally to these ports of trade but some follow the coast and take on whatever cargoes come their way.” – transl. Casson, 1989). 18 Arnaud, 2005. 19 Arnaud, 2005: 107–109 and Arnaud, 2011. An example for following the coastline, in order to reach the best spot for crossing the open sea (in this case, to Crete): A.R. 4.1572– 83. 20 The developers themselves acknowledge the limitations of their approach: http://orbis. stanford.edu/orbis2012/ORBIS_v1paper_20120501.pdf, 7, 8, 12. That does not diminish the fact that ORBIS offers an innovative approach, containing valuable knowledge and useful projections. The development of ORBIS is a major step forward, and its impressive methodology sets the direction for future work.

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time. The limitations of ORBIS include: 1. The grid for wind data is too large. There are fewer than 20 data points for the entire Mediterranean Sea. With a grid spacing of five degrees latitude, the program does not take advantage of the more detailed data available.21 2. The use of monthly averages as wind data points. This minimizes the variability of conditions in the Mediterranean, an area characterized by distinct local wind patterns and quickly changing weather.22 ORBIS does not consider this variation. 3. Static instead of dynamic links between the data points.23 4. Unrealistic assumptions about the tacking capabilities of ancient vessels against the wind.24 The problem of using static links between the data points merits particular attention. In ancient times, sailors faced two significant restrictions that are not fully taken into consideration with ORBIS: the limits of ancient navigation in determining position, and the sailing capacity of the ships. ORBIS calculates the routes as the sum of short segments in a grid with integrated average wind conditions. However, this approach is based on the theory that each segment could be travelled independently, which presupposes that each set of wind conditions are independent from one another. In other words, after sailing one segment, a ship would wait for better wind conditions before setting off on the next one. With ancient navigation technology, a ship could not simply wait on the open sea until optimal circumstances arose. In addition, wind conditions themselves are interdependent.25 Average wind conditions alone cannot be used to calculate sailing travel 21 http://orbis.stanford.edu/orbis2012/ORBIS_v1paper_20120501.pdf, 35: “Given these factors and the low number of sensor points available for the wind data, it was decided that any method of interpolation of values beyond assigning the wind value for each mesh point from the nearest sensor point should be explored in later iterations of this model.” 22 Sen. QN. 15.7 mentions the variation in a local wind. 23 The reason a dynamic model is needed is described in Englert, 2012. Distances travelled per day vary drastically, depending on wind conditions; Englert, 2012: 273–276. 24 http://orbis.stanford.edu/orbis2012/ORBIS_v1paper_20120501.pdf, 35; Scott Arcenas, ORBIS and the Sea: a model for maritime transportation under the Roman Empire, http:// orbis.stanford.edu/orbis2012. 25 The developers themselves acknowledge that this model may calculate incorrect routes and incorrect times. http://orbis.stanford.edu/orbis2012/ORBIS_v1paper_20120501.pdf, 11: “More importantly, this approach would have created a speciously efficient sailing environment that reduced cost and friction below historically plausible levels.” For this reason, a number of pre-determined routes are used – specifically the main routes of Arnaud. Even then, ORBIS still calculates unrealistically efficient sailing times. The developers offer an explanation: “concerns arise from the fact that in this scenario a large number of voyages are faster than expected” (14), and introduce a second, slower time. The developers repeatedly emphasize the improbability of these results, and openly discuss all

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duration accurately.26 Only calculations based on factual wind conditions – integrated weather patterns for the entire route – will lead to realistic results. A new approach: new data, new tool The approach: in light of the limitations of ORBIS mentioned above, better results can be achieved through: 1. A higher resolution grid of data points for wind data. 2. Specific weather data at intervals of no greater than 12 hours, rather than average values, in order to more accurately represent the variability of Mediterranean conditions. 3. Dynamic calculations of routes using a dynamic data model. Increased precision in estimating the sailing capabilities of the ships. This paper presents a creative approach that resolves these issues with the following enhancements: 1. A higher resolution grid for wind data: 239 data points instead of fewer than 20, with a resolution of 1 degree instead of 5 degrees. 2. The use of weather data from satellite records from NOAA: data collected every six hours at intervals of 0.25 degrees. 3. The application of a navigation software program, Expedition, which provides dynamic calculations of routes. 4. Verifying assumptions regarding the sailing capabilities of the ships: a. Taking into account all available data from replicas, including Oberstimm, the Kieler Cog and the Gorch Fock. b. Calibration of the navigation software using data from ancient sources to validate the assumptions. New tool: Expedition Calculating realistic routes with a dynamic weather system is only possible with the use of computer programs. Several programs have been developed for these types of calculations; the most sophisticated are used for offshore regattas. One of these programs is Expedition.27 In contrast to programs that make estimates of the previously mentioned criticism of the program. 26 The probability of unfavorable winds is considered, and is applied to short route segments. The problem lies in the implied additivity. Discussing his own models, Leidwanger, 2013 emphasizes the “complexities of real seafaring in a dynamic environment where universal averages may not be consistently meaningful” (302). The effect of steady winds on ancient maritime travel (Arnaud, 2005: 16–22, 58–59) is one of the reasons that average values lead to inaccurate results. 27 http://www.expeditionmarine.com. Credit for the idea of using this program, which was created by New Zealander Nick White, to explore ancient routes, goes to Bouwe Bekking, one of the most experienced skippers in the world. I am grateful to Bouwe for his idea and © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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based on wind probabilities, Expedition calculates the route under real conditions, simulating the different routes a boat can take, and results in virtual voyages. Unfavourable wind conditions along the course do not cause the program to simply stop, but instead, allow it to continue to process the new conditions and adapt the route. More precisely: in the simulation, when there is a strong wind in an unfavourable direction, the virtual ship will abort that specific route and seek a new course once the wind permits it. Weather data is loaded into the program as weather forecasts from the corresponding online databases, but historical data can also be imported in the form of Grib files. Expedition can only be used when a ship’s sailing characteristics are pre-programmed into the system in the form of a polar diagram. Sailing capabilities of ancient ships The only way of ascertaining the capabilities of ancient ships with any degree of certainty is by reconstructing and testing them, using high-tech digital measuring tools. Simple test runs using GPS systems are not sufficient, as ship-displacement by winds and currents have to be filtered out of test results. A suite of measuring instruments and software has been developed in the last decade and while, sadly, no full-scale replica of an ancient merchantmen (yet) exists, reconstructions of three Roman military craft from the imperial period provide us with at least approximate results, using the Silva Marine NX2-sytem, an ensemble of measuring tools originally developed for the America’s Cup and adapted to scientific use by a team of astrophysicists from the University of Hamburg and the Harvard-Smithsonian Center of Astrophysics.28 A ship’s capabilities is usually shown by way of ‘polar plots’ (or simply ‘polar’), a rudimentary graphical plot showing potential boat speeds across varying wind angles and wind speeds. It is used to indicate optimum sailing angles for any given ships. Trials with reconstructed vessels have shown that ships carrying square sails (typical both for the ancient world and for medieval Europe) tend to perform admirably, not only when running before the wind or reaching (i.e. sailing in various fashions at an angle approximately perpendicular to wind direction), but also when sailing close hauled (i.e. close to the wind or even slightly upwind). This is remarkable, not least because we are dealing here with a type of vessel explicitly designed for oar-propulsion and for navigating rivers (not the open sea), which may hint at even better performance by oceangoing merchantmen, designed and optimised for sailing and for the open sea.

for his comments on some of the routes. I thank Nick for allowing me to use this program in my research. 28 Schäfer, 2008: 70ff; Schäfer/Wagener, 2008: 99ff.; Günther/Wawrzyn, 2008a: 118ff.; Günther/Wawrzyn, 2008b: 111ff. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Comparing modern data with ancient sources on Roman sailing times There are over 200 references to sailing voyage duration mentioned in our sources. However, this data is of little use for determining sailing performance. Some of the voyages described are especially fast trips, and some are especially slow ones; sometimes they sail with favourable winds, and sometimes with especially unfavourable winds. In some of the sources, the author attempts to report objectively, and other times, the writing is fiction. In addition, the writings originate from different centuries, which means that ship types differ. There is generally little information available about the type of ships described, so it is difficult to compare the values. Even so, we can turn to one particular text: in his Natural History, chapter 19.1, Pliny the Elder gives praise for the new proximity of previously distant places, thanks to an innovation he calls the flax, by which he is referring to the sail fashioned from flax fiber. Atque, ut a confessis ordiamur utililatibus quaeque non solum terras omnes, verum etiam maria replevere, seritur ac dici neque inter fruges neque inter hortensia potest linum, sed in qua non occurrit vitae parte? quodve miraculum maius, herbam esse quae admoveat Aegyptum Italiae in tantum, ut Galerius a freto Siciliae Alexandriam septimo die pervenerit, Balbillus sexto, ambo praefecti, aestate vero post xv annos Valerius Marianus ex praetoriis senatoribus a Puteolis nono die lenissimo flatu? Herbam esse quae Gadis ab Herculis columnis septimo die Ostiam adferat et citeriorem Hispaniam quarto, provinciam Narbonensem tertio, Africain altero, quod etiam mollissimo flatu contigit C. Flavio legato Vibi Crispí procos.?29 In these few lines, Pliny describes the length of seven voyages. Because he wants to emphasize how close these locations are close to Rome, it is likely that he is reporting record times, not average speed. Pliny does seem to refer to actual trips, for he lists the travellers by name in three cases. The credibility of this information is likely high.30 The results from Expedition match the times reported by Pliny. 29

“And to begin with admitted utilities and with commodities distributed not only throughout all lands but also over the seas: flax is a plant that is grown from seed and that cannot be included either among cereals or among garden plants; but in what department of life shall we not meet with it, or what is more marvellous than the fact that there is a plant which brings Egypt so close to Italy that of two governors of Egypt Galerius reached Alexandria from the Straits of Messina in seven days and Balbillus in six, and that in the summer 15 years later the praetorian senator Valerius Marianus made Alexandria from Pozzuoli in nine days with a very gentle breeze? or that there is a plant that brings Cadiz within seven days’ sail from the Straits of Gibraltar to Ostia, and Hither Spain within four days, and the Province of Narbonne within three, and Africa within two? The last record was made by Gaius Flavius, deputy of the proconsul Vibius Crispus, even with a very gentle wind blowing.” (transl. from the Loeb edition). 30 Arnaud, 2013: 139 confirms the plausibility of Plin. HN 19,1 and the assessment that these are record travel times. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Based on these results, the sailing times for the most important trade routes were calculated. For each route, one or more data sheets are provided for an overview of the results. The data sheet contains the results of the route simulations from the Expedition software program. Gaul – Ostia Because of the dangerous wind conditions in the Gulf of Lion, freighters on the route from Gaul to Ostia sailed near the coast until they reached Fréjus, Forum Iulii.31 From there, which of the three possible routes did they take? Through the Strait of Bonifacio, past Cap Corse, or along the coast through the Ligurian Sea? In comparing the three routes, the Strait of Bonifacio, Cap Corse, or the Ligurian Sea, the results of the simulation demonstrate that the route through the Strait of Bonifacio was the fastest. Taking the route around Cap Corse would allow a ship to reach Ostia, on average, in fewer than five days; however, sailing through the Ligurian Sea would require approximately just two extra days. This same route resulted in travel times of under 8 days in 80% of the simulations under varying weather conditions.

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This explains the reason that many shipwrecks have been discovered along that coast. Forum Iulii was well placed as a port where ships could wait for favorable wind conditions, as mentioned in Str. 4.1.9. Recent archeological studies show that it was not only a naval base known for its port (Tac. Ann. 4.5 und Tac. Hist. 3.43 with characterization as claustra maris) but it also served an important role as a way station for transportation of commercial goods. Similarly Gebara/Morhange, 2010: 112: “This difference in quay level between the W and E parts of the port might reflect a division of the basin into two specialized sectors. In this case the type of ships that could access the different sectors of the harbour, and the nature of the activities developed in each sector, become legitimate questions.” The question that has been posed time and again, the reason for Augustus establishing Forum Iulii as an important naval base (Reddé, 1986: 172) could – in addition to other considerations – also have the following answer: the fleet was stationed windward of the entire western Mediterranean, just outside of the sometimes very dangerous Golf of Lion. Looking solely at wind conditions, there was no other port in the entire western Mediterranean with more days of “favorable wind” – regardless of whether the destination was Rome, Carales, or even New Carthage. A warning appeared about the Golf of Lion in the 1973 volume of the Mediterranean Handbook of the German Hydrographic Institute: Mittelmeerhandbuch, 1973: 89: “Der Mistral weht in den meisten Fällen nicht nur dicht unter der Küste, sondern dehnt seinen Bereich bis weit auf See aus. Die rasch aufkommende hohe und steile See kann selbst starken Schiffen gefährlich werden. Es wird deshalb angeraten, bei Reisen nach und von französischen Häfen und auch nach dem Golf von Genua, den Weg im Golfe du Lion dicht unter der Küste zu wählen. Der Seegang ist dicht unter Land bedeutend handiger.” The ancient traders would have also made this same observation and heeded the advice. They sailed near land until they had passed the danger zone, and used the prevailing northwesterly winds to head for Corsica, before they reached the calm of the Ligurian Sea. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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A specific example of the utility of studying this shipwrecked cargo is seen with dolia, large pottery containers. Karen Heslin recently described these in the context of a study for the Oxford Centre for Maritime Archaeology.32 Heslin suggests that dolia are detrimental to the seaworthiness of the ships.33 If this were the case,34 it would be one more reason not to leave the coastal route. This point makes the distribution of the archaeological findings even more surprising.35 Very few dolia shipwrecks have been found in the Ligurian Sea – the only two are Meloria B and Diano Marina. Although it appears that the Ligurian coast was not entirely avoided for this type of trade, the preferred routes likely took the ships across the open sea in the prevailing wind direction.36 The distribution of shipwreck discoveries and the multitude of further shipwrecks in the Strait of Bonifacio indicate that many sea traders chose this route,37 or alternatively, that they went around Cap Corse and then sailed by Elba. This shows that one of the main connections between Gaul and Rome led through the Strait of Bonifacio, which the Romans called fretum Gallicum.38 The results of the trade route simulations have been confirmed through the archaeological evidence.

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Heslin, 2011. Heslin, 2011: 161. 34 Again, there are no measurements, which would only be possible with a reconstructed merchant ship. 35 Illustration from Heslin, 2011: 160. 36 Although there are fewer examples, a very similar picture can be drawn from the glass discoveries in the shipwrecks. See Fontaine/Foy, 2007: 238. 37 If the ORBIS calculations for the coastal route are correct, it would not be possible to explain why the ancient freighters took the route through the Strait of Bonifaco. Because we cannot know how many ships crossed the strait, we cannot put the number of shipwrecks in perspective. There is no evidence that ancient ships tried to avoid the strait. The current is very strong, but no stronger than the current in the Aegean between certain islands (Morton, 2001: 85–90). Therefore, the strong current in the Strait of Bonifacio does not present any unusual challenge, as long as the passage was not attempted on a day when the mistral wind blew fiercely. For experienced captains, the risk was small. When asked his opinion by email, Bouwe Bekking commented on the route in this way: “So I think they sailed through the Strait of Bonifacio. Remember as well that once in the Strait the mistral turns from NNW–NW going into the west, so they kept sailing downwind and had more options to maneuver ... if you would put me now on a slow, not super maneuverable boat, I would take these routes as described ...” Even if the passage was perceived as being more difficult to cross, that would not have been a sufficient reason not to travel it, as ancient traders took on challenges that could bring them some advantage. This is described in Peripl. M. Rubr.: 39:13,13f.: δυσεπίβολος μὲν ἐπιφορώτατος δὲ ἐκείνων καὶ συντομώτερος ὀ πλοῦς. “The crossing with these winds (southwest winds) is hard going, but shorter and absolutely favourable.” (transl. Casson, 1989). 38 Itin. Anton. 495.2. In contrast, Solinus describes the English Channel in this way: Solin. 100.25. 33

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The Edict of Diocletian on Prices The fact that little data exists about actual travel time on the ancient sea routes has already been mentioned; almost all the documentation that does exist describes special situations, including especially short or long travel times, under particularly advantageous or difficult conditions. One source, however, provides data on many routes: the so-called Edict of Diocletian on Prices. Almost fifty routes are listed, and even though the document is a political one listing maximum allowable prices, it stands to reason that all prices would have been set with the same conditions in mind, using identical methodology for all routes. The prices should therefore be comparable between each other and give an indication about sailing times. In fact, various attempts have been made in the past to decode the inner logic of the Edict. Historians initially compared the given prices with the geographic distances. The lack of any apparent consistent logic or pattern resulted in a generally dismissive attitude towards the Edict.39 It was seen as an ill devised document, a conclusion that seemed to be further reinforced by the supposed fact that it was short-lived. Later attempts included the effort to relate maximum prices to sailing times, most recently by Arnaud and Scheidel. They estimated sailing times and correlated them with maximum prices from the edict. In this way, Arnaud could partially defend the utility of studying the price edict, but he himself did not seem fully convinced of the results.40 Similarly, Scheidel used the calculations of the sailing times from ORBIS and compared them with the price information from the edict. In 30% of the cases, the values were more than one-third away from the expected values. Scheidel described it in this way: “I therefore submit that a few minor concessions to occasional bureaucratic inconsistency are sufficient to restore the edict’s reputation to that of a necessarily rough but mostly sound compilation of price proxies for plausible sailing times.”41 Evaluating the utility of studying the price edict prompts several questions. These were public officials in the service of one of the most successful leaders in history. When asked to design a crucial reform, could they not have done a better job than we are able to understand today? Was the ancient system faulty, or have we just not been able to decode it yet? Could there be errors in our reasoning? There seem to be at least two. 1. Sailing duration: To interpret the Edict correctly, exact sailing times must be known. Trying to make sense of the prices with the wrong sailing times in mind will not lead to accurate results. Beginning with false or even imprecise assump39

Duncan-Jones, 1974: 367–368, for example, considers the prices in the price edict unrealistic and criticizes the shipping rates. 40 Arnaud, 2007: 334: “The Edict thus seems to be a strange mixture of empirical data and of bureaucratic simplifications and (mis-)calculations, relying above all upon an abstruse, arithmetical view of ancient seafaring.” 41 Scheidel, 2013: 468. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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tions precludes a correct understanding of the Edict. As discussed above, the existing estimates for sailing times are partially incorrect. Thus, it is not possible to develop a correct interpretation of the Edict using the current understanding of travel time. 2. Fixed and variable costs: all attempts to explain the Edict have been limited to an attempt to set distance or travel time in a linear relationship to one another. A transport voyage, which lasted 20 days, should have been ten times as expensive as one that only required two days, according to this model. This neglects the fact that transportation did not only include port-to-port trips, but also required time for loading, unloading, and formalities in each port. It must be assumed that these officials attempted to model a realistic travel situation, and took these stops into consideration. Following this logic, the prices must have been determined according to the following general formula: Maximum price = sailing time (ST) times cost rate (CR) plus the fixed rate for the port = ST * CR + Fix.42 For example: if costs are calculated as HS 2 for the fixed rate, and HS 3 as the cost rate per day, the price for transportation for one modius on a route requiring two days should be set at HS 8 (2*3+2), whereas a route of ten days should cost HS 62 (20*3+2). A route that is ten times longer would not cost ten times as much, but rather, only almost eight times as much. Because of the computer simulations’ models of sailing times, it is possible to assign values to the sailing time variable in the formula above. Prices are also known, but the fixed cost for the port and the cost rate for each day are unknown. This leaves an equation with two unknown variables. However, it is possible to determine the unknown variables using data from different routes. To solve the equations, the value from the first quartile is used as the sailing time, representing average travel time in favourable wind.43 This results in the following solution: 0.5 denarii per day, plus three denarii of fixed costs. Therefore, the maximum price is equal to the value of the sailing time in the first quartile * 0.5 + 3. For example, from Ostia to Tarracco: 12.13 days (first quartile) * 0.5 + 3 = 6.065 + 3 = 9.065. Since the Edict uses only even numbers, the public officials responsible for reform likely used a table for rounding the numbers. In the Edict on Prices, prices for 46 routes are listed; it is possible to test twenty of them reliably using travel time data from the Expedition program.44 Once prices are calculated for each route,

42

In the ancient world, remuneration according to a combined formula with various components was customary, shown in Cod. Theod. 13.5.7: die navicularii Orientis received 4% of the load plus a fixed rate per 1,000 modii. 43 The calculation method can easily be reconstructed with the help of the values provided. 44 See above for a description of the limitations of Expedition. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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using the formula listed above and the maximum prices from the Edict, the following picture emerges: From Ostia Carthage Alexandria Carthage Syracuse Ephesus Ostia Alexandria Alexandria Ostia Ephesus Carthage Caesarea Caesarea Alexandria Caesarea Caesarea Caesarea Caesarea

To Syracuse Syracuse Pamphylia Tarraco Arelate Carthage Tarraco Syracuse Carthage Arelate Ostia Pamphylia Syracuse Carthage Ostia Ostia Tarraco Gades Arelate

Edict on Prices 6 6 6 8 8 8 10 10 10 14 14 14 16 16 16 18 20 22 24

Formula 4.97 5.51 5.61 6.87 8.91 10.99 9.07 11.37 11.83 9.94 13.16 12.20 15.71 16.86 16.02 20.45 21.16 24.45 22.90

Using a rounding table, the rounding would have to be based solely on sailing times, listing the price exclusive of the ports’ fixed rates. The table would then read as follows: Trip length

Rounded trip length under 4 days 2 4–8 days 6 8–12 days 10 12–16 days 14 16–20 days 18 20–24 days 22 24–28 days 26 28–32 days 30 32–36 days 34 36–40 days 38 40–44 days 42

Price for the trip (Days * 0,5 Denare) 1 3 5 7 9 11 13 15 17 19 21

Total price (Trip price + 3 Denare fixed rate) 4 6 8 10 12 14 16 18 20 22 24

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Given these assumptions,45 the officials would have considered a range of 4–8 days for transporting goods from Carthage to Syracuse and of 24–28 days for transport from Caesarea to Carthage. Using the data from the Expedition program (from the first quartile), the following picture emerges:46 From

To

Ostia Carthage Alexandria Carthage Syracuse Ephesus Ostia Alexandria Alexandria Ostia Ephesus Carthage Caesarea Caesarea Alexandria Caesarea Caesarea Caesarea Caesarea

Syracuse Syracuse Pamphylia Tarraco Arelate Carthage Tarraco Syrakus Carthage Arelate Ostia Pamphylia Syracuse Carthage Ostia Ostia Tarraco Gades Arelate

Price according to model 6 6 6 6–8 8 10 10 12 12 10 14 12 16 16 16 20 20–22 24 24

Price according to the Edict 6 6 6 8 8 8 10 10 10 14 14 14 16 16 16 18 20 22 24

( ) ( ) ( ) ( )

( )

( ) ( ) ( )

The fact that a higher price was allowed specifically for the trip to Arelate correlates with the data on difficult wind conditions in the Gulf of Lion already described above. The higher price allowed the ship to wait in port until the mistral passed. Depending on the time of year, the mistral blows between 12% and 20% of the time. This data corresponds to the data on sailing times and maximum prices: using the correct methodology, prices for the routes are additive.47 The above results demonstrate that the simulated sailing times from Expedition and the proposed formula integrate remarkably well with the Price Edict and

45

It was not difficult for the officials to compile these values from their own experience. Port documents provided information, as well as the accompanying documentation and notes on government orders. 46 Prices are marked with ( ) if prices vary only by one price level at most. 47 For detailed calculations, see Warnking, 2015. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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the literary sources. Modern navigation software enables simulations that characterize ancient Roman sea travel with a high level of detail and accuracy. Conclusion The use of modern computer simulations has led to new insights into ancient sea trade routes in the Mediterranean. Understanding the sea routes is critical for understanding Roman trade. Ancient routes can now be determined, along with rigorous estimates of voyage duration, using modern navigation software. For future research, the reconstruction of a large Roman merchantman would provide valuable insights into how the ancient world was connected, providing information on Mediterranean shipping, maritime networks and their impact. The present study offers a reliable method for studying ancient Roman sea routes and has implications beyond the travel routes themselves. The sea routes affected the network of cultural exchange and of maritime commerce, which shaped not only the economy of the ancient world, but greatly influenced their politics and society. Comments and discussion (excerpts) Chr. Tuplin: According to your research, there was a direct route from west of Alexandria to Lycia? P. Warnking: Yes. ChrT: Where exactly did the ships turn north? PW: The computer model suggests to turn north between 27° E and 27° 30’ E. ChrT: Did you check, if that is close to Paraetonium? PW: Unfortunately, that did not occur to me. (Short pause for checking.) Paraetonium is situated at 27° 14’ E! Thank you for this great suggestion. This brings two new results: First, the location of Paraetonium could have been determined as much by sea routes as by the intersecting land routes – maybe even more so. Second, it further gives credibility to the results of the computer modelling. J.C. Moreno: Do you have any indication from your research why the Western Delta was preferred by seafarers compared to the Eastern Delta? PW: Yes. The Eastern Delta is at best more difficult for navigation and often more dangerous. With winds blowing predominantly from the north or the northwest, getting out of that southeastern corner of the Mediterranean can be very laborious, because of the limitations of the square rigs. If caught in a storm, there is no way out and few natural harbours to seek shelter. R. Rollinger: Considering the impact of the presented results, would it not be desirable to reconstruct a Roman merchantman as soon as possible to collect data about the sailing performance? Chr. Schäfer: Yes. In fact, we will start soon to reconstruct Laurons 2 at Trier. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Once finished, we will be able to collect all necessary data to further solidify our computer models. Bibliography Andreau, J., 2002: “Twenty Years after Moses I. Finley’s The Ancient Economy”. In W. Scheidel / S. von Reden (eds.): The Ancient Economy. New York. Pp. 33–49. Arnaud, P., 2005: Les routes de la navigation antique. Itinéraires en Méditerranée. Paris. — 2007: “Diocletian’s Prices Edict: the prices of seaborne commerce and the average duration of maritime travel”. JRA, 20, 321–336. — 2011: “Ancient sailing-routes and trade patterns: the impact of human factors”. In D. Robinson / A. Wilson (eds.): Maritime Archaeology and Ancient Trade in the Mediterranean. Oxford. Pp. 61–80. — 2013: “L’homme, le temps et la mer: continuité et changement des routes maritimes de et vers Portus”. In S. Keay (ed.): Rome, Portus and the Mediterranean. London. Pp. 127–146. Bowman, A.K. / Wilson, A., 2007: “Quantifying the Roman Economy: Integration, Growth, Decline?” In A.K. Bowman / A. Wilson (eds.): Quantifying the Roman Economy. Methods and Problems. Oxford. Pp. 3–84. Broekaert, W., 2013: Navicularii et Negotiantes. A prosopographical study of Roman merchants and shippers. Rahden. Casson, L., 1989: The Periplus Maris Erythraei. Princeton. — 1995: Ships and Seamanship in the Ancient World. Baltimore. Davis, D.L., 2009: Commercial navigation in the Greek and Roman world, PhD thesis, University of Texas. Austin. Drexhage, H.-J. / Konen, H. / Ruffing, K., 2002a: Die Wirtschaft des Römischen Reiches (1.–3. Jahrhundert). Eine Einführung. Berlin. — 2002b: “Die Wirtschaft der römischen Kaiserzeit in der modernen Deutung: Einige Überlegungen”. In K. Strobel (ed.): Die Ökonomie des Imperium Romanum. Strukturen, Modelle und Wertungen im Spannungsfeld von Modernismus und Neoprimitivismus. Akten des 3. Trierer Symposiums zur Antiken Wirtschaftsgeschichte. St. Katharinen. Pp. 1–66. Duncan-Jones, R., 1974: The Economy of the Roman Empire. Cambridge. Englert, A., 2012: “Travel Speed in the Viking Age: Results from the Trial Voyages with Reconstructed Ship Finds”. In N. Günsenin (ed.): Between Continents. Istanbul. Pp. 269–277. Fontaine, S.D. / Foy, D., 2007: “L’épave Ouest-Embiez 1, Var: le commerce maritime du verre brut et manufacturé en Méditerranée occidentale dans l’Antiquité”. RAN 40, 235–265. Finley, M.I., 1979: The Bücher-Meyer Controversy. New York.

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Gambin, T., 2013: “Central Mediterranean islands and satellite ports for ancient Rome”. In S. Keay (ed.): Rome, Portus and the Mediterranean. London. Pp. 147–151. Gébara, C. / Morhange, C., 2010: Fréjus (Forum Julii): Le Port Antique / The Ancient Harbour. Portsmouth, R.I. Graßl, H., 2004: “Marktorganisation und Preisbildung in der Römischen Kaiserzeit”. In R. Rollinger / Chr. Ulf (eds.): Commerce and Monetary Systems in the Ancient World: Means of Transmission and Cultural Interaction. Proceedings of the Fifth Annual Symposium of the Assyrian and Babylonian Intellectual Heritage Project held in Innsbruck, 3.–8. Oct. 2002. Stuttgart. Pp. 352–365. Günther, H.M. / Wawrzyn, Chr., 2008a: “Erprobung des Typs Oberstimm 1 auf dem Ratzeburger See”. In Ch. Schäfer / R. Aßkamp (eds.): Projekt Römerschiff. Hamburg. Pp. 129–147. — / — 2008b: “Technische Details der Tests mit dem NX2–System”. In Ch. Schäfer (ed.): Lusoria – ein Römerschiff im Experiment. Rekonstruktionen – Tests – Ergebnisse. Hamburg. Pp. 111–122. Heslin, K., 2011: “Dolia Shipwrecks and the wine trade in the Roman Mediterranean”. In D. Robinson / A. Wilson (eds.): Maritime Archaeology and Ancient Trade in the Mediterranean. Oxford. Pp. 157–168. Hopkins, K., 1983: “Introduction”. In P. Garnsey / K. Hopkins (eds.): Trade in the Ancient Economy. London. Pp. IX–XXV. Jongman, W.M., 2007: “The Early Roman Empire: Consumption”. In W. Scheidel / I. Morris / R. Saller (eds.): The Cambridge Economic History of the Greco-Roman World. Cambridge. Pp. 592–618. Leidwanger, J., 2013: “Modeling distance with time in ancient Mediterranean seafaring: a GIS application for the interpretation of maritime connectivity”. J.Archaeol.Sci., 40, 3302–3308. Lo Cascio, E., 2007: “The Early Roman Empire: The State and the Economy”. In W. Scheidel / I. Morris / R. Saller (eds.): The Cambridge Economic History of the Greco Roman World. Cambridge. Pp. 619–647. Morley, N., 2007: Trade in Classical Antiquity. Cambridge. Morton, J., 2001: The role of the physical environment in ancient Greek seafaring. Leiden. Parker, A., 1992: Ancient Shipwrecks of the Mediterranean and the Roman Provinces. Oxford. Reddé, M., 1986: Mare Nostrum. Rome. Rougé, J., 1966: Recherches sur l’organisation du commerce maritime en Méditerranée sous l’Empire romain. Paris. Ruffing, K., 2008a: Die berufliche Spezialisierung in Handel und Handwerk. Untersuchungen zu ihrer Entwicklung und zu ihren Bedingungen in der römischen Kaiserzeit im östlichen Mittelmeerraum auf der Grundlage griechischer © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Inschriften und Papyri. 2 vols. Rahden. — 2012: Wirtschaft in der griechisch-römischen Antike. Darmstadt. Schäfer, Ch., 2008: Lusoria – ein Römerschiff im Experiment. Rekonstruktionen – Tests – Ergebnisse. Hamburg. Schäfer, Ch. / Wagener, G., 2008: “Die ersten Testfahrten des Typs Oberstimm 1”. In R. Aßkamp / Ch. Schäfer (eds.): Projekt Römerschiff. Hamburg. Pp. 93– 113. Scheidel, W., 2013: “Explaining the maritime freight charges in Diocletian’s Prices Edict”. JRA, 26, 464–468. Schmidts, Th., 2011: Akteure und Organisation der Handelsschifffahrt in den nordwestlichen Provinzen des römischen Reiches. Mainz. Schneider, H., 1990: “Die Bücher-Meyer-Kontroverse”. In W.M. Calder III / A. Demandt (eds.): Eduard Meyer. Leben und Leistung eines Universalhistorikers. Köln. Pp. 417–455. — 1999: s.v. “Bücher-Meyer-Kontroverse”. In DNP 13, 1999, col. 551–556. Temin, P., 2001: “A Market Economy in the Early Roman Empire”. JRS 91, 169– 181. — 2013: The Roman Market Economy. Princeton. Tschirner, M., 1994: Moses I. Finley. Studien zu Leben, Werk und Rezeption, Diss. Marburg. Wagner-Hasel, B., 2009: “Hundert Jahre Gelehrtenstreit über den Charakter der antiken Wirtschaft. Zur Aktualität von Karl Büchers Wirtschaftsanthropologie”. Historische Anthropologie, 17, 178–201. — 2011: Die Arbeit des Gelehrten. Der Nationalökomom Karl Bücher (1847– 1930). Frankfurt / New York. — 2013: “Le regard de Karl Bücher sur l’économie antique et le débat sur théorie économique et histoire”. In H. Bruhns (ed.): L’histoire et l’économie politique en Allemagne autour de 1900. Paris. Pp. 159–183. Warnking, P., 2015: Der römische Seehandel in seiner Blütezeit. Rahmenbedingungen, Seerouten, Wirtschaftlichkeit. Rahden.

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Greek Mercenaries in Mesopotamia The Visit of the Ten Thousand Christopher J. Tuplin

Introduction This essay focuses on Xenophon’s representation of the 10,000’s encounter with the Mesopotamian East,1 where they spent rather under four months before retreating into the mountains of Anatolia2 – and were not expected to spend a very long time, even had Cyrus won: the soldiers will go home after victory, and with a bounty worth over a year’s pay (1.4.13, 1.7.4). My excuse for focusing on Mesopotamia is, of course, that that is the proper focus of the Melammu project. My excuse for limiting myself to the 10,000 is that the incidence of demonstrable Greek soldiers beyond the Euphrates is otherwise almost vanishingly small until Alexander and that, although they were to be found in the Levant, the evidence about them there is not qualitatively rich. So far as Mesopotamia is concerned, Phalinus can count and perhaps some of the Greeks who came from Tissaphernes at 2.4.24, especially if they were not all just people who had been with Cyrus on non-mercenary terms and had drifted to the Persian side along with Ariaeus.3 Conon’s visit to Babylon in the 390s presumably included Greek soldiers, as had Cyrus’ in 404. But we cannot be sure where Megabyzus’ Greeks fought against royal forces during his rebellion – it is as likely to be west of the Euphrates.4 Claims about Greeks in Achaemenid era Babylonian documents are debatable. There were of course Greeks and Carians carrying building materials; and the Greeks who fetched up at Persepolis passed 1

I am not primarily interested in the reception/transmission of distinctively Persian information, especially material about Persian imperial institutions. But some cannot be avoided, e.g. parasangs; and whatever is encountered in Mesopotamia is in principle fair game. – Otherwise unattributed three-figure references are to Anabasis. 2 From Thapsacus to their entry into Carduchia occupies days 144–252++ of (my count of) the timetable. Cunaxa falls on day 183. In absolute terms the visit could fall in anything from months III–VII to months VII–XI of 4 Artaxerxes, depending on different interpretations of the chronological framework: late June (late III/start of IV) – mid October (VII) (Glombiowski, 1994, Lee, 2007); late July – mid November (Manfredi, 1985); September (VI) – December (IX) (Gassner 1953, Lendle 1995); mid-late October (VII) – early February (XI) (Brennan 2012). Cunaxa will variously be in V, VI, VII, VIII/IX. 3 Cf. 2.4.1–2,16, 2.5.35. 4 Megabyzus’ Greeks (Ctes.688 F14[40]); Phalinus (below pp. 271–274); Conon (Diod. 14.81, presumably accompanied by soldiers). Much earlier there is the case of Antimenidas (Alcaeus fr.350); but see Fantalkin/Lytle, 2016, which suggests that he may never have crossed the Euphrates. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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through Mesopotamia (at least in a wide acceptance of the term). But these are not soldiers.5 Meanwhile Greek soldiers had perhaps been present in Mesopotamia and further east in another sense, as images on seal-stones: I know of four items from Persepolis and 28 from Babylonia in use before 400 (indeed almost all before 7 Darius – an artefact of the temporal range of the Murashu archive, which is much the richest source for such items). These (or at least the ones that do not involve Persian adversaries and are executed in a Greek style) are part of a larger category of sealings with Hellenic subjects found in the same places and times; and they are a substantial part, since I also count a similar number of non-military items of this sort within the same time-frame.6 Why such things were in use in Babylonia and points east is another matter: Jakob-Rost and Freydank speculated about the actual presence of groups of Greeks mercenaries in Babylonia, but that begs too many questions.7 By contrast with these various uncertainties and whimsicalities, the 10,000 are a solid entity and a feasible case-study, albeit one for which the data-set is problematized by literary treatment. My essay will, therefore, interrogate Anabasis in relation to some of the themes adumbrated in the original conference manifesto and represented in the present volume: commercial activity, land-routes and their articulation, political, economic, social and cultural consequences, Classical sources on the presence of western historians, philosophers and armies in the East, and the light cast by cuneiform sources on eastward travel. The overarching theme of conference and volume is transmission of knowledge, and I shall address the question of how much new knowledge was transmitted by Anabasis and how important it was, whether in itself or as part of the literary posture of the work. I do not give all of these themes an equal amount of space. The political consequences of Cyrus’ enterprise included re-awakening of Greco-Persian conflict over Western Anatolia and the short and long-term repercussions were substantial. How far one puts this down to the 10,000 depends on whether Cyrus’ rebellion would not have happened without the acquisition of lots of Greek soldiers and on the impact of their return (and availability for re-use) on Spartan policymaking. About that I attempt no judgment here, though I note that their adventure was available to Panhellenists as an argument, that Xenophon’s eventual account 5

BM 32891 (Rollinger, 2006–7: 151–2; contrast Rollinger/Henkelman, 2009: 343–344, Tuplin, forthcoming), DSf § 9 and many Persepolis texts. 6 Persepolis: PTS 28,46,47 (cylinder seals), PT6 231 (signet ring). Babylonia: Balzer, 2007: U4d.59 (Moore 43), VAT 13407 = Jakob-Rost/Freydank, 1972: 15 (4), Bregstein, 1993: 184–188,190,191,547–549,551–561, Balzer, 2007: U4d.34 (IMT 40), U4d.39 (IMT 49), U4d.43 (IMT Abb.46), U4d.44, Legrain, 1925: no.1020. Not all images are easy to interpret (some uncertainty remains in the case of PT6 231, Bregstein, 1993: 191 and Legrain 1925: 1020) and it is possible that IMT 49 represents the same seal as Bregstein 549. But in any event there are 28 Greek military items from east of the Euphrates. 7 Jacob-Rost/Freydank, 1972: 9. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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gives studiedly mixed messages on that score, and that it does so as much because of its treatment of Greeks as of non-Greeks – perhaps more.8 Of course, Xenophon does give a specifically route-related perspective in the famous observation about the empire’s vulnerability to swift attack (1.5.9), but how far general knowledge exchange about Mesopotamia contributes to the theme is debatable. Another possible observation is that Cyrus’ large-scale employment of Greek mercenaries established a precedent, and that the resulting expansion of the mercenary-market represents an economic consequence.9 But it is hard to say whether it matters for that purpose that the 10,000 had been so far east. Artaxerxes rejected an immediate opportunity to hire them for his own use. But perhaps he and others were impressed in the longer run by their capacity to survive and escape. Again, Xenophon was part of an army in the East, and he became both historian and philosopher. But by ordinary definitions Xenophon the philosopher is not prominent in Anabasis (without prejudice to the oeuvre-wide uniformity and moral underpinning of his views) and the other features are largely presuppositions for it being a case-study in the first place. Still, we can perhaps subsume Xenophon the historian under the theme of cultural consequences. Anabasis is an odd piece of Greek history-writing; full access to Scylax’s memoir or Ion’s Epidēmiai might soften that impression, but probably only slightly. 10 Essentially Anabasis is a distinctive cultural consequence of Xenophon’s personal experience of a particular route from West to East and back again. How far and in what ways the cultural product is coloured by, or contributes to an illumination of, the East are questions I am at least working towards. But Anabasis is not the only Xenophontic cultural consequence. Viewed as a Persian experience, the trip also helped to spawn Cyropaedia. And, viewed as a Babylonian experience, it is perhaps relevant to one of Cyropaedia’s striking characteristics, that its framing of Cyrus’ life-history in terms of (a) Persian and Median models of rule and (b) conflict between Media and Assyria produces a Persian empire whose hub is Babylon. From one perspective this is just another version of the central yet passive role of Babylon in Near Eastern history recently explored by Johannes Haubold (2013: 73–126). But it is a startling version and, although our inability to recover the thick texture and nuance of Ctesias’ Persika hampers full understanding of the discursive environment with and against which Xenophon was working, I cannot help wondering whether the fact that Xenophon had actually been in Babylonia helped him come up with it. The cuneiform record: texts and names One of our themes is “cuneiform sources enabling study of travellers in the East”. Twisting that slightly (treating it as an aspect of cultural transmission and as a 8

Tuplin, 2004: 181–183. Tuplin, 2017. 10 Scylax: FGrH 709. Ion: FGrH 392; Jennings/Katsaros, 2007. 9

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way into other themes), I ask: how does Anabasis intersect with the cuneiform record? The nearest surviving Astronomical Diary with a historical notice is for 383/2 BC – so there is no diary-entry telling us about Cunaxa à la Gaugamela11 – and, hardly surprisingly, no business documents from the period mentions Anabasis events.12 In fact few even overlap chronologically with the 10,000’s Mesopotamian sojourn in 4 Artaxerxes. A document from Year 3 refers to month I of Year 4 (Michigan 46: a Persian, *Vispavada-, s. *Aθyabaga-, leases land to a Babylonian for 20 years to make a date-orchard) and there are perhaps six documents from year 4 itself, though two are uncertain and cannot be assigned to a specific month. The four certain items are from months 7, 8 ,10 and 12. On one view or another all but the last could have been written while the 10,000 were in Mesopotamia; and two of them (months 7, 8) could be in the month of Cunaxa. But to find resonances of the Anabasis is clutching at whimsical straws. In JCS 28.34 no.20 (27 July 401) Huru s. of Iltu-gubati, a man with an Egyptian name and West Semitic patronym, authorizes Hašda, son of Bel-uṣuršu,13 to receive barley owed to Huru by a third party. There were, of course, Egyptians at Cunaxa (1.8.9). And YBC 11537 (month 7 or earlier) refers to hatrus of “swordbearers” and Halpattupeople; but the former’s lexically military veneer is nothing more than that.14 In these circumstances better potential hooks are linguistic: words and names. There are no Akkadian common nouns in Anabasis, and description of the headache-inducing edible bit of the palm tree as enkephalos (brain) is not a good translation, if the appropriate Akkadian term is indeed libbu.15 But the use of thurai (“gates”) as a metonym for court or palace is more interesting. This certainly occurs twice, in reference to the locus of Cyrus’ education (1.9.3) and the place whither Greeks should go weaponless to seek royal benevo11

383/2: Sachs/Hunger, 1988: -382 obv. 13, 21. Gaugamela: Sachs/Hunger, 1988: -330 obv. 14–18. 12 We are in a poor(er) era for cuneiform texts. The Murašu archive is finished. The Kasr archive does run to early 400; it is much smaller and incompletely published, but does (granted wide enough criteria of salience) throw up some interesting items. There are documents from the earlier part of Artaxerxes II’s reign in the Barber family archive from Ur, the Nidintu-Ea / Bel-ahhe-eriba archive (also Ur), the Ninurta-ahhe-bullit archive (Nippur) and the latest generation of the Tattannu archive. For an overview of Babylonian archives see Jursa, 2005. 13 He might be the brother of Belšunu/Belesys. 14 UET 4.37 (11.7.4 Art.), JCS 28 no.20 = Stolper, 2007: 267–8 (no.20) (24.8.4 Art.), UET 4.34 (13.10.4). Year 4 also figures in YBC 11537 = Stolper, 2007: 251–2 (no.7) (mentions future payment in month 8), TCL 12.204 = AO 6840 (3.12.4, after the 10,000 had left Mesopotamia). UET 4.91 (Stolper, 1995a) perhaps predates the first month of year 5 (but is not certainly attributable to Artaxerxes II). 15 Palm-tree “brain”: 2.4.16. On one view this is the edible growing point at the crown of a palm tree; cf. CAD s.v. libbu 7b (with an underlying meaning “heart”). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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lence (2.1.8), and may be relevant in two further passages – the Greeks’ defeat of the king epi tais thurais autou (2.4.4) 16 and, in a cross-reference, the battle near Calpes Limen epi tais thurais tēs Hellados (6.5.23) – where there is a play between literal and metaphorical senses. The usage resonates with Darius’ display of mutilated rebels “at my gate” 17 and with various Akkadian, Hebrew and Aramaic texts18 – though many refer to satrapal or gubernatorial gates and at least one to the house of someone not even of that level. (This arises because there is an allure of legal process; high level gates are often linked with judges.) The ambiguity of literal and metaphorical sense exploited by Xenophon is perhaps present in all uses of the terminology, even if judicial processes did sometimes happen at gates. The usage was not wholly new to Greek literature, being present in Herodotus.19 Three of the four cases involve people addressing supplications to the king, and the literal sense is strong.20 Slightly different is the fourth case, where Oroetes and Mitrobates converse while “sitting epi tōn basileōs thurōn” (Herodotus 3.120); but I doubt the literal sense was far from Herodotus’ mind. In these terms, Cyrus’ education “at the gates of the king” (1.9.3), definitely at the metonymical end of the spectrum, perhaps represents a novelty in Greek reception of the idea. That notion recurs in Cyropaedia, and the imperial elite are also required to be present at the king’s or satrap’s gates21 – but even then there is a residual literal element: the elite must understand their subservient status, in the spirit of Aristotle’s later observation that tyrants imitate Persians and barbarians in wanting to have people at their gates, so they can keep an eye on them, or indeed Callicratidas’ anger about tais epi tas thuras phoitēsesin in Hellenica 1.6.7 (the point being that he does not get in to see Cyrus).22 So perhaps Anabasis 1.9.3 does stand out. Even so, I am not entirely sure that that makes it more authentically eastern. Meanwhile there is some irony in the fact that it is a Greek (Phalinus) 16

Cf. Isoc.4.148, hup’autois tois basileiois and 9.58, epi to basileion. DB §§ 32–33. 18 Akkadian VS 6.128, VS 6.185 with BM 120024 (Jursa/Stolper, 2007: 261–262), PBS 2.1 105,133, YOS 3.46, BE 10.84,128, Nbk.183, Ner.55, YOS 17.316,318, GCCI 2.383, YBC 9123, BOR 4.132, CT 22.201. More generally for Akkadian references to the palace gate in the context of officials or official functions cf. CAD s.v. bābu A1b2'. (Something similar happens with temples and cities: ibid. 1c4', 1d3'.) Hebrew Esther 2.19,21, 3.2,3, 4.2,6, 5.9,13, 6.10,12. Aramaic TADAE C1.1:1.19, 2.17,23, 3.44, D6.7; ADAB A1:7. 19 3.117,119,120,140. The concentration in one part of Histories is remarkable. 20 Intaphernes’ wife communicates through messengers (3.119); Syloson initially does the same and is then let in (3.140); eastern Iranians wanting access to water presumably stay at the gate (3.117). 21 Xen. Cyr. 8.1.6,8, 8.3.2, 8.6.10, 8.8.13. Other Greek sources: Theop.115F124 (tōn Persōn hoi peri tas thuras diatribontes), Plut. Them. 26,29, Diod.9.31, 14.25. Also salient are e.g. Dem.10.34, Ar.Rhet.1391a12, Pol.1313b7, Plat. Rep. 364B, Ar. Nub. 467. 22 In 2.5.31 lokhagoi are kept at Tissaphernes’ thurai (we are presumably talking about a tent, albeit perhaps a rather splendid one), whereas generals are let in – to their death. 17

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who invites the soldiers to come to the King’s Gates (2.1.8). The one Babylonian personal name found in Anabasis is of some interest, and we shall return to it (below pp. 265–268), while about half of the Persian personal names have a known cuneiform form, and all presumably could have done.23 But more interesting are the geographical and ethnic names from Mesopotamia and Eastern Anatolia. Cuneiform equivalents exist for nine of them24 – though Arabia and Media are in unexpected places, a Babylonian scribe might have called Armenia Urartu, Opis/Upe may be geographically confused with Sittace, the Zab (Akkadian Zaba or Zabun) has acquired a terminal -atas (as already in Herodotus) and the Tigris and Euphrates (also already in Herodotus) appear in forms influenced by Old Persian.25 Five other names can probably be equated with cuneiform names or explained in terms of the cuneiform record.26 But for ten names no known cuneiform equivalent exists.27 In Eastern Anatolia this is perhaps less surprising, given the nature of the cuneiform record. But there is a significant number of names in the Euphrates and Tigris valleys, sometimes attached to identifiable places, that are neither known in nor uncontroversially explicable in terms of the cuneiform record. Some (Pylae, Larissa, Mespila, Caenae and Physcus) do look like actual Greek words and others may partly evoke them: Charmande recalls kharmē, “joy” or “arrow-point” – but one can play that game with names that (probably) do have a cuneiform equivalent (Corsote; Dardas; Opis – and further afield Myrian23

Cuneiform writing known (12): Royal names Artaxerxes, Cyrus, Darius, Parysatis. Other names Arbacas (Arbakka, Arabak [Akk.], Harbaqa [Elam.]), Artaozus (?variant of Artavasdes = Irdamašda [elam.]), Artuchas (Irduqa [Elam.], Artuku [Akk.]), Gobryas (OP, Akk. and Elam.), Megabyzus (if taken as equivalent of Megabuxos: OP, Elam. and Akk.), Itamenes (?Elam. I-ud-da-ma-na), Mithradates, Tissaphernes (Elam.). Cuneiform writing not known (10): Abrocomas, Ariaeus, Artagerses, Artapatas, Megaphernes, Orontas, Pategyas, Pharnabazus, Rhathines, Spithridates. 24 Arabia, Media, Armenia, Babylon (presumably Bab-ilani), Thapsacus, Opis, Tigri, Euphrates, Zapatas (contrast Akkadian Zaba or Zabun). 25 Tigris OP Tigrā-, thanks to a folk-etymology based on Avestan tiγri- = “arrow”, not Akkadian Diqlat. Euphrates OP (H)ufratuš (Tavernier, 2007: 94), thanks to folketymology (the name means “having good fords”), not Akkadian Purattu. OP influence also appears in the claim that Herodotus’ Labynetus for Nabonidus depends on Iranian *Nabunaita with N dissimilated to L (Zadok, 2003: 514; Schmitt, 2006: 211, 2011: 228; Heller, 2015: 339). 26 Colchi = Qulha/Qolha (involving a geographical displacement between the 7th and late th 5 cc.); Taochi = Diauehi; Chaldaei perhaps reflects the Urartian theonym Haldi; Corsote ? = Qurašute in Tell Šeh Hammad no.65 (632 BC): Kessler, 2003. Dardas perhaps recalls Tartara = Wadi Tharthar in Tukulti-Ninurta’s annals: RIMAP 2, A.0.100.5: 42–46. 27 East Anatolia: Carduchi, Mardians, Chalybians (association with Halitu seems a bit thin), Phasiani, Scytheni (slightly problematic), Macronians, Centrites, Theches. Euphrates/Tigris valleys: Charmande, Pylae, Sittace, Caenae, Larissa, Mespila, Araxes, Mascas, Physcus. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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dus/murioi, Tarsus/tarsos).28 Pylae and Larissa are semantically appropriate to the places in question and could be consciously chosen Greek labels.29 But elsewhere any Hellenic allure at best reflects a Greek ear’s response to a non-Greek term, and I still suspect that Xenophon is providing evidence for the local use of toponyms that differed from the written Akkadian repertoire (Tuplin, 2003: 373). Which is to say that the cuneiform record by its silence tells us something about a traveller’s experience. The cuneiform record: Belšunu If one wants substantive interaction one might note that Opis is where the King’s brother arrives with forces from Susa and Ecbatana (2.4.26) – which evokes its history as a military centre, its role in 539 BC, and presumptive evidence for Cambyses passing by on his way east in February 527 – and also that it was a place that had seen “Greek” and Phoenician sailors in the days of Sennacherib.30 Gobryas (1.7.12) may be identical with a man recorded as governor of Babylon in 417 and earlier.31 We now know that Parysatis owned property in two different parts of Babylonia (Nippur and Babylon) – just as Xenophon reveals she had property in two more distant places (Syria and the Tigris valley), of which the latter is not far from a region where Assyrian queens owned land.32 But the most interesting intersections involve Belesys/Belšunu. One is familiar but deserves stress. Xenophon’s text marks him as a former governor of Syria,33 while the latest cuneiform attestation of that role is from 16 January 401, five to nine months before the army’s destructive visit to his palace and paradeisos. 34 Less familiar, perhaps, is the fact that a Belšunu archive document (summer 406: 5.3.18 Darius II) was written at Thapsacus: sheep belonging to a servant of Belšunu were to be sent to Babylon.35 The Greeks went 28

Dardas: dardaptō (“seize”). Corsote: korsē = head (temple) or korsōtēr = barber; could it actually mean “(city) to be cropped [i.e. ravaged?]”. Opis: ?cf. Greek ōps (“face”), ōpidion (ophrudion [Hesychius]) or indeed Opis, the name of a Hyperborean girl buried in Delos and commemorated there and across the Aegean islands and Ionia in a poem by Olen the Lycian (Hdt.4.35). 29 Manfredi, 1985: 132 locates Pylae in the area of Ramadhi at a place called Beqaa (Arabic for “gate”), where the river “si restringe come dovesse attraversare una porta”. 30 Military centre: Kleber, 2008: 154–159, 214–219. Role in 539 BC: ABC 7 iii 12. Cambyses’ visit: Tolini, 2011: 172. “Greek” and Phoenician sailors: Luckenbill, 1924: 73, ll.62–63, Frahm, 1997: 117. 31 BE 10.118 (LU.NAM E.KI), PBS 2/1 72,96, BE 10.101 (LU.NAM ša KUR.URI.KI-i). His property is perhaps mentioned much later in Michigan 14 (5.3.8 Artaxerxes II). 32 Babylonian properties: Stolper, 2006. Other properties: 1.4.9, 2.4.27. 33 1.4.10: Belesuos ... tou Surias arxantos. 34 BM 47340 = Strassmaier, 1893: no. 25, 7.10.3 Artaxerxes II = 16 January 401. (The Julian date is given wrongly in Stolper, 2004: 522). 35 Czechowicz/Dandamaev, 2010. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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to Thapsacus, of course, which was only three days from the Dardas palace. So Belšunu has indirect business interests within his satrapal area. Moreover, witnesses to the document include a databara and the son of the governor of Hindanu. Belšunu’s servant operates in an elevated environment – and the reference to Hindanu confirms that interactions along the 10,000’s route were more ordinary than is sometimes supposed, though it may be riverine rather than riverbank communications that are in question, even if the contract did allow 65 days for the sheep to reach Babylon. In any case, we have a convergence of army and commercial routes. Which is poetically just, as we are in an area where commercial activity is explicit in Anabasis: soldiers cross the river to buy food at Charmande (1.5.10) and, in the desolate zone between Corsote and Pylae, locals live by trading mill-stones to Babylonia and the Lydian agora charged exorbitant rates (up to 20 times normal) for cereals (1.5.5–6). Moreover Cyrus was perhaps able to acquire large food-stocks at Pylae – not something in Xenophon’s narrative, but a conjecture about the previously unmentioned 400 wagons of barley and wine looted in Cyrus’ camp at Cunaxa (O’Connor, 2015). In fact, the Middle Euphrates is almost the only place not on the coasts of Anatolia or the Levant in which a traditional topic of Anabasis scholarship – identification of the route travelled36 – brings us explicitly to the conference manifesto’s interest in the relationship between commercial and military routes.37 There is no reason to think Xenophon knew about Belšunu and Thapsacus,38 but the implications of arxantos are provocative. Was he aware it was remarkable for a Babylonian to hold such elevated office? Did he know he had only recently ceased to be governor? How did he reconcile this with there being a palace (basileia) of Belesys (1.4.10): is that normal for a non-office holder? Is the passage evidence for basileia simply describing a type of building – even if no other Xenophontic passage treats the word in this way? Had he heard anything about the circumstances of his exit from office? What relation did it have to Cyrus’ destruction of the basileia and paradeisos? The closest precedents are the looting of Lycaonia (1.2.19), permitted by Cyrus because it was enemy territory, and the army’s unauthorized looting of Tarsus and its palace in response to an attack on Menon’s

36

A topic eschewed here. For a recent treatment of the Mesopotamian section see Reade, 2015. 37 Other commercial activity: Tarsus kapēloi (1.2.24), Myriandus, an emporion with many merchant ships (1.4.6), acquisition of food from Caenae (2.4.28: but not said to involve purchase, so an imperfect parallel for non-coastal commerce – though it is at least another riverine environment), ships subject to katagōgē at Trapezus (5.1.16: it is a nice coincidence that Aristophanes’ Merchant Ships contained the word phasianos [443 K-A] and a reference to Mossynoecan mazonomeia [ 417 K-A]), booty-sales at Cerasus (5.3.4) and Chalcedon (6.6.38), arrival of agorai at Calpes Limen in response to the rumour that a colony was being established (6.5.3), and Xenophon’s sale of a horse in Lampsacus (7.8.6). 38 The only Mesopotamian sheep he reports are in the Tigris valley (2.4.27, 3.5.9: probata). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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soldiers as they escorted Epyaxa over the Taurus (1.2.26).39 Cyrus must have labelled Belesys as a former governor and an enemy: but how much more did he say? Over two weeks earlier days earlier he had labelled Abrocomas his personal enemy (ekhthros) and claimed to be targeting him. Xenophon fails to elaborate partly because it was only an excuse and partly because further information about Abrocomas appears, revealing him as a potential military opponent, albeit one who fought on neither side at Cunaxa.40 By these standards Belesys is left in limbo – and yet he was worth naming, even though he was an ex-governor. Perhaps this encourages one to believe that Xenophon knew this was a recent fact – but Xenophon’s failure to provide the back-story then becomes even more mystifying. It is symptomatic that Xenophon does not label Abrocomas as the new governor – because that was not the case? or because it was so obviously the case that Xenophon forgot to say? If the latter, Belesys’ limbo is less extreme. But truly, this intersection of Greek and cuneiform records turns out to generates questions, not answers. Cyrus’ behaviour does suggest that Belesys was of no present or future value to him. If he had fallen from Artaxerxes’ favour, he had not become Cyrus’ friend – or even someone worth leaving to one side until after the hoped-for defeat of the King. One may recall Stolper’s suggestion (1990: 203) that Cyrus disapproved (or affected to disapprove) of the status once given to this Babylonian upstart. The only independent hold we have on Belšunu is via his business archive, which (apart from revealing his titles) does not engage with his gubernatorial activities. But one thing one can say is that, on current views, it ended not long after he ceased to be governor of Ebir Nari, the latest certain item being TCL 12.204 (3.12.4 Artaxerxes II = 28 Feb.400), perhaps as little as five months after he left office. One is inevitably tempted to articulate the possibility that the two things are connected. But, of course, there are objections. The recovered parts of the archive are far from fully published and may not properly reflect the original totality. Possible post-February 400 documents have been suggested (three, from 6 Artaxerxes = 399/398);41 but it has also been suggested that the archive was thinning out well before February 400 – most of the documents in the main Belšunu part of the Kasr collection being 5–10 years older than the latest items (Stolper 1999: 370). I am not able fully to check this assertion, but, if it is correct, the profile of the full collection is markedly different from that of the datable items identifiable via 39

Later Tissaphernes permitted them to loot Parysatis’ villages for everything but andrapoda (2.4.27). Whether he is expressing hostility to Cyrus’ mother or simply making sure the Greeks can stock up before some desert stages is a nice question. The royal army’s looting of Babylonian villages in 2.2.16 may be a practical necessity. 40 1.3.20, 1.4.3,5,18, 1.7.12. 41 VAT 15703 (6 Art.II), VAT 15701 (referring proleptically to 1.7 Art.II), BE 55097 (19.12.6 Art.II). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Stolper’s publications42 and Pedersen, 2005 – because the 70 salient items from Darius II and the first four years of Artaxerxes II divide 54/16, i.e. 2.85 and 4 documents per year, and the Darius II items divide evenly across the nineteen years of his reign, with, if anything, a bias to later years. I must reiterate that these observations may be statistically worthless, and perhaps serve only as a rhetoric for underlining the desirability of full publication or at least an authoritative updating of the list given over two decades ago in Dans les pas des Dix-Mille (Stolper, 1995b: 220–223). But there is potentially a historically interesting issue at stake. Itinerary narratives The framework of stages and parasangs gives Xenophon’s account a character without parallel in Greek historiography. The quasi-periegetic parts of Herodotus VII and Thucydides’ account of the retreat from Syracuse, also unusual (albeit brief in extent), are not really analogous, and the same generally applies to the narratives of Alexander historians. The big exception is Nearchus’ account of a journey from India to the mouth of the Euphrates (epitomized in Arrian Indica 21–41): here too there is a detailed framework of time (in days) and distance (in stades), but it is, of course, a journey by sea, not land, and it comes from three generations after the march of the 10,000. Because parasangs are un-Greek and the locations Anatolian and Mesopotamian, Assyriologists sometimes adduce Anabasis when speaking of Assyrian narratives.43 But truthfully they have little in common. •

•

Assyrian narratives are replete with toponyms, – cities, mountains, rivers; the naming of mountains stands in particular contrast to Xenophon: his mountains are almost always anonymous, making the case of Theches particularly striking. The treatment of time and distance is different. Occasionally (indeed exceptionally) there is a detailed framework of daily marches, one day at a time.44 More normally, although days and distances are mentioned (and the beginning of a campaign may have a calendar date and a quasi-astrological gloss), there is hardly a sustained framework of days or beru. Xenophon is doubly different: his framework is not characteristically constructed in day-by-day marching, but in chunks of several days and multiple parasangs (the number of one stathmos entries is limited); but it is a sustained framework.

42

Stolper, 1987, 1990, 1995b, 1999, 2004, 2007. Limet, 1994, Marriot/Radner, 2015. 44 Tukulti-Ninurta (RIMAP 2, A.0.100.5), Assurnasirpal (RIMAP 2, A.0.101), Adad-Nerari II (RIMAP A.0.99.2). The Zamua itinerary (K 4675+; Levine, 1989) has days/marditu and distances, but still on a day-by-day basis (though there is an anomaly at one point). 43

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Although Anabasis is exceptional in Greek terms for the amount of text devoted to a short period of time (nineteen months in fewer than 7000 OCT lines), it is also exceptional in Assyrian ones: even the account of Sargon’s eighth campaign only devotes a tenth as much space to a single year.45 And, where space is concerned, perception of land in terms of large territories (Syria, Arabia, Babylonia, Media) has little Assyrian resonance. Assyrian narratives are heavily coloured by death, destruction, booty-acquisition and the assertion of Assyrian power.46 The Anabasis does involve death, destruction, booty and Hellenic achievement (if not power), but their role in the presentation is quite different. The 10,000 are in the business of substituting one king with another (in a landscape to be preserved, not wantonly destroyed: Belesys’ palace is a striking exception) and, then, survival and escape (in a landscape in which they have no future interest: Calpes Limen is an exception that proves the point). So the fundamental dynamic of Assyrian narratives is missing. So too is the ego-narrative. Occasional tie-ups in substance (ostrich hunting, crossing rivers in leather boats47) are of little significance. Assyrian texts evoke the geographical, floral or faunal character of places in order to note how successfully the king’s army dealt with the challenges they presented but also to celebrate the charm of remote places which were beyond the purview of previous rulers and/or whose survival contrasts with the fate of human enemies and their cities. Xenophontic treatment of non-human space is not particularly similar: it is true that one is more conscious of space travelled through than in Greek historical narratives about events in Greece, but that is because it is an exceptional experience. That both Assurbanipal and Xenophon report ominous dreams is a coincidence of world-view, not a literary intertext.48 Xenophon’s interest in the specifically

45

Among campaign narratives this one stands out for length and colour. The Letter to the God genre may accounts for this, though it is a genre that could produce different results, since the Esarhaddon example (a campaign against Šubria: RIMAP 4.33; cf. ARAB 2.592– 612), though also colourful in literary terms, is different in construction, as the text is not framed around the spectacle of an army marching from place to place. The other example of the genre, RIMA 3, A.O.105.3 (Shalmaneser IV), is a mere fragment. 46 Campaign narratives are more interested in booty from places than mere destruction of them: but destruction is (often formulaically) noted in e.g. ARAB 2.786, 788, 804, 808, 810, 815, 851, 852, 853. 2.810 is slightly more detailed about destruction of temples and tombs. The narrative of Sargon’s eighth campaign is also salient (200f: Ulhu). 47 Ostriches: 1.5.3. RIMAP 2, A.0.100.5: 80 (Tukulti-Ninurta:), RIMAP 2, A.0.101: iii 49; and cf. A.0.101.2: 36, A.0.101.30: 92,98 (Assurnasirpal). Boats: 1.5.10, 2.4.28. RIMAP 2, A.0.101.1 iii 34,64 (Assurnasirpal), and quite frequently in other Neo-Assyrian texts and iconography. When Tukulti-Ninurta’s army exhausts the water of 470 wells (RIMAP 2, A.0.100.5: 42) we have a Herodotean resonance, though it is rivers that Xerxes’ soldiers drink dry. 48 3.1.11, 4.3.8. For Assurbanipal’s interest in dreams (mostly not his own) see ARAB © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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tactical aspect of particular military encounters and his taste for lengthy oratio recta speeches have no Assyrian analogues,49 whereas the battlefield violence of Assyrian texts evokes Homer, not Xenophon. More generally, the ways in which Assyrian narrators fill out a basic journey story and vary narrative pace are not Xenophontic ways. The elaborations possible in the unusually detailed Sargon narrative (army-mustering, interaction with a vassal, Rusa’s state of mind, the strategic purpose of forts, data about Urartian coronation rituals) are not profoundly different in type from things to be encountered in Anabasis. But any similarity is of the broadest sort. Essentially, the further away one gets from the itinerary-like character of the narrative, the less reason there is to think Mesopotamian narrative relevant; and, to reiterate, that itinerary-like quality is not Mesopotamian anyway, because the structure is wrong and because its visible foreignness (parasang-measurement) is Persian. Let us also remember that (a) Anabasis is quite unlike the only surviving Persian military narrative (DB), which is formulaic, non-linear in time and space, likes calendar dates and quantifies the dead and captured, but is uninterested in distance and the passage of time, and (b) there is no compelling reason to think earlier Greek periegetic literature provided a determinative model.50 In short: the parasangs arise from the actuality of Xenophon’s experience (and, at this level of detail, are something new in the Greek record), and it is from that experience, not Mesopotamian narrative (or, I venture, Ctesias), that the stathmos-parasang framework comes. Xenophon is literally transmitting westward something about how it felt to take a route to the east. But it was not peculiar to the Mesopotamian part of that route. I have edged ever closer to the theme of knowledge exchange, and it is time to address it directly. Knowledge exchange represented in the text of Anabasis The theme comes in two forms. The text itself is, of course, an exercise in knowledge transmission. But knowledge transmission can also be a phenomenon explicitly or implicitly reported in the narrative. Some Mesopotamian experiences are, as reported, unmediated by any local interaction: for example, the account of hunting on the Euphrates (1.5.2–3) is a report of things done/discovered by armymembers, with no statements made about local behaviour, let alone local informants; and the same goes for making skin-boats to visit Charmande (to which I 2.784, 909–910 (Gyges), 790, 861 (Assurbanipal’s seers), 807 (armies), 835 (king’s own dreams). 49 The speeches are discussed at length in Tuplin, 2014a. 50 In particular the various city-description formulae (Geysels, 1974; Tuplin, 1999: 334– 335) cannot readily be explained in that way. We do not know that there was a long (Greek) tradition of detailed coastal description behind Nearchus’ narrative (cf. p. 268), and we certainly know of no such tradition for land-journeys. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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shall return later). But on other occasions there is explicit reference to the acquisition of strategic information from deserters, prisoners or others (1.7.13, 2.4.21; and often after the Mesopotamian section); or propositions are marked with a formulaic “it is said” (the only Mesopotamian items are the length of the Median Wall and the story about Medea and Mespila51); or assertions are made that entail an informant (rather than simple observation or inference), though none is explicitly identified.52 When Clearchus says that he does not know if there are rivers to cross (2.4.5), it is effectively an announcement that information either has not been sought or has been unclear.53 Amidst all of this the statement of the Thapsacenes about Cyrus’ unprecedented crossing of the Euphrates on foot is exceptional – a specific assertion that particular people outside the army gave specific information. This presumably arises because the wish to identify the crossing as theion makes it specially necessary that the event is fully validated.54 (The facts of the matter made for an interesting contrast with the Assyrian trope by which all rivers successfully crossed by the King are in flood.) All of these instances relate to knowledge passing east to west. But knowledge exchange in the other direction (though not to a Mesopotamian) is implied by Cyrus’ evaluation of Greek freedom and of the qualities of Greek soldiers – something he demonstrates to Epyaxa, one easterner to another.55 And this brings us to the most remarkable professional carrier of information in either direction in the narrative, viz. Phalinus – a professed expert in taxeis and hoplomakhia who (apparently for that reason: kai gar) was an honoured member of Tissaphernes’ entourage.56 Military experts of this sort are attested for the late fifth century in other 51

elegeto / legetai / ephasan become very rare after III. 1.4.9 Syrian attitude to fish and doves; 1.5.5 trade in millstones; 1.7.14 distance from trench to Median Wall; 2.3.13 Clearchus (thinks he) knows it is the wrong time for irrigating the plain; 2.3.15 distinction between dates for slaves and dates for masters and 2.3.16 effect of removing ‘brain’ from palm-tree (both of these might come from the hēgemones who are guiding them at the time: 2.3.6,14); 2.4.12 Wall of Media not far from Babylon (reported as fact, whereas the wall’s length elegeto); 2.4.13 two canals flowing from Tigris (but this might be an inference); 3.5.15 POW information about Carduchia and the roads leading to each point of the compass. Some of these are bits of strategic information, some not. 53 I have wondered whether the flight of Xenias and Pasion from Myriandus (1.4.7) was partly prompted by knowledge of points east from their earlier trip there; but that is not what Xenophon says and we are not really in a position to second-guess him. 54 1.4.18. The nearest analogy is the citation of Ctesias on the subject of the king’s wound (1.8.26); but that is plainly a rather different case. 55 Greek freedom: 1.7.3. Greek soldiers shown to Epyaxa: 1.2.15–18. 56 2.1.7–23. Introduced thus at 2.1.7: ἦν δ᾿ αὐτῶν Φαλῖνος εἷς Ἕλλην, ὃς ἐτύγχανε παρὰ Τισσαφέρνει ὢν καὶ ἐντίμως ἔχων· καὶ γὰρ προσεποιεῖτο ἐπιστήμων εἶναι τῶν ἀμφὶ τάξεις τε καὶ ὁπλομαχίαν, “among them was one Greek, Phalinus, who (it so happened) was with Tissaphernes and was held in honour by him because he professed to be an expert 52

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sources, but one is startled to find such a person in Mesopotamia.57 Of course, his presence there might be an accidental by-product of Tissaphernes’ emergency trip east to report his suspicions about Cyrus. If so, since Tissaphernes travelled rapidly with just 500 horsemen (1.2.4), he was indeed part of an inner circle. (Perhaps we could imagine that he had played a role in Tissaphernes’ war against Cyrus – if not indeed earlier – and helped him form the judgement that Cyrus’ military preparations were too extensive for a mere Pisidian raid.) The alternative, and more startling, scenario is that he only entered Tissaphernes’ circle when the latter came east and had previously been in the king’s service in the imperial heartlands. What is said about his connection with Tissaphernes must reflect what Phalinus himself told the Greeks on the present occasion. Since it might have been to his advantage to claim a connection with the King as well as with Tissaphernes, silence on that score rather favours the first scenario. At any rate, his existence shows not only that Cyrus was not alone in valuing western military expertise but prima facie that this valuation could take a theoretical turn. But Anabasis is a literary artefact, not a documentary source, and things may not be entirely straightforward. •

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Much of the other evidence about military experts of this sort comes from Xenophon or Plato and presents them in a critical light, as showmen who do not grasp the totality of good generalship. (So, not only does Phalinus “pretend” to skill in taxeis and hoplomakhia, but those are insufficient skills anyway.) Some had intellectual pretensions that went beyond military practicalities: Phalinus’ remark about Theopompus’ resemblance to a philosophos perhaps hints at this, especially as there may also be Homeric allusion in what he says.58 (But he goes on to say bluntly that Theopompus is stupid if he thinks Greek aretē can overcome the King’s power.) Having a Greek military expert has not permitted the Persians to defeat Greeks: actual Greek soldiers are more valuable than Greek drill instructors.

in tactics and fighting with weapons.” 57 Xen. Mem. 3.1.1–11 (Dionysodorus: tactics), Plat. Euthyd. 271D–273C (Dionysodorus and Euthydemus teach what generals should know – taxeis, hēgemonias tōn stratopedōn – and how to fight en hoplois), Lach. 179E–184C (a display by Stesileos: hoplois makhein), Laws 813E (public teachers of all warlike exercises: toxikē, peltastikē, rhipsis, pasē hoplomachia), 833E (contests, solo and in groups of ten, in en hoplois makhein / hoplomakhia); RL 11.8 (hoplomakhoi); Xen. C. 1.6.12–14 (Cyrus goes to people who profess to teach stratēgein but only teach taktika); Plat. Gorg. 456DE, Isoc. 15.252 (both compare rhetoric with e.g. boxing, pankration, en hoplois makhein as arts which can be taught, the use of which is up to the user, not the teacher), Theoph. Char. 21.16 (the obsequious man tries to hire his sphairistērion to sophists, hoplomakhoi or harmonikoi for display). Wheeler, 1982, 1983, Rawlings, 2000: 241–3. 58 2.1.13. Od. 8.236 (noted by Masqueray, 1930–1931 ad loc.) also uses the phrase ouk akharista and refers to aretē. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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In fact, those facing the Greeks abandoned their taxis and did not use their hopla – twice over, in the main battle and in subsequent manoeuvres.59 (A similar point about barbarians had already been made at 1.2.17–18.) When Phalinus appears we have also just heard about the numerous enemy shields abandoned on the battlefield (2.1.6). Later the Greeks deliberately display their taxis in 2.3.3 and 2.4.26 to impress Persian viewers; and they devise a new taxis for marching under attack (3.4.19–23). The passing statement in Cyropaedia 6.3.11 that Croesus was assisted in drawing up the army that was going to be defeated at Thymbrara by Hellēn tis anēr is presumably a sly recollection of Phalinus. One may add that Phalinus himself, a supposed military expert, advised the Greeks that surrender was the only option – which proved not to be the case. Clearchus’ invitation to Phalinus to imagine his meeting with the Greeks being reported in Greece (2.1.17) suggests that within the “real” world of the Anabasis narrative this scene is being played out as a historiographical narrative: this encourages one to acknowledge the overtones of Alexander I’s visit to Athens at the end of Herodotus VIII (8.140,143), though Alexander is a king offering a potentially advantageous political deal, whereas Phalinus is a species of sophist offering the chance to surrender and hope for the best – disparate creatures of Persians, offering disparate versions of the message that the King is undefeatably powerful. Interestingly, whoever was ultimately responsible for Diodorus’ version of the episode (14.25) also felt that it called for a Persian War perspective. The observation that Phalinus was the one Greek in the group that arrived to negotiate is a coded comment on Ctesias’ claim to have been there.60 Ctesias was another Greek expert in Persian service – one whom Xenophon acknowledges elsewhere (1.8.26–27) both as doctor (who could claim to have healed the King’s wound) and historian (who could provide autoptic evidence about the battle) – but on this occasion the Persians relied wholly on a man singularly ill-suited to persuade these particular interlocutors to do what they wanted.

One sees, then, that this bearer of western military expertise to the east does not star in Anabasis as an objectively interesting cultural phenomenon, but as a locus for point-scoring. Indeed, I have wondered whether προσεποιεῖτο ἐπιστήμων εἶναι τῶν ἀμφὶ τάξεις τε καὶ ὁπλομαχίαν is not a real description of Phalinus’ actual professional status but a sarcastic rendering into such terms of whatever he actually said in an unsuccessful attempt to establish his credentials with a bunch of Greek mercenaries. On that reading Phalinus may have been a more similar figure to the Greek generals and their troops than is normally supposed. 59

1.8.19, 1.10.10. 688 F23 = Plut. Artox.13. It is hard to tell exactly how Ctesias presented his role and his relationship to Phalinus.

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The point is important: Phalinus is in any event an example of culturo-technical exchange, but taken at face value he implies that the Persian interest in Greek fighters has moved to a second-order analytical level – and poses the question of who the beneficiaries of his expert knowledge might be. It is a bit hard to imagine that they thought Greek weapon and formation exercises could be of value to nonGreek troops: the spectre of the Cardaces arises here, but I shall not pursue it right now, since on the evidence they lie in the future as of 401 BC.61 So did Persians (or specifically Tissaphernes) think that any Greek mercenaries they hired needed extra or on-going training? When Cyrus creates a New Model Army in Cyropaedia tactical and weapon training is an issue (though there is a suggestion that weapon-use is largely instinctive), but that is not a case of mercenary-training.62 Nor is it when Diodorus says (11.75) a year was spent on gymnasiai and polemikai empeiriai by the army assembled to attack Inaros. More formally salient is Nepos’ report that Iphicrates trained mercenaries gathered for the Egyptian campaign of 373 (Iphicrates 1) – but the utility of this is compromised by its being tied up with the controversial supposed Iphicratean hoplite reform and (as with the Inaros army or indeed the one that fought at Gaugamela, where similar themes arise: 17.53,55) we are dealing with a force newly assembled from disparate sources for a particular campaign. It also (like the Cardaces) lies well in the future. The same goes for evidence that Jason’s mercenary army underwent daily exercise under arms and in the gymnasia and occasional training expeditions (Hellenica 6.1.6) and for the systematic training in polemika by the satrap and hoi sun heautōi in Cyropaedia 8.6.10 – a passage that is anyway only relevant if one accepts a rather tentative surmise that the satrap’s companions include paid mercenary bodyguards. 63 What might have seemed normal (or a worthwhile innovation) in the late fifth century is hard to say: evidence about military training in Greece generally focuses on citizen militiae; that mercenaries have better skills than ordinary citizens is taken for granted or said to be the result of experience.64 The report about Jason is exceptional and arises because Polydamas is trying to impress Spartans – notorious for being trained soldiers – with the military threat that Jason poses. Anabasis itself speaks of exetaseis at Celaenae and Tyriaeum (the latter developing into a tactical display) and an exhoplisia four days before Cunaxa (like the Celaenae exetasis it just

61

Tuplin, 2014b: 686–688. In fact, since the so-called dēmotai who are being turned into proper soldiers were once misthophoroi, it is the training of ex-mercenaries. 63 Tuplin, 2016: 18. It is hard to say what the comments in Oeconomicus 4 about inspection (exetasis) of provincial troops (who do include mercenaries) entail about regular training. As presented the inspection is primarily a check that the forces exist and look in good condition. 64 Empeiria: Arist.NE 1116b. 62

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produces a numbering of the troops),65 but there are no hints of ongoing training as such: we can tell that the basic tactical unit was the lokhos but not whether there were exercises to keep it tactically up to scratch. But, of course, that may not have been necessary on actual campaign. It is armies in sedentary or preparatory posture that need such things and we characteristically hear little from any of our sources about that part of military existence. So perhaps it is not unthinkable that Tissaphernes believed that any mercenaries he was using for garrisons or the defence of Miletus needed INSET. (Irritatingly the only mercenaries we know that Tissaphernes had before 401 were the non-Greeks he deployed in 412 at Miletus and Iasus. Some conjecture that they were Lycians, and it is perhaps conceivable that Greek-style training could be thought appropriate for them.66) But one is left with more than a vague sense of clutching at straws. They are also not specifically Mesopotamian straws, though Phalinus’ presence in Mesopotamia makes him fair game. But I return now to more directly Mesopotamian things. First, let us notice what may count as an actual piece of practical knowledge exchange visible in the narrative. Nothing is said about why the soldiers produce makeshift skin boats to cross the Euphrates at Charmande, but one is inclined to think that they are following local advice. And when later on a Rhodian suggests creating rafts by binding large numbers of stuffed skins together we might label this knowledge exchange leading to innovation – and the talent he claims as pay for executing the proposal as entrepreneurial hutzpah.67 Actually, since the idea, though charming (enthumēma kharien), was manifestly impracticable in the context, we should perhaps more properly call it a thought experiment, designed to underline the fact that the only way out of their predicament was via the mountains of Carduchia. (The divine intervention that some thought assisted them on their entry into the Mesopotamian world does not recur, and human ingenuity is not enough.) This is the only occasion on which the army engages creatively with Mesopotamian custom (the fact that they eat peculiar local foodstuffs is a passive engagement born of necessity; and the mutilation of enemy corpses in 3.4.5 is not, I think, an adoption of Assyrian manners), so there is a certain neatness in its appearance at the point at which they definitively leave the region, especially as the underlying technology had been encountered at Charmande soon after they had entered it. Knowledge exchange represented by the text of Anabasis Skin-boats are just one feature of the Mesopotamian environment (human, geographic and material) encountered by the army. It is easy to make a checklist of 65

Exetasis 1.2.9, 14 (Tyriaeum). Exhoplisia: 1.7.10. Thuc. 8.25,28. Lycian identification: Keen, 1998: 136. 67 3.5.8–12. Charmande: 1.5.10; Caenae: 2.4.28. For more on this species of transport see Bloedow, 2002, Rollinger, 2013. 66

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such Mesopotamica, and it would be tedious to report it all at length. Individual points of interest might include: the continuation of Syria across the Euphrates in defiance of the perspective implied by the term Ebir Nari (1.4.19), the unique description of Sittace as poluanthrōpos (2.4.13), the presence of deserted cities near the start and end of the army’s trip through the region (1.5.4, 3.4.7,10), the perception that villages come in clusters (Tuplin, 1991: 55), evocation of the Arabian desert and Mesopotamia irrigation systems through comparisons with the sea (1.5.1)68 and Greek millet fields (2.4.13), the much simpler response to the local massiveness of the Carduchian mountains in the very rare word huperhupsēla (super-high: 3.5.7), the appearance of really unusual foodstuffs only in Babylonia (1.7.10, 2.3.14–15). There are also, of course, many things not mentioned: seasonal variation in the level of Euphrates and Tigris, the river-islands and bitumen wells of the Middle Euphrates, land ownership/management systems beyond the fact that villages can belong to Parysatis or contain material accumulated for a satrap, two or three major affluents of the Tigris and more generally the complex hydrography of the lower Diyala. In a context of knowledge exchange it is more pertinent to consider what Xenophon added to the existing Greek record. This is actually a hard thing to do accurately, since the Anabasis text was disseminated long after 401 BC and we are poorly informed about a potential source of Mesopotamica that appeared in the interim, viz. Ctesias’ Persika. Nonetheless it is perhaps worth comparing the Anabasis record with what we find in Herodotus. In drawing this comparison we are spared engagement with his description of Babylon (as indeed with that of Ctesias) since Xenophon did not go there, and offers no observations on where it lay, save that the Median Wall was not far from it (2.4.12). He does not even say that it was on the Euphrates – though the issue arises in Cyropaedia, of course, which also offers a few propositions about the city, of which only the report that the prothura of houses are inflammable since the doors are made of palm wood and covered in asphaltōi hupekkaumati (7.5.24) is distinctive and not quite Herodotean: in Herodotus asphaltos associated with the city-wall of Babylon (1.179).69 So the main comparison is with 1.192–200 (an analytical description of a sort it is not Xenophon’s business to provide) and other incidental passages.70 There is a general resonance with the Herodotean Babylonia of canals and agricultural fertility – though Herodotus is much more statistical on the latter whereas Xenophon perhaps captures something about the scale of the 68

Perhaps already partly anticipated in a reference to the Eurasian steppe in Prom.Vinct. 792 (West, 1997: 377). The comparison recurs of Northern Mesopotamia in e.g. Plut. Crass. 22. 69 Otherwise Cyropaedia’s Babylon has huge walls, a river running through the middle, a royal palace and (7.5.35) temples. 70 E.g. 1.93 (Egypt and Babylon produced the biggest erga), 2.109 (the twelve divisions of day come from Babylon) or 3.89,95 (the Babylonian talent). © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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former by comparing the hierarchy of canal sizes with the arrangement of Greek millet fields (2.4.13). But there is no significant overlap at all of specific information (the presence of millet and palm-trees in both is hardly a big deal), Herodotus’ stress on how much the king and the satrap get from it is missing (1.192), and some categories of comment are quite missing, e.g. religion (largely invisible in the non-urban landscape?71), social customs or the existence of distinct tribes (patriai: 1.200) in the population. Xenophon is not actually much interested in the Babylonians as such (the word “Babylonian” is never used72): the discriminatory distribution of dates (big for master, smaller for slave) is primarily mentioned to highlight the size of the big ones; hunting ostriches and crossing rivers on skins are things army-members do, not (at least explicitly) local customs that they are copying (and belong outside Babylonia proper73); and no Babylonian element in Artaxerxes’ army is reported, though they might in theory be among the ethnē of 1.8.9. (Instead the only people highlighted are alleged Egyptians: 1.8.9.) On the other hand, the fact that Xenophon reports experience of the Euphrates valley from Thapsacus to Cunaxa and the Tigris valley from Sittace to the mountains means that his perspective extends farther than that of Herodotus and that he reveals a region that has desert areas as well as hugely fertile ones and desert cities as well as flourishing ones – not that Herodotus is strong on Babylonian cities apart from Babylon itself. (Meanwhile Ctesias spoke of emporia along the Tigris and Euphrates,74 which is neither Herodotean nor Xenophontic, and produced details about Nineveh that have so special resonance with Xenophon’s Mespila – or indeed Larissa.75) Xenophon also provides more toponyms and fluvionyms than Herodotus (though only Herodotus names a village: the famous Ardericca in 1.185), does not demonstrably confuse Assyrians and Babylonians (there are no 71

The odd oath ceremony at 2.2.8–9 has no Mesopotamian/Babylonian allure. People at Caenae (2.4.28) and in the vicinity of Larisa (3.4.9) are designated as barbaroi, i.e. “non-Greek locals”, without any special disdain. One suspects, but for lack of sufficient ethnographic data cannot prove, that Xenophon would have put Mesopotamians towards the other end of the spectrum of barbarousness from the barbarōtatoi Mossynoeci (5.4.34). Given the hard times they had in Eastern and Northern Anatolia, they might even momentarily have sympathized with traditional Mesopotamian distaste for and fear of mountain-dwellers, before recalling that they themselves (especially the Arcadians among them) might be thought tarred with the same brush. 73 Babylonia starts at 1.7.1, continues at 2.2.13 tēs Babulōnias khōras and (e silentio) does not stop until 2.4.27 (Media, starting at Opis / the Physcus); what the land south of the Physcus and east of the Tigris might be Xenophon does not say. (One answer might be Sittacene.) The Median Wall is “not far from Babylon” (2.4.12), so presumably in Babylonia from Xenophon’s point of view. 74 688 F1 = Diod.2.11. 75 688 F1 = Diod.2.3,7,28. Its perimeter is 480 stades (c. 85 km., far in excess of Xenophon’s figures or six and two parasangs for Mespila and Larissa), and it was destroyed by the Medes (whereas Medes once inhabited both Larissa and Mespila). 72

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Babylonians in Anabasis and the only Assyrians are hoplites near Pergamum; things are different in Cyropaedia, of course), and is aware of paradeisoi as a landscape category, albeit not one peculiar to Mesopotamia. If one wants to play intertextual games, one can come up with various suggestions. Both authors quantify the location of Babylonia in relation to the Aegean world, but whereas Herodotus uses the Royal Road to place the Gyndes, at the eastern entrance to Babylonia, 100 stages and 407.5 parasangs from Sardis (5.52), Xenophon ignores the Royal Road, locates the Gyndes region (not that he calls it that) 96 stages and 529 parasangs from Sardis along his route, and also places Babylonia proper (Pylae to Sittace: cf. n. 73) between 82 and 95 day’s journey from the Lydian capital; Xenophon’s report of skins used as boats and of the trade in millstones along the Euphrates (1.5.5,10) are analogues to Herodotus’ story of dismantlable skin boats used in the wine-trade from Armenia along an unspecified river 76 (while the latter recalls Ctesias’ idea of building-stone being imported from Armenia: 688 F1 = Diodorus 2.11); the Median Wall (1.7.15, 2.4.12), about the purpose and history of which Xenophon appears remarkably uninterested, has some contrasting resonance with Nitocris’ hydraulic defence against Media (1.185);77 the two large canals leading from the Tigris (2.4.13) recall but contrast with Herodotus’ one large canal going from Euphrates to Tigris;78 Xenophon’s perception of extra water being released into ditches for the purpose of irrigation (2.3.13) dwells on a different perspective from Herodotus’ highlighting of “hands and shadufs” (1.193 – things Xenophon must have seen but ignores); explanation of the conversion rates for sigloi and kapithai à propos of astonishingly expensive food (1.5.6) evokes explanation of the artaba à propos of the astonishing daily income of the satrap Tritantaechmes (1.192); the description of a potentially defensible island of villages and cities adjacent to the Tigris (2.4.22) provides an admittedly inexplicit allusion to the Egyptian Delta to correspond to Herodotus’ contrast between Egyptian and Babylonian irrigation regimes (1.193). All the same I am far from certain that there is any intertextual game actually going on here. Maybe all one should say is that such observations do at least highlight ways in which Xenophon tells us things that Herodotus does not and thus adds something to knowledge exchange. Is it important knowledge exchange? Speaking to his comrades on the banks of the Zab, Xenophon says they must strive to get home in order to convey the news that the Greeks could cure what is a voluntary poverty by transferring those who live tough lives in Greece to Mesopotamia and making them rich (3.2.26). But the amount of hard information actually transferred in the text of Anabasis 76

1.194 – a story that Fales, 1995: 212 claims is validated by Layard, 1849: II 380–382. For cuneiform evidence pertaining to the Median Wall (both royal inscriptions and, apparently, documents from Ebabbar in Sippar) see Da Riva, 2010, 2012. 78 1.193. They also recall the Tigris-Euphrates canals in what is usually seen as an interpolation in An.1.7.15. 77

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that might contribute to this end is really rather limited; and although Xenophon the character may be indulging in panhellenist rhetoric it is arguable how seriously Xenophon the author intended it to be taken: for another bit of knowledge transferred by Anabasis is that, however true it is that one can penetrate a long way into the empire by moving fast (1.5.9), the King still turns out to be capable of winning; and that it is only times of dire emergency that suppress the Greek dynamic of disunity.79 Claiming even part of the empire as a cure for Greek woes more Isocrateo looks a tough assignment in the world of the text – and looked no better at the time the text was written and disseminated. The true primary topic of Anabasis, as of much of Xenophon’s oeuvre, is leadership. In Anabasis the topic is distinctively displayed in a linear story (its linearity underlined by the stathmosparasang framework) set in an often odd physical and human landscape. The Greeks spend longer in the world of the Two Rivers than any other Kulturraum, so we encounter lots of oddities. But the message is that leadership-principles transcend eventual contingencies, and, if one seeks substantive interaction between novel environments and leaders’ behaviour, one should look to Armenia or Mossynoecia, where the negotiation of a relationship with foreigners (in one case very barbarous foreigners) is centre-narrative, not Mesopotamia, where the local people are conspicuously elusive. New information helps to colour in a dimly known world, and the new information is a direct response to lived experience. But it is a world to escape, not embrace. Cyrus’ assumption that, as king, he would make the 10,000 very rich and send them home was bang on the money, and shows that he not only knew about Greek freedom and fighting-skills but had drawn some correct inferences from that knowledge. Abbreviations Greek and Latin texts For abbreviations of the names and titles of Greek and Latin authors see S.Hornblower & A.Spawforth, The Oxford Classical Dictionary (Oxford 2012). Near Eastern texts ABC Grayson, 1975 ADAB Naveh/Shaked, 2012 AO Antiquités orientales (Louvre siglum) ARAB 2 Luckenbill, 1927 BE 9 Clay/Hilprecht, 1898 BE 10 Clay, 1904 BM British Museum (siglum) BOR 4 Sayce, 1889/1890 79

Tuplin, 2004: 181–183. Of course, the fact that the Greeks defeated their immediate opponents at Cunaxa (1.8.17–21) and got through the land of the Carduchians who had destroyed a Persian royal army (3.5.16) confirmed Greek superiority in principle. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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GCCI IMT Nbk. Ner. PBS 2/1 PTS RIMAP 2 TADAE TCL 12 UET 4 VAT VS YBC YOS 3 YOS 17

Assyrian Dictionary of the University of Chicago Cuneiform Texts from Babylonian Tablets in the British Museum (siglum) Darius’ inscription at Behistun (see e.g. Lecoq, 1997, Schmitt, 2009) Darius’ inscription at Susa (f) (see e.g. Lecoq, 1997, Schmitt, 2009) Dougherty, 1933 Donbaz/Stolper, 1997 Strassmaier, 1889 Evetts, 1892 Clay, 1912 Persepolis Treasury seals (Schmidt, 1957: 4–49) Grayson, 1996 Porten/Yardeni, 1987–1999 Contenau, 1927 Figulla, 1949 Vorderasiatische Texte (Berlin siglum) Vorderasiatische Schriftdenkmäler (Berlin siglum) Yale Babylonian Collection (siglum) Clay, 1919 Weisberg, 1980

Journals FuB GRBS JCS LEC NABU REA SAAB WZKM

Forschungen und Berichte Greek, Roman and Byantine Studies Journal of Cuneiform Studies Les Études Classiques Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires Revue des Études Anciennees State Archives of Assyria: Bulletin Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes

DB DSf

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Brennan, S., 2012: “Mind the gap: a ‘snow’ lacuna in Xenophon’s Anabasis”. In F. Hobden / C.J. Tuplin (eds.): Xenophon: Ethical Principles and Historical Enquiry. Leiden. Pp. 307–340. Clay, A.T., 1904: Business Documents of Murashu Sons of Nippur dated in the reign of Darius II. Philadelphia. — 1912: Business Documents of Murashu Sons of Nippur dated in the reign of Darius II. Philadelphia. — 1919: Neo-Babylonian Letters from Erech. New Haven. Clay, A.T. / Hilprecht, H.V., 1898: Business Documents of Murashu Sons of Nippur dated in the reign of Artaxerxes I. Philadelphia. Contenau, G., 1927, Contrats néo-babyloniens I. Paris. Czechowicz, N. / Dandamaev, M., 2010: “A late Achaemenid document from Tapsuḥu”. In S.C. Melville / A.L. Slotsky (eds.): Opening the Tablet Box: Near Eastern Studies in Honor of Benjamin R. Foster. Leiden. Pp. 77–84. Da Riva, R., 2010: “Just another brick in the Median Wall”. In A. Kosyan / A. Petrosyan / Y. Grekyan (eds.): Urartu and its Neighbors. Yerevan. Pp. 55–65. — 2012: “BM 67504 and the cross country walls of Nebuchadnezzar II”. In G. del Olmo Lete / J. Vidal / N. Wyatt (eds.): The Perfumes of Seven Tamarisks. Studies in honour of W.G.E. Watson. Münster. Pp. 15–18. Donbaz, V. / Stolper, M., 1997: Istanbul Murašu Texts. Istanbul. Dougherty, R.P., 1933: Archives from Erech. Neo-babylonian and Persian Periods. New Haven. Evetts, B.T.A., 1892: Inscriptions of the Reigns of Evil-Merodach, Neriglissar and Laborosoarchod. Leipzig. Fales, M., 2012: “Rivers in Neo-Assyrian geography”. In M. Liverani (ed.): NeoAssyrian Geography. Rome.: Pp. 203–215. Fantalkin, A., / Lytle, E., 2016: “Alcaeus and Antimenidas: reassessing the evidence for Greek mercenaries in the Babylonian army”. Klio 98, 90–117. Frahm, E., 1997: Einleitung in die Sannherib-Inschriften. Vienna. Figulla, H.H.M., 1949: Business Documents of the New-Babylonian Period. London. Gassner, G., 1953: “Der Zug der Zehntausend nach Trapezunt”. Abhandlungen der Braunschweigischen Wissenschaflichen Gesellschaft 5: 1–33. Geysels, L., 1974: “Polis oikoumenē dans l’Anabase de Xénophon”. LEC 42, 29– 38. Glombiowski, K., 1994: “The campaign of Cyrus the Younger and the retreat of the Ten Thousand: Chronology”. Pomoerium 1, 37–44. Grayson, A.K., 1975: Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles. Locust Valley. — 1996: Assyrian rulers of the early first millennium BC. II, (858–745 BC). Toronto. Haubold, J., 2013: Greece and Mesopotamia: Dialogues in Literature. Cambridge.

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der Einsatz fremder Arbeitskräfte”. Iranistik. Deutschsprachige Zeitschrift für iranistische Studien 9–10, 147–169. — 2013: Alexander und die großen Ströme. Wiesbaden. Rollinger, R. / Henkelman, W., 2009, “New observations on the ‘Greeks’ in the Achaemenid empire according to cuneiform texts from Babylonia and Persepolis”. In P. Briant / M. Chauveau (eds.): Organisation des pouvoirs et contacts culturels dans les pays de l’empire achéménide. Paris. Pp. 331–351. Sachs, A. / Hunger, H., 1988: Astronomical Diaries and Related Texts from Babylonia I. Vienna. Sayce, A.H., 1889/1890: “Some unpublished contract-tablets”. Babylonian and Oriental Record 4, 1–6. Schmidt, E.F., 1957: Persepolis II. Chicago. Schmitt, R., 2006: Iranische Anthroponyme in den erhaltenen Resten von Ktesias’ Werk. Vienna. — 2009: Die altpersischen Inschriften der Achaimeniden: editio minor mit deutscher Übersetzung. Wiesbaden. — 2011: Iranische Personennamen in der griechischen Literatur vor Alexander d.Gr. Vienna. Stolper, M., 1987: “Belšunu the satrap”. In F.Rochberg-Halton (ed.): Language, Literature and History (Fs Reiner). New Haven. Pp. 389–402. — 1990: “The Kasr archive”. In H.Sancisi-Weerdenburg / A.Kuhrt (eds.): Achaemenid History IV: Centre and Periphery. Leiden. Pp. 195–205. — 1995a: Late Achaemenid, Early Macedonian and Early Seleucid Records of Deposit and Related Texts. Naples. — 1995b: “The Babylonian enterprise of Belesys”. In P.Briant (ed.): Dans les Pas des Dix-Mille. Toulouse. Pp. 217–238. — 1999: “Achaemenid legal texts from the Kasr: interim observations”. In J. Renger (ed.): Babylon. Saarbrücken. Pp. 365–375. — 2004: “The Kasr texts, the Rich collection, the Bellino copies and the Grotefend Nachlass”. In J.G. Dercksen (ed.): Assyria and Beyond: Studies presented to Mogens Trolle Larsen. Leiden. Pp. 511–547 — 2006: “Parysatis in Babylon”. In A.K. Guinan (ed.): If a Man Builds a Joyful House: Assyriological Studies in honor of Erle Verdun Leichty. Leiden. Pp. 463–472. — 2007: “Kasr texts: excavated but not in Berlin”. In M.T. Roth et al. (eds.): Studies presented to Robert D. Biggs. Chicago. Pp. 243–283. Strassmaier, J.N., 1889: Inschriften von Nabuchodnosor. Leipzig. — 1893: “Einigene kleinere babylonische Keilschrifttexte aus dem Britischen Museum”. In Actes du huitième congrès internationale des Orientalistes II.1B. Leiden. Pp. 281–283. Tavernier, J., 2007: Iranica in the Achaemenid Period. Leeuven. Tolini, G., 2011: La Babylonie et l’Iran. Paris. © 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

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Tuplin, C.J., 1991: “Modern and ancient travellers in the Persian Empire: Byron’s Road to Oxiana and Xenophon’s Anabasis”. In H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg / J.W.Drijvers (eds.): Achaemenid History VII. Leiden. Pp. 37–57. — 1999: “In the footsteps of the Ten Thousand”. In P. Briant (ed.): Dans les Pas des Dix-Mille. REA 101, 331–366. — 2003: “Xenophon in Media”. In G. Lanfranchi / M. Roaf / R. Rollinger (eds.): Continuity of Empire(?): Assyria, Media, Persia. Padua. Pp. 351–389. — 2004: “The Persian Empire”. In R. Lane Fox (ed.): The Long March: Xenophon and the Ten Thousand. New Haven / London. Pp. 154–183. — 2014a: “Le salut par la parole. Les discours dans l’Anabase de Xénophon”. In P. Pontier (ed.): Xénophon et la rhétorique. Paris. Pp. 69–120. — 2014b: “From Arshama to Alexander. Reflections on Persian responses to attack”. In S. Gaspa et al. (eds.): From Source to History: Studies on Ancient Near Eastern Worlds and Beyond (Festschrift for Giovanni B. Lanfranchi). Münster. Pp. 668–696. — 2016: “The Persian military establishment in western Anatolia: a context for Celaenae”. In A. Ivantchik / L. Summerer / A. von Kienlin (eds.): KelainaiApameia Kibotos: une métropole achéménide, hellénistique et romaine. Bordeaux. Pp. 15–27. — 2017: “Warlords and mercenaries in the Achaemenid Empire”. In T. Ñaco de Hoyo / F. López-Sánchez (eds.): Warlords, War and Interstate Relations in the Ancient Mediterranean, 404 BC – AD 14. Leiden. Pp. 17–35. — forthcoming: “Where have all the soldiers gone? In search of the Achaemenid military environment”. Forthcoming in M. Jursa (ed.): Governing Ancient Empires (Proceedings of the final conference of the NFN Imperium and Officium project: Vienna, November 2014). Vienna. Weisberg, D.B., 1980: Texts from the Time of Nebuchadnezzar. New Haven. West, S., 1997: “Alternative Arabia: A Note on ‘Prometheus Vinctus’ 420–4”. Hermes 125, 374–379. Wheeler, E.L., 1982: “Hoplomakhia and Greek dances in arms”. GRBS 23, 223– 233. — 1983: “The hoplomakhoi and Vegetius’ Spartan drill-masters”. Chiron 13, 1– 20. Zadok, R., 2003: “The representation of foreigners in neo- and late-Babylonian legal documents (eighth through second centuries B.C.E.)”. In O. Lipschits / J. Blenkinsopp (eds.): Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period. Winona Lake. Pp. 471–590.

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Index Abgar (of Osrhoene) 166–167 Abī-ilu 202 Abraham 148 Abrocomas 162, 267 Abu Marya 192, 205 Abu Zanad 97 Adad-nārārī I 72, 195, 208 Adad-nêrâri II 39 Adalur 68 Aegean 113, 229, 231, 234–235, 278 Aeneas 98 Agga 30 Ahhiyawa 234–235 Ahuramazda 77 Ajjânu 201 Akkad(e) 15, 18, 20, 24–29, 31–32, 36–39, 43, 48, 51–54, 120, 125– 126, 233 Alalakh/Alalaḫ 58, 63, 233 Alašia/Alashiya 45, 232 Al-Biruni 97 Al-Daur 180 Aleppo 66, 68, 233 Alexander 113–114, 118–119, 155, 157–160, 163, 167–168, 172–173, 259, 268, 273 Alexander I 273 Alexander III 119, 141 Alexandria 254 Alḫa 65 Allatum 68 Altinbaçak 193, 201 Amanus Mountains 45, 47, 49–50, 54 Amarna 46, 48, 51, 73, 232 Amaruk 68 Amasis 222 America 246 Amīmu 196 Amurru 46, 203–204 An 18 Anatolia 45–50, 174, 229, 231, 235, 259–260, 264, 266 Anatolian 235

Anitta 61–63, 66, 68–70, 77–79 Antigonus 164, 174–177 Antioch/Antiochia 120, 179 Antiochus 122–123, 163, 179–180, 182 Antiochus (II) 120 Antiochus III 122, 124, 155, 161–162, 165, 170, 179–180 Antiochus IV 124, 126, 155, 163, 180 Antiochus V 125 Antiochus VII 126, 169, 181 Anza 191 Apameia 158 Apasa 230 Apku 205 Apollo 231, 235 Apollonia 180 Apolloniatis 170, 179–180 Appaya 65 Apsû 138, 140 Aqqi 49 Arabia 264, 269 Arabian Peninsula 164 Arahtu canal 117 Arawanna 77 Araxes 166 Araziqu 189 Arbela 172 Archelaus 176 Ardericca 277 Arelate 253 Ariaeus 259 Arinna 53 Aristotle 141–142, 225, 263 Armenia 145, 155, 264, 278–279 Arnaud, P. 242– 243, 250 Arnuwanda 57–58, 71–72, 74, 77, 79– 80 Arrapha 36 Artaxerxes 261–262, 267, 277 Artaxerxes II 161, 170, 267–268 Artaxias 180 Artaxias I 155, 163, 180

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Artemis 230, 235 Arzawa 64, 70, 230 Asaluhi 18–19 Ašarēdu 46 Asia 145, 148 Asia Minor 145, 159 Aššur 179, 191, 193, 195, 200, 202– 206, 209 Assur 26–27, 35, 37, 45, 232 Assurbanipal 48, 269 Aššur-nadin-ahhe I 203 Aššurnaṣirpal II 187, 207, 209–210, 212 Aššur-uballiṭ 203, 205 Assuwa 235 Assyria 108, 135–136, 143–145, 147– 148, 169, 181, 189–190, 198, 203– 205, 210, 212, 261 Athens 141, 222, 230–231, 273 Atlantis 222 Atpa 235 Baal 234 Baal Sapanu 234 Babylon 17, 25–26, 36, 53, 119–128, 135, 137, 140, 144–145, 148, 155, 163–164, 171–173, 175–178, 181, 187, 204, 209, 259, 261, 265–266, 276–277 Babylonia 109, 113–114, 118, 122, 124–125, 127–128, 136, 138, 143– 145, 148, 158, 161–164, 166, 169– 180, 195, 204, 209, 260–261, 265– 266, 269, 276–278 Bactria 145 Bad-tibira 16 Bagayaša 169, 181 Balih/Balikh 166–167, 189, 193–194, 196–202 Barcelona 230 Belesys 266–267, 269 Belesys/Belšunu 265 Bēlet-Ninua 171, 176–178 Belos 138,–139 Belšunu 265, 266, 267 Belus 148 Bel-uṣuršu 262 Bernbeck, R. 193

Berossos/Berossus 137–142, 148, 150 Bīt-Halupê 210 Boğazköy 26, 58, 62 Borsippa 122–124, 128 Bowman, A.K. 241 Broekaert, W. 242 Bücher, K. 241 Caenae 264 Caesarea 253 Callicratidas 263 Calpes Limen 263, 269 Cambyses 265 Canaan 205 Cap Corse 248–249 Caphthor/Crete 234 Caramelo, F. 194 Carchemish 46 Carduchia 275 Carduchian 276 Carrhae 166–167, 175 Carthage 253 Cedar Forest 47, 50, 53–54 Cedar Mountains 49–50 Celaenae 274 Charmande 264, 266, 270, 275 Chauon 146 Cilicia 50 Clancier, P. 195 Clearchus 271, 273 Comploi, S. 146 Conon 259 Corsote 264, 266 Crassus 166, 167 Crete 235 Croesus 273 Ctesias 135, 137, 144–145, 147–150, 261, 270, 273, 276–278 Ctesiphon 166 Cunaxa 170, 262, 266–267, 274, 277 Cyprus 221, 233–235 Cyrus 166, 259–263, 266–267, 271, 272, 274, 279 Cyrus II 170 Cyrus the Younger 158, 164 Dagan 48, 50, 233 Damascius 137–138, 140–143 Damascus 137, 141, 176

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Dardas 264 Darius 163, 168, 173, 260, 263 Darius I 77, 97 Darius II 268 Darius III 158, 161–162, 171–173 De Martino, S. 241 Del Monte, G.F. 119 Delos 231, 235 Delphi 230 Demetrius 171, 176–177, 181 Demetrius II 169, 181 Didorus 146 Dilbat 49 Dilmun 49 Diocletian 250 Diodorus 145–147, 169, 174, 273–274 Diodotus 181 Diogenes Laertius 224, 226 Diospolis 226 Diyala 161, 170, 180, 276 Djezireh 164–165, 167–168, 173, 181 Dumuzi 18, 20, 38, 93–96, 98, 101 Dunnu-Aššur 196 Dura 180 Dūr-Katlimmu 190, 193–194, 196, 200–202, 206 Dur-Katlimmu 202 Duttur 101 Ea 98 Ebir Nari 267, 276 Ebla 50, 54, 233 Ecbatana 265 Egypt 143–145, 148, 172, 175, 179, 198, 203–205, 221–227, 234 Egypt 48, 73, 79 Egyptian Delta 278 Elam 47, 49 Elba 249 Elymais 122 Emar 202, 204, 233 Empúries 230 Enki 15–20 Enkidu 53 Enlil 17–20, 97, 98 Enlil-nādin-aplī 199 Ephesos 230, 235 Epyaxa 267, 271

287

Eridu 15–20 Erra 26, 38 Esangila 123, 124 Eshnunna/Esnunna/Ešnunna 25–28, 31, 39, 232 Eštar 35, 37 Ethiopia 145 Euclid 225 Eudemus of Rhodes 141–142, 225– 225 Eumenes 163, 169, 174–175 Euphrates 36, 52–53, 66–67, 118, 123– 124, 156–159, 162–167, 171–172, 174–181, 187, 189, 191, 194–197, 201, 204, 208–210, 212, 259, 264, 266, 268, 270–271, 275–278 Euripides 224 Europe 109–110, 246 Ezida 123–124 Faist, B. 192–193 Fenollos 194 Firmicus Maternus 91 First Day temple 122 Forum Iulii 248 Fréjus 248 fretum Gallicum 249 Freydank, H. 260 Ga’eš 232 Gaugamela 168–169, 171, 173, 262, 274 Gaul 248–249 Gaza 175 Gilat 229 Gilgameš/Gilgamesh 27, 29, 30, 35, 40, 44, 49, 95, 97, 139 Girsu 94, 95 Glei’eh 191 Göbeklitepe 229 Gobryas 265 Graßl, H. 241 Great Bend 156, 158–159, 166–167 Greater Zab 161, 169, 182 Greece 224–225, 234–235, 269, 273– 274, 278 Gulf of Lion 248, 253 Gyndes 278 Habur 187, 189–195, 199–201, 205,

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208–210, 212 Hadad 233 Hahha/Ḫaḫḫa/Ḫaḫḫum 45, 52–53, 66– 70 Hamburg 246 Ḫammi-ištammar 38 Hammurabi 36, 39 Ḫana 32, 34–37 Hanigalbat/Ḫanikalbat 65, 202, 208 Harādu 195 Harbe 193, 198–206 Harrān 193, 196, 201 Harvard 246 Hašda 262 Haššum/Haššuwa 32, 52–53, 66–68 Hatti 45, 189, 197–198, 203–205, 233– 234 Hattusa/Hattuša/Ḫattuša 48, 51, 58–59, 64–65, 76, 234 Hattušili/Ḫattusili/Ḫattušili 53, 65, 67 Hattušili/Ḫattušili I 51–53, 57–71, 75– 80 Hattušili/Ḫattušili III 59, 71 Haubold, J. 261 Heller, A. 135 Herodotus 135, 137, 143–144, 148– 149, 161, 221–222, 224, 263–264, 268, 273, 276–278 Heslin, K. 249 Hindanu/Hindānu 189, 266 Homer 226, 270 Hudubilu 191 Huru s. of Iltu-gubati 262 Hutura 45 Huzîrânu 201 Huzirina 99 Hyrcanus 181 Iamblichus 226 Iasus 275 Ibal-El 36 Ibbi-Su’en 18–19 ibn Waḥshiyya 96 Ikakali 64 Ina-Aššur-šumī-aṣbat 202–203 Inanna 18–19, 45, 64 Inaros 274 Indates 169, 182

India 145–146, 268 Ion 261 Ionia 117, 231 Iphicrates 274 Iraq 108 Ishtar/Ištar 27, 76, 91, 96, 101 Isidore of Charax 166 Isidore of Seville 109 Isin 17–18 Isis 226 island of Kos 142, 150 Išme-Dagan 37 Israel 229 Ištar → Ishtar Itamar Singer 235 Itur-Addu 36 Jakob-Rost, L. 260 Jarabulus 158 Jason 274 Jebel Hamrin 170–180 Jezireh 189, 191, 193–194, 201–202 Justin 181 Kadashman-Enlil 233 Kalhu 191 Kaneš/Kanesh 25–26, 30–31, 37, 39, 45–46, 53, 62 Karkemiš 196, 201–203, 205 Kasr 267 Kaštiliaš IV 204 Kavos 229 Keith Hopkins 241 Keros 229 Keš 18, 20 Khabur 179–180 Khirbet ed-Diniyeh 195–196 Khosrau I 141 Kiabrig 18 Kilari 45 King’s canal 125–126 Kish 64 Kuara 18–19 Kühne, H. 194 Kültepe 45 Kumahu 201 Lagaš 15, 18–19 Laʾibum 45 Lambert, W.G. 138, 140

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Larag 16 Larissa 264–265, 277 Larsa 18, 26, 34 Lazpa 234 Lelluri 68 Lesbos 234–235 Levant 156, 172, 175, 181, 235, 259, 266 Libba 179 Libbi-āli 203 Libya 145 Licinius Crassus, M. 166 Ligurian Sea 248–249 Liverani, M. 210 Lugalbanda 27 Lycaonia 266 Lycia 231, 254 Lycus 182 Macedonia 141 Magnesia 122 Malhat ed-Deru 194 Mamy 234 Manishtusu 45 Mardaman 47 Marduk 17, 119, 138–139 Mari 26, 28–29, 31–32, 34–37, 39–40, 232–233 Marseilles 230 Mazday 163, 167–168, 173 Medea 271 Media 145, 161, 170, 176, 179–181, 261, 264, 269, 278 Median Wall 276, 278 Mediterranean (Sea) 108, 110, 135, 164, 176, 230–231, 242, 244–245, 254 Meeks, E. 243 Megabyzus 259 Memphis 226 Menon 266 Mesilim 64 Mesopotamia 108–109, 115, 119, 135, 139, 142–143, 149–150, 155–160, 162–165, 168, 170, 172, 174–175, 179, 181–182, 187, 189–191, 195, 197, 233, 259–262, 264, 272, 275– 276, 278–279

289

Mespila 264, 271, 277 Meyer, E. 241 Mezulla 68, 76, 80 Michigan 262 Miletus 275 Milku-rāmu 203 Millawanda 235 Mithridates I 181 Mitrobates 263 Mittani 189–190, 205 Molon 155, 161–163, 170, 179–180 Montero, J.-L. 194 Moreno, J.C. 254 Mossynoecia 279 Mummu 140 Muršili 57, 64, 66, 71–74, 76–78 Muršili I 53 Mursili/Muršili II 57, 64–66, 68, 70– 80 Mygdonia 179 Myriandus/murioi 265 Nabonidus 170 Nanna 18–20 Nanše 15, 18 Naram-Sin/Narām-Sîn 25–28, 30, 32– 35, 38, 40, 43, 45, 50, 53–54 Naukratis 222 Nawar-tahe 48 Nearchus 268 Nenašša 64 Nepos 274 Nero 226 Neša 62, 69 Neville Morley 241 New Year temple 122–124 Nikanor 176 Nikephorion 166 Nile 145, 224 Ninazu 18 Nineveh 26, 48, 117, 144–145, 191– 193, 277 Ningal 19 Ningirsu 15 Ningishzida 95 Ningublaga 18 Ninḫursağ 18–19, 64 Ninlurugu 101

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290

Index

Ninu’āju 199, 203–205 Ninurta 189 Ninus 144–149 Ninyas 145, 147 Nippur 17–20, 25–26, 47, 49, 232– 233, 265 Nitocris 278 Nudimmud 16 Numhâ 35 Nûr-Adad 39 Nūr-Dagān 48 Nūr-Daggal 48 Nūr-Dahhê 48 Nusaybin 179 Nuzi 232–233 Oceanus 226 Olen 231 Olympia 230 Omorka 138–139 Onnes 146 Opis(/Upe) 117, 161–163, 169–170, 264–265 Oreikon 170–180 Oroetes 263 Orosius 137, 148–149 Osiris 226 Ostia 248, 251 Pabilsag 16 Palmyra 164, 204 Pamphila of Epidaurus 226 Papsukkal 91 Paraetonium 254 Pardee 234 Parmanna 65 Parthia 181 Parysatis 265, 276 Patrokles 176 Pedersen, O. 268 Peithon 174 peninsula of al-Marzukijje 191 Penkibe 201 Pergamum 278 Persepolis 259–260 Persia 141, 145 Persian Gulf 118, 164 Pfälzner, P. 201 Phalinus 259, 263, 271–275

Phoenicia 174 Phraates II 169, 182 Physcus 264 Pitḫana 69 Piyamaradu 235 Plato 97, 143, 222, 224, 226, 230, 272 Pliny 158, 247–248 Plutarch 167, 222, 226 Polybius 162 Polydamas 274 Porphyry 97–98 Proclus 225 Ptolemy 164, 175–177, 179 Ptolemy III 177– 178 Puduhepa 58 Purušḫanda 43, 46–52, 68–69 Purušhattum 69 Pylae 264–266, 278 Qabar abu al-’Atiq 194 Qal’at Sherqat 179 Qatna 38 Qode 234 Qurdi-Aššur-lāmur 116 Raqqah 166 Red Sea 108, 110 Rimush 45 Rollinger, R. 116, 148, 254 Rome 247, 249 Rostovtzeff, M. 241 Royal Canal 162, 180 Rusa 270 Sahlalu 196, 198–199, 206 Sais 222 Šalliaḫšuwa 65 Samsi-Addu 26, 28, 35,–39 Sanacharibus 144 (cf. Sennacherib) Šanaḫḫuitta 63, 65, 70 Sapanu 234 Sardanapalus 135, 143–144, 147–149 Sardis 120–121, 221, 278 Sargon 25–27, 30–32, 35, 38–39, 66– 71, 78, 117, 269, 270 Sargon II 51–52, 72, 117 Sarkos 148 Sarraya 36 Šattuara 208 Scheidel, W. 243, 250

© 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)

Index

Schmidts, T. 242 Scylax 261 Seha River land 234–235 Seleucia 120–126, 128, 158–159, 162– 163, 166, 171, 178, 180 Seleucus 164, 169, 171, 174–177 Seleucus I 158 Seleucus II 179 Seleukis 177, 179 Semiramis 135, 143, 145–149 Senecherib 148 (cf. Sennacherib) Sennacherib 72, 117, 265 Shalmaneser I 72, 205, 208 Shalmaneser III 72 Shamash 92, 97 Sharlach, T. 232 Sibyl 98 Sidon 117, 203–204 Silver Mountains 50 Simurrum 46, 49–50 Sîn 98 Sinjar 192–193, 195, 205, 210 Sîn-mudammeq 197–198 Sippar 26, 109, 117, 128, 170 Šiššar 195 Sittace 264, 276–278 Sittake 161 Solon 221–222 Stanford 243 Stolper, M. 267–268 storm god 73, 76 Strait of Bonifacio 248–249 Streck, M.P. 115 Su’en 19–20, 64 Subartu 46 Sud 17 Sūhu 195, 209, 212 Šulgi 15, 17–20, 29–30, 64, 66 Šulmānu-mušabši 203 Šulmanu-suma-uṣur 202 Sultantepe 201 Sumer 233 Sumu-epuḫ 37 sun-goddess of Arinna 64–65, 67–68, 70, 73–77, 80 Šuppiluliuma I 57, 71–74, 77, 79–80 Suppiluliuma II 232

291

Sur Mureh 196 Sūru 209–210 Šuruppak 16–17 Susa 175, 265 Susiana 174–175, 179–180 Sutī’u 198 Syracuse 253, 268 Syria 50, 158–159, 177, 179–180, 233–234, 265, 269, 276 Ta’idu 192 Tadmor 195, 204–205 Takšanaya 65 Talon, Ph. 138, 141 Tammuz 91–94, 96–97, 101–102 Tanais 145 Tarracco 251 Tarsus/tarsos 265–266 Tašḫiniya 63 Taurus 267 Tawananna 69 Telepinu 59, 69, 71 Tell Ahmar 196 Tell ar-Rimah 192 Tell Chuera 193, 199, 204 Tell Durdara 191 Tell el-Hawa 192 Tell Fehheriye 192–193 Tell Hamidah 192 Tell Hamidiye 192 Tell Harmal (ancient Šaduppûm) 47 Tell Jikan 191 Tell Jittal 202 Tell Mohammed Arab 191 Tell Sabi Abyad 194, 196, 202 Tell Sheikh Hamad 190, 194, 202 Tell Umm ’Aqrêbe 200 Temin, P. 241 Tenu, A. 194–195 Terqa 233 Tēthys 226 Thalatth 138–139 Thales of Miletus 221, 223–227 Thapsacenes 271 Thapsacus 157–159, 162–163, 166, 168, 172, 265–266, 277 Tharthar 209 Theches 268

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292

Index

Theopompus 272 Thucydides 268 Thymbrara 273 Tiāmat 138, 140 Tiglath-pileser I 189, 195 Tiglath-pileser III 72 Tigris 47, 51, 117, 120–126, 128, 160– 163, 165–166, 168–169, 173–176, 179–180, 187, 189, 191, 209, 264– 265, 276–278 Tissaphernes 259, 271–272, 274–275 Transeuphratene 120 Transtigridian 164, 168–170, 175 Trier 254 Tritantaechmes 278 Tudhaliya I/II 235 Tudhaliya IV 203 Tukriš 45 Tukultī-Ninurta I 72, 187, 193, 196, 199, 202–205 Tukultī-Ninurta II 189, 191, 207–210, 212 Tunip 233 Tuplin, Ch. 254 Tur Abdin 164, 192 Tutankhamon 73 Tutḫaliya 57, 71–72, 77 Tutḫaliya I 79–80 Tutḫaliya II 79–80 Tuthaliya III 58 Tuttul 196, 233 Tyre 117 Tyriaeum 274 Ugarit 233–234 Ulma 65 Umma 18–19, 93 Ur 15, 17–20, 45, 49, 93–95, 232 Ura 234

Urartu 264 Ur-Namma 15, 20, 35 Uruk 15, 17–18, 20, 114, 181 Ur-Zababa 45 Uta-napištim 51 Uta-rapaštim 46, 53 Utu 15, 17–19 Utu-hegal 15 Van der Spek, R.J. 123 Vitruvius 142, 150 Wadi Agig 193 Wadi Radd 192 Wadi Tharthar 180, 195, 208–209 Warnking, P. 242 Waršuwa 63 Waššukkanni 192–193, 196, 198–199, 201, 206 Wilson, A. 241 Wilusa 235 Xenoitas 163 Xenophon 149, 162, 166, 259–261, 263, 265–270, 272–273, 276–279 Yaḫdun-Lim 28 Yamhad 53 Yasmaḫ-Addu 35, 37–38 Zab/Zaba/Zabun 264, 278 Zabs, two 161 Zaccagnini, C. 109 Zagros 161 Zalpa 63 Zaruna 66 Zechariah 97 Zeugma 159, 166 Zeuxis 162 Zidanta II 77, 79 Zimbir 16, 17 Zimri-Lim 29, 31–32, 34–38 Zippašna/Žippašna 66, 69–70

© 2019, Zaphon, Münster ISBN 978-3-96327-066-6 (Buch) / ISBN 978-3-96327-067-3 (E-Book)