Literature as Politics, Politics as Literature: Essays on the Ancient Near East in Honor of Peter Machinist 9781575068671

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Literature as Politics, Politics as Literature

Photo courtesy of Shannon Vanderhooft

Literature as Politics, Politics as Literature Essays on the Ancient Near East in Honor of Peter Machinist

Edited by

David S. Vanderhooft and Abraham Winitzer

Winona Lake, Indiana Eisenbrauns 2013

© 2013 by Eisenbrauns Inc. All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America www.eisenbrauns.com

This publication is made possible in part by support from the Institute for Scholarship in the Liberal Arts, College of Arts and Letters, University of Notre Dame, and from the Office of the Provost and Dean of Faculties, Boston College.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Literature as politics, politics as literature : essays on the ancient Near East in honor of Peter Machinist / edited by David S. Vanderhooft and Abraham Winitzer.    pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-57506-272-3 (hardback : alk. paper) 1.  Middle East—Civilization—To 622.  2.  Middle East— Literatures—History and criticism.  3.  Bible—Criticism and interpretation.  4.  Bible—History of Biblical events.  5.  Bible— History of contempory events.  I.  Vanderhooft, David Stephen, editor of compilation.  II.  Winitzer, Abraham, editor of compilation.  III. Machinist, Peter, honouree. DS57.L547 2013 939.4—dc23                      2013033823 The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48–1984. ♾ ™

Contents Peter Machinist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  ix David S. Vanderhooft and Abraham Winitzer Bibliography of Peter Machinist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xvii Fearful Symmetry: The Poetics, Genre, and Form of Lines 109–118, Tablet I in the Poem of Erra . . . . . . . . . . .  1 Yoram Cohen Menahem’s Reign Before the Assyrian Invasion (2 Kings 15:14–16) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Peter Dubovský Ethnicity in the Assyrian Empire: A View from the Nisbe, (I): Foreigners and “Special” Inner Communities . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Frederick Mario Fales David and the Ark: A Jerusalem Festival Reflected in Royal Narrative . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 Daniel E. Fleming Creation and the Divine Spirit in Babel and Bible: Reflections on mummu in Enūma eliš I 4 and rûaḥ in Genesis 1:2 . . 97 Eckart Frahm Niṣirti bārûti: une autre approche . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 Jean-Jacques Glassner NB Administrative Terminology and Its Influence in Biblical Literature: Hebrew ‫ ארחה‬. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137 Ronnie Goldstein Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Literatures: A General Introduction. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 William W. Hallo Between Elective Autocracy and Democracy: Formalizing Biblical Constitutional Theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165 Baruch Halpern v

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Prosperity and Kingship in Psalms and Inscriptions . . . . . . . . . 185 Mark W. Hamilton Redactors, Rationalists, and (Bloodied) Rivers: Some Comments on the First Biblical Plague . . . . . . . . . . . . 207 John R. Huddlestun “An Heir Created by Aššur”: Literary Observations on the Rassam Prism (A) of Ashurbanipal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223 Victor Avigdor Hurowitz* Literary-Political Motifs in the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: Measuring Continuity versus Change . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 269 Mario Liverani Of Bears and Men: Thoughts on the End of Šulgi’s Reign and on the Ensuing Succession . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 285 Piotr Michalowski A Hidden Anti-David Polemic in 2 Samuel 6:2 . . . . . . . . . . . 321 Nadav Naʾaman The Prophet and the Augur at Tušḫan, 611 b.c. . . . . . . . . . . 329 Martti Nissinen Assyria and Judean Identity: Beyond the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 339 Eckart Otto Psalm 22:16 and Its Sumerian and Akkadian Analogues . . . . . . . 349 Shalom M. Paul Do Ideas Travel Lightly?: Early Greek Concepts of Justice in Their Mediterranean Context . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 355 Kurt A. Raaflaub The Rod that Smote Philistia: Isaiah 14:28–32 . . . . . . . . . . . 381 J. J. M. Roberts Errant Oxen Or: The Goring Ox Redux . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 397 Martha T. Roth Jephthah: Chutzpah and Overreach in a Hebrew Judge. . . . . . . 405 Jack M. Sasson The Remembrance of Kings Past: The Persona of King Ibbi-Sin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 421 T. M. Sharlach

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Hittite Gods in Egyptian Attire: A Case Study in Cultural Transmission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 433 Itamar Singer* How Did Šulgi and Išbi-Erra Ascend to Heaven? . . . . . . . . . . 459 Piotr Steinkeller “War Crimes” in Amos’s Oracles Against the Nations (Amos 1:3–2:3) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 479 Nili Wazana Grammar and Context: Enki & Ninhursag ll. 1–3 and a Rare Sumerian Construction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 503 Christopher Woods Towards a Biography of Kish: Notes on Urbanism and Comparison . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 527 Norman Yoffee Index of Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 545 Index of Scripture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 557

Publisher’s Note Except where it is indicated otherwise, abbreviations in this volume conform to The SBL Handbook of Style, with some additional abbreviations found in the Chicago Assyrian Dictionary.

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1. An Appreciation Within the broad stream of academic tradition pertaining to ancient Near Eastern studies, the curious scholarly genre known as the Festschrift can evoke, even when condign, apprehension among contributors and readers alike. Our determination to add another exemplar to this group originated in our esteem for this volume’s honoree, a conviction that only was reinforced over time. For with the arrival of the essays comprising this volume, it became apparent to us that our feelings about our teacher were shared by others, students and colleagues alike, who have come to appreciate our jubilarian, what he stands for, and what he has brought to the field. What also became clear soon enough was the universal appreciation of him as a “qualitative” scholar, for whom those metrics that typically greet the reader of Festschriften cannot do justice. For if a common thread could be extricated from the compass of our honoree’s work, one celebrated by this volume’s contributors, it would surely highlight his insistence to engage ancient Near Eastern studies far more broadly than is nowadays the norm, in a manner that affirms this discipline’s seat within the broader currents in the study of history and literature, currents that have defined the study of the humanities since the time of the Renaissance. The challenge to situate ancient Near Eastern studies in this manner may not be fashionable, with legitimate demands of various subdisciplines—many now fields in their own right—pressing for the undivided attention of even the most able students. A submission to the latter reality, however, is not the way of our honoree, who has been tireless (but frequently tired) in his pursuit of the grand narrative. Typically, this narrative has focused on questions of intellectual history, and has been characterized further by an acute awareness of its setting within broader philosophical contexts, ancient and modern alike. Whether in the realm of historiography or mythology, in the literature of Mesopotamia or in Israel’s self-reflection, Machinist’s writings have grappled with questions that many today are only too happy to skirt as outdated. Given the Bible’s wider ancient Near Eastern setting, what, if anything, is unique in its conception of history or myth? How should one ix

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understand the rhetoric of kingship within an ancient imperial political framework? Can texts labeled by leading authorities as thoroughly literary—and thus disqualified as sources for “real” historical research—still reveal something of their civilization’s philosophical or theological underpinnings? What elements within the intellectual discourses of Mesopotamia or Israel signal these cultures’ entry into the so-called Axial Age? To what extent do debates concerning that “Fifth Gospel,” the Book of Isaiah, provide a window into all of biblical scholarship? How can we identify, let alone measure, distinctive features in any of the cultures of the ancient Near East, when these intersect at so many junctures of their development? And what, finally, can be made of Israel’s “principal monument”— the Hebrew Bible—when it comes to its incorporation within the ancient Near East? For Machinist these and similar questions still demand engagement, and not owing to sophistry or feigned reverence. They do so because they are good, timeless, questions—questions that reflect the economy of our collected wisdom and whose abandonment would be, at the very least, rash. More accurately, to evade them for him represents a sophomoric act, one perhaps inspired by new trappings wedged in stone or emboldened by deconstructive liberations (either of these, he might coyly warn his students, are too frequently taken up as new toys that numb the senses with false pretenses of security), but which ultimately render us intellectually impoverished. The opposite course charted by our honoree has not been an easy one. Few have selected to embark on it; fewer still have done so with the modesty he exudes and the dignity he has displayed towards his teachers, colleagues, and students. Not that he has remained consistently above the fray. On occasion, especially in private conversations, he has registered complaints with alternative ways of doing things. “It is not about poundage,” he has been heard to mutter on occasion, and has warned his students of the dangers in becoming Fachstudenten, or in the too-common habit he has summarized as “raiding the dictionaries.” Far more frequently, however, our honoree has led by a positive example, in a manner displaying a respect towards others that in the final analysis may be said to permeate his innermost parts. For those who have marveled at our honoree’s apparent inability to come to terms with the implications of Qoheleth’s bibliophilia, it is important to recognize that this has not been entirely in vain. For beyond a love of books and a reverence for choses dites, he retains a fundamental belief that to dig into this or that volume brings with it the hope of uncovering some perspective that

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had previously eluded him. He might well show less patience for fashionable or shoddily construed works, those that violate the parameters of the field he embraces. And yet he reads on, unremitting in his faith that wisdom percolates in unexpected places and that, consequently, it is his duty to search for it, to cull it out when found, and to nurture it where possible. A related article of faith for Machinist informs this habit: this one strives to connect scholarship to the scholars who produce it, and more broadly to the intellectual context in which a given work appears. Put another way (to employ a favorite phrase of our honoree), creatio ex nihilo is for him no more likely in the case of modern writings than with Enūma Eliš or Genesis 1. He has insisted, consequently, on charting the intellectual history of biblical and Near Eastern scholarship, and he has produced studies of Wellhausen, Gunkel, and Albright, among others, which have been pedagogically groundbreaking. Those who have sat in his seminar on the history of interpretation of the Bible from the time of the Renaissance (or, for that matter, those who have shared a bowl of soup, Caesar salad, or a ginger ale with him at a conference) will no doubt attest to his unmatched recollection of scholarly biographical detail. And if at times this may be said to spill into the realm of gossip, still all who know him will agree that it flows from a generosity of spirit and humane regard for the community of scholars, the effective modeling of which has often earned him the characterization as a true gentleman. Yet Machinist can scarcely be labeled a “professor of things in general,” as a brief word on our honoree’s philological skills will indicate. Whether in the recognition of Assyrian rhetoric from the Hebrew prophets, the incipience of Hellenism in Israel’s Wisdom, evidence of a theological dispute embedded in a cuneiform scribal sleight of hand, or the teasing out of the divine kingship metaphor in Assyria and Judah, more than once Machinist has shown his abilities in this craft. The point is perhaps more remarkable in the cases of well-trodden paths, as with his careful and trenchant interpretation of the brief, eight-verse Psalm 82, a model of how careful philology can in the end illumine philosophy. Those of us fortunate to have studied with him have marveled at additional manifestations of his ear picking up seemingly inaudible pitches transmitted by texts, ancient and modern, and of his capacity to translate these to students, who in these instances seemed fixated on the timelessness of questions raised by thoughtful writings. In his engagement with such texts Machinist has been at times nothing short of mesmerizing. One can scarcely forget his improvisation of God’s response to the satan’s challenge concerning Job’s alleged altruism

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(“Does Job fear God for nought?”); in his take on it, Machinist, visibly perplexed and agitated (“I don’t know, I just don’t know…”), rendered a room of some 150 Harvard undergraduates speechless. His enactment of Anzû’s pathetic kappā ana kappī cry left several of his graduate students in stitches. And his reading of a parenthetical note concerning Rehoboam’s travel to Shechem in 1 Kgs 12:1 (“the revolution had already begun!”) convinced this volume’s editors that his defamiliarization approach to ancient texts provided the fresh air they had both sought in a teacher. “I am just reading the text!,” he would exclaim at such junctures, the high-pitched excitement highlighting the sense of liberation these moments yielded him. Yes, Peter, you were just reading the texts, and we are so grateful that you have helped teach us how to read them, how to convey their humanity, and how to do so in a way that transmits your own.

2. Biographical Sketch Peter Machinist was born on September 3, 1944 in Philadelphia, PA, to Milton and Sylvia P. Machinist. The father, upon returning from active military service in the United States Air Force, worked until the end of the war in the Pentagon, and the young family resided briefly in Washington, DC. Soon after, they returned to Manchester, NH, where Machinist’s father, who had earned an M.B.A. from Harvard, ran a successful department store. It may fairly be said that Peter’s New England roots, in formation and education, took firm hold during the next quarter century. In 1962, Machinist graduated from Governor Dummer Academy in Byfield, Massachusetts, the faculty of which, he insists, disabused him of any pretensions of pursuing a career in the natural sciences but certainly cultivated a keen interest in the humanities, and ancient history in particular. After his freshman year, the family, including his sister, Linda, visited Europe, where a tour of Pompeii likewise left an indelible impression. His study of ancient history intensified at Harvard College, where Machinist concentrated on the Hebrew Bible, the ancient Near East, and Greek— subjects, of course, that would animate his subsequent professional life. His honors thesis there, written under the tutelage of Frank Moore Cross and entitled “The First Coins of Judah,” dealt with the intersection of numismatics and history. At Harvard he was also strongly influenced by Thomas O. Lambdin and G. Ernest Wright. During these years, Machinist also participated as a field photographer with the excavation teams at Sardis, Turkey (1964) and at Gezer, Israel (1966). It was also at Harvard that he was introduced to his roommate’s sister, Alice (née Rubin), and they would marry in 1974.

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Machinist graduated summa cum laude with the class of 1966 and was inducted into Phi Beta Kappa. From Harvard, Machinist turned to New Haven to commence his graduate work in Near Eastern Studies. At Yale, Peter earned an M.Phil. in 1971 and a Ph.D. in 1978, with a dissertation on the Middle Assyrian Epic of Tukulti-Ninurta I. The work, commenced under the direction of J. J. Finkelstein but completed, following Finkelstein’s untimely death, under William W. Hallo, probed what would become a favorite topic of Machinist: literature in the service of political ends. In addition to these and his other teachers at Yale—including Richard Ellis, Harry Hoffner, Marvin Pope, Franz Rosenthal, and Judah Goldin—Machinist also forged an important relationship with Hayim Tadmor, who had served there as a visiting professor in 1971, and who remained a lifelong friend and sometimes co-author. At Yale, a keen and highly able group of graduate students assembled in those years, and the intellectual ferment generated by that group would remain for Peter an ideal. While at Yale, Machinist began his teaching career, among other places at Connecticut College (1969), Case Western Reserve University (1971– 76), and, from 1977–86, at the University of Arizona, where, with William Dever and a Yale classmate, Norman Yoffee, Machinist contributed to the building of an important program in Near Eastern archaeology. Throughout these years, he taught not only on Assyriological or technically focused ancient Near Eastern topics, but also general courses for undergraduates that opened up wider perspectives. During these years, too, he served, in 1981, as Lady Davis postdoctoral fellow and visiting lecturer in Assyriology at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and then, in 1984–85, as a fellow in the Wissenschaftskolleg in Berlin. Between 1986 and 1990, Peter taught in the Department of Near Eastern Studies at the University of Michigan, where he was reunited with another of his Yale student-colleagues, Piotr Michalowski. At Michigan, he also built a relationship with David Noel Freedman, with whom he co-taught a course on Qumran. It was also during these years that Peter and Alice welcomed Edith (1980) and David (1986) into their family. In 1991, Machinist was invited to join the faculty of Harvard University in the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations, where he was appointed, in 1992, Hancock Professor of Hebrew and Other Oriental Languages, succeeding his mentor, Frank Moore Cross, in the thirdoldest endowed chair among American universities. He arrived to join a constellation of scholars whose work extended across the spectrum of Near Eastern studies: Piotr Steinkeller, Steven Cole, and Paul-Alain Beau-

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lieu in Assyriology; Larry Stager in Archaeology; John Huehnergard in Semitics and Jo Ann Hackett in Hebrew and Northwest Semitic Epigraphy; James Kugel in Hebrew Literature; P. Oktor Skjaervo in Persian and Iranian Studies; Irene Winter in ancient Near Eastern art history; as well as Paul Hanson and Gary Anderson in Old Testament, and Jon Levenson, in Hebrew Bible and Jewish Studies, at the Harvard Divinity School. Machinist began quickly to mentor a series of doctoral students at Harvard, continuing to the present, who would embrace his approach to Near Eastern civilizations. The rigor and depth of his commentary on the written work submitted by students, time-consuming as that is, has become legendary. Meanwhile, he has shown incredible dedication to his many students in other ways, including by attending innumerable scholarly conference papers. When once he darted into the back of a full conference room to hear a student, he leaned against the wall and inadvertently dimmed the lights. The speaker, not aware of the culprit, suggested, “perhaps this is the work of God.” An audience member retorted, “no, just Peter Machinist,” to which the speaker responded, “same difference.” Machinist also fostered the scholarship of students and junior colleagues in his role as editor of Harvard Semitic Monographs. In 2003, he returned to the Hebrew University of Jerusalem as Lady Davis Visiting Professor of Biblical History in the departments of Jewish History and Bible. In 2008–9 he was Victor and Sylvia Blank Fellow and Visiting Scholar at the Oxford Centre for Hebrew and Jewish Studies. In the spring of 2009, he was awarded the degree of Doctor honoris causa by the Theologische Fakultät of the University of Zurich. Machinist will spend the 2013–14 academic year as Gastprofessor für Kulturgeschichte des Altertums at the Ludwig Maximilians Universität in Munich, in the Münchner Zentrum für Antike Welten and Fakultät der Kulturwissenschaften. Throughout the span of our honoree’s professional life, the Machinist home has often served as a venue in which colleagues, students, and friends have enjoyed fine conversation or have stopped by to peruse or borrow an obscure volume. Alice, among other things an avid student of the state science curriculum and a passionate observer of contemporary politics, has participated in and helped foster those conversations in ways large and small. We extend our thanks to Alice in particular for her humor and generosity. The production of this volume would not have been possible without the assistance of a host of people. Foremost among these were a group of Peter’s students who conferred in many ways throughout the process: Pamela Barmash, Cindy Chapman, Martien Halvorson-Taylor, and Mark

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Hamilton. They offered sage advice, editorial assistance, and camaraderie. John Kutsko, who began his graduate studies with Peter in Michigan, was a source of superb counsel and assistance. At Notre Dame, Michael Cover, Mary Davenport Davis, Andrew Geist, and Michael Stahl provided support in the editing of this volume, along with Richard Beal, Foy Scalf, and Andréas and Julie Stauder at the University of Chicago. At Boston College, John R. Barker, OFM, and Patrick Angiolillo provided important assistance, as did the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, David Quigley, and the Interim Provost and Dean of Faculties, Joseph Quinn. At Eisenbrauns, where Peter has earned a status of “most favored nation,” Jim Eisenbraun eagerly took on the project and guided us, while Andrew Knapp provided careful and timely editorial assistance. To all we extend our warm thanks. — David Vanderhooft and Abraham Winitzer

Bibliography of Peter Machinist Doctoral Dissertation 1.  The Epic of Tukulti-Ninurta I: A Study in Middle Assyrian Literature, Ph.D. Diss., Yale University, 1978.

Books Authored or Co-authored 2.  Letters from Priests to the Kings Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal. SAA 13; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1999 (with S. W. Cole). 3.  Mesopotamia in Eric Voegelin’s “Order and History.” Munich: EricVoegelin-Archiv, 2001. 4.  Ashur, Babel, and Bible: Studies in Comparative and Intellectual History. FAT; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, in press. 5.  Nahum. Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, forthcoming. 6.  The Hebrew Bible in Its Near Eastern Environment. Library of Ancient Israel; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, forthcoming. 7. The Epic of Tukulti-Ninurta I: A Study in Middle Assyrian Literature. Forthcoming.

Books Edited and Co-edited 8.  Avalos, H. Illness and Health Care in the Ancient Near East: The Role of the Temple in Greece, Mesopotamia, and Israel. HSM 54; Atlanta: Scholars, 1995. 9.  Enns, P. Exodus Retold: Ancient Exegesis of the Departure from Egypt in Wis 10:15–21 and 19:1–9. HSM 57; Atlanta: Scholars, 1997. 10.  Brody, A. J. “Each Man Cried Out to His God”: The Specialized Religion of Canaanite and Phoenician Seafarers. HSM 58; Atlanta: Scholars, 1998. 11.  Vanderhooft, D. S. The Neo-Babylonian Empire and Babylon in the Latter Prophets. HSM 59; Atlanta: Scholars, 1999. 12.  Walsh, C. E. The Fruit of the Vine: Viticulture in Ancient Israel. HSM 60; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2000. 13.  Baltzer, K. Deutero-Isaiah: A Commentary on Isaiah 40–55. Translated by M. Kohl. Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001. 14.  LaRocca-Pitts, E. C. “Of Wood and Stone”: The Significance of Israelite Cultic Items in the Bible and Its Early Interpreters. HSM 61; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2001 (with M. Coogan). 15.  Abusch, T., et al., eds. Proceedings of the XLVe Assyriologique Internationale, Part I: Harvard University: Historiography in the Cuneiform World. Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2001.

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16.  Ben-Tor, A., I. Ephʾal and P. B. Machinist, eds. Hayim and Miriam Tadmor Volume. ErIsr 27; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2003. 17.  Nissinen, M. Prophets and Prophecy in the Ancient Near East. WAW 12; Atlanta: SBL, 2003. 18.  Chapman, C. R. The Gendered Language of Warfare in the Assyrian/ Israelite Encounter. HSM 62; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2004. 19.  Jindo, J. Y. Biblical Metaphor Reconsidered: A Cognitive Approach to Poetic Prophecy in Jeremiah 1–24. HSM 64; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2010.

Articles 20.  “Leviathan.” Encyclopedia Judaica 11:9. 2nd ed.; Jerusalem, 2006. 21.  “Literature as Politics: The Tukulti-Ninurta Epic and the Bible,” CBQ 38 (1976) 455–78. 22.  Review of B. Jacob, Genesis: His Commentary Abridged, Edited, and Translated. Central Conference of American Rabbis Journal 23 (1976) 112–16. 23.  Compilation of Bibliography of Jacob Joel Finkelstein. Pp. 227–29 in Essays on the Ancient Near East in Memory of Jacob Joel Finkelstein. Edited by M. deJong Ellis. Memoirs of the Connecticut Academy of Arts and Sciences 19; Hamden, CT: Archon, 1977 (with N. Yoffee). 24.  Review of T. Jacobsen, The Treasures of Darkness: A History of Mesopotamian Religion. CBQ 41 (1979) 307–9. 25.  “Provisional Governance in Middle Assyria and Some New Texts from Yale,” Assur 3/2 (1981) 65–101. 26.  Review of L. Cagni, The Poem of Erra. JAOS 101 (1981) 401–3. 27.  “Assyrians and Hittites in the Late Bronze Age.” Pp. 265–67 in vol. 1 of Mesopotamien und seine Nachbarn: Politische und kulturelle Wechselbeziehungen im Alten Vorderasien vom 4. bis 1. Jahrtausend v. Chr.: XXV. Rencontre assyriologique internationale, Berlin, 3. bis 7. Juli 1978. Edited by H.-J. Nissen and J. Renger. Berliner Beiträge zum Vorderer Orient 1; Berlin: Reimer, 1982. 28.  “Rest and Violence in the Poem of Erra,” JAOS 103 (1983) 221–26. 29.  “Assyria and Its Image in the First Isaiah,” JAOS 103 (1983) 719–37. 30.  Review of B. Alster, ed., Death in Mesopotamia. JAOS 104 (1984) 568–70. 31.  “The Assyrians and Their Babylonian Problem: Some Reflections,” Wissenschaftskolleg zum Berlin Jahrbuch (1984/5) 353–64. 32–37.  “Assur”; “Assyria, Empire of ”; “Azariah”; “Ebla”; “Sargon II”; “Ur.” Pp. 77–78, 81, 234–36, 907–8, and 1105–7 in Harper’s Bible Dictionary. Edited by P. J. Achtemeier. San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1985. Also pp. 85, 85–86, 256–58, 973–74, 1185–87 in The HarperCollins Bible Dictionary. Rev. ed.; San Francisco: HarperCollins, 1996. 38.  Review of J. M. Miller and J. H. Hayes, A History of Ancient Israel and Judah. BAR 12 (1986) 4, 6, 8, 10.

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39.  “On Self-Consciousness in Mesopotamia.” Pp. 183–202 and 511–18 in The Origins and Diversity of Axial Age Civilizations. Edited by S. N. Eisenstadt. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1986. 40.  “Über die Selbstwubtheit in Mesopotamien.” Pp. 258–91 in Kulturen der Achsenzeit: Ihre Ursprunge und ihre Vielfalt, 1: Griechenland, Israel, Mesopotamien. Edited by S. N. Eisenstadt. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1987 [German version of previous entry]. 41.  “Comments in General Discussion.” Pp. 371–72, 375–76, 380, and 381 in Society and Economy in the Eastern Mediterranean (c. 1500–1000 b.c.). Edited by M. Heltzer and E. Lipiński. OLA 23; Leuven: Peeters, 1988. 42.  Review of T. Overholt, Prophecy in Cross-cultural Perspective: A Sourcebook for Biblical Researches. Journal of Religion 68 (1988) 352–53. 43.  Review of K. van der Toorn, Sin and Sanction in Israel and Mesopotamia: A Comparative Study. Hebrew Studies 31 (1990) 240–46. 44.  “The Question of Distinctiveness in Ancient Israel.” Pp. 196–212 in Ah, Assyria…: Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor. Edited by M. Cogan and I. Ephʾal. SH 33; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1991. Reprinted as pp. 420–42 in F. Greenspahn, ed., Essential Papers on Israel and the Ancient Near East. New York: NYU Press, 1991. 45.  “Heavenly Wisdom.” Pp. 146–51 in The Tablet and the Scroll: Near Eastern Studies in Honor of William W. Hallo. Edited by M. Cohen, D. Snell, and D. Weisberg. Bethesda, MD: CDL, 1993 (with H. Tadmor). 46.  “Nimrod.” ABD 4:1116–18. New York: Doubleday, 1992. 47.  “Palestine, Administration of (Assyro-Babylonian).” ABD 5:69–81. New York: Doubleday, 1992. 48.  “Assyrians on Assyria in the First Millennium b.c.” Pp. 77–104 in Anfänge der politischen Denkens in der Antike: Die naheöstlischen Kulturen und die Griechen. Edited by K. Raaflaub. Schriften des Historischen Kollegs, Kolloquien 24; Munich: Oldenbourg, 1993. 49.  “The First Coins of Judah and Samaria: Numismatics and History in the Achaemenid and Early Hellenistic Periods.” Pp. 365–80 in Continuity and Change: Proceedings of the Last Achaemenid History Workshop, April 6–8, 1990 – Ann Arbor, Michigan. Edited by H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg, A. Kuhrt, and M. C. Root. Achaemenid History 8; Leiden: NINO, 1994. 50.  “Outsiders or Insiders: The Biblical View of Emergent Israel and Its Contexts.” Pp. 35–60 in The Other in Jewish Thought and History. Edited by L. Silberstein and R. Cohn. New York: NYU Press, 1994. 51.  “Fate, miqreh, and Reason: Some Reflections on Qohelet and Biblical Thought.” Pp. 159–75 in Solving Riddles and Untying Knots: Biblical, Epigraphic, and Semitic Studies in Honor of Jonas C. Greenfield. Edited by Z. Zevit, S. Gitin, and M. Sokoloff. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1995. 52.  “The Transfer of Kingship: A Divine Turning.” Pp. 105–20 in Fortunate the Eyes That See: Essays in Honor of David Noel Freedman in Celebration of His Seventieth Birthday. Edited by A. B. Beck et al. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1995.

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53.  “Hosea and the Ambiguity of Kingship in Ancient Israel.” Pp. 25–63 in Signs of Democracy in the Bible: Four Lectures. Edited by C. Stern and S. D. Sperling. The Resnick Lectures of Temple Beth El of Northern Westchester; Chappaqua, NY: Temple Beth El of Northern Westchester, 1995. 54.  “William Foxwell Albright: The Man and His Work.” Pp. 385–404 in The Study of the Ancient Near East in the Twenty-first Century: The William Foxwell Albright Centennial Conference. Edited by J. S. Cooper and G. M. Schwartz. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996. 55.  “The Fall of Assyria in Comparative Ancient Perspective.” Pp. 179–95 in Assyria 1995: Proceedings of the 10th Anniversary Symposium of the NeoAssrian Text Corpus Project – Helsinki, September 7–11, 1995. Edited by S. Parpola and R. M. Whiting. Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 1997. 56.  “Job’s Daughters and Their Inheritance in the Testament of Job and Its Biblical Congeners.” Pp. 67–80 in The Echoes of Many Texts: Reflections on Jewish and Christian Traditions: Essays in Honor of Lou H. Silberman. Edited by W. G. Dever and J. E. Wright. Atlanta: Scholars, 1997. 57.  “The Man Moses,” BR 41 (2000) 18–19, 53. 58.  “Nahum.” Pp. 665–67 in Harpers Bible Commentary. Edited by J. L. Mays. Rev. ed.; San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2000. 59.  “The Rab Šāqēh at the wall of Jerusalem: Israelite Identity in the Face of the Assyrian ‘Other’,” Hebrew Studies 41 (2000) 151–68. 60.  “Biblical Traditions: The Philistines and Israelite History.” Pp. 53–83 in The Sea Peoples and Their World: A Reassessment. Edited by E. Oren. University Museum Monograph 108; Philadelphia: University Museum of the University of Pennsylvania, 2000. 61.  “Jüdische Überlegungen zu Jesaja 52,13–53,12.” Pp. 16–26 in Klarungen 3. Verein zur Förderung des Christlich-Jüdischen Gesprachs in der Evang.Luth. Kirche in Bayern, Germany, 2002. 62.  “Mesopotamien in Eric Voegelins Ordnung und Geschichte.” Pp. 177–212 in Die kosmologischen Reiche des Alten Orients –Mesopotamien und Agypten. Edited by Jan Assmann. Vol. 1 of Eric Voegelin, Ordnung und Geschichte. Munich: Fink, 2002. 63.  “Mesopotamian Imperialism and Israelite Religion: A Case Study from the Second Isaiah.” Pp. 237–64 in Symbiosis, Symbolism, and the Power of the Past: Canaan, Ancient Israel, and Their Neighbors from the Late Bronze Age through Roman Palaestina. Proceedings of the Centennial Symposium, W. F. Albright Institute of Archaeological Research and American Schools of Oriental Research, Jerusalem, May 29–31, 2000. Edited by W. G. Dever and S. Gitin. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2003. 64.  Review of J. Goldstein, Peoples of an Almighty God. Interpretation 57 (2003) 84, 86. 65.  “The Voice of the Historian in the Ancient Near East and the Mediterranean World,” Interpretation 57 (2003) 117–37. 66.  “Ecclesiastes.” Pp. 1603–22 in The Jewish Study Bible. Edited by A. Berlin and M. Brettler. New York: Oxford University Press, 2003.

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67.  “Hosea and the Ambiguity of Kingship in Ancient Israel,” Pp. 153–81 in Constituting the community: Studies on the Polity of Ancient Israel in Honor of S. Dean McBride Jr. Edited by J. T. Strong and S. S. Tuell. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2005. 68.  “Order and Disorder: Some Mesopotamian Observations.” Pp. 31–61 in Genesis and Regeneration: Essays on Conceptions of Origins. Edited by S. Shaked. Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 2005. 69.  “Once More: Monotheism in Biblical Israel,” Journal of the Interdisciplinary Study of Monotheistic Religions 1 (Special Issue; Kyoto, Japan: Doshisha University, 2005) 155–83. 70.  “Final Response: On the Study of the Ancients, Language, and the State.” Pp. 291–300 in Margins of Writing, Origin of Cultures. Edited by S. Sanders. OIS 2; Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 2006. 71.  Foreword to Creation and Chaos in the Primeval History and the Eschaton, by H. Gunkel. Translated and introduction by K. W. Whitney. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2006. 72.  “Kingship and Divinity in Imperial Assyria.” Pp. 152–88 in Text, Artifact, and Image:
Revealing Ancient Israelite Religion. Edited by G. M. Beckman and T. J. Lewis. BJS 346; Providence: Brown Judaic Studies, 2006. 73.  “Mendenhall, George Emery (1916–).” Pp. 721–28 in Dictionary of Major Biblical Interpreters. Edited by D. K. McKim. Rev. ed.; Westmont, IL: IVP Academic, 2007. 74.  “Epilogue: ‘Let a Hundred Flowers Bloom’: Some Reflections on Reading and Studying the Hebrew Bible.” Pp. 209–18 in The Hebrew Bible: New Insights and Scholarship. Edited by F. J. Greenspahn. New York: NYU Press, 2008. 75.  “The Road Not Taken: Wellhausen and Assyriology.” Pp. 469–531 in Homeland and Exile: Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honour of Bustenay Oded. Edited by G. Galil, M. Geller, and A. Millard. VTSup 130; Leiden: Brill, 2009. 76.  “William Hallo and Assyriological, Biblical, and Jewish Studies.” Introduction to The World’s Oldest Literature: Studies in Sumerian Belles-Lettres, by W. W. Hallo. CHANE 35; Leiden: Brill, 2010 (with P. Michalowski). 77.  “How Gods Die, Biblically and Otherwise: A Problem of Cosmic Restructuring.” Pp. 189–240 in Reconsidering the Concept of Revolutionary Monotheism. Edited by B. Pongratz-Leisten. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011. 78.  “Kingship and Divinity in Imperial Assyria.” Pp. 405–30 in Assur – Gott, Stadt und Land: 5. Internationales Colloquium der Deutschen OrientGesellschaft 18.–21. Februar 2004 in Berlin. Edited by J. Renger. CDOG 5; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2011 [revised and abbreviated form of no. 72]. 79.  “Das Tukulti-Ninurta Epos,” RlA 14 (Berlin: de Gruyter, in press). 80.  “‘Ah, Assyria…’ (Isaiah 10:5 ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited,” forthcoming.

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81.  “Another Look at the Babylonian Dialogue on Pessimism,” forthcoming.

Popular 82.  “Women and Religion: A View Toward the Conference,” Women and Religion Newsletter (Tucson, Arizona Ecumenical Council, 1979) 2. 83.  “Writing as Immortality,” Human Concerns: A Newsletter of the New Hampshire Humanities Council (1991) 2–4. 84.  “God Is a Given,” Interview with Peter Machinist, by Missy Daniel, Harvard Divinity Bulletin, Supplement: Religion and Values in Public Life 1/3 (1993) 5–8. 85.  “Hayim Tadmor,” Newsletter of the American Oriental Society 15 (1993) 4–5. 86.  “Strangers and Sojourners: Address at Morning Prayer in Appleton Chapel, Memorial Church, Harvard University,” Harvard Divinity Bulletin 24 (1995) 10–11. 87.  “The Meaning of Moses,” Harvard Divinity Bulletin 27 (1998) 14–15. 88.  “Making Humans in the Image of God: Reflections on Genesis 1–3,” videotape of lecture produced by the Biblical Archaeology Society (Washington, DC: Biblical Archaeology Society, 1999). 89.  “Nineveh the Fallen: Reflections on Nahum the Prophet and Nahum the Book,” Report of the Oxford Centre for Hebrew and Jewish Studies, Academic Year 2008–2009 (Yarnton, U.K., 2009) 140–42.

Fearful Symmetry The Poetics, Genre, and Form of Tablet I Lines 109–18 in the Poem of Erra Yoram Cohen

1. Introduction The Poem of Erra is concerned, broadly speaking, with the destruction that the god Erra wreaks upon mankind. At its beginning, the “terrible Seven”—the Sibitti—arouse Erra from his slumber and provoke the god to undertake the destructive action with which this composition is primarily occupied. Asking Erra to abandon the luxuries of city life, the Sibitti urge him to take to the plain and open his campaign against man and god. Erra responds to these provocations and proceeds to explain why he intends to destroy mankind. However, before giving his reasons for destroying mankind, Erra embarks on a speech in which he articulates the very essence of being. A total of ten lines (I 109–18) make up that speech. 1 The purpose of this paper is to advance the idea that Erra’s first speech in the Author’s note:  The origin of this paper lies in a seminar directed by Peter Machinist on “Reading Mesopotamian Myth: Anzu and Erra” during the spring term of 1999 at Harvard. I have benefited from his comments and insights as well as those of fellow students Benjamin Sturtevant-Hickman, Nili Wazana, and Avi Winitzer. A version of this paper was presented at the Annual Conference of the Israel Society for Assyriology and Ancient Near Eastern Studies, Jerusalem (18th of February 2008), where I benefited from the remarks of Elnathan Weissert and Jacob Klein. I also wish to acknowledge Takayoshi Oshima and Piotr Steinkeller for providing me with access to their forthcoming publications, Eleanor Robson for providing me with photographs of the Sultantepe Erra tablets, Nathan Wasserman for his comments on Babylonian poetics and language, and Martin Worthington, Uri Gabbay, and Kathleen Abraham for their many comments and suggestions. 1.  Tablets and line numeration follow the edition of L. Cagni, L’epopea di Erra (Studi semitici 34; Rome: Università di Roma, 1969). Abbreviations follow CAD, but note in addition: CAMS (Corpus of Ancient Mesopotamian Scholarship): http://oracc. museum.upenn.edu/cams/ and DCCLT (Digital Corpus of Cuneiform Lexical Texts): http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/dcclt/.

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poem does not propel the narrative forward but rather represents a selfstanding poetic unit, set in a specific genre of self-praise hymns, and thus it is deliberately marked out as distinct from the rest of the composition. 2 As such, it is a unit without parallel in the poem. It not only embodies Erra’s main characteristics, it also contains the seeds of Erra’s destructive action, which will sprout in full force in the narrative parts of the poem— in tablets III–V, which recapitulate in reported speech the doings of the god. The distinctiveness of Erra’s speech, we can add here, was apparently recognized within some scribal traditions. The Sultantepe manuscript of the poem was inscribed with a divider between lines 108 and 109, where the speech begins. 3 After presenting the text edition of the speech (§2), we will turn to its poetic structure (§3). It will be shown to be marked out from the rest of Erra’s speech and indeed from the rest of the poem. Next, the genre of the speech will be defined (§4). It will be demonstrated that this speech is molded as a self-praise hymn, distinct from the rest of the composition, and thus it is to be considered as a fully independent literary genre, identifiable elsewhere. Finally, a detailed discussion (§5) will show that many of Erra’s self-proclaimed epithets and titles packed into the speech’s ten lines foreshadow the narrative section of the poem, when Erra embarks on the destruction of mankind until he is finally appeased and returns to his temple, the Emeslam. Our new reading and subsequent understanding of line 118 lead to the recognition that Erra’s return to the Emeslam is 2.  This paper does not seek to define the nature of this complex composition but to characterize a particular unit or pericope and the way in which this unit relates to the whole of the poem. Hence, my hope is that this paper will advance future discussions regarding the literary genre of the composition. Consider as a methodological starting point the words of P. Machinist (“Review of The Poem of Erra, by L. Cagni,” JAOS 101 [1981] 403): “In trying to define a text, the first task, it would seem obvious, is a careful analysis of the text itself—isolating its various parts, tracing these, where appropriate, to the traditions underlying them, and showing how they have been integrated to form the text under scrutiny. Only then can one worry seriously about the label—native or foreign—to apply to the text.” The uniqueness of the passage has drawn a few brief comments from various scholars who, however, have not attempted to understand its proper purpose in the whole structure of the poem or its employment of a specific literary genre. P. F. Gössmann (Das Era-Epos [Würzburg: Augustinus-Verlag, 1955] 43) called lines 109ff. (in his edition, ll. 107ff.) “ein Musterbeispiel bab(ylonische) Poesie,” defining Erra’s speech as a “Dithyrambus.” This comment, although of value, was not greatly elaborated upon (although see also L. Cagni, The Poem of Erra [Malibu: Undena, 1977] 76–78). R. Frankena (“Untersuchungen zum Irra-epos,” BiOr 14 [1957] 5) and Cagni (L’epopea di Erra, 178) mention lines 104–23 as Erra’s first speech in the poem. F. A. M. Wiggermann (“Nergal,” RlA 9:223) sees in lines 109ff. Erra’s self-introductory statement, a guide to the god’s iconography; see further below in §5. 3.  Cagni, L’epopea di Erra, 179, n. 120.

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already mentioned in the god’s opening speech and then is repeated at the close of the poem.

2.  Erra’s Speech Before we proceed to the discussion, we present Erra’s speech and its translation. The text is based mainly on the Sultantepe manuscript, complemented by two additional fragmentary manuscripts. 4 109. ina an-e ri-ma-ku ina ki-tì lab-ba-ka 110. ina k ur šar-ra-ku ina d in g ir. m eš ez-ze-ka 111. ina díg-gì-gì qar-da-ku ina da-nun-na-ki gaš-rak 112. ina bu-lì ma-ḫi-ṣa-ku ina ku r-i šu-ba-ku 113. i-na a-pi dg iš. b ar-[ku] ina qí-ši ma-aš-šá-rak 114. ina a-lak ḫar-ra-nu ú-ri-in-na-ku 115. ki-i i m a-za-qu ki-i diš ku r ur-[t]a-ṣa-an 116. ki-i du t u-ši a-bar-ri [k]ip-pa-ta ka-la-ma 117. a-na e[ d in u]ṣ-ṣi-ma bi-i [b]-ba-ku 118. a-na n[a]-me-e er-ru-ub-ma [(ana/ina é.)me]s.lam ra-m[a-k]u šub-ta 109. In the heaven I am the bull, in the land I am the lion, 110. Over the country I am king, among the gods I am the furious one, 111. Among the Igigi I am the hero, among the Anunnaki I am the valiant one, 112. Among the cattle I am the hunter, in the mountains I am the battering ram, 113. In the canebrake I am the fire, in the grove I am the axe, 114. In battle I am the standard, 115. Like the wind I blow, like Adad I roar, 116. Like Šamaš I survey the whole horizon, 117. When into the st[eppe I e]xit, I am the wild ram, 118. Although to the d[eserted] regions I enter, [in the Eme]slam, (my) home, I dwell.

At this point the self-introductory speech ends and Erra proceeds to explain that his name is held in contempt and Marduk’s command is 4. The manuscripts are S = STT 16 obv. ii (pl. 21), which includes the whole passage; B = KAR 168 obv. ii 45–49 (photograph in Gössmann, Era-Epos, 108), which contains only the second half of lines 109–12 and which breaks off from that point on; and E = K 8571 obv. ii 17–23 (E. T. Harper, “Die Babylonischen Legenden von Etana, Zu, Adapa und Dibbarra,” Beiträge zur Assyriologie und semitischen Sprachwissenschaft 2 [1894] 501; collation by Lambert in Cagni, L’epopea di Erra, fig.14), which contains the initial signs of lines 109–16. Sigla according to Cagni, L’epopea di Erra, 50.

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unheeded (ll. 119–24). He leaves his dwelling and now heads to Babylon, to stir Marduk up and then destroy mankind. Textual Commentary

109: B: lab-ba-ku. 110: B: ez-za-ku. 111: B: da-nun-‹na›-ki gaš-ra-ku. 112: E: ina bu-li. 113: Only manuscript S is available for the second strophe, in which there is some difficulty (B ends with [. . .]-⸢ku⸣??; the rest of the line is lost). Cagni (L’epopea di Erra, 68 and 179) reads ma-ag-šá-rak from magšaru “axe” (so cited also in CAD M/I: 48 and AHw 577), but this is against the signs of the copy. W. G. Lambert (“Review of Das Era-Epos, by P. F. Gössmann,” AfO 18 [1957–58] 400 l. 113) reads with the signs ma-aš-šárak.` The lexical data seems to support this reading with maššaru appearing as a (near)-synonym of našāru “to cut, deduct,” and nušurrû “decrease” in SIG7.ALAN=Nabnītu (MSL 16) 162, 228–31. Hence, maššaru “some kind of axe or cutting instrument” is a better reading than magšaru and a contextually fitting translation. 115. E: ki-i šá-a-r[i . . .]. 118. The second half of the line is only partly preserved in manuscript S. Cagni (Poem of Erra, 31 n. 30), following W. Schramm (“Review of L’epopea di Erra, by L. Cagni,” Or 40 [1971] 271), reads [ina tar]baṣi (tùr) ra-m[a-k]u šub-ta “[in the fo]ld I settle.” Practically all later translations of the poem known to me have followed this restoration. 5 However, this reading is to be rejected on both textual and contextual grounds. The first almost fully preserved sign in question is not [t]ùr but lam, leading me to restore [(ana/ina é.)me]s.lam; see fig. 1 (following copy). Although there seems to be little space left for two or three signs, this restoration is supported by the occurrence of a very similar phrase in the poem in V 22: i-ru-um-ma [ana] ⸢é.⸣mes.lam ir-ta-m[e] ⸢šu-bat-su⸣ “(Erra) entered and took up residence in the Emeslam, his home.” And compare also II c 8 in 5.  Thus J. Bottéro, Mythes et rites de Babylone (Bibliothèque de l’École des hautes etudes; IVe section; Sciences historiques et philologiques 328; Geneva: Slatkine-Champion, 1985) 231; J. Bottéro and S. Kramer, Lorsque les dieux faisaient l’homme: mythologie mésopotamienne (Paris: Gallimard, 1989) 686; S. Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia: Creation, The Flood, Gilgamesh and Others (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991) 289; S. Shifra, “Erra and Išum: The Babylonian Poem of Destruction and Redemption” (Hebrew), Mikarov Literary Review 1 (1997) 43; G. G. W. Müller, “Ischum und Erra,” in Weisheitstexte, Mythen und Epen (TUAT 3/4; ed. K. Hecker et al.; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlaghaus, 1994) 787 l. 118; B. R. Foster, Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature, 3rd ed. (Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2005) 886.

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KAR 169 (with copy, restored according to F. N. H. Al-Rawi and J. A. Black, “The Second Tablet of ‘Išum and Erra’,” Iraq 51 [1989]; see below): [a]-šib-ma ana é.mes.lam [ir-ta-mi] šu-bat-su “[S]itting and [occupying] the Emeslam, his home”; and, most importantly, Al-Rawi and Black, “Second Tablet of ‘Išum and Erra’,” 118, ll. 8/36′ (with copy): a-šib-ma ina mes.lam ra-me šu-bat-[su] “Sitting and occupying the (E)meslam, [his] home.” Note how the temple name was written in this manuscript without é. Such writing is paralleled in one of the amulet copies of the poem. Instead of the usual é.sag.íl, we find sag.gíl (E. Reiner, “Plague Amulets and House Blessings,” JNES 19 [1960] 12, 149, line 12; Cagni, L’epopea di Erra, 102). Since it will be demonstrated that Erra’s speech contains elements that develop later in the poem, our restoration also seems to be warranted contextually; see additional discussion under line 118 in §5 below.

Fig. 1.  STT 16, pl. xxi, line 118, reading (er-ru-ub)-ma [me]s.lam.

3.  The Poetic Structure of Lines 109–18 This section will demonstrate that Erra’s speech can be distinguished from the parts that precede and follow it on the basis of its formal poetic features, which are unique within the entire poem. Its rather rigid form is not typical of Akkadian poetry, which displays much flexibility and eschews standard or repetitive metric patterns. 6 Here each line stands independently and does not form a couplet with the next, in the manner typical of Babylonian poetry. 7 All lines are very short and of similar length in comparison to the poem’s other, more elaborate strains, with each strophe entirely self-contained: a prepositional phrase, either ina or kī, followed by the stative. 8 Also worthy of consideration is the rhyming of the first half of the speech (ll. 109–15, first strophe), with all lines ending with /ak(u)/: rimāk(u) . . . labbāk(u) . . . urinnāk(u) . . . azâq(u). 9 6.  So N. Wasserman, Style and Form in Old Babylonian Literary Texts (CM 27; Leiden: Brill, 2003) 158. 7. See, for instance, A. R. George, The Epic of Gilgamesh: A New Translation (Bath: Penguin, 1999) lii–liv. 8.  See M. L. West, “Akkadian Poetry: Metre and Performance,” Iraq 59 (1997) 180, for the extraordinarily long lines opening the Poem of Erra in comparison with the Old Babylonian Atrahasis, and, to carry on the comparison, with the discussed passage, whose lines are short. 9.  As already noticed by P. F. Gössmann, Das Era-Epos, 76. In the hymnic-epic dialect, the ending of the stative 1st sing. can be shortened and written in apocopated

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This rhyming quality in the passage is not coincidental, given that rhyme in Akkadian is usually deliberately avoided. Its use is dictated, as will be demonstrated in the next section, by the passage’s literary genre, in which the speaker—in this case, Erra—talks of himself. The rhyming lines are part of a declarative performance, the aim of which is to proclaim gnomic sentences about the character of the speaker. The rhythmic quality of these sentences differentiates them from the surrounding narrative material, where the action of the protagonists is laid out. 10 Such a rhyming structure or repeating of short lines is not found elsewhere in the poem. Note that this poetic structure is not original to the passage under discussion, something apparent when the following verse from the self-praise Gula Hymn 11 is compared to it (l. 54): in(a) šamê ṣīrāk(u) | in(a) erṣeti šarrāk(u) In the heaven I am exalted, in the land/netherworld I am queen.

This line bears remarkable similarity to the opening line in the Erra passage, in(a) šamê rīmāk(u) | in(a) erṣēti labbāk(u). We can suggest that the poet adopted a preexisting model familiar to his audience, according to which he fashioned his own passage. As we will show in the next section, it is not only a poetic pattern that the poet of Erra adopted; he also molded the passage in a defined literary genre well suited to express his intentions.

4.  Erra’s Speech as a Self-Praise Hymn This section will define the literary genre to which the discussed passage belongs by comparing it to other compositions. At its close, the choice of the use of the stative through lines 109–18 will be briefly discussed. form. Consider the spelling in manuscript S: gaš-rak (l. 111) and ma-aš-šá-rak (l. 113). Further, evidence of forms like /x-ku/ versus /x-ka/ demonstrates that because the last vowel on the form was open to variation, the form was probably pronounced as short; note B: lab-ba-ku versus S: lab-ba-ka (l. 109) and B: ez-za-ku versus S: ez-ze-ka; see B. Groneberg, Syntax, Morphologie und Stil der jungbabylonischen “hymnischen” Literatur (FAOS 14/1–2; Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1987) 132–33. Since urinnāku (l. 114) is meant to rhyme with azâq (l. 115; spelled a-za-qu, a clear case of an overhanging vowel), one can consider all statives in this passage to have been articulated as truncated. 10.  Instructive here is Wasserman (Style and Form, 162–73), who demonstrates the use of rhyme in defined environments of declarative statements found in incantations, gnomic statements, exclamations, and, most pertinent to the present case, doxologies. Jacob Klein has pointed out to me that rhyme in Akkadian self-praise hymns could have been influenced by similar Sumerian compositions, whose lines end, somewhat invariably, with -gin or -men; see more below in §4. 11.  W. G. Lambert, “The Gula Hymn of Bullutsa-rabi,” Or 36 (1967) 118 l. 54.

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Erra’s opening speech can be defined as belonging to a specific subgenre of hymns: the self-praise hymn. 12 It is intentionally crafted in the style of such compositions, consciously emulating the form to convey its message. While the genre of hymns dedicated to various gods of the Mesopotamian pantheon is well known, the sub-genre of the self-praise hymn is not as well represented, especially as far as Akkadian compositions are concerned. Generally speaking, the self-praise hymn is built around a frame characteristic of the hymn genre: a string of epithets or declaratory phrases dedicated to a certain god or goddess, given in the second or third person, commonly as participles or finite verbs subordinated to a head noun. 13 In the self-praise hymn, however, the speaker is the praised god or goddess, speaking obviously in the first person. 14 Akkadian examples of this subgenre are no more than a few and include five self-praise hymns to Ištar, of which three are bilinguals, 15 the “Gula Hymn,” 16 and compositions that include self-laudatory passages, most notably the “Address of Marduk to 12.  Foster, Before the Muses, 885: “Erra, thoroughly aroused, launches into a selfpraise”; and M. P. Streck, Die Bildersprache der akkadischen Epik (AOAT 264; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1999) 98: “Erra rühmt sich als Beherrscher der gesamten Welt.” Neither Foster nor Streck, however, explicitly identified these lines as belonging to the welldefined genre of self-praise hymns. 13.  W. von Soden, “Hymne (B. Nach akkadischen Quellen),” RlA 4:545. 14. W. Röllig, “Literatur,” RlA 7:54–55. A notable Sumerian self-praise hymn is the “Self-Laudatory Hymn of Inanna and Her Omnipotence”; see S. N. Kramer, “Sumerian Hymns,” in ANET 578–579; W. H. Ph. Römer, Hymnen und Klagelieder (AOAT 276; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2001) 149–58; ETCSL 4.07.6 (Inana F). Sumerian royal hymns can also be styled in the first person, a typical example being Šulgi A; see C. Wilcke, “Hymne (A. Nach sumerischen Quellen),” RlA 4:541; and J. Klein, Three Šulgi Hymns (Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1981) 167–217. A few eršemmas include in their introductions a section identifying the deity in the style of the self-praise hymn; see M. E. Cohen, Sumerian Hymnology: The Eršemma (HUCA Supplements 2; Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College, 1981) nos. 32 and 171. 15.  Akkadian hymns dedicated to Ištar include the Old Babylonian “Self-praise to Ištar” (VS 10 213), edited in A. Falkenstein and W. von Soden, Sumerische und akkadische Hymnen und Gebete (Zurich: Artemis-Verlag, 1953) 239–40; see also Foster, Before the Muses, 95; Wasserman, Style and Form, 77–78, and its somewhat similar counterpart, KAR 331+306 (Foster, Before the Muses, 679). Sumero-Akkadian bilingual self-praise hymns include the “Hymn to Nanâ,” edited in E. Reiner, “A Sumero-Akkadian Hymn of Nanâ,” JNES 33 (1974) 221–36; the “Bilingual Self-praise of Ištar” (‘Úr u-àm-ma-ir-ra-bi’, tablet XXI), edited in M. Cohen, The Canonical Lamentations of Ancient Mesopotamia (Bethesda, MD: CDL, 1988) 573–80, 594–96; K. Volk, Die Balag-Komposition Úru àm-ma-ir-ra-bi: Rekonstruktion und Bearbeitung der Taflen 18 (19 ′ff.), 19, 20 und 21 der späten, kanonischen Version (FAOS 18; Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1989) 132–51. 16.  Lambert, “Gula Hymn.”

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the Demons.” 17 A common feature of these self-praise hymns, although of course it occurs in other hymns too, is the ordering of the godhead with his or her other apparitions, along with his or her identification with different gods or goddesses, together with their temples and chief cities in list-like compositions, particularly in the bilingual self-praise hymns where individual lines are organized in a set pattern (e.g., “I am so-and-so”; “in such-and-such a place I am so-and-so”). 18 This characteristic is found also in the passage under discussion, where Erra is equated (whether explicitly or implicitly) with other gods and his temple is named. The result can be a rather repetitive piece of literature, which, however, can be elaborated, like the “Gula Hymn,” the most sophisticated among these compositions. A comparison with the Sumerian compositions reveals the formulation typical of these self-praise hymns, although the question regarding the dependence or origin of the Akkadian compositions vis-à-vis their Sumerian counterparts is left aside here. We begin with examples from Šulgi A and proceed to “Self-Laudatory Hymn of Inanna and Her Omnipotence” and additional compositions. Šulgi A (ll. 1–5): 19 l ug al -m e- en š à- t a u r- s ag -m e- en d š u l - g i -m e- en b a- t u - u d - d è- en-n a- t a n ita-kala-ga-me-en p i r i g - i g i - ḫu š u š u m g al- e t u - d a-m e- en l ug al - an- ub - d a- lím m u - b a-m e- en n a- g ad a s i p a- s ag - g i6- g a-m e- en I am the king, I am the hero from the womb, I am Šulgi, I am a mighty man from my birth, I am a fierce-faced lion, begotten by a dragon, I am the king of the four regions I am the shepherd, the pastor of the black-headed (people).

“Self-Laudatory Hymn of Inanna and Her Omnipotence” (ll. 21–23): 20 d i n g i r b ur u5-m e- eš m e- e m u - t in- g in d a-nu n-n a d i- d a-m e- eš m e- e s ú n- zi- g in s ú n- z i - a- a- den- líl- lá- g in 17.  W. G. Lambert, “An Address of Marduk to the Demons,” AfO 17 (1954–56) 310–21. 18.  See the remarks of Lambert, “Gula Hymn,” 108, 113; and E. Reiner, “SumeroAkkadian Hymn of Nanâ,” 221–22. 19. Following Klein, Three Šulgi Hymns, 188–89, with slight revisions, taking here -men as the copula for all sentences. 20.  Römer, Hymnen und Klagelieder, 152; translation follows ETCSL 4.07.6 (Inana F).

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The gods are small birds, but I am the falcon, The Anunna mill about, but I am the good wild cow, I am the good wild cow of Father Enlil.

A similar formulation is met in the bilingual hymns, carried over many lines. Consider here the “Inanna-Lied” (l. 16): 21 d u5-mu ù z - s ag - g á dm u - u l- líl. lá-m èn mārtu ašarettu ša Enlil (dmin) anāku I am the foremost daughter of Enlil.

And the ‘Bilingual Self-praise of Ištar’ (ll. 24 and 26): 22 n u-n usx ( nu nu z) m u - lu e-n e- èm- zu m e -e ši-in-ga-gin sinništu mūdeat awât[i] anāku[ma] I am the woman expert in (all) things; s i an-n a í l - la nu-úr šá-me-e m e- e š i- in- g a- g in-[na] «ša» šarū[ru] ša ina šamê šaqû anākuma anāku Truly I am the radiance that is high in the heaven.

A similar but reversed pattern is found in the “Address of Marduk to the Demons.” Two lines will suffice to demonstrate the structure of the composition (ll. C 12–13): 23 anāku Asarluḫi šārik rīti u mašqīti mušaznin nuḫši anāku Asarluḫi ša in ṣīt pîšu uttakkaru lipit namt[ari] I am Asarluḫi who provides pasture and drinking place, who makes abundance rain down, I am Asarluḫi at the utterance of whose mouth the attack of Namt[ar] is warded off.

In the bilingual “Hymn to Nanâ,” the Akkadian phrases are constructed with the stative, apparently adopting, by way of implicit translation, Sumerian nominal sentences with the first-person copula -men (= -gin), as seen above in the examples from the self-praise hymns. The refrain at the end of each strophe is formulated as follows: “they call me so-and-so deity, and still I am Nanâ” (iqabbûni . . . anākuma Nanâ). Consider the following lines, for example (ll. 3–4): 24 21.  Volk, Balag-Komposition, 136. 22.  Volk, Balag-Komposition, 196 and 194; translation following CAD M/II: 164 and Š/II: 141 respectively. 23.  Lambert, “Address of Marduk,” 313, 317. 24.  Reiner, “Sumero-Akkadian Hymn of Nanâ,” 224, 233.

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Yoram Cohen ina Uruk harimāku ina Daduni tulâ kubbutāku (var.: tulêya kabbūte) ina Bābili ziqna zaq[nāku] (var.: zikrāku) anākuma Nanâ In Uruk I am the harlot, in Dadunu I am very heavy with breasts (var.: my breasts are very heavy), In Babylon I am bearded with a beard (var.: I am the male), I am indeed still Nanâ.

As in the “Hymn to Nanâ,” the “Gula Self-praise Hymn” employs the stative form, especially in the following lines, whose structure is reminiscent of Erra’s speech (ll. 118–23): 25 ruṣṣunāku ina ilāti banâku ina šarrāti ḫipāku ina ardāti šūsumāku ina damqāti šarkāku ana ilūtišu ana bēli ša ilāni ašarēdu erreddi I am most esteemed among the goddesses I am beautiful among the queens I am attractive among the maidens I am exceptionally befitting among the fair women I have been granted to his divinity, I am conducted to the lord of the gods, the foremost one.

Composed along the same techniques is a short passage in the Annals of Adad-nērārī II, an experiment of sorts in the genre of self-praise, which apparently did not gain much popularity among the scribes of the Assyrian royal inscriptions. 26 Although not as sophisticated as the Erra passage or the “Gula Self-Praise Hymn,” the Assyrian passage demonstrates how the form of the self-praise hymn could be manipulated and embedded within other genres. Given here are parts of ll. 14–15, which include in total seventeen (!) first-person stative forms: 27 šarrāku bēlāku gešrāku kabtāku naʾdāku . . . labbāku u zikrāku ašaredāku ṣīrāku šitmurāku 25.  Lambert, “Gula Hymn,” 122–25, with slight modifications of his translation, following CAD R: 427; Š/II: 44; and Š/III: 375. 26. Very similar passages, perhaps based on the one found in the inscription of Adad-nērārī II, are found in the inscriptions of Tukultī-Ninurta II (A. K. Grayson, Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium bc, I (1114–859 BC) [RIMA 2; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1991] 166) and of Assurnasirpal (Grayson, RIMA 2, 195– 96, 239, and 264). 27.  Grayson, RIMA 2, 147.

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I am the king, I am the lord, I am strong, I am important, I am praised . . . I am the lion and I am the male, I am the foremost, I am exalted, I am raging.

Like the examples taken from the “Gula Self-praise Hymn” and the passage from Adad-nērārī II’s inscription, Erra’s opening speech is also studded with stative forms before the speech switches to first-person finite verbs. 28 The choice of the stative form is not accidental, but rather it is chosen deliberately. The praise of a certain god describes a situation, which is static, while the epic by nature is more dynamic. Therefore, on the structural level in narrative sequences, such as those found in epic literature, one encounters “active” verbs, whereas “stative” constructions (that is, in the Zustand sense) appear in hymns. 29 As is apparent from the examples above, we can find either phrases of the type X anākuma (“I am so-and-so”) or statives, neither of which indicate tense or aspect. 30 This aspectlessness or timelessness of stative or verbless clauses is appropriate for the declarative character of the hymn genre, which introduces a set of unalterable facts concerning this or that deity. In this regard, it is worth recalling É. Benveniste’s analysis of the nominal assertion, which he considered as “inherently timeless, impersonal [that is, beyond the subjectivity of the speaker], non-modal— in short, expressive of semantic content alone.” 31 It is found, as Benveniste observed, to be linked to direct discourse, where it replaces narrative or dialogue. It wishes to establish a timeless and permanent statement that 28.  In total, twelve stative forms; see also Streck, Bildersprache, 98–99. 29. See K. Hecker, Untersuchungen zur akkadischen Epik (AOAT Sonderreihe Bd. 8; Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker/Neukirchener: Neukirchen-Vluyn, 1974) 83–85. 30.  Following the analysis of G. Buccellati, “An Interpretation of the Akkadian Stative as a Nominal Sentence,” JNES 27 (1968) 1–12; and J. Huehnergard, “On Verbless Clauses in Akkadian,” ZA 76 (1986) 218–49. Huehnergard (“On Verbless Clauses,” 232–33, and passim) regards the stative as a noun marked for predicativity. As such, the stative lowers or eliminates the ambiguity which may arise from two unmarked (i.e., nominative) consecutive nouns. The suffix pronoun marking of substantives (“the stative”), and not only verbal adjectives as in other Semitic languages (“the perfect conjugation”), may have been the result of the influence of Sumerian, at least by the interaction of both languages through the medium of literary compositions (so Huehnergard, “On Verbless Clauses,” 239 n. 78, at the advice of D. O. Edzard, for whose opinion see now Edzard, Sumerian Grammar [HdO I 71; Leiden: Brill, 2003] 176). Another option for formulating verbless clauses is the inversion of the usual subject–predicate order in Akkadian, resulting in sentences of the predicate–(pronoun–)subject type (e.g., sinništu . . . anākuma, as seen in the bilingual self-praise hymns above). 31.  “The Nominal Sentence,” in Problems in General Linguistics (Coral Gables, FL: University of Miami Press, 1971) 137.

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is authoritative, having “the value of argument, of proof, of reference.” 32 Hence Erra’s self-praise is not discursive, that is, it neither engages in a dialogue with nor offers a specific direct response to any of the previous statements made by Išum or the Sibitti. Erra’s speech anticipates the narrative rather than propelling it forward. As will be demonstrated below, it thereby presents in the first person an authoritative timeless statement about the quality and character of the god, as in other self-praise hymns, rather than a time-bound declaration of his actions. The verbless clause, well-suited to convey declarative rather than narrative statements, thus defines the essence of Erra’s personality and being, within the well-chosen parameters of the literary genre of the self-praise hymn.

5.  Lexicon, Semantics, and Content Thus far the discussion has focused on the passage’s poetic structure and genre. We turn now to discuss the choice of lexicon, semantics, and the overall content of the passage in relation to the whole of the composition. It will be demonstrated that nearly all of Erra’s epithets and their accompanying prepositional phrases either correspond to the narrative section of the poem or hint at the characteristics of other major characters of the composition. 33 Moreover, it will be shown that many of the epithets have intertextual connections with other compositions, thus broadening Erra’s character by force of association. We begin with line 109 and proceed from there to analyze Erra’s speech line by line. 109a: in(a) šamê rīmāk(u) In the heaven I am the bull

Great divine powers such as Enlil, Ninurta, Šamaš, and Adad were compared to the bull, 34 as were legendary heroes, like Gilgameš, and Mesopo32.  Benveniste, “Nominal Sentence,” 143. Of course it would be wrong to claim that every nominal phrase in Akkadian (or in other languages) possesses all or part of these qualities, but rather that, given the genre or context in which it is employed, the verbless clause can be analyzed as such. 33.  Consider here (following P. Machinist, “Order and Disorder: Some Mesopotamian Reflections,” in Genesis and Regeneration: Essays on Conceptions of Origin [ed. S. Shaked; Jerusalem: The Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 2005] 42, 47, and 53) the hymnic-style prologues of Lugal-e and the Epic of Anzu, which anticipate, although in a more general way than the opening speech of Erra, the resolution of the cosmic battle between the hero and his adversary. 34. W. Heimpel, Tierbilder der sumerischen Literatur (Studia Pohl 2; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1968) 79–121. See also Cagni (L’epopea di Erra, 179), who suggests an allusion to the bull of heaven.

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tamian kings, like Ḫammurabi, Salmaneser, and Sennacherib. 35 Hence the comparison between the wild animal and Erra, who wishes to assert his authority in heaven and earth like other gods, is fitting. Note that the association of the god Erra with the bull may go back to the original writing of the god’s name with the sign of a bull’s head, and, thus, ties Erra to Nergal, whose animal attribute is likewise the bull. 36 Obviously, by the time the poem was composed the reason for this association was long forgotten. 109b: in(a) erṣēti labbāk(u) In the land I am the lion

The association of the lion, a recognized symbol of Mesopotamian kingship, with Mesopotamian divinities, including, among others, Ištar, Šamaš, Ninurta, and—especially relevant for the present context—Nergal, is well known. 37 The lion’s threat to urban life, like that of the wild bull, is revealed throughout Mesopotamian sources. In the poem, the mention of the lion in this speech adumbrates the destructive power that Erra will unleash later on. Išum reports that, at the destruction of Babylon, when Erra enters Babylon: IV 21: zīm labbi taššakinma tēterub ana ekalli You donned the appearance of a lion and entered into the palace. 38

The symbolism could hardly be clearer: Erra’s entry into the palace of the Babylonian capital accords with a quintessential marker of kingship in Mesopotamia. Later, while contemplating his cruel deeds, Erra compares his indiscriminate killing of good and wicked alike to a preying lion none can stop: V 11: ina pī labbi nā’iri ul ikkimū šalamtu They could not snatch away the corpse(s) from the mouth of the raging lion. 39 35.  See the examples in CAD R: 361ff.; and consider also Wasserman, Style and Form, 155–56. 36.  See the studies of P. Steinkeller, “The Name of Nergal,” ZA 77 (1987) 161–68; and “Studies in Third Millennium Paleography, 4: Sign KIŠ,” ZA 94 (2004) 175–85; also Wiggermann, “Nergal,” 215 and 223. 37. W. Heimpel, “Löwe (A. I. Mesopotamien),” RlA 7:84; and Wiggermann, “Nergal,” 223. 38. Similar formulations, but in fragmentary contexts, are found earlier in II b (?)/15′ (Al-Rawi and Black, “Second Tablet of ‘Išum and Erra’,” 118), III a 3 and 22. 39.  Erra’s carnage certainly left an impression on Assurbanipal’s scribes, who describe the aftermath of the king’s battle thus: kīma dadbê Erra tabkat šalamtu pagrī alpē

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The Sibitti, Erra’s accomplices, who represent the god’s many attributes, are each endowed by their begetter Anu with one quality. At the poem’s beginning Anu says to the third Sibitti: I 34: zīm labbi lū šaknā[t]ama āmirka liš-/liḫ-ḫarmiṭ Take on the appearance of a lion so that who(ever) sees you will dissolve. 40 110a: in(a) māti šarrāk(u) Over the country I am king

This line refers to the poem’s opening line, šar gimir dadmē “king of all habitations,” which in turn evokes the opening lines of the Epic of Anzu, bīn šar dadmē “son of the king of habitations,” where Ninurta features as the son and Enlil, his father, as king of habitations. 41 In the Erra poem the epithet alludes to the head of the pantheon, Marduk, who is referred to as šar gim[ri] “king of total[ity]” in I 150 and throughout as šar ilāni “king of the gods.” However, it is a matter of debate to whom among the three main characters of the poem the opening epithet specifically refers because the second half of the line, which would have identified the epithet’s bearer, is broken. 42 Whatever the case, a tension exists among Išum, Erra, and Marduk that is reflected by the intentional use of shared epithets, titles, and, of course, roles, as chief protagonists of the poem. 43 It is Erra who in fact becomes king of the world once Marduk descends to the netherworld. Note too that others gods are also named šarru in the poem; these include Anu, as king of the gods, Ea, and Šamaš. 110b: in(a) ilāni ezzēk(u) Among the gods I am the furious one u ṣ[ēni . . .] “as if (during) Erra’s massacre, corpse(s) were scattered about, carcasses of oxen and s[heep . . .]”; see CAD Š/1: 204; T. Bauer, Das Inschriftenwerk Assurbanipals (2 vols.; Leipzig: J. C. Hinrich, 1933) 2:87 rev. 7. 40. See CAD N/I: 126–27 sub naḫarmuṭu “dissolve, melt.” 41.  Dalley, Myths from Mesopotamia, 313; Machinist, “Order and Disorder,” 47; A. Annus, The Standard Babylonian Epic of Anzu (SAACT 3; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 2001) xxv. The association between the two works is further evidenced by the inclusion of both on the same tablet from Tarbiṣu; see H. W. F. Saggs, “Additions to Anzu,” AfO 33 (1986) 1–2. 42.  Cagni (Poem of Erra, 15 and 27) opts for Išum, as do Dalley (Myths from Mesopotamia, 313), Machinist (“Order and Disorder,” 47), and Edzard (“Irra [Erra]– Epos,” RlA 5:166); Foster (Before the Muses, 881), however, presumes Marduk. 43.  As argued by Machinist, “Rest and Violence in the Poem of Erra,” JAOS 103 (1983) 223–24.

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Already identified as king of habitations—that is, human life 44—Erra must also hold a domain in the kingdom of the gods. The choice of the epithet ezzu “fierce, furious” is intentional, providing a link between Erra and the divine fire, Girra, another destructive force, as the latter bears the same attribute (III c 50). Indeed, a perusal of the dictionaries demonstrates that ezzu frequently appears as the attribute of išātu “fire,” something motivated perhaps by partial phonetic similarity. The association between the god and fire will be met yet again further on in the passage. The Sibitti, like the weapons they carry, 45 are endowed with fierceness, as is their master, Erra: I 45 šunu ezzūma tebû kakkūšun They (the Sibitti) are fierce, their weapons on the go.

It is this quality of fierceness that drives the heart to fury, inciting violence. The governor of Babylon is driven by the force of Erra to wreak violence upon his city: IV 23: ša šakkanakki mutīr gimil Bābili īteziz libbašu The heart of the governor, avenger of Babylon, turned into fury. 46 111: in(a) Igigi qardāk(u) in(a) Anunnaki gašrāk Among the Igigi I am the hero, among the Anunna I am the valiant one

The mention of the gods in line 110b prompts the next theme in line 111, where Erra’s supremacy among the Igigi and Anunna is expressed. 47 Later, at the beginning of tablet V, Erra gives his final speech, his anger now pacified, we read: 44. The collocation nišī dadmē (I 41 and 107; V 61) refers to mankind, upon whom Erra will bring his wrath. 45.  See I 4, 35, 44, 98, 186; III c 26, for the association between the Sibitti and their weaponry. Weapons, instruments of the forces of destruction, are frequently described as ezzūtu “fierce” throughout the poem. 46. Following Foster, Before the Muses, 902. 47.  The rule of Erra, instead of Marduk who departs to the underworld, is voiced by Išum in III d: Erra holds the nose-rope of heaven, rules the seas and mountains, and controls the temples of Enlil (the Ešarra), Ea (the E-engur), and Marduk (the Esagil); see also Hruška, “Einige Überlegungen zum Erraepos,” BiOr 30 (1973) 7 n. 41. Erra in fact has gathered all the parṣū, which belonged to Marduk, to himself (III d 9): gimir parṣī hammāta “You have gathered to yourself all the parṣū”; Oshima (Babylonian Prayers to Marduk [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011] 397 [IP 17]) compares this phrase to l. 26 of the incantation šurbû etel ilī Marduk gašru, attributed to Marduk: [kul]lat parṣū ḫamm[āta] “[You] have gathered to yourself [al]l the parṣū.”

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Yoram Cohen V 2–3: ilānu gimiršunu inaṭṭalū panuššu // Igigi u Anunna(ki) kullassunu uzuzzū palḫiš All the gods look at his face, the Igigi and Anunna, all of them, stand fearfully. 48

Two epithets are attributed to Erra here, qardāk(u) and gašrāk(u). The epithet qarrād ilāni “hero of the gods,” or simply qarrādu/qurādu “hero,” accompanies Erra at his introduction (I 5) and throughout the composition to its very end. 49 His valor is synonymous with his name, to be acknowledged by the gods, rulers, and men, once Erra subsides: I 75: ilānu abbūka līmurūma linādū qurdīka The gods, your begetters, will see and praise your heroic deeds. V 51–52: šarru ša šumī ušarbû libēl kibrāti // rubû ša tanitti qarrādūtia idabbubu māḫira ay-irši The king who will elevate my name will rule the world // the prince who will speak of my valor will have no rival. 50 V 60–61: mātāti napḫaršina lišmâma linādā qurdia // nišī dadmē līmurāma lišarbâ šumī All the lands will hear and praise my valor // people of the inhabited world will see and elevate my name.

The specific use of this epithet for gods other than Erra accentuates his assimilation of their roles: both Išum and Nergal are described as qurādu “hero” (V 39; III c 31), while the Sibitti are qarrād lā šanān “hero(es) without compare,” a locution that reappears throughout the poem (e.g., I 8, 23, III c 12, and IV 140). The second half of the line has gašrāk (< gašru “strong”). The choice of this epithet is deliberate, in spite of the fact that the adjective does not appear elsewhere in the composition. It functions here as a cryptographic pun. The Sumerian equivalent of gašru is er9-ra (previously transliterated as gìr-ra) “strong, mighty,” an epithet reserved for Nergal and Ninurta 48.  Similar expressions of fear (palḫiš) of the gods before Marduk or Enlil can be found in CAD P: 64–65. 49. See Cagni, L’epopea di Erra, 297–98, sub qardu, qarrādu, qarrādūtu, qurādu and qurdu. In one incantation amulet invoking the god Erra along with Marduk, Išum, and the Sibitti, and which is obviously dependent on the poem, the god is called Erra qarrād ilāni “Erra hero of the gods”; see Reiner, “Plague Amulets and House Blessings,” 151 line 2. The noun qurādu as the epithet of Erra is found in Old Babylonian compositions as well as Neo-Assyrian inscriptions; see Cagni, Poem of Erra, 15. 50. For tanitti qarrādūtia “praise of my valor,” see CAD Q: 144; and T: 173–74.

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but alluding obviously to the protagonist’s name—Erra. 51 This equation is reflected in the lexical tradition, 52 as well as in Sumero-Akkadian bilinguals. 53 For example, in the god list An=Anum, dEr9-ra equals Nergal, with whom Erra is identified in the poem. 54 112a: in(a) būli māḫiṣāk(u) Among the cattle I am the hunter

As Cagni has shown, 55 the term būlu “cattle” is a topos in the poem that refers to herds, either domesticated or roaming in the wild. 56 The fact that būlu stands as a metaphor of the human victims of the conflict is made clear by the following sentence—whose dependence on line 112 is obvious—when Išum reports on Erra’s destruction of mankind: 57 IV 93: nišīšu būlumma māḫiṣu ilšin His people—the cattle, the hunter—their god. 51. See Steinkeller (“Studies in Third Millennium Paleography,” 176), who notes that Sumerian er9-ra “strong” is a secondary formation derived from “Erra” because of the god’s association or equation with the Akkadian deity Bēl-gašir. A different opinion is offered by W. G. Lambert, “Lugal-irra and Meslamta-ea,” RlA 7:143. There is now new evidence of a hypostasis of the god Nergal named Gašrum, written gaKIŠ.UNUG, in a late Pre-Sargonic or early Sargonic inscription dedicated to Nergal; see Steinkeller, “A Dedication to Nergal (Text 8),” in Cuneiform Royal Inscriptions and Related Texts in the Schøyen Collection (ed. A. R. George; CUSAS 17; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2011) 8–9. It can also be noted that the personal name Erra-gašir is well attested in Mesopotamian sources, an additional indication that the choice of gašru here was deliberate. The name of Erra is spelled in the poem as èr-ra (èr = ara d). 52.  Note the Boğazköy Sa Vocabulary (MSL 3) 64, 10′: e r9 = ga-aš-ru = a-ra-anza ša-[. . .] (Hitt. “standing . . .”). Explict Malku I, seg. 3, 23 and Malku=šarru I, 52 (DCCLT/1st millennium/Synonym Lists) have i-ru = ga-áš-ru, where iru is to be analyzed as an Akkadian back formation from “Sumerian” e r9-r a; see Steinkeller, “Name of Nergal,” 165. 53.  Steinkeller, “Studies in Third Millennium Paleography,” 176; and CAD G: 56–57. 54.  R. L. Litke, A Reconstruction of the Assyro-Babylonian God-Lists, AN: dA-nu-um and AN:Anu šá amēli (TBC 3; New Haven: Yale Babylonian Collection) 102, 207: d Er9ir.ra = ŠU (dGÌR.UNU7.GAL = Nergal). Note the pronunciation gloss “ir” for GÌR (=er9). This tradition for writing the god’s name is reflected also in d i r i=(w)atru (MSL 15) 50, 657; cf. idem, 36, 11:11. See Steinkeller, “Studies in Third Millennium Paleography,” 175 n. 4; and Wiggermann, “Nergal,” 217. 55.  Cagni, L’epopea di Erra, 158–61. 56.  For the translation of māḫiṣu “archer, hunter,” see W. G. Lambert, “Review of The Poem of Erra, by L. Cagni,” JSS 25 (1980) 95. 57.  Streck, Bildersprache, 99. The resolution of metaphors towards the end of the poem is part of the intention of the composition in translating or transposing theological or mythological concepts into concrete terms.

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The “hunter” or “archer” here can be understood as a metaphor for disease, plague, or wild animals 58 that strike cattle or mankind, since both are under Erra’s control: 59 III d 6: nišī redāta būlamma reʾâta You lead the people, you shepherd the herds.

The cattle, who will fear Erra, will later be cursed by him and return to clay, the material from which they were formed, by disease, fire, or wild beasts. I 74 būlu līrurma litūr ana ṭiṭṭi The cattle will tremble and turn into clay. IV 150 būla īrurma utīr ana ṭiṭṭi He (Erra) cursed the cattle and turned them into clay.

This is one of the allusions in the poem to traditional mythological ideas about the world before the flood or at its creation, because it is out of the clay that the demiurge forms mankind. 60 112b: in(a) šadê šubāk(u) In the mountains I am the battering ram

Erra’s self-identification as šubû “battering ram” against the mountains anticipates his leveling of the mountains, the source of Babylonia’s enemies. 61 Although the etymology of the word (ya)šibu/(ya)šubu > šubû is 58. As brought to my notice by Nathan Wasserman; see CAD M/I: 75–76 sub maḫāṣu, denoting the attack of demons, gods, diseases, etc.; see further below on line 117. 59.  Nergal’s power over the herds as hunter is alluded to in several sources that associate him with Šakkan, the god of the wild animals; see George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003) 850–51. Thus we can understand the nature of the tie forged between Šakkan, under whose aegis lie the herds (e.g., I 43, 77, 85; see Cagni, L’epopea di Erra, 157–61), and Erra, demonstrating yet again how the latter usurps the power of other gods around him; cf. below ll. 113, 115 and 116. 60.  Principal mythological allusions in the poem include the birth of the Sibitti by the union of heaven and earth (I 28–29; Lambert, “Review of Das Era-Epos,” 400), the noise (ḫubūru) mankind produces that disturbs the gods, which Erra will silence (I 73, 82, IV 68; Cagni, Poem of Erra, 29), the flood (abūbu; I 132, IV 50; Cagni, Poem of Erra, 33, 51), and the creation of mankind by Marduk (II b 10–11; Al-Rawi and Black, “Second Tablet of ‘Išum and Erra’,” 115–16); there are also evocations of the Ninurta mythology, including a reference to the Epic of Anzu (III c 31–33; Cagni, Poem of Erra, 45; Wiggermann, “Nergal,” 221; Machinist, “Order and Disorder,” 48). 61. See CAD A/II: 428; AHw 412.

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not clear, its logographic writing giš.gu4.si.dil “instrument of a single horn of the bull” 62 links the battering ram to a horned animal, an image found in many languages. 63 The mountains are also the home of the herds (būlu); thus a link between the line’s two halves is forged. The association of the two is encountered further when Erra explains his future deeds (also recounted in IV 147): 64 II c 26: šadê ubbatma būlšunu ušam[qat] I will destroy the mountains, their herd I will le[vel].

In SB Gilgamesh, VI 40, the function of the battering ram is clearly articulated: yašubu muabbit dūr abni (var.: māt nukurti) “a battering ram, destroyer of the stone-fortress (var.: fortress of the enemy land).” 65 A very similar expression, as noted by George, 66 appears in Maqlû II 141, where it is Girra who destroys the stone fortress. 113. in(a) api dGirrā[k(u)] ina qīši maššarāk In the canebrake I am the fire, in the grove I am the axe

In this line an association between Erra and Girra, the fire god, is made explicit. 67 Erra himself is likened to the torch, as Išum declares: 68 I 10: atta dipārumma inaṭṭalū nūrka You are the torch, people will see your light. 62.  Hh VIIa (MSL 6) 90, entries 86ff. 63. For the use of the battering ram in ancient warfare, see I. Ephʿal, The City Besieged: Siege and Its Manifestations in the Ancient Near East (CHANE 36; Leiden: Brill, 2009) 82–83. 64.  Compare the anticipated destruction of the mountains by the fourth Sibitti in I 35. For the mountains as the location where the battle takes place, see Cagni 1969: 242–43; note that mount ḪI-ḪI, the location of the nomad hordes is read now as mount šár-šár; see George, Babylonian Literary Texts in the Schøyen Collection (CUSAS 10; Bethesda, MD: CDL Press, 2009) 12–14 with previous literature; Annus, Standard Babylonian Epic of Anzu, xxv–xxvi; and C. Woods, “At the Edge of the World: Cosmological Conceptions of the Eastern Horizon in Mesopotamia,” JANER 9 (2009) 217–19. 65.  George, Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, 334–35 line 17 ′ (MB manuscript from Emar) and 620–21 line 40 (SB version). 66.  George, Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, 832. 67. For dgi š. bar = dGirra, see Litke, Reconstruction, 107, 334ff., and d i r i=(w)atru (MSL 15) 36, 11.02–03. 68.  Lines I 9ff. are spoken by Išum to Erra, as argued already by Hruška (“Einige Überlegungen zum Erraepos,” 5) and demonstrated most recently again by W. Farber (“Die einleitende Episode des Erra-Epos,” AoF 35 [2008] 262–67).

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And one of the Sibitti, Erra’s executioners, is likened to Girra (I 33): he will burn like him, hot as a flame. Eventually, what is found as potential in line 113 will be realized, as Erra states: II c 28: apu u qīšu ušaḫrarma kī dGirra aqa[mmu] I will destroy canebrake and forest, like Girra I will bu[rn] (them). 69

Just as the audience is led to understand what underlies the metaphor of būlu “cattle” in 112a, so here the metaphor of the canebrake burnt by fire is resolved when Erra enters Babylon, at the beginning of tablet IV. IV 6: mārū Bābili ša kīma qanê api pāqida lā išû napḫaršunu elīka iptaḫrū The citizens of Babylon, who like reeds of the canebrake have no guardian, all of them have gathered around you. 70

The simile (kīma) resolves the metaphor of line 113. The citizens of Babylon are like reeds; they have no guardian now that Marduk is gone. 71 They will bring destruction upon themselves, as the ensuing lines show, finally burning their own city: IV 14: ana ešrēt Bābili kī šālil māti ittadû išātu Like looter`s of the land, they have thrown fire into the sanctuaries of Babylon.

The maššaru, as discussed above, is probably an axe of some sort, but no clear identification can be made with the weapons carried by Nergal or Erra in other compositions or on the basis of visual representations. However, at the beginning of the poem (I 12) Erra is identified with the namṣaru “sword,” a weapon known to be yielded by Nergal. 72 69.  Streck, Bildersprache, 99. This is repeated almost verbatim in IV 149, when Erra’s actions are described. The destruction of the forest and the reeds in the canebrake is anticipated already in I 71–72 (+K 16965; see W. G. Lambert, “New Fragments of Babylonian Epics,” AfO 27 [1980] 77). Lines 112–13 of the discussed passage are repeated in a broken context in III c 60–61. 70.  Compare Marduk’s title in Enūma Eliš, VII 85 (= P. Talon, The Standard Babylonian Creation Myth: Enūma Eliš [SAACT 4; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 2005] 73; CAD A/II: 438): pāqidu ešrēti “provider of sanctuaries.” 71.  See also Streck, Bildersprache, 129. A similar resolution of another metaphor in the poem can be found in IV 18; see H. L. J. Vanstiphout, “Erra IV 18,” NABU 1996/53, 44–46; and J. A. Black, “The Imagery of Birds in Sumerian Poetry,” in Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian (ed. M. Vogelzang et al.; Groningen: Styx, 1996) 27. 72. Cf., in a broken context, III c 68. For Nergal’s weapons, see Wiggermann, “Nergal,” 223–25, and M. Herles, Götterdarstellungen Mesopotamiens in der 2. Hälfte

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114: in(a) alāk ḫarrānu urinnāk(u) In battle I am the standard

The urinnu (gi.ùri) “protective standard” can be compared to Nergal’s “big protective standard,” the urimgallu (gi.ùri.gal), 73 under whose guise the god himself accompanies the army. Hence, this line alludes to Nergal’s or Erra’s attribute, the battle standard, and by implication, to his role in battle as the vanguard. 74 Thus Erra commands Išum to open the way so that he may go to battle (repeated in II c 12; III c 24): I 96: ṭūda petēma luṣbat ḫarrāni Open the road so that I may go to battle.

At the beginning of the poem (I 11) Erra is said to be ālik maḫrimma “the vanguard,” 75 an epithet he receives again when he goes on his destructive rampage (as in IV 15). Išum, as Erra’s helper or vizier, is called ālik maḫrīya “my vanguard” (I 99, 105, 108, IV 137, V 13, 46). Clearly a reference is intended here to dPalil (wr. IGI.DU = ālik maḫri), “the vanguard,” one of Nergal’s minions, who is also identified with the god himself, with the avatars of Erra and Nergal—Lugal-Erra, and MeslamtaEa, 76 and, by association, with Erra. 77 115. kī šāri azâq kī Adad ur[t]aṣṣan Like the wind I blow, like Adad I roar

In lines 115–16 Erra is compared to the wind, Adad, and Šamaš—all three harbingers of the future. 78 They are mentioned as destructive forces when violence erupts in the city of Der (IV 81–83; see below). des 2. Jahrtausends v. Chr.: Das anthropomorphe Bild im Verhältnis zum Symbol (AOAT 329; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2006) 240–43. For the role of Erra’s weapon as his vizier, see Lambert, “Studies in Nergal” (Review of Der babylonische Gott Nergal, by E. von Weiher [AOAT 11; Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker/Neukirchener: Neukirchen-Vluyn, 1971]), BiOr 30 (1973) 356. 73.  Hh IX (MSL 7) 50, 283, 286. 74.  Wiggermann, “Nergal,” 222 and 226, with previous literature. Streck (Bildersprache, 100) wishes to translate urinnu here as “eagle” (AHw 1430 sub urinnu I), a symbol of might on the battlefield, but the context of battle and associations with Nergal favor here the understanding of urinnu as the “battle-standard,” regardless of the origin or etymology of the word. 75. Following Farber (“Einleitende Episode des Erra-Epos”), for Erra as the subject of this and following lines. See above, n. 68. 76.  Wiggermann, “Nergal,” 216. The equation of p a l i l (wr. IGI.DU; Akk. pālilu “vanguard”) with ālik maḫri is found, for example, in d i r i=(w)atru (MSL 15) 124, 93. 77.  Note the deity dÈr-ra-pa-lil in AN VII 166, cited in CAD L: 228; P: 66. 78.  Streck (Bildersprache, 127) sees lines 115–16 merely as a metaphorical description of Erra’s might and is less intent on equating the god with Adad and Šamaš.

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The wind, evidently an evil force in this context, is mentioned as the power of the fifth Sibitti. 79 And when Marduk is about to descend to refurbish his image in the netherworld, the evil wind blows ([šāru] lemnu iziqqamma; I 174), threatening mankind. The wind, Erra says ironically, will be brought under control by him (I 187). Of course, the opposite happens, as Babylon’s luxuriant top (that is, the city’s high temple) is dried out, like a palm’s crown, by the wind (IV 40). 80 Then, the seven winds, probably as representatives of the Sibitti, blow against the land (IV 75). 81 The second half of the line refers to Adad, to whom Erra is likened, not unintentionally, since Marduk is frequently equated with Adad, most famously in Enūma Eliš. 82 However, in the poem, when Erra sets off on the warpath, he tells Adad to restrain his bull calves, 83 who are responsible, as is known from a different source, for the rain and clouds. By doing so Erra curtails Adad’s power and becomes, with the Sibitti, responsible over the forces of nature. 84 116. kī Šamši abarri [k]ippata kalāma Like Šamaš I survey the whole horizon

As in the case of Adad, Erra compares his powers to those of Šamaš, who sees all in his role as diviner (see III a 23) and judge. This phraseology is found in other compositions dedicated to Šamaš or Marduk, who has, like 79.  Thus I 36: kīma šāri zīqma “blow like the wind.” 80.  For this line, see Streck, Bildersprache, 128. 81. See Cagni, L’epopea di Erra, 237. Consider also IV 145 with the commentary of Cagni, L’epopea di Erra, 245; and George, Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, 884. 82.  Enūma Eliš VII 119ff. (Talon, Standard Babylonian Creation Myth, 75; note the usage of raṣānu “to roar”): Addu lu šumšu . . . ṭābu rigmašu eli erṣeti lirtaṣṣin “Adad will be his name . . . his goodly noise will roar over the earth.” Compare also T. Oshima, Babylonian Prayers, 394 (KAR 337+304) 16′–17′: [šu]m(m u )ka dAddu . . . ša ina kiṣir [urpāti ur]taṣṣanu . . . “Your name is Adad . . . who [r]oars among the throng [of clouds].” 83.  In II c 16: ana Addi aqabbi kilā būrē[ka] “I will say to Adad, ‘Restrain [your] bull calves!’ ” 84.  Cagni (Poem of Erra, 41) explains that the reference in the poem to Adad’s bull calves can be clarified with the help of an astrological commentary: a n-n i - a-m a-r u abūb šamê(an e) / ḫu r-sag-d i ḫēsû šadî(ku r i) / 2 būrē(am ar. m eš) ša Adad(di š k u r) “The flood of heaven, the ‘coverer’ of the mountains: (these are) the two bull calves of Adad’ ”; E. Weidner, “Ein astrologischer Sammeltext aus der Sargonidenzeit,” AfO 19 (1959–60) 110 ll. 37–38; W. Horowitz, Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography (MC 8; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1998) 7; translation following D. Schwemer, Die Wettergottgestalten Mesopotamiens und Nordsyriens im Zeitalter der Keilschrifkulturen (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2001) 483. For the poet’s knowledge of astronomical and astrological lore, see below under line 117.

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Erra, the powers of the sun god. 85 Erra, who will have Adad restrain his bull calves, will also set out to extinguish the sun (II c 14). To conclude the discussion of lines 115–16, we cite the passage where Adad, Šamaš, and the wind are brought together to inflict damage upon mankind, demonstrating yet again how themes encountered in the opening speech are developed later on in the poem. IV 81–83: ša rubû lā uštamqitūšu dAdad iraḫḫissu ša dAdad lā irtaḫṣušu dŠamaš i-tab-bal-šú ša ana erṣeti ittaṣû ‹i›šabbissu šāru He whom a prince did not strike, Adad will devastate, He whom Adad did not devastate, Šamaš will carry away (to the netherworld), He who went off to the netherworld, the wind will blow away. 86 117. ana ṣ[ēri uṣ]ṣīma bibbāk(u) When into the st[eppe I e]xit, I am the wild ram

Animal metaphors continue here, as in the opening lines of Erra’s speech. Erra is now the bibbu “wild sheep,” leaving for the open country (ṣēru), the arena of the battle, like the mountains in the poem. 87 Two additional meanings are embedded in the word bibbu apart from “wild sheep.” The first is the meaning of bibbu as “plague,” obviously brought down by Nergal; the second is a reference to the astral aspect of Nergal, as bibbu (wr. udu.idim)—the planet Mercury, and sometimes Mars. 88 Thus, bibbu as “planet” ties in with the line 116 which mentions Šamaš as the heavenly body. 85.  Compare the “Šamaš Hymn” (W. G. Lambert, Babylonian Wisdom Literature [Oxford: Clarendon, 1960] 126–27, but with a different translation), lines 21–22: šurrāta ana ḫursāni erṣeta tabarri // kippat mātāti(k u r. k u r) ina qereb šamê(a n e) šaqlāta “going down to the mountains (i.e., to the netherworld), you inspect the netherworld // from the sky you judge (lit. weigh) the circle of the lands.” Compare Lambert, “Address of Marduk,” 313, 317, C 5: anāku dAsarluḫi ša kīma Šamši ibarru mātāti(kur.kur. meš) “I am Asarluḫi (i.e., Marduk) who, like Šamaš, surveys the lands.” 86.  Following the translation of Westenholz (“Intimations of Mortality,” in Studi sul Vicino Oriente Antico dedicati alla memorai di Luigi Cagni [ed. S. Graziani; Naples, 2000] 1182–85), who understands that even after Šamaš has brought the dead to the netherworld, Erra’s evil forces will give no respite; cf. Foster, Before the Muses, 905. 87.  In I 9, Erra says lūṣīma ana ṣēri “I will leave for the open country” in order to make battle; cf. I 60 and 76; ālik ṣēri “the one who goes to the (battle)field” is found in I 49, 54, and 56. For the mountains in the poem, see n. 64. 88.  As recognized by D. Brown, Mesopotamian Planetary Astronomy-Astrology (CM 18; Groningen: Styx, 2000) 256.

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The bibbu “wild sheep” as a “plague” directed specifically against cattle is found in omen literature. 89 The “wild sheep” bibbu plague is seen also in a fragmentary incantation where it is listed among Erra’s other underworld associates. 90 The “wild-sheep” / “plague” bibbu is also named as the deified “slaughterer” of the netherworld in “The Underworld Vision of an Assyrian Prince,” 91 further illustrating its role with the realm of death. As stated above, the “wild sheep” also refers to the planet Mercury (or Mars), which is associated with Nergal (and Ninurta). 92 When in conjunction with Jupiter, Marduk’s planet, it may bring disaster upon the land. 93 There are additional references to the behavior of heavenly bodies in the poem encrypted behind its chief characters: Erra is said to be the dEn-ge6du-du (glossed in Akk. as bēlu muttallik mūši “the lord who goes through the night”; I 21); 94 Marduk leaving for the underworld may symbolize the disappearance of Jupiter; 95 the Fox star (Šēlebu), denoting Mars, 96 apparently appears, and is identified (probably) as Erra’s star (kakkab Erra), 89.  Cf. the OB Izbu entry (E. Leichty, The Omen Series šumma izbu [TCS 4; Locust Valley, NY: J. J. Augustin, 1970] 201; YOS 10 56 I 6–7): šumma izbum kīma barbarim(ur. ba r. ra) bibbum ina mātim ibba[š]ši “If a foetus (looks) like a wolf, there will be a plague upon the land.” A commentary explains the logographic writing for the planet Mercury bibbu u d u.id im as mušmīt būli “he who causes the cattle to die,” with udu = būlu and úš (i.e., idim) = mâtu; CAD B: 218. 90.  Muššuʾu 5 (CTN 4 95 = CAMS/Neo-Assyrian/Kalhu/Incantation/Muššu’u 5; B. Böck, Das Handbuch Mussu’u “Einreibung”: Eine Serie sumerischer und akkadischer Beschwörungen aus dem 1. Jt. v. Chr [Biblioteca del próximo oriente antiguo 3; Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2007] 193, 209, ll. 35–36; see also W. G. Lambert, “Literary Texts from Nimrud,” AfO 46–47 [1999–2000] 151– 52) II 5′–7′: “Erra . . . ‘murderer,’ (the underworld god) Allamu, bibbu. . . .” 91.  Brown, Mesopotamian Planetary Astronomy-Astrology, 57; A. Livingstone, Court Poetry and Literary Miscellanea (SAA 3; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1989) no. 32 rev. 19: dbi-ib-bu gír.lá ki-tim “Bibbu, slaughterer of the underworld.” 92.  The association between the “wild sheep” and Mercury owes to the planet’s irregular behavior, hence “wild,” as explained by Brown, Mesopotamian Planetary Astronomy-Astrology, 69. 93.  Compare an omen (TCL 6 16 = CAMS/Seleucid/Uruk/Omen/EAE 56, 29) speaking of the approaching of Mercury to Jupiter: mulbibbu(u d u. i d i m) muldāpina(u4. a l. ta r) ikšudam(k u r dam)ma . . . dErra māta(kur) ikkal(g u7) mūtū(ú š. m e š) ina māti(kur) ibaššû(g ál. m eš) mātu ištēniš(1niš) iṣeḫḫer(t u r«. m e š») “If Mercury approaches Jupiter and (so and so) . . . Erra will devour the land; there will be dead in the land; the land will reduce instantly.” Brown (Mesopotamian Planetary AstronomyAstrology, 256–57) suggests that the author of Erra, Kabti-ilānī-Marduk, probably had some knowledge of the omen series Enūma-Anu-Enlil. 94.  Cagni, L’epopea di Erra, 149; Streck, Bildersprache, 61; Wiggermann, “Nergal,” 222; CAD M/II: 306. 95.  Brown, Mesopotamian Planetary Astronomy-Astrology, 256. 96.  Brown, Mesopotamian Planetary Astronomy-Astrology, 62.

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which will bring destruction upon mankind; 97 and Erra wishes to extinguish Šulpaea, perhaps representing Jupiter, Marduk’s planet. 98 Of course, the Sibitti themselves are “the seven,” that is, the Pleiades. Hence, the action taking place throughout the land is mirrored to some extent in the sky. It would seem then, that although bibbu appears only once in the poem, its place here assures that its extratextual referents were not lost on the ancient reader. 118. ana n[a]mê errubma [(ana/ina é . ) mes].lam ram[âk](u) šubta Although to the d[eserted] regions I enter, [in the Emes]lam, (my) home, I dwell

In the first half of the last line of Erra’s speech, the god speaks of entering the deserted regions. These are the habitations that Erra will have made into wastelands. II c 25: alāni asappanma ana namê ašak[kan] I will level the cities and turn (them) into deserted regions. IV 66: āl [D]ēri ana namê taltakan You have turned the city [D]er into a deserted region.

When this line appears again in the poem, Erra’s destruction is directed towards the cities and mountain regions of the enemies of Akkad (i.e., Babylonia), which he will turn into a wasteland. 99 The second half of the last line of the self-praise hymn brings Erra’s description of himself to an end by anticipating the end of the poem, 97.  Tablet II rev. 5′–14′ (Al-Rawi and Black, “Second Tablet of ‘Išum and Erra’,” 112–13, 118–19). 98.  When Marduk speaks of how he brought about the flood, the stations of the stars of the sky changed (I 134; cf. I 173). Tablet IV 124 may reflect Erra’s interference in Marduk’s heavenly realm: ša dŠulpaea šarūrušu lušamqitma kakkabāni šamāmī lušamsik “I shall destroy the luminence of Šulpaea and have the stars of the sky be despised.” Compare with this omen (TCL 6 16 = CAMS/Seleucid/Uruk/Omen/ EAE 56, 33): mulbibbu(u d u.id im) ana Šulpaea(dšu l.p a. è. a) iṭḫe(t e) miqitti(š u b tim) sisī dumuq(si g5) būli iḫalliq(záḫ) “If Mercury/bibbu approaches Šulpaea, annihilation of the horses; the best of the cattle will be destroyed.” It is possible that in IV 124 Šulpaea is identified also with Šamaš; support of this claim comes from II c 14: aqabbi ša dŠamši ušamqata šarūri “I will speak: ‘I will destroy the luminance of Šamaš’.” The identification of Marduk, Šamaš, and Šulpaea can be found in a learned commentary, and hence was probably a notion known in learned circles; see Lambert, “Address of Marduk,” 313–14, 316–17; for Šulpaea, see Brown, Mesopotamian Planetary Astronomy-Astrology, 58. 99.  See IV 146 and V 29.

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when the god is appeased and goes back to his temple, the Emeslam, in Kutha. 100 The line following Erra’s speech (I 124) should be understood as suggesting his departure and procession from his temple to Babylon. 101 In tablet II c, 102 Erra seems to linger in his temple as he ponders his plans of destruction. After wreaking destruction at the end of the poem (tablet V), he returns to his temple again, this time for good. He pronounces his blessing upon Babylon and is finally appeased. V 1: ultu Erra īnuḫu irmû šubassu After Erra relented (and) dwelled in his home . . . V 22: īrumma [ana] Emeslam irtam[e] šubassu He entered the Emeslam and dwelled in his home.

It appears, then, that the well-known Mesopotamian motif of the angered god leaving his temple and returning only when appeased is anticipated in Erra’s opening speech and met again at the close of the poem.

6. Conclusions This paper has attempted to define a section of ten lines in the Poem of Erra—the opening speech of the poem’s protagonist, the god Erra—as distinct from but related in its content to the rest of the composition. It was argued that the purpose of this unit was not to advance the narrative but to anticipate its development by attributing to the protagonist a string of descriptive and figurative epithets and similes. This meticulously crafted opening speech, while independent, embodies within itself the essential details of Erra’s character and actions as presented in the poem. The first part of the discussion (§2) focused on the restoration of the damaged line 118, where it was shown that in spite of what has been repeated in the literature, Erra does not dwell in the *[tar]baṣu *“fold”; the broken signs and further textual and contextual evidence prompt us to restore [(é.)me]s.lam. This shows that the studied passage encapsu100.  For the temple’s history and attestations, see A. R. George, House Most High: The Temples of Ancient Mesopotamia (MC 5; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1993) 126–27. Given the interests of this volume’s honoree, we cannot fail to mention that the biblical author (2 Kings 17:30) remarks that the deportees from Kutha who were settled in Samaria brought over with them the cult of Nergal; see A. Livingstone, “Nergal,” DDD 622. 101.  Cagni, Poem of Erra, 31 n. 32. 102.  Al-Rawi and Black, “Second Tablet of ‘Išum and Erra’,” 118–19.

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lates all of Erra’s deeds from his rage and punishment of mankind to his appeasement, when he returns to his temple, the Emeslam, at the end of the composition. The rest of the discussion aimed to demonstrate the distinctiveness of Erra’s first major speech: it was argued that the speech served as an introduction for things to come, and as such had to be conceived as a passage that operates above the regular stream of discourse, whether narrative or dialogue. Thus we demonstrated (§3) that this unit was articulated in a poetic structure not found elsewhere throughout the poem. The rhyming quality of the passage, otherwise unencountered, and the regular, short length of the lines were deliberately chosen to distinguish it from what preceded and followed. These features, however, were not devised out of thin air by the poet. By comparing the poetic structure of lines 109–18 to a similar structure apparent in one of the lines in the “Self-praise Hymn of Gula,” it was argued that the poet of Erra, like the poet of the Gula Hymn, adopted a preexisting poetic pattern. The rhyming of lines and half-lines from 109 to 115a (all ending in /ak/) was a deliberate attempt by the poet to enable the listener to identify Erra’s speech not only as a unit distinct from the rest of the composition, but also to mark its literary genre of self-praise hymn, because the rhythmic quality of these lines is typical of declarative statements such as are found in incantations or gnomic utterances, characteristic of this genre. We then showed (§4) how a specific genre of the self-praise hymn was chosen as a suitable vehicle to convey Erra’s characteristics, as well as to secure his identification with other deities. The speech thus consciously emulates this genre by bringing to the mind of the listener or reader the purpose of the self-praise hymn in which the deity glorifies himself or herself. This is achieved in the hymns and echoed in the studied passage by collecting epithets and qualities of the godhead and of other gods by way of implicit syncretism. What could be more suitable for the present context—when Erra is about to rule the world according to his terms instead of Marduk? A sense of irony, however, prevails when self-praise of a godhead, who usually glorifies himself or herself as wise, strong, beneficial or merciful, even if punishing at times, is put in the mouth of Erra, who is about to embark on unprecedented acts of destruction. By studying and bringing forth examples of this literary genre, we have also demonstrated that in terms of formal structure, some of the self-praise hymns prefer the nominal sentence or stative construction in order to convey factual, timeless, or non-modal and unconditional statements. This

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explains why, as in proper self-praise hymns, first-person statives are encountered in Erra’s opening speech. The series of similes and descriptive statements about the god were discussed next (§5); these were shown to be emblematic of things to come. Erra’s qualities as the bull, lion, hunter, battering ram, fire, axe, battle standard, and wild ram (lines 109–17) anticipate his wild behavior when he commences to attack civilization. Erra’s dominion over gods and humans alike (lines 110, 115–16) comes to fruition when he takes over the role of Marduk, superseding or harnessing into his command the power of other chief gods (Šamaš and Adad) and the powers of nature (the wind; lines 115–16). Finally, the potential of the god’s appeasement is also given in the opening speech as Erra relents and dwells in his temple, the Emeslam, according to the restored line 118. Thus the opening speech encapsulates the entire cycle of the poem, from Erra’s rage and acts of destruction, through his usurpation of Marduk’s power as god of the universe, to his final appeasement and dwelling in his abode, the Emeslam, in his sacred city Kutha. As was seen, many of Erra’s descriptions are intratextual, some enriching our understanding of the god’s personality and his connections with other gods (such as his epithet šarru), while others alluded to epic or mythological compositions, such as Anzu or Enūma Eliš. One particular epithet, bibbu “wild sheep,” hinted at the poet’s intimate acquaintance with astronomical and astrological knowledge. When we think of all the levels of sense and form intermeshing in this passage, we can begin to understand how it fitted into the actual craft of the composition. It can be suggested that this opening speech was the core around which the major themes of the poem developed. In other words, this condensed passage enabled the poet to articulate his ideas about the character of Erra and to foreshadow the action of the plot before the rest of the poem was fully composed. One can thus think of the passage as the matrix out of which the later action develops, a literary ploy that enabled the poet to craft more complex themes. It is hoped that this discussion will further research on the compositional modes and intertextuality of this complex work and promote discussion regarding its proper literary classification. It may be hoped, thereby, that the craftsmanship of the poet of the composition, Kabti-ilāni-Marduk, whose acute poetic sensibility brought together language and literature, form and structure, into an intact piece of ten lines of perfect balance and fearful symmetry, may be better understood.

Menahem’s Reign Before the Assyrian Invasion (2 Kings 15:14–16) Peter Dubovský The relationship between the history of Israel and Israel’s history has been a highly debated topic in recent years. Several scholars have, like ancient potters, shaped the clay of this field to its present form. Prof. Peter Machinist has played an important role among these potters and it is thanks to him that I was also introduced to the twists and turns of this field. This paper deals with a quite narrow period of Israelite history—Menahem’s reign before Tiglath-pileser III’s first invasion (743–738 b.c.). 1 Just before the Assyrian conquest of Israel, the Northern Kingdom underwent a series of revolts and rebellions. One of them was orchestrated by Menahem, who first killed Shallum and then attacked the city of Tiphsah. There are no extrabiblical sources documenting Menahem’s reign before the Assyrian invasion. Thus we are confined in our analysis to the biblical account and to some archaeological data that can help us to contextualize Menahem’s reign. The biblical account not only presents a later reflection of Menahem’s reign, but also presents several textual and interpretative problems. Therefore our analysis starts with a close examination of the biblical text in its Greek and Hebrew versions. In doing so, I propose a new translation of 2 Kgs 15:16. This translation of the biblical text serves as the starting point for my reflection on the historiographic rendering of this tumultuous period of Israelite history. 1.  Historians tend to dedicate little or no space to this historical period; see for example Mario Liverani, Israel’s History and the History of Israel (London: Equinox, 2003); John Bright, A History of Israel (London: SCM, 1960).

29

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Textual problems and their solutions (2 Kgs 15:14, 16) ‫ויעל מנחם בן־גדי מתרצה ויבא ׁשמרון ויך את־ׁשלום בן־יביׁש בׁשמרון וימיתהו‬ ‫וימלך תחתיו‬ Then Menahem son of Gadi came up from Tirzah and came to Samaria; he struck down Shallum son of Jabesh in Samaria and killed him; he reigned in place of him. (2 Kgs 15:14; NRSV) ‫אז יכה־מנחם את־תפסח ואת־כל־אׁשר־בה ואת־גבוליה מתרצה כי לא פתח ויך את‬ ‫כל־ההרותיה בקע‬ At that time Menahem sacked Tiphsah, all who were in it and its territory from Tirzah on; because they did not open it to him, he sacked it. He ripped open all the pregnant women in it. (2 Kgs 15:16; NRSV)

Our entire knowledge of Menahem’s activities before the Assyrian invasion is confined to these two verses, which present several problems that must be addressed in order both to interpret the passage properly as a whole and to understand more fully the historical vicissitudes of this deeply troubled period. The first group of difficulties concerns three geographical terms: ‫ תרצה‬in 15:14, and ‫ תפסח‬and a second instance of ‫ תרצה‬in 15:16. The problems are of two kinds: textual—there are different terms in the ancient manuscripts—and interpretative—Tiphsah is on the Euphrates and Tirzah is in the Northern Israel. Ancient scribes noticed these problems and, as a result of their attempts to resolve them, we have inherited several variants of the text, attested in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin manuscripts. 2 Of the ancient versions, only the Vulgate reflects the MT without emendation, transliterating the three geographical terms ‫תרצה‬, ‫תפסח‬, and ‫ תרצה‬as Thersa, Thapsa, and Thersa, respectively. A multiplicity of variants can be observed in the Greek translations. The first group of Greek translations (manuscripts borc2e2) closely follows the Hebrew text. 3 Thus the term ‫ תרצה‬is transliterated both times as Θερσα, which is a usual Greek rendering of the Hebrew toponym. However, the city struck by Menahem is translated in these manuscripts as Ταφωε/ Ταφοε. This rendering may have been intended to solve the problem of geographical distance between ‫( תרצה‬in modern Israel) and ‫( תפסח‬in modern Iraq) by changing the latter to Ταφωε/Ταφοε, which corresponds to 2.  The textual criticism is based on A. E. Brooke, N. M. A. McLean, and H. J. Thackeray, I and II Kings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1930). 3.  For the abbreviations of the manuscripts see A. E. Brooke, N. M. A. McLean, and H. J. Thackeray, I and II Samuel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1927) v–ix. These mss are frequently referred to as the Lucianic group. 

Menahem’s Reign Before the Assyrian Invasion

31

the site ‫“ תפוח‬Tappuah.” Since these two cities, Θερσα and Ταφωε, are in the same vicinity, this rendering is the most logical interpretation of Menahem’s expansion. This interpretation has gained acceptance among some modern scholars as well. 4 The second group of Greek translations (manuscripts of group N) deviates from the usual rendering of ‫ תרצה‬as Θερσα, instead translating the term as Θερσιλα. The term ‫ תפסח‬is translated as Θερσα. 5 In this case, the logic of the interpretation of the Hebrew text is similar to the previous one. In both cases, the two instances of the site ‫ תרצה‬is translated with the same term, while the second location, ‫תפסח‬, is translated with a different term. A third variation appears in Codex Vaticanus (B), which coordinates the sites and renders the first ‫ תרצה‬in 15:14 as Θερσιλα and the other two locations, ‫ תפסח‬and ‫תרצה‬, in verse 15:16 with the same term Θερσα, corresponding to Hebrew ‫תרצה‬. This interpretation indicates that the city from which Menahem started his rebellion is different from the city he attacked after killing Shallum. The last alternative is offered by Codex Alexandrinus (A). This codex renders each geographical location with a different term. Thus, ‫ תרצה‬in 15:14 is translated as Θερσιλα, ‫ תפסח‬in 15:16 as Θαιρα, and ‫ תרצה‬in 15:16 as Θερσα. According to this interpretation, Menahem started his rebellion in Θερσιλα and then attacked the cities of Θαιρα and Θερσα. With the exception of the Codex Vaticanus, all ancient translations maintain the difference between ‫ תרצה‬and ‫תפסח‬. Thus, we can safely conclude that the first and the third geographical term must have been the same: ‫ =( תרצה‬Θερσα). However, all the Greek manuscripts change the Hebrew ‫ תפסח‬to another geographical term in the territory of the Northern Kingdom. Only the Vulgate follows the Hebrew text. Because the Hebrew text represents the lectio difficilior, we can conclude that the original text had the sequence of the geographical terms as it has been preserved in the MT. Once we have established that the MT in this case represents a superior reading to that of the Greek manuscripts, we must face the interpretative problem of the meaning of the expression ‫“ מתרצה‬from Tirzah” (15:16), 4.  James A. Montgomery and Henry S. Gehman, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Books of Kings (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1951) 449–50; John Gray, I & II Kings: A Commentary (2nd ed.; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1976) 622; Mordechai Cogan and Hayim Tadmor, II Kings: A New Translation (AB 11; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1988) 169–71. 5.  Codex Basiliano-Vaticanus and Codex Venetus.

32

Peter Dubovský

which follows the list of objects bound to the verb ‫“ נכה‬to strike.” Both ancient and modern readers have discerned two difficulties here. The first is geographical: since Tirzah is distant (about 1,000 km) from Tiphsah, it seems impossible for Menahem to have dominated such a large region. The second is moral: if Tirzah is part of the destroyed region, then Menahem committed cruelties against his own people. 6 These problems have been addressed in three primary ways, as reflected in modern translations. Emendation: Following many of the Greek manuscripts, translations belonging to this group prefer to change the difficult term ‫ תפסח‬to Tappuah (for example, NAB, NJB, and FBJ). These translations avoid the problems by opting for the lectio facilior. Literary translation: Some translations place the expression “from Tirzah” after the list of destroyed regions (for example, NAS, NRSV, and Traduction Œcuménique de la Bible). These translations, however, do not clarify whether Tirzah was attacked by Menahem. Interpretative translation: These translations tend to explain the difficulties by adding words or changing word order. The expression “from Tirzah” is interpreted as the starting point of Menahem’s campaign (for example, by NJPS, The Complete Jewish Bible, Bible de Jérusalem, and La Sacra Bibbia Nuova Riveduta), or as a part of the region attacked by Menahem “from Tirzah onwards” (for example, by NJB, Traduction Œcuménique de la Bible, and Sweeney). 7 What, then, is the meaning of the expression ‫ מתרצה‬in 2 Kgs 15:16? The preposition ‫ מן‬can be interpreted here in three ways: as the preposition determining one border line of a certain territory (from Tirzah onwards); as an expression of Menahem’s origin (Menahem of Tirzah), or as the point from which Menahem began his expansion (starting from Tirzah). The first solution, “from Tirzah onwards,” would mean that Menahem devastated the regions from Tirzah to Tiphsah. Such a feat seems implausible because it implies that Menahem destroyed the region from which he started his rebellion. The second solution binds the expression “from Tirzah” to Menahem as his place of origin, and can thus be translated, “Menahem attacked . . . , (the one who was) from Tirzah.” However, this solution is also improbable because of insurmountable syntactical difficulties. In this case we should ask why this expression is so far from the proper name Menahem, which it qualifies. Because all the Greek manuscripts place the expression 6. Menahem Haran, “The Rise and Decline of the Empire of Jeroboam Ben Joash,” VT 17 (1967) 284–90. 7.  Marvin A. Sweeney, I & II Kings (Louisville: Westminister John Knox, 2007) 372.

Menahem’s Reign Before the Assyrian Invasion

33

“from Tirzah” after the list of destroyed regions, the position of this expression cannot be considered a scribal error. The only possibility for maintaining the Hebrew lectio difficilior is to interpret the expression “from Tirzah” as the starting point of Menahem’s campaign. The expression ‫ מתרצה‬is a complement of place linked to the first occurrence of the verb ‫ נכה‬in this verse. Thus Menahem, after having killed Shallum, undertook another campaign against Tiphsah. The expression “from Tirzah” indicates that he started his campaign in Tirzah and moved toward Tiphsah. This interpretation, on the one hand, preserves the lectio difficilior and, on the other hand, avoids making the improbable claim that Menahem destroyed the entire region between Tirzah and Tiphsah. Before we continue our investigation, let us summarize the results of the previous analysis. The Hebrew and Greek manuscripts differ mainly in rendering the geographical terms. I have argued that the Hebrew text represents the lectio difficilior and, thus, that we should keep both geographical sites—Tirzah and Tiphsah—in the order that they have been preserved in the Hebrew text. Moreover, both the Hebrew and Greek manuscripts place the second occurrence of “from Tirzah” after the description of the regions destroyed by Menahem. I have interpreted this expression as “starting from Tirzah,” meaning that Menahem started his campaign against Tiphsah from Tirzah. Thus, the city of Tirzah is not a part of the list of destroyed regions, but rather the starting point of his campaign, the solution preferred already by Keil. 8 After these preliminary conclusions, we can now consider the early period of Menahem’s reign. The first analysis will investigate the nature of Menahem’s revolt, the second will discuss the importance of Tirzah, the third will analyze the extension of Menahem’s campaign toward the east, and the fourth will study the brutalities committed during Menahem’s campaign against Tiphsah.

Menahem’s revolt The differences between the Hebrew and Greek manuscripts are confined mainly to the rendering of the geographical terms Tirzah and Tiphsah; all of them have a similar description of Menahem’s revolt. For our purposes, it is important to investigate the sequence of the verbs used to describe it: 9 8.  Carl F. Keil, Die Bücher der Könige (Leipzig: Dörffling und Franke, 1876) 320. 9.  Besides the translation of Tirzah discussed above, the variants regard the transliteration of Menahem’s and Gadi’s names. However, the main difference can be ob-

Peter Dubovský

34

καὶ ἀνέβη . . . καὶ ἦλθεν . . . καὶ ἐπάταξεν . . . καὶ ἐθανάτωσεν . . . [καὶ ἐβασίλευεν . . .] . . . ‫ וימלך‬. . . ‫ וימית‬. . . ‫ ויך‬. . . ‫ ויבא‬. . . ‫ויעל‬

The sequence of verbs ‫נכה‬, ‫מות‬, and ‫ מלך‬occurs four times in this chapter, and altogether seven times in the Bible (1 Kgs 15:27–28; 16:10; 2 Kgs 12:22; 15:10, 14, 25, 30). 10 In all cases but ours, the sequence ‫נכה‬, ‫מות‬, and ‫ מלך‬is preceded by variants of the verb ‫קׁשר‬. In our case the verse opens with the verb ‫ עלה‬followed by ‫בוא‬. The differences in starting formulas are even more striking when we consider that four out of seven occurrences of the sequence of verbs ‫נכה‬, ‫מות‬, and ‫ מלך‬appear in our chapter. The following chart presents all the occurrences of the sequence of verbs ‫נכה‬, ‫מות‬, and ‫ מלך‬in the Bible. Baasha’s coup d’état (1 Kgs 15:27–28): . . . ‫ וימלך‬. . . ‫ וימית‬. . . ‫ ויך‬. . . ‫ ויבא‬. . . ‫ויקׁשר‬ Zimri’s coup d’état (1 Kgs 16:9–10): Jozacar’s coup d’état (2 Kgs 12:21–22): Shallum’s coup d’état (2 Kgs 15:10): Menahem’s coup d’état (2 Kgs 15:14):

. . . ‫ וימלך‬. . . ‫ וימית‬. . . ‫ ויך‬. . . ‫ ויבא‬. . . ‫ויקׁשר‬ ‫ וימלך‬. . . ‫ ויקברו‬. . . ‫ וימת‬. . . ‫ ויכו‬. . . ‫ויקׁשרו‬ . . . ‫ וימלך‬. . . ‫ וימית‬. . . ‫ ויך‬. . . ‫ויקׁשר‬ . . . ‫ וימלך‬. . . ‫ וימית‬. . . ‫ ויך‬. . . ‫ ויבא‬. . . ‫ויעל‬

Pekah’s coup d’état (2 Kgs 15:25):

. . . ‫ וימלך‬. . . ‫ וימית‬. . . ‫ ויך‬. . . ‫ויקׁשר‬

Hoshea’s coup d’état (2 Kgs 15:30):

. . . ‫ וימלך‬. . . ‫ וימית‬. . . ‫ ויך‬. . . ‫ויקׁשר‬

The substitution of the verb ‫ קׁשר‬with the verbs ‫ עלה‬. . . ‫ בוא‬in the case of Menahem’s coup d’état is attested in all manuscripts and therefore cannot be considered a scribal error; rather it must be considered an intentional change. It indicates that the biblical writers wanted to underline the contrast between the coups d’état of Shallum, Pekah, and Hoshea, and that of Menahem. In all cases except ours, the coup d’état is qualified as a conspiracy. Thus, we can conclude that the biblical authors did not want to put Menahem’s coup d’état into the category of “conspiracy” with the others. How should we interpret the meaning of such a deliberate change in verb sequence, one that so clearly breaks the pattern evident in 2 Kgs 15? An investigation of the combination ‫ עלה‬. . . ‫ בוא‬in the Bible indicates that it can describe a simple movement upwards (Gen 45:25; Exod 7:28; Num 13:22; Deut 1:24; Judg 20:26), a military campaign (Deut 1:22; served at the end of the verse. Vulgate and manuscripts Aborxyc2e2AS follow the Hebrew text and add the phrase in brackets. This part is omitted in Codex Vaticanus (B). 10.  To this list can be added a slightly modified variant of this formula in 2 Kgs 12:21; 14:19; 21:23, as well as the story of Jehu in 2 Kgs 9–10.

Menahem’s Reign Before the Assyrian Invasion

35

Josh 8:11; 2 Kgs 18:17; 24:10), 11 or a retreat from a campaign (Judg 11:16; 20:26). For our purposes, the most significant meaning is the second. There are several texts using this combination of verbs in the context of a military campaign: Israelite campaigns (Deut 1:22; Josh 8:11; 2 Sam 5:23; 1 Chr 14:14), an Aramean campaign against Joash (2 Chr 24:23), and the campaigns of Rab-shaqeh and Nebuchadnezzar against Jerusalem (2 Kgs 18:17; 24:10). This terminology is also used for the description of Ahab’s military action undertaken against Elijah (2 Kgs 1:13). The sequence of the verbs ‫ עלה‬. . . ‫בוא‬, which opens 2 Kgs 15:14, within a military context can describe any kind of military campaign from a small local intervention against an unpleasant personage to a large-scale military operation such as a siege of a city or a conquest of an entire region. We can conclude that by choosing the combination ‫ עלה‬. . . ‫ בוא‬the biblical authors wished to emphasize that Menahem’s “going up against Shallum” had a military character and was of a different nature than the conspiracies described in 2 Kgs 15. It refers to a military intervention of indeterminate size, including the advance of troops, that aimed at the elimination of the usurper Shallum.

Resurgence of Tirzah Our first analysis showed that the biblical writers emphasized the military nature of Menahem’s revolt and did not want to classify it as a conspiracy. According to the biblical account, this revolt originated in Tirzah. The same expression “from Tirzah” occurs twice in our verses. The biblical authors, by emphasizing Tirzah as the starting point of both Menahem’s revolt (2 Kgs 15:14) and his campaign toward the east (2 Kgs 15:16), linked a new, though short-lived, dynasty to the old capital Tirzah. 12 However, the term “from Tirzah” breaks the syntax of the Hebrew and, if we eliminate it from 15:16, it can be seen that the verse reads smoothly: ‫אז יכה־מנחם את־תפסח ואת־כל־אׁשר־בה ואת־גבוליה‬ Then Menahem attacked Tiphsah and all who were in it, and its territories.

In both cases, the verses would read quite smoothly should the expression “from Tirzah” be eliminated. In the following paragraphs I will explore the meaning of this addition. 11.  To this group we can also add a poetic description in Ezek 38:9, 11. 12. Rudolph Kittel, Geschichte des Volkes Israel (3 vols.; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1925) 2:351.

36

Peter Dubovský

According to the biblical sources, Joshua defeated the king of Tirzah together with thirty other Canaanite kings (Josh 12:24). The city then disappears from the biblical account and reappears only after the division of Solomon’s kingdom. The biblical text claims that Tirzah slowly gained ascendancy and eventually became a full-fledged capital of the Northern Kingdom. We can only assume that, in the early divided monarchy, it was the royal residence because the wife of Jeroboam I lived in it (1 Kgs 14:17). In the biblical account, the language used to describe the connection of the ruling dynasty to Tirzah is similar to that used to describe the relationship of the Davidic dynasty to Jerusalem and that of the Omrides to Samaria. Thus, Tirzah was the city where the king dwelled (1 Kgs 15:21) and ruled (1 Kgs 15:33; 16:8, 15, 23). For these purposes the city was fortified and contained a royal palace and a keep (1 Kgs 16:9, 16–18). Finally, the city became the place where the first Israelite kings were buried (1 Kgs 16:6). When Tirzah was burned down during a siege, Omri moved his seat to Samaria, and Tirzah disappears once again from the biblical account, only to reappear again in the account of Menahem’s usurpation. It is depicted as the base from which Menahem’s revolt started and served as the starting point for an ambitious military campaign, perhaps aspiring to enlarge the Israelite kingdom to the size of the kingdom of David and Solomon. 13 Its sudden reappearance prompts the question: Is this reappearance of Tirzah on the political stage of the Northern Kingdom plausible? Here the archaeological data may clarify the problem. A. Chambon provided enough data to establish that Tirzah could be identified with Tell el-Farʿah North, excavated by R. de Vaux. 14 The site Tell el-Farʿah North is about 14 km east of Samaria. For our purposes the important strata are VIIb and VIId. According to de Vaux and Chambon, the former is associated with the ninth century b.c., and the city of stratum VIIb was destroyed in a conflagration. The excavators attributed this destruction to Omri (1 Kgs 16). 15 Then the city was deserted during an interim period. Stratum VIId witnesses the resurgence of urban life in Tell el-Farʿah North. Stratum VIId was also destroyed, at the end of the eighth century b.c. The excavators attributed this destruction to the Assyrians. 16 13.  Cf. 2 Sam 8 and 1 Kgs 4–5. This resurgence of Tirzah may be the origin of its legendary beauty, which in Hebrew poetry can be compared to the beauty of Jerusalem (Song 6:4). 14. For another possible identification, see Dale W. Manor, “Tirzah,” ABD 6: 573–74. 15. A. Chambon, “Farʿah, Tell el- (North),” EAEHL 2:439–40. 16.  Chambon, “Farʿah, Tell el- (North),” 2:440.

Menahem’s Reign Before the Assyrian Invasion

37

From excavation reports we can distinguish two types of building in Stratum VIId that are important for our purposes: the palace (Building no. 148) and three patrician houses (Buildings no. 327 and no. 328 from square II and Building no. 710 from square III). 17 These buildings were larger than the dwellings of Stratum VIIb. The plan of the Stratum VIId is dominated by a large palace (Building no. 148), most likely a seat of a local leader. The comparison of the surface area of this palace with other similar buildings of approximately the same period demonstrates the importance of this site. Site

Area

Bibliographical reference Tell el Farʿah I, 44.

Tell el-Farʿah North (Bld. 148)

450 m

Samaria (Omri’s palace)

1080 m2 Harvard Excavations at Samaria II, pl. 5; Samaria-Sebaste, pl. II.

Samaria (Ostraca palace)

450 m2

Harvard Excavations at Samaria II, pl. 5; Samaria-Sebaste, pl. II.

Samaria (Western building)

600 m2

Harvard Excavations at Samaria II, pl. 5; Samaria-Sebaste, pl. II.

2

Megiddo (Bld. 6000; Str. VA-IVB) 450 m2

EAEHL 3:1017.

Megiddo (Bld. 1723; Str. IVB)

210 m

Megiddo I, fig. 12.

2

Megiddo (Bld. 1482; Str. VA-IVB) 680 m

Megiddo I, fig. 12.

Megiddo (Bld. 338; Str. IVA)

430 m2

Megiddo I, fig. 49.

Megiddo (Bld. 1052; Str. III)

2

910 m

Megiddo I, fig. 89.

Megiddo (Bld. 1369; Str. III)

980 m2

Megiddo I, fig. 89.

Hazor (Bld. 2; Area A; Str. V)

170 m

Hazor II, pl. CCIII.

Hazor (Citadel; Area B; Str. V)

540 m

Hazor II, pl. CCV.

2

2 2

In this period, the palaces closest in importance to Building 148 of Tell el-Farʿah North are Building 338 of Megiddo (almost the same size), and Building 2 (twice as large) and the Citadel of Hazor. This comparison indicates that the largest buildings known in the Northern Kingdom before the Assyrian invasion were of a similar size to Building 148 of Tell el-Farʿah North. However, the royal palace of Samaria is twice as large as Building 148, while the Ostraca Palace and Western Building are of a comparable size. These data indicate that in the period just before Tiglath-pileser’s invasion, the site Tell el-Farʿah North had regained its prominence, and that its 17. A. Chambon, Tell El-Fârʾah I (Paris: Editions Recherche sur les civilisations, 1984) plate 5.

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main building was comparable in size to that of buildings in Megiddo and Hazor. Thus, if we accept Chambon’s identification of Tirzah with Tell el-Farʿah North, both archaeological and textual evidence suggest that Tirzah played an important role in the political scene of the Northern Kingdom just before its fall. This reappearance of Tirzah on the political scene must be seen in the context of the tumultuous last days of the Northern Kingdom. The biblical account mentions that the Northern Kingdom underwent three conspiracies and one revolt in its last fifty years. The bases from which the conspiracies and the revolt originated can illuminate the nature of the tensions and tumult of the Northern Kingdom. According to 2 Kgs 15:25, the elements fomenting the instability in the Northern Kingdom were the tensions between the Transjordan-based factions (Gilead) and the western tribes (Ephraim-Manasseh). My analysis adds another element to this complex picture: even within the western faction we can discern tensions between Samaria and Tirzah since Tirzah became a military base for a new revolt and the starting point of Menahem’s campaign toward the east. 18 However, the second appearance of Tirzah on the stage of Israelite history was even shorter than the first one. In 2 Kgs 15:17, the Deuteronomistic writers claim that Menahem lived in Samaria, and that a few years later it was burned down by the Assyrians. 19 Despite the fact that Menahem’s dynasty did not survive the second generation, historians argue that it brought relative stability into a Northern Kingdom ravaged by several coups d’état. 20 Menahem is said to have reigned ten years, and his son Pekahiah two years, in contrast to their predecessors Zechariah and Shallum, who reigned only for a six months and one month, respectively.

Menahem’s campaign against Tiphsah After having brought his military intervention against Shallum to its successful end (2 Kgs 15:14), Menahem undertook an expansionistic campaign toward the east (2 Kgs 15:16). Historians have been reluctant to accept that Menahem might have conquered Tiphsah on the Euphrates. 21 The city is identified with Thapsacus from Xenophon’s Anabasis (I.4, 11, 18.  This idea was already suggested by Rawson Lumby, Kings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1909) 152. 19.  This verse can be read as a Deuteronomistic correction of the Tirzianic version of history, or as a factual statement affirming that once Menahem consolidated his power, he broke off with Tirzah and moved to Samaria. 20. Siegfried Herrmann, Geschichte Israels in alttestamentlicher Zeit (Munich: Chr. Kaiser, 1973) 305. 21.  Keil, Die Bücher der Könige, 321.

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17), located at the west bank of the middle Euphrates. 22 A military campaign to the Euphrates by a recent usurper in Israel does not seem to be credible. 23 Therefore, as discussed above, the city Tiphsah is sometimes emended following the several Greek manuscripts to Tappuah, located in northern Israel. 24 Others identify the city with modern Sheik Abu Zarad, about 10 km northwest of Shiloh. 25 Lumby accepts the reading Thapsa, an unidentifiable city, following Josephus. 26 I will argue that none of these solutions is necessary because, for the biblical writers, it would have made perfectly good sense to speak about a military campaign to the Euphrates. The city of Tiphsah, with the exception of our verse, is mentioned only once in the Bible (1 Kgs 5:4). In 1 Kgs 4–5 the biblical authors describe the organization of Solomon’s dominion, which reached from the Euphrates to Egypt, with Tiphsah marking its eastern border. These chapters do not mention Solomon’s military campaigns, by which he might conceivably have established control as far as the Middle Euphrates. The implication is that he inherited control of this region from his father David, who is said to have conquered the regions along the Euphrates (2 Sam 8:3). 27 Since the term Tiphsah occurs only twice in the Bible, we can assume that the ancient historiographers wanted the reader to connect Menahem’s expansionistic attempt with the period of David’s and Solomon’s control in the east. For historiographic purposes, it is not important whether Menahem actually conquered a city on the Euphrates. It is more important to read behind this verse the intention of the ancient historiographers, namely, that they wanted to emphasize that Menahem not only expanded his kingdom toward the east, but also attempted to enlarge it to the size of the Davidic-Solomonic kingdom. 28

Menahem’s brutalities In the previous analysis, I argued that Tirzah served as the base from which Menahem orchestrated not only his revolt against Shallum, but, 22.  Martin J. Mulder and John Vriend, 1 Kings: Historical Commentary on the Old Testament (Leuven: Peeters, 1998) 192. 23.  Trevor R. Hobbs, 2 Kings (Waco, TX: Word, 1985) 196–97. 24. Mordechai Cogan, 1 Kings : A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 10; New York: Doubleday, 2001) 213. 25.  For example, Sweeney, I & II Kings, 372. 26.  Lumby, Kings, 152. 27.  Cogan, 1 Kings, 219. 28.  House proposes that Menahem’s attempt to enlarge his borders was an effort to consolidate northern gains made by Jeroboam II; Paul R. House, 1 and 2 Kings (Nashville, TN: Broadman & Holman, 1995) 330.

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according to the biblical authors, also his campaign against Tiphsah on the Euphrates. Accepting the lectio difficilior, I argued that the geographical term Tiphsah should be retained and read through the lens of the expansion of Solomon’s kingdom. Before moving on to a discussion of what the biblical writers claim about Menahem’s campaign in the east, we must dedicate a few lines to the syntactical problems of 2 Kgs 15:16, in particular to the meaning of the particle ‫ כי‬and to the grammatical subject of the phrase ‫ לא פתח‬in the verse: ‫אז יכה־מנחם את־תפסח ואת־כל־אׁשר־בה ואת־גבוליה מתרצה כי לא פתח ויך את‬ ‫כל־ההרותיה בקע‬

Modern translations universally take the particle ‫ כי‬as a causal conjunction, which leads to translations such as the following: “because they did not open it to him, he sacked it” (NRSV). According to this interpretation, the expression ‫ כי לא פתח‬is a causal clause explaining why Menahem destroyed the city: because the city (the subject of ‫ פתח‬would then be Tiphsah) or its citizens (the subject of ‫ פתח‬would be its citizens) did not open its/their gates. 29 Refusal to open the gates of the city, of course, signals opposition to Menahem. This interpretation has enjoyed wide support among ancient and modern commentators. 30 Ancient textual witnesses differ in their presentation of this clause. The main stream of the Greek manuscripts (ABN) read ὅτι οὐκ ἤνοιξαν αὐτῶ, “because they did not open to him.” This rendering is along the lines of the traditional interpretation noted above, but changes the subject from the third person singular to the third person plural and adds the pronoun αὐτῶ. Manuscripts borc2e2, however, keep the Hebrew form and translate the term ‫ פתח‬with the third person singular, ἤνοιξεν. There are two reasons to prefer the MT, supported by Greek manuscripts borc2e2, to the main stream of ancient and modern interpretations. The first is that, in other instances when the biblical writers wanted to convey the traditional meaning (the city/the people did not open the gates to him), they used the appropriate verbal form even in the case when the object (city gates) was omitted (Deut 20:11; Neh 13:19). The second is that the Hebrew text does not have the expression “to him,” which often occurs in similar contexts (Ez 46:12; Ps 118:19). We can conclude that the MT, as reflected also in Greek manuscripts borc2e2, represents the lectio difficilior and that we should investigate whether it is possible to interpret it without chang29.  The word “gate” is added in Targum Jonathan. 30.  Cogan and Tadmor, II Kings, 171; Montgomery, Kings, 449.

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ing the form of the verb ‫פתח‬, as done by other Greek manuscripts and by modern interpreters. If we want to keep the lectio difficilior, the grammatical subject of the verb ‫ פתח‬cannot be the city of Tiphsah, which is feminine in Hebrew. 31 Similarly, the citizens of Tiphsah should be excluded as the subject of this clause because the verb ‫ פתח‬is singular. The only remaining singular masculine subject possible is Menahem. 32 I propose that the expression can be interpreted on the basis of a similar Akkadian expression ālam petû, “to open a city,” meaning to breach a city’s defenses: 33 [a-na] a-lim ra-za-ḫiki ni-iṭ-ḫi-ma ṣa-b[u-um] [a-la]m ip-te-te ša-la-sú iš-ḫ[i . . .] We approached the city of Razahum, the arm[y] breached the [ci]ty and [. . .] took its booty (M.5423 lines 32’–33’). 34

In the Mari texts, the idiom occurs twice as a-lum ip-pé-et-ti-ma; “if the town is breached (I am afraid that Qarni-lim will take possession of it)” (ARMT 28 165:17; see also 26 385 rev. 44′). The Akkadian idiom would normally demand that the object of the verb be specified, but in 2 Kgs 15:16, although the object is omitted, it can be supplied from context: ‫אז יכה־מנחם את־תפסח ואת־כל־אׁשר־בה ואת־גבוליה מתרצה כי לא פתח ויך את‬ ‫כל־ההרותיה בקע‬

In this sense, the verb ‫ פתח‬can be interpreted as breaching the city, breaking through its walls or gates by making an opening. On the basis of this analysis, we can translate the clause, “At that time Menahem sacked Tiphsah, all who were in it and its territory from Tirzah on; because he did not breach (it), he sacked (it).” Such a translation, however, does not make sense and therefore should be placed in its context, which depends on the division of the verse. The Masoretes placed an atnaḥ under ‫ ויך‬and thus connected the expression ‫ ויך‬to ‫כי לא פתח‬: 31.  Hobbs, 2 Kings, 196. It is important to notice that through the whole verse, the city of Tiphsah is always feminine, which militates against taking it as the masculine subject of the verb. 32.  Another option was taken by Gray, who assumed that the singular indicated an indefinite subject; compare the translation of Traduction Œcuménique de la Bible; and Gray, Kings, 622. 33.  For similar cases, see CAD P: 351. 34. Dominique Charpin, “Toponimie Amorrite et toponymie biblique: La ville de Ṣîbat/Ṣobah,” RA 92 (1998) 84.

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Peter Dubovský ‫אז יכה־מנחם את־תפסח ואת־כל־אשר־בה ואת־גבוליה מתרצה כי לא פתח וי֑ך את‬ ‫כל־ההרותיה בקע׃‬

All major Greek manuscripts likewise divide the clauses after the verb and introduce the final clause with καί: ὅτι οὐκ ἤνοιξαν αὐτῷ καὶ ἐπάταξεν αὐτὴν καὶ τὰς ἐν γαστρὶ ἐχούσας ἀνέρρηξεν “because they did not open to him, and he smote it, and ripped up the women with child.” As a consequence of this division and of the lectio difficilior discussed above, we can no longer interpret the particle ‫ כי‬as a causal conjunction, but rather as an emphatic particle stressing the preceding part of the verse. 35 Thus, the translation should be, “Indeed he did not (just) breach (it), but struck (it) down—he ripped open all its pregnant women!” Thus, Menahem did not satisfy himself with conquering the city, but destroyed it and its population. Our interpretation of the syntax has an impact on the evaluation of Menahem’s cruelties as well. If the particle ‫ כי‬is understood as an emphatic particle, the Bible does not provide reasons for his cruelties, but states simply that they extended even to ripping open pregnant women. The biblical writers three times employed the verb ‫ נכה‬in 2 Kgs 15:14– 16. Thus, Menahem struck and killed Shallum, struck and destroyed an entire region, and finally struck the city and ripped open the wombs of pregnant women. The sequence of these verses is progressive. First, he exterminated one person—King Shallum. Then he exterminated the inhabitants of the entire region, and finally he killed the not-yet born. Menahem’s violence did not stop at killing adults, but he exterminated prenatal life as well. Thus, the new dynasty of Tirzah, aspiring to expand the size of its domain to the size of the Davidic-Solomonic kingdom, did not hesitate to employ the most violent means ever used in the history of war. What, then, is the meaning of Menahem’s cruelty for our understanding of how the biblical writers interpreted their past? In the Hebrew Bible, there are three other texts describing the ripping open of pregnant women: 2 Kgs 8:11–12; Amos 1:13; and Hos 14:1. They describe brutalities committed by Arameans, Ammonites, and Assyrians, respectively, during their campaigns against Israel. In 2 Kgs 8:11–12 and Amos 1:13, these actions accompanied Aramean and Ammonite military actions. In Hos 14:1, this cruel image is used to describe the atrocities befalling the Samarians because of their sins. 36 In extrabiblical written sources, the ripping open of pregnant women is attested only in a Middle Assyrian heroic poem celebrating the victories of 35.  HALOT 1:470. 36. Paul B. Kern, Ancient Siege Warfare (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1999) 83–86.

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Tiglath-pileser I. 37 Despite the vivid depiction of several other atrocities, Neo-Assyrian royal inscriptions do not mention that the Assyrian kings of that period ever ripped open pregnant women. However, this kind of brutality can be seen in a relief (BM 124927) depicting Ashurbanipal’s campaign against the Arabs. 38 This is the only case discovered so far of such violence represented on a relief. In the context of the campaign against the Arabs, it can be seen as an extreme measure taken by the Assyrians to root out the resistance of the Arabian tribes. 39 Thus, both biblical and extrabiblical sources attest that the ripping open of pregnant women was performed during military campaigns, but only in extreme cases. Since one Middle Assyrian text and one Neo-Assyrian relief contain similar cruelties, we can conclude that such actions did not contradict the military customs of the late second and early first millennia b.c. The biblical writers, however, considered this sort of violence to be unacceptable cruelty, practiced only by foreign invaders (Ammonites and Arameans); in 2 Kgs 8:11–12, Hazael compares a person doing it to a dog. No just king of Israel or Judah had ever resorted to similar brutalities. On this logic, then, King Menahem, who, like every Israelite king, was in theory supposed to guarantee order and justice, was instead promoting savage barbarity and behaving like an atrocious foreign invader. 40 Naturally, this way of conquering the east was in complete contrast to that of David and Solomon. Seeing Menahem’s atrocities in terms of retributive justice (Exod 21:22–25; Amos 1:13–15), the prophet Hosea concluded that the Samarians would eventually be punished by the same token (Hos 14:1): “Samaria shall bear her guilt, because she has rebelled against her God; they shall fall by the sword, their little ones shall be dashed in pieces, and their pregnant women ripped open” (NRSV).

Conclusion My investigation of Menahem’s reign depends on a new translation of 2 Kgs 15:16, which retains the lectio difficilior of the Hebrew text: “Then Menahem (started his campaign) from Tirzah and struck Tiphsah, and all who were in it, and all its territories. Indeed he did not (just) breach (it), he struck (it) down—he ripped open all its pregnant women!” This inter37. Mordechai Cogan, “‘Ripping Open Pregnant Women’ in Light of an Assyrian Analogue,” JAOS 103 (1983) 755–57. 38.  Richard D. Barnett, Sculptures from the North Palace of Ashurbanipal at Nineveh (668–627 b.c.) (London: British Museum Publications, 1976), plate 33.75. 39. Peter Dubovský, “Ripping Open Pregnant Arab Women: Reliefs in Room L of Ashurbanipal’s North Palace.” Or 78 (2009) 414–19. 40.  Lumby, Kings, 153.

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pretation can cast some light on the tensions in the Northern Kingdom during the tumultuous period just before Tiglath-pileser III’s campaign against the west. These tensions were fomented above all by the differences between the Transjordanian (Gilead) and hill-country tribes (Ephraim-Manasseh). 41 I argue, however, that the western block was far from being a unified entity. Tensions existed in the west, caused by the aspirations of cities and clan leaders who sought to usurp the throne in Samaria. Our interpretation of the Hebrew text suggests that the city of Tirzah may have fomented these tensions. Tirzah, after having been destroyed by Omri, reemerged and became a rival of Samaria. Menahem, a representative of Tirzah, usurped the throne in Samaria and linked a new, though ultimately short-lived, dynasty to the old capital of Israel. He made Tirzah a base not only for his revolt, but also for his expansionist policy to the east. According to the biblical writers, this campaign ambitiously aspired to extend the eastern frontiers of the Northern Kingdom to match those of the kingdom of David and Solomon. However, this military expansion was extremely brutal. Menahem, to achieve his goal, perpetrated one of the most violent acts imaginable—he ripped open pregnant women. This kind of atrocity was attested in the countries surrounding ancient Israel, but it was severely condemned by the biblical writers. If we interpret the presentation of Menahem’s acts as a catalyst of retributive justice, we can better understand Hosea’s prophecy, according to which the pregnant women of Samaria will themselves be ripped open (Hos 14:1). The picture, as presented by the ancient historiographers, corresponds with archaeological data and with certain sociological dynamics reconstructed from the Samaria ostraca. Chambon identified Tirzah with Tell el-Farʿah North, which flourished in the eighth century b.c. The ambitions of the city can be seen in the architectural grandeur of stratum VIId. Its palace is comparable to the largest buildings of that period in the Northern Kingdom and it contained a sufficient quantity of storage jars to give material support to the military ambitions of its leaders. Three large “patrician” houses also witness to the well-being of its elite members. Thus, the city, located only few kilometers from the capital, and once having been the capital of the Northern Kingdom, could have easily nourished aspirations such as those attributed to Menahem. 41. Tomoo Ishida, The Royal Dynasties in Ancient Israel: A Study on the Formation and Development of Royal-Dynastic Ideology (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1977) 173–76; Bustenay Oded, “The Historical Background of the Syro-Ephraimite War Reconsidered,” CBQ 34 (1972) 162.

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H. M. Niemann, in a study of the Samaria ostraca, has reconstructed a sociological dynamic that would reinforce such an interpretation. 42 He claims that in the Northern Kingdom the clans enjoyed substantial independence from the royal court. Kings Joash and Jeroboam II tried to extend their influence over the local clans, but they were unable to control the entire kingdom. Niemann concludes that the Samaria ostraca suggest that the royal residence of Samaria surrounded itself with loyal clan leaders. In this view, the real control of Samaria was confined to a few clans directly dependent upon the crown. The frequent coups d’état are signs that the clan leaders not only claimed their independence but also aspired to grasp the royal prerogatives concentrated in Samaria. The analysis above corresponds well with this picture and demonstrates that the ancient historiographers considered the Tirzah of Menahem’s short-lived dynasty to be one of the cities aspiring to power not only over other clans, but even into the Middle Euphrates region. This ambitious expansion was, however, marked by extreme violence and thus, from the theological perspective of the later writers, it could have constituted one of the phenomena responsible for the collapse of the Northern Kingdom. 42.  Hermann M. Niemann, “A New Look at the Samaria Ostraca: The King-Clan Relationship,” TA 35 (2008) 249–66.

Ethnicity in the Assyrian Empire: A View from the Nisbe (I): Foreigners and “Special” Inner Communities Frederick Mario Fales

1. Introduction Ethnicity is, in present-day anthropological terms, a highly flexible notion along both geographical and historical axes, involving the pinpointing of group identities and/or differentiations on the basis of mutual contact, as are observed from the protagonist’s viewpoint or from that of the surrounding social order. 1 Such identities “are essentially defined by self-ascription and ascription by others, a sheer mechanism of inclusion Author’s note:  A preliminary version of this essay originally was presented in oral form at the XLVIII Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale in Leiden (July, 2002) devoted to the theme “Ethnicity in Mesopotamia,” many papers of which were published in W. van Soldt and R. Kalvelagen, eds., Ethnicity in Ancient Mesopotamia: Papers Read at the 48th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Leiden, 1–4 July 2002 (Leiden: NINO, 2005). In hindsight, I consider my choice not to publish in the conference proceedings as felicitous, because the subject matter of this essay has received unexpected accretions in the intervening years, and also because it happens to touch upon some of Peter Machinist’s pet historical themes. Thus I hope that the present contribution on the theme of the nisbe in NA “everyday” texts may be fitting for this volume, in which we are given the possibility to fete Peter for his wide-ranging scholarly interests and his successful academic career. My only regret is that, in the course of this writing, the subject matter expanded to such an extent as to require—for reasons of allotted space—a subdivision into two separate articles, of which this is the first. But this is, in a way, your fault, Peter. 1.  Single general bibliographies on the subject of ethnicity are at present almost impossible to come by, given the enormous expansion of this veritable galaxy of studies, with branches regarding all main geographical areas (emerging nations, the West, the Far East, etc.), questions of gender and other physical markers, post-colonial theory, etc., and specific issues which mark the contemporary world (for example, studies on ethnicity within recent migratory phenomena, on ethnicity and globalization, etc.). See S. Jones, The Archaeology of Ethnicity: Constructing Identities in the Past and Present (London: Routledge, 1997) 51–65, for a presentation of the development of the concept/use of ethnicity from the 1960s onward.

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and exclusion”; the only actual “rule” is that of a self-established boundary separating the group from other groupings of the same order, “regardless of any cultural traits or patterns of behavior that may from time to time be seen as characteristic for the members of the group” on the part of the outside observer. 2 Still, the study of ethnicity frequently demands an uncertain balancing act between the competing notions of genetic background—which, of course, formed the backbone of the traditional idea of ethnos—and cultural buildup. 3 Not surprisingly, the concept of ethnicity appears to have acquired major relevance for social studies during the last decades, especially in relation to the recent phenomenon of worldwide mass migration and to the ensuing problems of multiple collective integration in specific local, national, or globalized environments. But these same events have instigated renewed reflection on ethnicity also on the part of the “receiving” communities, with an eye to the historical formation of their own particular identities, and in view of the possibilities, ways, and overall convenience of preserving such identities in the future, and/or assimilating others to them. 4 Thus it may be stated, in very general terms, that ethnicity represents a pivotal conceptual and problematic focus of the present day and age, although it is unfortunately unbeknownst to many politicians or media gurus who converse loosely on these issues and who invoke the “objective” traits of language, customs, religion, mode of subsistence, and territorial contiguity as alleged markers of sameness or difference—whereas in point of fact these features are neither all, nor always, nor even necessarily per se, markers of ethnicity. Certainly, in the higher reaches of learning, the concept of ethnicity appears to have elicited an array of studies and interpretations permeating social and ethno-anthropological studies in their 2.  See N. Luraghi, The Ancient Messenians: Constructions of Ethnicity and Memory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008) 7, partially quoting the introduction by F. Barth, Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Difference (Boston: Little, Brown, 1969) 9–38 (and esp. 17–19). On Barth’s innovative views of ethnicity, and on their influence on subsequent studies and methodological trends, see S. Jones, The Archaeology of Ethnicity, and the critical-historical evaluation by U. Fabietti, L’identità etnica: Storia e critica di un concetto equivoco (Rome: Carocci, 1998) 95–104. 3.  This dualism, which still today lies at the heart of ethnicity studies, is succinctly but clearly presented through the parallel quote of contrasting definitions of ethnicity by M. Roaf, “Ethnicity and Near Eastern Archaeology: The Limits of Inference,” in Ethnicity in Ancient Mesopotamia, 307–8. 4.  See, e.g., E. P. Kaufmann, ed., Rethinking Ethnicity: Majority Groups and Dominant Minorities (London: Routledge, 2004), a useful conference volume regarding a number of present-day case studies in this perspective.

Foreigners and “Special” Inner Communities

49

entirety. This has begun to filter from the post-colonial horizon into that of historical studies, not excluding those concerning antiquity, with interesting applications and innovative results, especially due to the diachronic perspective on the formation of identities and differences that the ancient textual, and also archaeological, records have to offer. 5 In this light, it is of obvious interest for Assyriologists and historians of the ancient Near East to single out specific markers of identities and differentiations among individuals or communities within the domain of written or iconographic evidence. These markers—as is widely acknowledged—allow us to derive some guidelines for an in-depth historical picture of the concepts of uniqueness or diversity within the ancient Near Eastern record, according to the specific chronological and geographical contexts under examination. 6 For the time being, possible markers of ethnicity within Mesopotamian cultures of the third and early second millennia b.c. have attracted the wide majority of scholarly efforts, 7 while much less attention has been hitherto devoted to the Late Bronze and Early Iron Ages. 8 The present study thus wishes to address some of the issues 5.  A good example of recent debate concerning the complex issues of detecting ethnic identities in antiquity, as regards both the textual and the material/archaeological record, may be found in the papers assembled by T. Derks and N. Roymans, eds., Ethnic Constructs in Antiquity: The Role of Power and Tradition (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2009). 6.  See the wide-ranging presentation of this subject matter in G. van Driel, “Ethnicity, How to Cope with the Subject,” in Ethnicity in Ancient Mesopotamia, 1–10. 7.  See especially K. A. Kamp and N. Yoffee, “Ethnicity in Ancient Western Asia During the Early Second Millennium b.c.,” BASOR 237 (1985) 85–104; G. Emberling and N. Yoffee, “Thinking about Ethnicity in Mesopotamian Archaeology and History,” in Fluchtpunkt Uruk: Archäologische Einheit aus methodischer Vielfalt: Schriften für Hans Jörg Nissen (ed. H. Kühne, R. Bernbeck, and K. Bartl; Rahden: Leidorf, 1999) 272–81. 8.  See, e.g., S. Jakob, “Zwischen Integration und Ausgrenzung: Nichtassyrer in mittelassyrischen ‚Westreich‘,” in Ethnicity in Ancient Mesopotamia, 180–88, for nonAssyrian ethnicities in the western region of the Middle Assyrian empire, also on the basis of “Herkunftsappelative,” i.e., the nisbe and other similar markers. The classification of the numerous ethnic minorities in Kassite Babylonia by L. Sassmannshausen (Beiträge zur Verwaltung und Gesellschaft Babyloniens in der Kassitenzeit [Mainz: von Zabern, 2001] 130–51) is, instead, slightly muddled, due to the use of many parallel criteria for identification—not all of which have the same cogency. See the critical remarks by J. A. Brinkman (“Administration and Society in Kassite Babylonia,” JAOS 124 [2004]: 283–304), although it must be noted that Brinkman himself espouses an “objective” concept of ethnicity which is far removed from the criteria of present-day anthropology (see, for example, pp. 284–85). Finally, for a later period than the one dealt with here, the contribution by R. J. van der Spek (“Ethnic Segregation in Hellenistic Babylon,” in Ethnicity in Ancient Mesopotamia, 393–408) may be singled out

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concerning ethnicity and its markers within what was perhaps the largest “melting pot” that the ancient Near East created during its history: the Neo-Assyrian empire.

*  *  * The last or imperial phase of Assyrian history (ninth-seventh centuries b.c.) represents a unique observation point for the study of the mechanisms of ethnicity in an ancient Near Eastern context. This is especially true since one may nowadays view this period in its geographical vastness and administrative complexity not only through the official utterances of Assyrian kingship, but also through many “everyday” texts of administrative practice, deriving from the archives of Nineveh, Kalhu/Nimrud, Assur, and other sites, available in reliable editions and translations. 9 In a general view, the hustle and bustle of humanity in its different “hues” of ethnicity within Assyrian cities and the outlying countryside may be detected in a series of administrative inventories detailing specific professional groups of men and women; this forms the backdrop to the lists of witnesses in the many hundreds of legal documents from this age. It may be further detailed in depth through lists of palatial personnel drawn up within loyalty oaths or queries to the sun god Šamaš on matters of fealty to the crown. The great variety of ethnic identities that marked the population of the Assyrian empire, which derived from military conquests and planned displacements, may be gauged in particular through two essential markers: personal names in a linguistic perspective, and the “labels” of geographic/ethnic provenience that were attached to individuals or groups within the written documentation. As material for an evaluation of ethnicity in the Neo-Assyrian empire, personal names have hitherto occupied center stage, especially in connection with a historical-geographical evaluation of the relevant attestations. In particular, the two factors of (a) the linguistic-cultural affiliation of the PNs (on the basis of the etymologies of their verbal/nominal components and of the known cultic backgrounds of the gods therein invoked), and as a successful application of the Barthian approach to ethnicity as regards an ancient social context (the paper is reproduced with almost no changes in Derks and Roymans, Ethnic Constructs in Antiquity, 101–16). 9.  For the published volumes of the State Archives of Assyria (SAA), see the Helsinki web site http://www.helsinki.fi/science/saa/publicat.html (accessed August 22, 2012). For the volumes presently available on the Web, see http://www.ucl.ac.uk/ sargon/royalcorrespondence/, http://knp.prs.heacademy.ac.uk/lettersqueriesandre� ports/ (accessed August 22, 2012).

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(b) the spatial localization of the bearers (as may be deduced from outright textual indications or contextual clues), have been used to derive a number of historical “snapshots”; these have pinpointed either the ultimate origins of some population groups and their distribution throughout Assyria or, vice versa, the composite ethnicities that shared specific areas. 10 This vast onomastic material has thus given rise to a general sociolinguistic image of the heartland of the Assyrian empire as formed in the eighth and seventh centuries b.c. by a vast assortment of peoples of different heritage—from all over western Asia, as well as from Egypt, the Arabian peninsula, the Iranian plateau, and the eastern Mediterranean—albeit through different incoming “waves.” In-depth evaluations of Neo-Assyrian administrative and legal documents on the basis of personal names further indicate that these peoples were either (a) allowed to reside in a mutual (and basically unrestrained) admixture within the main cities of the empire itself, or, to the contrary (b) organized in compact “islands” of single ethnicities in urban or rural milieus, due to specific circumstances, whether social (as in the case of tribal groups) or political (e.g., the forced resettlement of entire communities of foreign deportees).

*  *  * Although there is still much to do in the area of onomastics as markers of ethnicity, 11 I have chosen on this occasion to focus on the alternative 10.  See, e.g., F. M. Fales, “On Aramaic Onomastics in the Neo-Assyrian Period,” OA 16 (1977) 41–68; idem, “West Semitic Names in the Assyrian Empire: Diffusion and Social Relevance,” SEL 8 (1991) 99–117; idem, “West Semitic Names in the Šeḫ Ḥamad Texts,” SAAB 7 (1993) 139–50; E. Lipiński, The Arameans: Their Ancient History, Culture, Religion (OLA 100; Leuven: Peeters, 2001), and also many other works by Lipi´nski; R. Zadok, On West Semites in Babylonia during the Chaldean and Achaemenian Periods: An Onomastic Study (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press, 1978); idem, “Arabians in Mesopotamia during the Late-Assyrian, Chaldean, Achaemenian and Hellenistic Periods,” ZDMG 131 (1991) 42–84; idem, “The Ethno-Linguistic Character of the Jezireh and Adjacent Regions in the 9th–7th Centuries,” in Neo-Assyrian Geography (ed. M. Liverani; Rome: University of Rome, 1995) 217–82; idem, The Ethno-linguistic Character of Northwestern Iran and Kurdistan in the Neo-Assyrian Period (Tel Aviv: Archaeological Center Publications, 2002). 11.  There remain many attendant methodological problems in this respect as well. Indeed, it needs to be recalled—even only in passing—that the study of onomastics in the framework of ethnicity is generally far from foolproof, and shows specific pitfalls when applied to linguistic-cultural contexts that are only available to us in written form. In a nutshell, I would point out the following issues: (1) the PN reflects cultural parameters of the parents of the bearer, not of the bearer himself, and thus only the study of family onomastics in a sequential-generational light (i.e., with case studies that are not

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area of “Ethnic-Group terms” as identifiers of ethnicity within the NeoAssyrian empire. 12 In particular, I will concentrate on toponyms, ethnonyms, and other locational terms in the Assyrian written record to which the ending commonly known as “gentilic” was applied. Virtually all Semitic languages employ the suffix of relation or pertinence, i.e., the socalled nisbe (Arab. an-nisba), as an afformative for nouns. In Akkadian, this ending has the form -āy/-āyum, and its use is restricted, following von Soden, 13 to the indication of “Völker- und Einwohnerbezeichnungen.” Not attested before Old Babylonian, and here only at Mari, the Akkadian nisbe was surmised by von Soden to be of West Semitic origin, where it was undoubtedly very productive. Alongside it one also finds the traditional Akkadian ending -ī/-īum, which is of strictly adjectival use (thus taking on full declension), and which shows a semantical range extending beyond the mere indication of peoples and inhabitants of specific places, to mark a wider “belonging” of the subject to a specific structure, profession, or something else. 14 frequent to come by in the documentation) may lead to some conclusion regarding the continuity/discontinuity of this-or-that ethnicity marker; (2) the divine names which are invoked in the PNs represent only in few, and very specific, cases (e.g., Yahwistic names of deportees: see, for example, Fales, “West Semitic Names in the Šeḫ Ḥamad Texts”) acceptable clues for the detection of elements of ethnicity, and are most often, to the contrary, open either to more than one conclusion or to none at all; (3) the purely linguistic elements of the PN may be at times useful for pinpointing the existence of a specific ethnic identity vis-à-vis others (e.g., the Amorite PNs in Ur III society and at Mari; the West Semitic PNs in NA sources, albeit with some difficulty in further linguistic subdivisions, such as Canaanite vs. Aramaic), but this result may only be attained after an extensive “decoding” of the way the written record represented these PNs (see Fales, “On Aramaic Onomastics”), and any deduction regarding the presence of this or that identity in a statistical or geographical light should be presented with the utmost caution (see, for example, Fales, “West Semitic Names in the Assyrian Empire”). 12. See S. Nuccetelli, “Reference and Ethnic-Group Terms,” Inquiry 47 (2004) 1–17, for this terminology. 13.  GAG §56p. 14.  GAG §56q. These two endings were considered parts of the same “family” of afformatives (as -iyy, -ayy, -awi) in traditional Comparative Semitics (see, e.g., J. Barth, Die Nominalbildung in den semitischen Sprachen [Leipzig: Hinrich, 1894] 369–75). For the aims of this paper, it may suffice to note that, at least as regards Neo-Assyrian, there would seem to be a certain overlap between them, insofar as (a) the first of the two, written -a-a in Neo-Assyrian (and to be transcribed as -āya according to K. Deller or -ay following S. Parpola), although mainly indeclinable, presents some interesting exceptions, such as e.g. LÚ.Ku-ma-a-a-e (see J. Hämeen-Anttila, A Sketch of Neo-Assyrian Grammar [SAAS 13; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2000] 84); while (b) the second appears productive only in the feminine, which has the expected form in the singular (e.g. armītu) but something of a hybrid form in the plural (MÍ. ár-ma-a-a-te).

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For our present purposes it may be noted that the nisbe presents a basic advantage over personal names in that it represents an explicit identifier in terms of ethnicity, rudimentary though it may be, whereas onomastics, as stated above, only allow ethnicity to be deduced. On the other hand, it is obvious that the attestation of a nisbe cannot be considered automatic proof of the actual, and “live,” historical existence of this-or-that ethnicity on the scenario of the chosen documentation; rather, this merely offers the subjective and occasional perception and communication of that ethnicity. 15 To give just one example of the challenges this raises, we may consider the archaizing or generalizing identity markers. As in other cultures from antiquity, these could be employed by the cuneiform scribes especially to denote foreign and “remote” population groups; we sometimes find these markers recorded in the very same contexts as other, much more clearly and immediately meaningful, nisbe designations. 16 In sum, therefore, the range and extent to which the nisbe was applied to different locational and social entities attested in the documentation of the Neo-Assyrian period requires a series of in-depth contextual evaluations, from which we should not, in any case, expect to draw an “objective” historical picture of the jigsaw puzzle of the ethnicities that formed the Assyrian empire. What we may draw, instead, is a tentative 15.  Possibly the first scholar of allied fields to use the nisbe, drawn from a specific Oriental linguistic-cultural milieu (Moroccan Arabic), to focus on matters pertaining to ethnicity was the anthropologist Clifford Geertz (“‚From the Natives’ Point of View‘: On the Nature of Anthropological Understanding,” Bulletin of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences 28/1 [1974] 26–45). Geertz utilized the concept of nisbe (in Arabic, nisba) to explain how Moroccan culture defined the person. He noted that, at the highest level, a nisba is an identifier that associated a person with a specific community, location, or ethnicity. Yet the invoked nisba seems to be a matter of reference frame; different nisba s may be employed appropriately by dissimilar people within similar locations. In short, the nisba would seem to create “a framework within which persons can be identified in terms of supposedly immanent characteristics” (ibid., 42) and at the same time, to minimize the impact of those characteristics in shaping practical relations and in how the self sees and describes itself pragmatically within Moroccan culture. 16.  The culture of ancient Mesopotamia presents a number of monikers for foreign peoples that owe more to traditions handed down over the centuries and/or to their ideological actualizations, than to any concrete connection with observed realities and to the commonly used (or “native”) identifiers of the relevant communities. A good case in point—well investigated in a recent study—is that of the ethnonym Ummānmanda (of uncertain meaning), which goes back to the so-called Cuthean Legend of Naram-Sin, at least beginning with the late-second millennium re-elaborations of this text, and which was applied to the Gimirrāya/Cimmerians in NA texts and to the Medes in NB texts (S. F. Adalı, The Scourge of God: The Umman-manda and Its Significance in the First Millennium bc [SAAS 20; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2011]).

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historical-anthropological framework on how the dominating level of Assyrian society (from which our surviving documentation on Assyria derives) perceived the existence of “others,” whether living beyond its borders or interspersed in its very midst—per se and especially vis-à-vis its self-identification. 17 I believe that particularly fruitful results in this sense may be attained by looking beyond the confines of the official inscriptions of the Assyrian kings, and concentrating, instead, on the nisbe s attested in a more haphazard manner in the “everyday” documents of Assyrian administration. 18 This particular approach to the problem of ethnicity and to its application as a historical tool has, in point of fact, few forerunners in the specific field of research on the Assyrian empire. While straightforward historical descriptions of the ethnic components of Mesopotamian society (e.g., Arameans, Chaldeans, Elamites, Arabs, etc.) in the first millennium b.c. are certainly not lacking, and at times are remarkable for their depth and detail, 19 hitherto little has been done in the area of the subjective percep17.  The opposite situation, i.e., that of how the “others” perceived the Assyrians, is unfortunately largely lost, due to the lack of “everyday” documents written by the neighboring or subjected peoples; at most, we find official utterances (in Aramaic, Luwian, Urartian, etc.) that present fleeting and stereotypical political views on the Assyrian Empire, which are of no real use from the standpoint of this study. Somewhat more satisfactory, as is well known, is the biblical record: here P. Machinist (“Assyria and Its Image in the First Isaiah,” JAOS 103 [1983] 719–37) represents a landmark contribution on how Assyria was perceived in Isaiah’s prophetic utterances—although the results are, again, more useful in the field of comparative political discourse than in the lower reaches of judgments on Assyrian ethnicity. 18.  Thus the nisbe markers attested in the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions (henceforth: ARI) will be taken into account only for extremely limited comparative purposes. For their use concerning “Assyrians,” see P. Machinist, “Assyrians on Assyria in the First Millennium bc,” in Anfänge politischen Denkens in der Antike: Die nahostlichen Kulturen und die Griechen (eds. K. Raaflaub and E. Müller-Luckner; Munich: Oldenbourg, 1993) 82 and passim. For the use of the nisbe as one of the means to designate foreign rulers in the ARI (an alternative to šarru, šakin māti, mār + PN, and bēl āli, depending on the periods and the areas of application), see most recently G. Lanfranchi, “The Assyrian Expansion in the Zagros and the Local Ruling Elites,” in Continuity of Empire(?): Assyria, Media, Persia (eds. G. Lanfranchi, M. Roaf, and R. Rollinger; Padua: S.A.R.G.O.N., 2003) 93–94. 19.  See, e.g., the informative chapters on the Arameans, Chaldeans, and Kassites in Babylonia in J. A. Brinkman, A Political History of Post-Kassite Babylonia, 1158–722 b.c. (Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1968); D. O. Edzard, “Kaldu,” RlA 5:291–97; G. Frame, Babylonia 689–627 b.c.: A Po l it ic al Hist o ry (PIHANS 69; Istanbul: NINO, 1992); S. W. Cole, Nippur in Late Assyrian Times, c. 755–612 bc (SAAS 4; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 1996); for the Arameans in general, see Lipiński, Arameans. For the Arabs in Mesopotamia, see I. Ephʿal, The Ancient Arabs: Nomads on the Borders of the Fertile Crescent, 9th-5th Centuries b.c. (Jerusalem: Magnes/Leiden: Brill, 1982).

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tion of ethnicity in the Assyrian written record—with the exception of attempts concerning the gentilic Aššurāy(a) “Assyrian” itself. 20 How, then, is one to proceed factually in an evaluation of the nisbe? It is immediately apparent that a comprehensive itemization of the attestations of the gentilic marker in Neo-Assyrian texts has only limited potential for historical purposes. 21 As already implied, the nisbe was employed frequently, especially for a certain variety of ethno-social descriptions; but in fact it was not employed in all conceivable cases, and at times yielded ground to other indications of provenience or belonging (e.g., through the expression[s] LÚ/DUMU KUR/URU, followed by a place name {GN}, “man of/son of/citizen of the region/town {GN}”). In brief, to understand just when, why, and how it was employed, it is advisable to evaluate the most explicit textual passages in which the nisbes are attested, in the light of either what is known from other sources or what may be made out directly from the texts in question regarding the specific historical context portrayed. In this way, depending on whether the subject to which the gentilic affix was applied represents a polity, city, tribe, or professional group, and whether these were communities geographically “beyond” or “within” the Assyrian frontiers, a situational and/or semantic grid may be built and then brought up for discussion and verification, case by case. It is hoped that at the end of such a process at least a rough idea of the (lato sensu) “anthropological” thought pattern that governed the use of the nisbe in the Neo-Assyrian context may be gained. To this aim, it may be noted that the approximately 3,000 epistolary texts from the “State Archives of Assyria” represent the category that yields the richest booty in terms of attestations for the use of the nisbe, even in a diachronic perspective; while the most meager results prove to 20. See Machinist, “Assyrians on Assyria”; S. Parpola, “National and Ethnic Identity in the Neo-Assyrian Empire and Assyrian Identity in Post-Empire Times,” Journal of Assyrian Academic Studies 18 (2004) 18 plus charts (publication in http://www.jaas. org/edocs/v18n2/Parpola-identity_Article%20-Final.pdf; accessed August 22, 2012). 21.  I have, in point of fact, carried out this comprehensive itemization as a preliminary research venture: the essential tool for this purpose still remains S. Parpola, NeoAssyrian Toponyms (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Kevelaer, 1970), with its computer-generated lists indicating the basic attestations of toponyms in every text of NA date known at the time of publication. A refinement of the initially established grid of nisbes (yielding some 125 separate items) was then performed on the basis of works of geographicalhistorical scope published in the intervening forty years, i.e., essentially A. M. Bagg, Die Orts- und Gewässernamen der neuassyrischen Zeit (RGTC 7/1; Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2007), and, for the Neo-Babylonian evidence, R. Zadok, Geographical Names According to New- and Late-Babylonian Texts (RGTC 8; Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1985), as well as on the geographical indexes in the recent text editions of Neo-Assyrian “everyday” documents.

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derive from the highly formalized and repetitive contexts of the (onomastically rich) legal documents. The so-called administrative texts, i.e., accounts and inventories for diverse practical purposes, fall more or less between these, but show a particularly interesting “peak” in a number of detailed Fort Shalmaneser lists concerning the military personnel during Sargon’s reign. Finally, important pieces of information may also be gained from the small corpus of treaties and loyalty oaths contemporaneous with the “everyday” texts. 22 In sum, the material regarding the use of the nisbe in the Neo-Assyrian documents is altogether vast and varied; its range of detail in some domains makes it an interesting functional marker of the ethnicities that made up the Assyrian empire.

*  *  * For reasons of space, I limit the present inquiry to an examination of two basic uses of the nisbe: the singling out of members of polities considered to lie beyond the borders of the empire (§2), and of members of communities that, by contrast, were part and parcel of the imperial structure even if they enjoyed a special status owing to specific historical circumstances and/or cultural or social characteristics (§3). 23 In a second planned contribution on the same topic, I will deal with the nisbe as applied to semi-nomadic groupings encountered by the Assyrians, from the limited tribal splinter groups to the vast tribal “league”—this latter topic leading almost naturally to the vast and complex issue of the “Aramean” ethnicity within the Assyrian empire. Finally, in a third planned essay, I will take up again, by way of conclusion, the crucial topic of the “Assyrians,” albeit from the specific standpoint of ethnicity markers.

2. The nisbe as indication of foreign polities The most basic and transparent use of the nisbe in Neo-Assyrian “everyday” documents 24 is its application to the subjects that modern bureaucra22.  All in all, however, the most intriguing evidence on the nisbe as a marker of ethnicity is to be drawn from a textual category that at first sight might seem unproductive: extispicy reports, specifically the parallel lists in Cole, Nippur in Late Assyrian Times, 139 and 142, with their variants (see F. M. Fales, L’impero assiro: Storia e amministrazione, IX-VII sec. a.C. [Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2001] 59–60, 77–78, for a presentation in chart form). 23.  Considerations of space also force me to limit the presentation to a number of particularly significant case studies, although some indications on parallels to these may be found in the footnotes. 24.  As well as the one most frequently attested in the contemporaneous ARI.

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cies may dub, somewhat crudely, as “aliens,” that is, individuals or groups whose origin or homeland lay outside the borders of the Assyrian state, and who were subjects of a non-Assyrian territorial or political complex (defined as such by the prefixed determinative KUR). More precisely, this application of the nisbe within non-official documentation usually concerns peoples who entertained political and/or economic relations with the Assyrian empire but who were not incorporated (yet/any longer) within its boundaries and thus were not subjected to the “inner” jurisdiction of the provincial areas. The best-known cases thus refer to the peoples of the Levant, of the Zagros mountain range (especially under Sargon), and of southern Anatolia—in sum, to the populations of the outer “rim” of lands that entered most intensely into contact with Assyrian imperial policies. As shall be seen, however, some “ethnic-group terms” of the same type also were applied to breeds of horses originally raised in far-off areas and were employed to mark out particular technical specializations developed abroad and imported into Assyria through the mechanism of deportation. In sum, there is enough material in this particular bracket to single out a number of historical issues underlying the use of the nisbe.

*  *  * One of the best-known cases of the nisbe describing “alien” ethnicities is found in the letter of the governor of Ṣimirra, Qurdi-Aššur-lāmur, to Tiglath-pileser III concerning the monopolistic restrictions 25 imposed by the Assyrians on the vassal/allied people of Sidon (URU.Ṣi-du-na-a-a) 26 regarding the trade of timber from Mount Lebanon: 25. On the historical-economic implications of this letter, see M. Elat, “Phoenician Overland Trade within the Mesopotamian Empires,” in Ah, Assyria: . . . Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor (SH 33; eds. M. Cogan and I. Ephʿal; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1991) 25–26; and, more widely, M. Allen, “Power Is in the Details: Administrative Technology and the Growth of Ancient Near Eastern Cores,” in The Historical Evolution of World-Systems (eds. C. Chase-Dunn and E. N. Anderson; New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005) 84. On Qurdi-Aššur-lāmur, see PNA 3/I 1021–22; S. Yamada, “Qurdi-Assur-lamur: His Letters and Career,” in Treasures on Camels’ Humps: Historical and Literary Studies from the Ancient Near East Presented to Israel Ephʿal (eds. M. Cogan and D. Kahn; Jerusalem: Magnes, 2008) 296–311. 26.  The particular status of the Sidonians is recalled elsewhere. For example, in a letter from the time of Sargon: “The Sidonians (URU.Ṣi-du-na-a-a) and their chiefs did not go to Kalhu with the Crown Prince my lord, nor are they staying in watch duty (here) in Nineveh. They loiter in the city center, each one in the house of his companion” (S. Parpola, The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part I: Letters from Assyria and the West [SAA 1; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1987] 153 obv. 6–rev. 6).

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The case of the Philistines mentioned in this letter is worth lingering on, since this mid-eighth-century nisbe 28 gives the second earliest attestation—and the earliest in terms of contextually clear evidence—to suggest that the Assyrians knew and recognized a specific and distinct territorial entity corresponding to the strip along the southern Levantine coastline and its immediate hinterland. This same area is circumscribed by some 250 attestations in the Old Testament as occupied by the Pelešet/Pelištîm, according to the biblical record this area was centered on the “Pentapolis” of Gaza, Ashdod, Ashkelon, Ekron, and Gath. 29 Earlier scholarly thought had insisted that these Philistine cities had been wiped out around around 1000 b.c., positing that the population had suffered a similar fate; however, the survival of the ethnonym in the ARI, notably in Sennacherib’s inscriptions, paints a completely different picture, as do the results of recent archaeological investigations. 30 The case of Tel Miqne-Ekron, excavated from 1981 to 1996, is instructive in this respect. It is now accepted that the local population had not abandoned the 50-acre fortified site it had inhabited for some three centuries in the LB-IA 1 periods. Rather, it had merely withdrawn to the upper tell, whence it began rebuilding and greatly expanding the urban settlement (to some 85 acres)—especially owing to favorable industrial and commercial policies stimulated by the Assyrians after Sennacherib’s conquest of the Judean Shephelah. 31 In particular, the Assyrians greatly 27.  ND 2715 l.e. 1–2 (= H. W. F. Saggs, The Nimrud Letters, 1952 [CTN 5; London: British School of Archaeology in Iraq, 2001] 155–58; Yamada, “Qurdi-Assurlamur,” 301–2). Both Saggs and J. N. Postgate (who aided Saggs extensively in his long-awaited comprehensive edition of the Nimrud letters) translate KUR.Pa-la-ášta-a as “Palestinians,” which is patently erroneous in view of the remarks given below. 28.  One in less than a handful in the “everyday” NA texts, which consistently show the variant Pi-li-is/lis-ta-a-a; Bagg, Orts- und Gewässernamen, 189–90. 29.  The earliest evidence of Philistia (KUR.Pa-la-as-tú) appears in a summary list of conquests of Adad-nirari III (RIMA 3 213 line 12). For the Pelešet/Pelištîm in a historical-archaeological light, see A. E. Killebrew, Biblical Peoples and Ethnicity: An Archaeological Study of Egyptians, Canaanites, Philistines, and Early Israel, 1300–1100 b.c. e. (Atlanta: SBL, 2005) 217–67, with ample bibliographical references. 30.  See S. Gitin, “The Philistines: Neighbors of the Canaanites, Phoenicians and Israelites,” in One Hundred Years of American Archaeology in The Middle East (eds. D. H. Clark and V. H. Matthews; Boston: ASOR, 2003) 57–87, with earlier bibliography. 31.  The majority of mentions of “the land of the Philistines” dates in point of fact, from Sennacherib’s royal inscriptions; and it may be recalled that the “crime” of Hezekiah of Judah in the Assyrians’ eyes was the support he had given to the insurgents who

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fostered—for their own ultimate benefit, as some silver hoards indicate— the development of the olive oil industry, previously unknown in the city but native to conquered Judah, and turned it into a product of a prosperous international commerce, presumably directed westwards to Egypt and North Africa. The city thrived on this activity for almost a century, until the fall of Ekron to the Babylonians in 604. 32 The excavation of Ekron has also yielded an alphabetic inscription of a king, son of a contemporary to Sennacherib, who bore a non-Semitic name, celebrating a goddess unknown elsewhere in the Near Eastern horizon, and thus possibly from the Aegean. 33 Thus, despite a number of traits (in writing forms and some religious practices) indicating that earlier Philistine culture had given way to a certain acculturation to Canaanite mores, 34 it may be shown that a Philistine identity managed to maintain its continuum through the centuries, had overthrown Padî, king of Ekron, actually holding the Philistine king captive in Jerusalem (see D. D. Luckenbill, The Annals of Sennacherib [Chicago: Oriental Institute, 1924] 31 II 73–77). However, a letter from an officer to Sargon indicates that Philistines were among the foreign (subjected/allied) populations from which the Assyrian king had drawn armed contingents, making them part and parcel of the Assyrian army: “The Philistines (KUR.Pi-lis-ta-a-a), whom the king my lord formed into a cohort and gave me, refuse to stay with me; in the town of Luqaše, near Arbaʾil, they [reside]” (Parpola, Correspondence of Sargon II, Part I, 155 obv. 4–10). It is interesting to note that the ARI of Sargon do not mention this fact, while recalling on the other hand the cohorts of Samarians and of other population groups drawn by the ruler (see S. M. Dalley, “Foreign Chariotry and Cavalry in the Armies of Tiglathpileser III and Sargon II,” Iraq 47 [1985] 31–48), and that no Philistines are attested in the contemporaneous “horse lists” from Fort Shalmaneser (S. M. Dalley and J. N. Postgate, Tablets from Fort Shalmaneser [London: British School of Archaeology in Iraq, 1984]). At the same time, the place of chosen residence of the Philistine military in Assyria is close to one of the cities (Arbaʾil) which was famed for a “city contingent” within Sargon’s army itself (cf. §3 below). 32. See Gitin, “The Philistines,” 61–63 (esp. p. 62: “As the political and economic superpower of its day, Assyria was the major influence in shaping the development of the nation-states of the eastern Mediterranean basin, including Philistia”). However, the detailed historical interpretation of the prosperity of Ekron in the seventh century is still somewhat open to debate; a more nuanced view of events, with an emphasis on Assyrian self-interests coming before everything else, is suggested by N. Naʾaman, “Ekron under the Assyrian and Egyptian Empires,” BASOR 332 (2003) 87: “We may . . . conclude that the prosperity of certain western vassals arose from the stability produced by the pax Assyriaca and from the new economic opportunities created by the empire—rather than the result of a deliberate imperial policy of economic development of these states.” 33.  See E. Lipiński, On the Skirts of Canaan in the Iron Age: Historical and Topographical Researches (OLA 153; Leuven: Peeters, 2006) 66, with previous bibliography. 34.  B. J. Stone, “The Philistines and Acculturation: Cultural Change and Ethnic Continuity in the Iron Age,” BASOR 298 (1995) 7–32; see also Lipiński, Skirts of Canaan, 50.

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and was recognized as such by the neighboring peoples—i.e., as distinct from that of the Phoenicians, Judeans, Edomites, and Ammonites. In a letter from the age of Sargon dealing with arrivals of horses (presumably ultimately of Egyptian origin, see below) as tribute, a full-fledged political geography of the southern Levant is provided through subsequent nisbe s, although the Philistine territories are subjected here to a detailed breakdown by cities (Gaza, Ashdod, Ekron): I have received 45 horses for the country. 35 The emissaries (LÚ*.MAḪ. MEŠ) from the lands of Egypt (KUR.Mu-ṣur-a-a), Gaza (KUR.Ha-zata-a-a), Judah (KUR.Ia-ú-du-a-a), Moab (KUR.Ma-ʾa-ba-a-a), and of the “sons of Ammon” (KUR.Ba-an–Am-ma-na-a-a) entered Kalhu on the 12th, their tributes in hand. A (further) 24 horses of (the emissary) of Gaza (KUR.Ha-za-ta-a-a) were (also) available. (As for) the Edomites (KUR.Ú-du-mu-a-a), the Ashdodites (KUR.As-du-da-a-a), and the Ekronites (KUR.An-qar-ru-na-a-a) . . . [rest lost].

*  *  * Moving to a different geographical horizon, that of the northeastern frontier of Assyria, one notices a particular (and relatively frequent) use of the nisbe to indicate the ruler of a specific foreign land, coupled with a verb in the singular (KUR.GN-a-a, “the xxx-ean”). A good example of this is represented by the frequent designations of the king of Urartu as KUR.URI-a-a (=Urarṭāya) in both the royal inscriptions and “everyday” texts—designations which have, by the way, caused some problems for pinpointing the exact identity of the ruler(s) in question. 36 A similar case appears in the following letter, written around 714 b.c. by Bēl-iddina, the ruler of Allabria, to Sargon; the “Urartian” mentioned therein, possibly Rusa I, 37 and a number of his allies (Andia, Zikirtu, Hubuškia) are similarly indicated by this “royal” nisbe: 35.  Parpola, Correspondence of Sargon II, Part I, 110 rev. 4: ANŠE.KUR.RA.MEŠ ša [KU]R. For the distinction between horses ša KUR, the ones which were to stay in the country (and participate, for example, in the building activities in Dur-Šarruken), and ša KASKAL, those which were to be used for military campaigns, see the discussion in Dalley and Postgate, Tablets from Fort Shalmaneser, 204. Thus the translation in Parpola, Correspondence of Sargon II, Part I, 92, “45 horses for the palace,” should be amended, also because KUR = ekallu is elsewhere absent in these letters (cf. ibid., 212b). 36.  See G. B. Lanfranchi and S. Parpola, The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part II: Letters from the Northern and Northeastern Provinces (SAA 5; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1990) xv–xvi. 37.  Lanfranchi and Parpola, The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part II, xvii.

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To the king, my lord, (from) your servant Bēl-iddina. As to the news of the Urartian (KUR.URI-a-a), a messenger of the Andian (KUR.An-di-a-a) and a messenger of the Zikirtean (KUR.Zi-ki-raa-a) have gone to Waisi and told him: “The king of Assyria is upon us.” The day he saw the messengers he set out for Zikirtu, he himself with his troops. The Hubuškian (KUR.Ḫu-ub-ka-a-a) also went with him for five stages. (Then) he (= the Urartian king) turned back, and ordered his magnates: “Organize your troops. I shall array myself against the Assyrian king.” This is from informers. (The news) regarding the arraying is (also) from informers. 38

A number of further nisbe s relating to local rulers of the anti-Assyrian front mark this particular epistolary corpus. Thus we find the “Šubrian,” the “Hargean,” and the “Mannean,” while a governor of Urartu is described as the one “adjacent to the ruler of Ukku” (qanni KUR.Ukkāya). 39 One wonders if a derogatory tone did not lie beneath the scribal use of these nisbe s—that is, to belittle foreign rulership—also owing to the suspicion that, to the contrary, rulers somehow allied with Assyria in the same general region (for example, the above-mentioned Bēl-iddina of Allabria or Urzana of Muṣaṣir) seem to have been entitled to mention by their full personal name. In this light, the very presence or absence of the PN might be taken as an implicit clue for shifts in political relations. Thus, for example, in Lanfranchi and Parpola, The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part II, 133 lines 9–10, “Yanzû, the Hubuškian” explicitly is mentioned as bringing tribute to Sargon, whereas only the nisbe was applied to the same king during the subsequent phase of his defection to the Urartian camp, as noted above. 40 38.  Lanfranchi and Parpola, The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part II, 164. Of interest in this text are the numerous idiosyncratic writings of names and nouns on the part of the scribe, with various omissions of signs: KUR.Zi-ki-ra-a-a for *Zikirtāya (obv. 6), KUR. Zi-ki-ti-a for *Zikirtia (obv. 15), KUR.Ḫu-ub-ka-a-a for *Ḫubus/škāya (rev. 3), and ma-di-tu for *mardītu, “stage, lap” (rev. 4). 39.  See the indexes of place names in Parpola, Correspondence of Sargon II, Part I; and Lanfranchi and Parpola, The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part II. 40.  Lanfranchi and Parpola, The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part II, xxii. On the localization of Hubuškia, see G. B. Lanfranchi, “Assyrian Geography and Neo-Assyrian Letters: The Location of Ḫubuškia Again,” in Neo-Assyrian Geography, 127–37. Indications of this type are, however, by no means limited to the Zagros area: see, for example, in the letter of Qurdi-Aššur-lāmur quoted above, the initial clause (obv. 3–4): “Concerning the ruler of the city of Tyre (URU.Ṣur-a-a), about whom the king my lord

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Finally, a somewhat exceptional case from the same area and date is represented by the nisbe KUR.Gimirrāya. Recent scholarship has recognized unanimously that the Gimirrāya should be compared with the Herodotean ethnonym “Cimmerians.” At present, however, the specific linguistic-cultural identity of this population and its ultimate geographical origin—such as may be made out through a combined “reading out” of the Assyrian sources and Greek historiography, along with the archaeological record from Iranian, Anatolian, and even circum-Caucasian sites— has given rise to complex and partially conflicting views. 41 Moreover, as a mobile armed community, the Gimirrāya might rather warrant inclusion among the nisbe s employed by the Assyrians for tribal groups. 42

*  *  * Horses in great number represented a major requirement of the Assyrian army. 43 Contrary to the idea that horses were caught consistently in the wild and then tamed, 44 it seems preferable to assume that horses had been foaled in Assyria over generations, since horse “corrals” are noted in legal documents all over the empire. 45 Moreover, non-agricultural areas like the foothills of the eastern provinces appear to have been quite suitable for said, ‘Speak kindly to him’ . . .” (for the political implications of this clause, see F. M. Fales, “‘To Speak Kindly to Him/Them’ as Item of Assyrian Political Discourse,” in Of God(s), Trees, Kings, and Scholars: Neo-Assyrian and Related Studies in Honour of Simo Parpola [eds. M. Luukko, S. Svärd, and R. Mattila; StOr 106; Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society, 2009] 27–40); and, from the age of Sargon, Parpola, The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part I, 226 lines 7–10: “the ruler of the country of Suhu (KUR.Su-ḫa-a-a) and the local people are also bringing saplings from the country of Laqê,” with reference to the semi-independent status of the Middle-Euphrates polity of Suhu. 41.  See G. B. Lanfranchi, I Cimmeri: Emergenza delle élites militari iraniche nel Vicino Oriente (Padua: S.A.R.G.O.N., 1990); A. I. Ivantchik, Les Cimmériens au Proche-Orient (OBO 127; Fribourg: Editions Universitaires/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1992); Adalı, Scourge of God, 107–32; K. Strobel, “‘Kimmeriersturm’ und ‘Skythenmacht’: Eine historische Fiktion?,” in Leggo! Studies Presented to Prof. Frederick Mario Fales (eds. G. B. Lanfranchi et al.; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2011) 771–820. 42.  In at least one such case, the ethnonym is preceded solely by the determinative LÚ. 43.  On the use of horses in the Assyrian armed forces, see most recently F. M. Fales, Guerre et paix en Assyrie: Religion et impérialisme (Paris: Cerf, 2010) 117–30, with previous bibliography. 44. K. Radner, “An Assyrian View of the Medes,” in Continuity of Empire(?), 43. In point of fact, the custom, reported by Sargon for the Manneans, was quite extraordinary; see F. Thureau-Dangin, Une relation de la huitième campagne de Sargon (714 av. J.-C.) (Paris: Geuthner, 1912) 28–29, Sargon’s seventh campaign account, lines 163–75; also Dalley, “Foreign Chariotry,” 42. 45.  J. N. Postgate, Taxation and Conscription in the Assyrian Empire (Studia Pohl, series maior 3; Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1974) 14.

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selective breeding purposes. 46 But the needs of the imperial chariotry and cavalry were such that horses were regularly imported from abroad, either through direct trade or as imposed tribute on allied regions (as in the case above for horses from the Levant), at times with considerable ceremonial paraphernalia of ideological-political value. In this light, it appears that to a certain extent the ebb and flow of horse imports followed the vagaries of Assyrian foreign policy. The early imports came from the plains of inner Anatolia; but in the wake of Urartu’s rise as a rival force to Assyria, Iran, and later Egypt, became ultimately the most important sources for Assyrian horses—to the extent, that is, that these two areas gave rise to distinctive and well-recognizable horse breeds, through the nisbe s Kusāya and Mesāya. 47 Kusāya undoubtedly refers to the land of Kush, the name by which Upper Egypt and Nubia was known; horses of Egyptian origin are attested also in the Old Testament. 48 The second species most likely originated in Iran: the Mesay race should be tied to the region of Mēsu/Mīsu, located by the official inscriptions of Sargon in northwestern Iran. 49 The resemblance of the Assyrian moniker to that of Xerxes’ “Nesaian” horses, said by Herodotus to come from Media (Histories VII 40–41), should also be noted, since Mēsu/Mīsu came to be considered by the Assyrians a part of Media. A further geographical term of origin, Ḫaršāya, appears in contemporaneous administrative texts, 50 and may be connected to Anatolia. Still, it should not be ruled out that Kusāya and Mesāya horses were, in the course of time, bred as such within the confines of Assyria. If so, then it follows that the two main nisbe s employed for these horses progressively took on a technical meaning, referring to different physical and functional characteristics of the relevant breeds in their domesticated state. This state of affairs may be surmised from some forty inventories of incoming horses, which Nabû-šumu-iddina/Nadinu, “mayor” (or inspector) of the Nabû temple at Kalhu, had sent to Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal, apparently on a quasi-daily basis. 51 In these texts, which follow an epistolary form, 46.  Lanfranchi, “Assyrian Expansion,” 98. 47.  Radner, “Assyrian View of the Medes,” 43; Dalley, “Foreign Chariotry,” 43. 48. See Postgate, Taxation and Conscription, 11; Dalley, “Foreign Chariotry,” 43– 45; L. Heidorn, The Horses of Kush, JNES 56 (1997) 105–14, for Kush; N. Naʾaman, Ancient Israel and Its Neighbors: Interaction and Counteraction: Collected Essays (vol. 1; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005) 7, for 1 Kgs 10:28. 49.  L. D. Levine, Geographical Studies in the Neo-Assyrian Zagros (Toronto: Royal Ontario Museum, 1974) 11, 114. 50.  F. M. Fales, “Notes on Some Nineveh Horse Lists,” Assur I/3 (1974) 5–24. 51.  S. W. Cole and P. Machinist, Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Priests to Kings Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal (SAA 13; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, nos.

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the incoming groups of animals are listed in relation to their most recent administrative area of foaling or stabling within Assyria, and are further classified by breeds, as in the following example: 52 To the king my lord, your servant Nabû-šumu-iddina. The very best health to the king my lord! May Nabû and Marduk bless the king my lord! 4 Kusāya horses, from the Treasurer of the Queen Mother; [7] Mesāya horses, trained to the yoke, the deficit from Dur-Šarrukku; [14] Mesāya horses, trained to the yoke, 34 cavalry mounts, 2 mules—in all, 50 (equids) from Tille. A total of 4 Kusāya horses, 21 Mesāya horses, trained to the yoke, 34 cavalry mounts, and 3 (sic!) mules: 53 horses and mules in all have come in. The 15th day. 53

*  *  * A final case of “alien” ethnicity indicated through the nisbe (though yielding some open questions) regards some administrative lists of female personnel of foreign origin, who operated and resided within the Assyrian palace, quite surely as the product of mass deportation and subsequent selection and redeployment. An interesting facet here is that in some cases the personnel seem to have been specialized in various techniques or activities, and that the nisbe itself may have had connections with this specialization. The following inventory from Nineveh, dated to the latter part of the reign of Esarhaddon, constitutes a good observation point. The text starts out as follows: 36 Aramean women (MÍ.Ár-ma-a-a-te); 15 Kushite women (MÍ.Kusa-a-a-te); 7 Assyrian women (MÍ.Aš-šur-a-a-te), maids [of theirs]; 4 replacements . . . ; [x+] 3 Tyrian women (MÍ.Ṣur-ra-a-a-te); [n] Kassite women (MÍ.Kaš-šá-a-a-te) (break of some 4 lines) . . . [n] female Corybantes (? MÍ.KUR.GAR.RA.MEŠ); 3 Arpadite women (MÍ.Ár-pad-daa-a-te); 1 replacement; 1 Ashdodite woman (MÍ.As-du-di-tú); 2 Hittite women (MÍ.Ḫat-ta-a-a-te) and [n . . . -ean] women: in all, 94 women 78–123. For the largely obscure reasons behind the fact that a high official of the temple of Nabû at Kalhu, such as Nabû-šumu-iddina/Nadinu (on whom, see PNA 2/II 885–86), had come to be in charge of conspicuous contingents of horses, see Cole and Machinist, Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Priests, xvii–xviii. 52.  Note the quaint mistake in the scribe’s final count of heads; see further, Fales, “Nineveh Horse Lists,” 19. 53.  Cole and Machinist, Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Priests, 90.

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and 36 maids of theirs. Grand total, of the father of the Crown Prince: in all, 140 (women). 54

This section of the text, marked off by a horizontal ruling, seems to list the women constituting Esarhaddon’s harem in one of his palaces, presumably the one in Nineveh, with no details beyond the place of origin of the subjects. As may be seen, these women were drawn from all over—from Egypt to Anatolia, from Babylonia to the Mediterranean—and thus the explicit differentiation of their origins in the text may pertain to the ostentation of a “collector.” 55 More specifically, considering these women implicitly as concubines (sekretu), their origins may be matched against the information given in the ARI concerning Esarhaddon’s removal to Assyria of entire harems, relevant to Gambulu and Egypt; 56 this may account at least for the “Kushite” women listed, and possibly the “Aramean” ones as well. In a further section of the text, however, another inventory of women from almost all the same places is provided, with the specification that these were musicians: 8 female chief musicians; 3 Aramean women; 11 Hittite women; 13 Tyrian women; 13 female Corybantes (?); 4 women from Sah[. . .]; 9 Kassite women: in all, 61 female musicians. 57

Now, it may be asked whether in this case the ethnicities of these women could have had anything to do with the instruments they played or even with the particular music they performed. To be sure, all the ethnic designations of these musicians match those of the sekretus described above. 54.  F. M. Fales and J. N. Postgate, Imperial Administrative Records, Part I: Palace and Temple Administration (SAA 7; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1992) 24 lines 1–17, commented on recently in S. Parpola, “The Neo-Assyrian Royal Harem,” in Leggo! Studies . . . Fales, 598–99. The text presents many breaks and erasures (Fales and Postgate, Imperial Administrative Records, Part I, 32, apparatus), but these characteristics have been noted only minimally in the following reproduction of the contents. 55.  On the collecting habits of Neo-Assyrian kings, see recently J. E. Reade, “The Assyrians as Collectors: From Accumulation to Synthesis,” in From the Upper Sea to the Lower Sea: Studies on the History of Assyria and Babylonia in Honour of A. K. Grayson (ed. G. Frame; PIHANS 101; Leiden: NINO, 2004) 255–68; A. K. Thomason, Luxury and Legitimation: Royal Collecting in Ancient Mesopotamia (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005) 217–19 and passim. It may be recalled that the possibility that a particular enemy’s concubines in their entirety should enter into the possession of the Assyrian king (ana pān šarri erābu) is discussed in a letter by Mar-Issar to Esarhaddon as one of the felicitous outcomes of an eclipse affecting the Westland (Amurru) negatively (S. Parpola, Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars [SAA 10; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1993] 364 rev. 10–11). 56. See Parpola, “Neo-Assyrian Royal Harem,” 604–5. 57.  Fales and Postgate, Imperial Administrative Records, Part I, 24 lines 20–27.

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However, the fact that already a century earlier the Nimrud Wine Lists show the distinctive presence of “Hittite” and “Arpadite” female musicians, as well as of “Kassite,” “Hittite,” and “Assyrian” male musicians within the Assyrian palace 58 might justify this hypothesis—although the degree to which a series of different musical traditions either enjoyed parallel development in the court environment or were supposed to somehow merge escapes us.

3. The nisbe applied to “inner” settled communities enjoying special status We now move our gaze to the lands falling within the political frontiers of the Assyrian empire, fluctuating as such frontiers were over time. Here, it may be noticed that a number of (a) urban/ provincial areas and (b) particular territorial units within “inner” Assyria were often singled out by means of the nisbe (though others, more abundant in number, were not); and that (c) Babylonian place names also were marked as such. In my opinion, all these cases may be unified as designations of settled communities enjoying special cultural and/or political status—whether owing to tradition or to particularities of these communities’ positions at the time of their textual attestation.

*  *  * As for case (a), the following Assyrian cities were either endowed with a nisbe or, alternatively, their inhabitants were marked out by the indication DUMU/mār URU.GN “son/citizen of the city GN”: Arbaʾil, Arrapha, Arzuhina, Assur (or its equivalent Libbāli), Halahhu, Harran, Kalhu, Kannuʾ, Kalzu(/Kilizu), Kurbaʾil, Isana, Lahiru, Naṣibina, Ninua, Raṣappa, Til-Barsip. Thus it is reasonable to believe that in this respect the nisbe was used to denote native birth and/or specific types of birthright or residence rights as part of the local community. Some of these cities obviously enjoyed a certain degree of institutional prestige in the NA period, not only as successive seats of royalty itself (Assur–Kalhu–Nineveh) but also as seats of temples of particular relevance within Assyrian religiosity (Arbaʾil [Ištar/Mullissu], Assur/Libbāli 58.  J. V. Kinnier Wilson, The Nimrud Wine Lists: A Study of Men and Administration at the Assyrian Capital in the Eighth Century b.c. (CTN 1; London: British School of Archaeology in Iraq, 1972) pl. 15 40ff.; pl. 28 7ff., pl. 30 27ff.; F. M. Fales, “A Fresh Look at the Nimrud Wine Lists,” in Drinking in Ancient Societies (ed. L. Milano; Padua: S.A.R.G.O.N., 1994) 371–80.

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[Assur/Mullissu, etc.], Harran [Sîn, Nusku], Kalhu [Ninurta, Šarratnipḫi, Nabû], Kannuʾ [Adad, Apladad], Kurbaʾil [Adad], Lahiru [Adad], Nineveh [Ištar/Mullissu]). 59 It may be noticed that the Assyrian cities with the most famous temples could also form nisbe s as personal names, for example, Arbailāya, Ḫarrānāya/Aramaic ḥrny, Kalḫāya, Libbālāya, Ninuāya, etc. 60 In all these cases—from the frequency of some of these PNs 61 and from their comparison with other PNs comprising the same cities as either subject 62 or object 63 elements—it is absolutely clear that the named cities here stood for the gods of their main temples, that is, that the relevant names did not so much mean “Born in GN” as “Blessed by the god(s) of GN.” 64 Other cities were the seat of secondary palatial buildings dear to the ruling dynasty or the higher echelons of government (Kilizu [queen mother], 65 Kurbaʾil and Til-Barsip [turtānu]); while some of the above-named cities (Assur, Arrapha, Arbaʾil, Arzuhina) provided the so-called “city contingents” to Sargon’s army. 66 Finally, other nisbe s refer to the capitals of provinces occasionally singled out in the texts for the delivery of yearly shipments of barley and emmer for divine banquets 59.  In general, on Assyrian temples, see B. Menzel, Assyrische Tempel (2 vols.; Studia Pohl, series maior 10; Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1981). More recently, for the temples of Kalhu, see J. E. Reade, “The Ziggurrat and Temples of Nimrud,” Iraq 64 (2002) 135–216; for Ištar of Nineveh, J. E. Reade, “The Ishtar Temple at Nineveh,” Iraq 67 (2005) 347–90; for the cults of Kannuʾ, see R. Zadok, “Kannuʾ,” in Leggo! Studies . . . Fales, 853–69. For Assur and Harran as cities with important temples subjected to tax exemption (with others?) by Sargon at the beginning of his reign, see G. W. V. Chamaza, “Sargon II’s Ascent to the Throne: The Political Situation,” SAAB 6 (1992) 21–33. 60. For Arbailāya, see PNA 1/I 124–26; Ḫarrānāya/Aramaic ḥrny, PNA 2/I 461–62; Kalḥāya, PNA 2/I 599; Libbālāya, PNA 2/II 660; Ninuāya, PNA 2/III 963–65. 61.  For example, the PN Arbailāya has the vast number of 35 different prosopographical entries; Ḫarrānāya has 14; Ninuāya has 22; etc. 62.  For example, Arbail/Libbāli/Ninua–hammat, Arbail/Libbāli–šarrat. 63.  For example, Mannu-ki–Arbail/Ḫarrān/Libbāli/Ninua, etc. 64.  Thus, for example, S. Parpola (“Cuneiform Texts from Ziyaret Tepe [Tušhan] 2002–2003,” SAAB 16 [2007] 79) pointed out the fact that “the name Mannu-kī– Libbāli is best attested in texts from Assur and Nineveh, where Mullissu was worshipped as Ištar of Nineveh or under the name Lady/Queen of Nineveh,” with only one out of fourteen attestations not connected to either of these two sites. 65.  See J. N. Postgate, “Kilizu,” RlA 5:591–93. Renewed excavation of this city, to be identified with Qaṣr Šemamok in present-day Iraqi Kurdistan, has been ongoing since the spring of 2011. It is led by a French archaeological team (O. Rouault and M. G. Masetti-Rouault) and has already provided written evidence of MA and NA date (public oral communication, July 2011). 66.  Dalley and Postgate, Tablets from Fort Shalmaneser, 36–37.

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at the Assur temple, as well as vast quantities of sheep and oxen to be sacrificed on behalf of the king or to be offered in holocaust to the heavenly gods; each of these areas had its allotted days for delivery within the cultic calendar. 67 What could have been the reason for the use of the nisbe to single out these cities over others? 68 A comprehensive answer to this question does not seem possible at present, since it is very likely that the special status of these sites was determined by a variety of factors, some of which certainly escape us. In general, however, a quick look at the map and at a chronological chart shows that all of these toponyms may be placed within either the “extended heartland” of Assyria or the area of the “home provinces,” such as was established during the reign of Shalmaneser III, but with some further extensions under Shalmaneser himself and his successors ŠamšiAdad IV and Adad-nirari III. 69 In addition, a number of these sites were already important provincial cities during the thirteenth and twelfth centuries, under Tukulti-Ninurta I and Tiglath-pileser I. 70 In sum, these cities, or most of them, constituted the “old cities” of Assyria, marking the original expansion of the “Land of Assur” in the MA period or its reconquista under the tenth–ninth century NA kings. In this light, the reference to their inhabitants through the nisbe may reflect a hint at a traditional status of esteem they enjoyed, as that of veritable “pillars” of the inner core of the empire—although specific measures of economic favor concerning them should not be ruled out either. 71 Certainly, whether in relation to their famed temples or not, a number of these cities 67. See Parpola, Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars, 96 for a list of these provinces; see also Cole and Machinist, Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Priests, xvi–xvii. 68.  That is, other than possible whimsical habits of individual scribes, which should by no means be ruled out in any case. 69.  See J. N. Postgate, “Assyria: The Home Provinces,” in Neo-Assyrian Geography, 4 (chart of the provincial governors who became limmu s) and 13–17 (maps of the provinces of the Assyrian state in various phases). 70.  As may be made out from the MA offering lists that show the kingdom, then encompassing roughly the entire area from the Euphrates (down to the confluence with the Habur) to the two Zabs. See J. N. Postgate, review of Kh. Nashef, Die Ortsund Gewässernamen der mittelbabylonischen und mittelassyrischen Zeit, AfO 32 (1987) 95–101 (= J. N. Postgate, The Land of Assur & the Yoke of Assur: Studies on Assyria 1971–2005 [Oxford: Oxbow, 2007] 123–30). 71. For example, Esarhaddon (E. Leichty, The Royal Inscriptions of Esarhaddon, King of Assyria [680–669 bc] [Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011] 84 no. 33 rev. iii ll. 21′–22′) states that he apportioned the captives from Šubria all over the land, mentioning specifically the inhabitants of four of these cities: “I distributed the re[st of them] like sheep and goats among my palaces, my nobles, the entourage of my palace,

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were known as places of specific scribal learning. Thus, for instance, a letter to Esarhaddon concerning the preparation for the vast ceremony of the adê (“treaty/loyalty oath”), which was to sanction fealty to Crown Prince Assurbanipal in 672, mentions some of these scribal groups by origin: The scribes of the cities of Nineveh (DUMU.MEŠ URU.NINA.KI), Kilizi (URU.Kàl-zi-a-a), and Arbaʾil (URU.Arba-ìl-a-a) may enter the treaty; they have (already) arrived. Those of Assur (URU.ŠÀ.URU-a-a [= Libbālāya]) have not (yet) arrived. The king, my lord, knows that they are (also) clergymen. If it pleases the king, my lord, let the ones who have arrived earliest enter the treaty; the Ninevites (DUMU.MEŠ URU.NINA.KI) and the people of Kalhu (URU.Kal-ha-a-a) could be free soon, and could enter the treaty under (the statues of) Bel and Nabû (already) on the 8th day. 72

*  *  * The second group of “inner” toponyms to which the nisbe could be applied (see b, above p. 66) are a few specific territorial enclaves that could have enjoyed a particularly prominent political position during either late Middle Assyrian or Neo-Assyrian times, and thus retained for some reason a special administrative status, despite their progressive annexation to the provinces being formed in the “extended heartland” throughout the eighth century b.c. Admittedly, this conjecture stems from the single case of the territory of Šadikanni on the Lower Habur (modern Tell ʿAğağa), now viewed as having been “ruled continuously by independent but loyal rulers throughout the ‘dark ages’.” 73 That Šadikanni did not constitute a and [the citizens of Ninev]eh, Kalhu, Kalzu, (and) Arbaʾil” (ù [DUMU.MEŠ NINA]. KI URU.Kal-ḫa URU.Kàl-zu URU.4-ìl GIM ṣe-e-ni ú-za-ʾi-iz). 72.  Parpola, Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars, 6 obv. 6–edge 23. “To enter the treaty” (ana/ina libbi adê erābu) was the first of two juridical procedures to be observed upon the occasion of an adê, and it presumably consisted in listening to the reading out of the text of the treaty itself. The procedure must have required some hours, in view of the fact that Esarhaddon’s treaty to which reference is made here, consisted of 670 lines (text publication: S. Parpola and K. Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths [SAA 2; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1988] 6). For other attestations of scholars (ummānu) from Assur (Libbālāya), Nineveh, Arbaʾil (both with DUMU+GN), Kalhu (Kalḫāya), and Harran (Ḫarrānāya) described as “in the service of the king,” see, for example, the royal banquet lists in Fales and Postgate, Imperial Administrative Records, Part I, 150; Parpola and Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths, 11′–13′; 151 rev. i 11′–16′; 153 rev. ii′ 2–6. 73. H. Kühne, “The Assyrians on the Middle Euphrates and the Ḫābūr,” in NeoAssyrian Geography, 76.

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fully “standard” community from the administrative point of view even in the late eighth century b.c. may be made out indirectly from a letter of reply to an inquiry by Sargon (who was perplexed concerning a certain dearth of recruits from this enclave): The king my lord knows that the Šadikanneans (URU.Še-di-kan-a-a) are hirelings; they work for hire all over the king’s lands. They are not runaways; they perform the ilku-duty and supply king’s men from their midst. 74

The phase in which Šadikanni and other small enclaves, either lying likewise on the Lower Habur (like Qatnu, present-day Tell Fadġami) or in the hills north of the Habur (like Izalla), 75 began to be integrated into the administrative structure of the greatly expanding kingdom as acquiescent tributary states, was in the late tenth century, and especially under Assurnasirpal II (884–858 b.c.). 76 In a (partially fragmentary) royal decree of this age for the appointment of the high official Nergal-āpil-kūmûʾa as city overseer over Kalhu, the populations of these three polities connected to the Habur—as well as those of other areas—are explicitly named with their nisbe s as falling under the appointee’s jurisdiction in the new capital city: . . . be it a Hamudean, or a Sirganean, or a Yalunean, 77 or a Harṭunean, or a Bit-[. . .]ean, or an Azallean (KUR.A-za-la-a-a), or a Qatnean (KUR.Qat-na-a-a), or a (Ša)dikannean (KUR.Di-kan-na-a-a), or a Kassi[te, or a . . .]ean, or from (any of) the far-off lands (? na-sik-ka-te) of the Magnates, as many as are resident in Kalhu. 78

The entire inventory is thereupon summarized in the three categories of “Assyrian craftsmen, ‘(palace-)enterers’, and performers of the ilku (a-lik il-ki).” Now, by exclusion, it is reasonable to suppose that the people of Šadikanni and of the other pro-Assyrian local communities belonged to the latter category, that is, that they were present in Kalhu in order to per74.  Parpola, Correspondence of Sargon II, Part I, 223 lines 4–13. 75.  See J. N. Postgate, “Izalla,” RlA 5:25–26. 76.  See M. Liverani, Studies on the Annals of Ashurnasirpal II: Topographical Analysis (vol. 2; Rome: University of Rome, 1992) 31, 108, 117. 77.  For these first three nisbe s, see the later inscription of the age of Adad-nirari III (RIMA 3 226–27; a dedication text of Bēl-tarṣi-ilumma, governor of Kalhu), suggesting that the relevant territories thus should have been not far from Kalhu itself. 78. L. Kataja and R. Whiting, Grants, Decrees and Gifts of the Neo-Assyrian Period (SAA 12; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1995) 83 rev. 17–20. For Nergal-āpilkūmûʾa, see PNA 2/II 941. For the uncertain interpretation surrounding the term KUR.na-sik-ka-te in this context, see Kataja and Whiting, Grants, Decrees and Gifts of the Neo-Assyrian Period, 96, critical apparatus.

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form corvée work (perhaps as masons for the buildings of the new capital). And possibly a specific aptitude in carrying out such menial labor under request had come to characterize the Šadikanneans from one century to the next—making them well known in Sargon’s time for their capacity in general work activities, and thus always on the move, from one labor contract to another, “all over the king’s lands.” In sum, the particular professional identity of the people of Šadikanni— as noted in the documents of the Assyrian administration—would seem to fall somewhat in between a low-level workforce and a group of occasional (or seasonal) migrants within the imperial territory. And their long-lived political attachment to Assyria could have been of some aid in offsetting the risk of their being confused superficially with runaways from the ranks of the glebae adscripti or other types of lawless subjects. Thus it was presumably not by chance that a specific “seating area” (mūšabu) to attend official ceremonies had been reserved for the Šadikanneans in Nineveh during Sennacherib’s reign. 79

*  *  * The nisbe s referring to Babylonian cities (c, above p. 66) reflect, to a certain extent, the particular status of the relevant communities within the southern Mesopotamian alluvium at the time of decided Assyrian intervention, that is, from Tiglath-pileser III onward. As most recently detailed by G. Barjamovic, 80 Babylonian society was encountered by the Assyrians in a fragmented state, due to the multifaceted types of allegiance brought about by the splitting up of the previous Kassite monarchy into a series of city-states, whether vis-à-vis Babylon, the traditional seat of indigenous monarchical power, or Assyria, the newer dominant power. This dualism of potential allegiance (“royal or loyal”) 81 is well captured in a letter of the Babylonian scholar Bēl-ušēzib to Esarhaddon: 79.  Fales and Postgate, Imperial Administrative Records, Part I, 9 rev. i 24. For the suggestion that mūšabu may have meant here “seat, seating area,” against the previous interpretation as “residence” brought forth in Fales and Postgate, Imperial Administrative Records, Part I, xvii–xviii, see F. M. Fales, “Palatial Economy in Neo-Assyrian Documentation—An Overview,” in Palatial Economy in the Ancient Near East and the Aegean (eds. P. Carlier and F. Joannès; Paris, in print). 80. G. Barjamovic, “Civic Institutions and Self-Government in Southern Mesopotamia in the Mid-First Millennium bc,” in Assyria and Beyond: Studies Presented to Mogens Trolle Larsen (ed. J. G. Dercksen; PIHANS 100; Leiden: NINO, 2004) 48–53. 81.  The expression comes from S. Richardson, “The World of Babylonian Countrysides,” in The Babylonian World (ed. G. Leick; New York: Routledge, 2007) 27.

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Frederick Mario Fales Now his son Bēl-ahhē-(e)rība—his mother is Borsippan ([BÁR.SIPA. KI]-i-ti) 82 but his grandmother was Assyrian (Aš-šur.KI-a-a), and he himself is Borsippan-born ([DUMU.BÁR.SI]PA.KI)—is in a leading position among the citizens of Borsippa (LÚ.BÁR.SIPA.KI.MEŠ) and the nobility of Borsippa, and he is devoted to Assyria, having said, “May the rule of the king, my lord, last over me unto the end of days, and may I pull the yoke of Assyria.” Through the name of Assyria and with his help, the citizens of Borsippa will be subdued, and he will keep the watch of the king my lord. 83

A further aspect of fragmentation had moreover been caused by late- and post-Kassite migratory movements, which had split the southern alluvium into many different (but also partially overlapping) ethnicity enclaves, entailing radical social and cultural differences. 84 Thus, in some of these Babylonian cities—the best-known example being Nippur—the written record shows that residual representatives (and, in some cases, proud champions) of a bimillennial “Mesopotamian” cultural tradition happened to operate daily and side by side with Aramean tribesmen, Chaldean soldiers, and at times even Arab allies in matters of business, religion, and politics. 85 This jigsaw puzzle of ethnicities, expressed through the many languages in use in this region—is described well in the following passage from a letter to Assurbanipal: I am the king’s servant and watchman here. There are many foreign language speakers in Nippur (operating) under the aegis of the king my lord. I implement the king’s orders and speak to them (all). 86

Moreover, as also noted by Barjamovic, the very notion of “citizens” of some of these urban sites (at times endowed with the nisbe, but most often as LÚ/DUMU–{GN}.KI.MEŠ) is not immediately easy to infer and 82. The plural of this feminine gentilic is given, for example, in another letter, M. Luukko and G. Van Buylaere, The Political Correspondence of Esarhaddon (SAA 16; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 2002) 153, addressed to Esarhaddon by “the gentlewomen of Borsippa” (MÍ.a-me-la-te/[MÍ.bar-sí]p-a-a-te; obv. 2–3). Notice further that the feminine PN Barsipitu is attested (PNA 1/II 273), as is also its masculine counterpart Barsipāya (PNA 1/II 272). 83.  Parpola, Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars, 118 rev. 2–9. 84. See most recently F. M. Fales, “Arameans and Chaldeans: Environment and Society,” in Babylonian World, 288–98. 85. For the continuing presence of a Nippurian astrological “school” in contact with the Assyrian court, see Cole, Nippur in Late Assyrian Times, 43. 86. A. Fuchs and S. Parpola, The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part III: Letters from Babylonia and the Eastern Provinces (SAA 15; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 2001) 192 rev. 5′–8 ′.

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render; yet it presumably hides a possible subdivision between the scions of older families and the remainder (and less prominent segment) of the local population, to be unraveled case by case. 87 This scenario of divided political allegiances and inherent class hierarchies seems to underlie the following passage from an epistolary report by the Assyrian governor of Babylon, Šarru-ēmuranni, to king Sargon, concerning an attempt of the Chaldeans to sway the pro-Assyrian allegiance of the city of Larak on the alleged authority of a (prominent) Babylonian citizen: . . . [ ]hayu sent a Chaldean, an informer, to Larak, (but) the Larakeans (URU.La-rak-ka-a-a) arrested him and brought him before me. I asked him, “Where are you (coming) from?” He said: “A citizen of Babylon (DUMU–KÁ.DINGIR.RA.KI) sent me to Larak.” But they (= the Larakeans) said, “He is a crook, he is lying! We know him, the people of Nippur (EN.LÍL.KI-a-a) [told us about him(?)].” Now they are bringing him to the king, my lord; may the king, my lord, question him. 88

4.  Provisional conclusions The case studies provided above represent only the first half of an overall dossier on ethnicity in the Assyrian empire, as seen through the use of the nisbe in Neo-Assyrian “everyday” texts. But even the limited material presented here begins to shed light on some facets of the subjective perception of both an outside world and an inner society on the part of the Assyrian ruling class, in which numerous ethnicities of different types and origins were recognized and had to be called upon for reasons of bureaucratic precision and efficaciousness in communication. In the eyes of the historian these ethnicities thus form a comprehensively fragmented “mental map” of the empire, one in which the “ecumenical” aspiration—overtly expressed by a number of kings in their royal inscriptions—to “turn into Assyrians” the entirety of the population groups living in the empire, seems to have clashed in practice against a number of limiting factors; these factors derived from deep-seated varieties of cultural tradition or entrenched ethnolinguistic differentiations. And yet a basically ideological thrust toward the adoption of the adherence to an “Assyrian” supra-segmentary ethnicity was encouraged continuously by the crown. 89 87. See Barjamovic, “Civic Institutions and Self-Government,” 55–59. 88.  Fuchs and Parpola, The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part III, 218 obv. 5–rev. 4. 89.  This will be demonstrated in the follow-up article, the planned title of which is: “Ethnicity in The Assyrian Empire: A View from the Nisbe (II): Tribalists, ‘Arameans’ and ‘Assyrians’.”

David and the Ark: A Jerusalem Festival Reflected in Royal Narrative Daniel E. Fleming The biblical ark is a cultic oddity, a box identified with the divine presence as would be a sacred statue or other “image.” When its construction is mandated in Exod 25, it is immediately made the repository of written documents for Yahweh’s covenant with his people (vv. 16, 21). Only once does the ark slip from Israelite care, after it is brought into battle against the Philistines in 1 Sam 4. In this use, the “ark of the covenant” is identified further with “Yahweh of Hosts, who is enthroned on the cherubim” (1 Sam 4:3), evidently the figures mounted on the box according to Exod 25:18–20. These elaborations undertake to explain the oddity, why Israel’s God would be so intimately linked to a sacred box. For the present study, the use of a box to mark the divine presence is left a mystery, and my interest is rather in the mobility of the ark when it is transported like a divine image in procession. Such procession is common in ancient ritual, and it is not difficult to propose points of comparison between biblical renditions and accounts from the larger Near East. All the explicit biblical references to the ark’s procession involve one-time events, yet in other evidence, the promenade of a god in public view is often associated with annual rites. Based on my work with Emar’s zukru custom, I Author’s Note:  Peter Machinist arrived at Harvard almost at the moment that I left, soon after my 1990 graduation. His long career there would seem to have missed my connection, yet because of our shared interests and his constant generosity, I have nevertheless enjoyed his support and contact through much of these twenty years. He has come to play a role in my scholarly life as if I had been his own student. It is my pleasure to contribute this paper as a token of how much I appreciate his incisive mind, his openness to new ideas, his collegial attitude, and his personal generosity toward me and my work. Thank you, Peter. This paper came into being as part of an event shared by Peter with my colleague Mark Smith, in a New York University meeting entitled “The Biblical Icons of Israelite Religion,” in honor of Mark’s arrival. It has since been much revised, benefiting first of all from Mark’s careful critique. Sara Milstein and Lauren Monroe also read and responded to different versions of the piece, and I appreciate their contributions to this project and to my work in broad terms.

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propose here the possibility that the Bible also preserves evidence for this kind of regular processional practice, at least as a narrative point of reference and perhaps in the festival tradition of Jerusalem. In either case, the ark takes center stage. Among the various accounts of the ark in the Bible, David’s procession of the ark into Jerusalem stands out for its literary independence and its ritual realism, even as measured by the processional detail alone. In 2 Sam 6, the ark itself is identified with neither covenant nor cherubim. David plays a central role as king, even as he joins the people in behavior not proper to a monarch, dancing fervently with the crowds and setting aside any distinction by royal garb. Feted by music and sacrifice, Yahweh is brought to Jerusalem in two stages carefully defined by sites known above all for this event: Baalah, the threshing floor of Nakon, Pereṣ Uzzah, and the house of Obed-edom. Although the narrative casts this as a one-time occasion, defined by David as founder of Jerusalem in its role as political and sacred center, such a vivid ritual picture suggests a point of reference in known practice that would have been repeated. In the company of two other texts that recall the ark’s early arrival in Jerusalem, the dedication of Solomon’s temple in 1 Kgs 8 and the recollection of David’s rule in Ps 132, David’s procession of Yahweh into the city of his residence calls to mind a varied and far-flung Near Eastern practice with similar ingredients. Mesopotamia’s akītu festival, the zukru of Emar in northwestern Syria, and Anatolian rites for ḫuwaši stones outside their affiliated towns all evoke elements of a tradition that addresses the relationship of deities to the cities where they are now worshiped. In each case, a major god is brought outside of the city and then returned to it. Although significant rites may be performed outside the walls, each god ultimately belongs to the urban sanctuary to which he is restored, and the trip back to the temple recognizes the favor granted the people by the divine residence among them. All of these Near Eastern rites are celebrated by the calendar on a regular basis, once or twice a year. This pattern then raises the possibility that the narrative of David’s procession is informed by knowledge of a similar seasonal practice. Use of such a ritual template is explained most directly by knowledge of some practice for Yahweh in Jerusalem, also tied to the annual cycle of public cult.

I.  The Ark of Yahweh in Two Narratives The ark is central to the biblical picture of Israelite religion because it stood at the center of the two iconic sanctuaries of biblical Israel, the por-

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table tabernacle constructed at Sinai and Solomon’s temple at Jerusalem. When we read the books of Judges and 1 Samuel, we find little notion of any single dominant place for Israel to meet Yahweh before King David makes Jerusalem his capital. In the Torah, the ark is identified above all with the priestly vision of a single sacred center for Israel. It is difficult to separate this vision from the religious politics of Jerusalem and Judah, where such a center dominated public religion. Even if this centralizing assumption is visible only through Jerusalem lenses, it is not a simple reconstruction of Jerusalem practice. After all, the ark of the Torah is mobile, not defined by service to any one sacred place. Finally, this exclusive emblem of Yahweh’s presence finds its way to Jerusalem, brought there by David, the figure who gives the city its status as permanent capital. Three texts celebrate the ark’s arrival in Jerusalem and eventual installation in Solomon’s temple: 2 Sam 6; 1 Kgs 8; and Ps 132. The relationship between these texts is not certain, but whatever it may be, their interest in the ark is defined by its movement into Yahweh’s sacred center at Jerusalem. The Bible shows little concern for the object as a regular part of temple worship. Various psalms may assume the ark’s active role in procession outside the temple, but they do not make it a goal to celebrate the activity of the ark as such in the rites of the Jerusalem cult. 1 As a whole, the Bible’s interest in the ark has little to do with its regular use at an established sacred site. Even the ark in the tent shrine of Exodus is on its way to the Promised Land, just as in the distinct episode of crossing the Jordan in Josh 3–4. In both the invasion account and the David-Solomon texts, the ark moves toward Yahweh’s new home, in the first instance the land as a whole (Joshua), in the second instance Jerusalem (1 Sam 4:1–7:1; 2 Sam 6; 1 Kgs 8). 2 In each case, we are left to assume that the ark continued to inhabit the land and then Jerusalem, but in neither case does any biblical writer consider it necessary to tell us how. In an editorial note to the Benjamin war story, the ark is said to have been at Bethel, thus accounting for the people’s approach to Yahweh there (Judg 20:27). This is the only reference to the ark in the book of Judges, which is not surprising for an artifact of Jerusalem religious tradition in a 1.  See G. H. Davies, “The Ark in the Psalms,” in Promise and Fulfillment: Essays Presented to Professor S. H. Hooke in Celebration of His Ninetieth Birthday (ed. F. F. Bruce; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1963) 51–61. 2.  This movement toward Jerusalem characterizes the combination of 1 Sam 4:1– 7:1 and 2 Sam 6 in the finished books of Samuel but must be restricted to the latter in literal and original terms. The loss of the ark from Shiloh leads to a return to Israel generally without necessary assumption of David’s Jerusalem project.

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collection that shows little interest in Judah. In 1 Samuel, the ark appears at Shiloh abruptly, omitted from Hannah’s encounter with Eli in chapter 1 and first mentioned with the account of Samuel’s dream (3:3). 3 This isolated comment anticipates the central role of the ark in the Philistine war account of chapters 4–6, which is probably the source of the narrative placement at Shiloh. Between David’s transfer of the ark to Jerusalem in 2 Sam 6 and its installation in Solomon’s temple in 1 Kgs 8, there is one reference to Abiathar the priest as one who carried the ark during David’s time (1 Kgs 2:26). Each of the two travel narratives offers a destination at a sacred site. After crossing the Jordan River, the people set up a shrine of twelve stones at Gilgal (Josh 4:20); and the dislocation of the ark from Shiloh ends with its arrival in Jerusalem under David (2 Sam 6). In the Hebrew Bible, Gilgal does have a reputation as a sacred site—it is paired with Bethel in the critiques of Amos 4:4 and 5:5—but the other references suggest no ongoing use of an ark, and the combination of ark and twelve stones for twelve tribes indicates a Judahite and relatively late origin for this tradition. 4 The Jerusalem destination brings us to a more familiar and essential cultic location in the religion of Judah, and the significance of this setting is the ultimate focus of this study.

II.  In the Jerusalem Temple The Bible’s ark of God is generally reserved for stories of origins. It is presented as the treasured focus of the first Jerusalem temple (1 Kgs 6:19), but the Bible offers little sense of its use beyond these moments of entry. The books of Chronicles show a vivid interest in the ark of Solomon’s temple among Second Temple Jews, without implying any knowledge of its existence at that time. 5 At the end of the books of Kings, the Babylonians’ temple plunder does not include the ark, and the question of its end has occasioned endless speculation. 6 In contrast to this silence, three distinct 3.  Here, as “the ark of God” (Elohim), it appears to be attached awkwardly to the “temple of Yahweh.” 4.  For the likelihood that the convention of twelve tribes was not only Judahite (so, including Judah in its count) but post-monarchic, see Ulrike Schorn, Ruben und das System der zwölf Stämme Israels: Redaktionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zur Bedeutung des Erstgeborenen Jakobs (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1997), especially chap. 1. 5.  See C. T. Begg, “The Ark in Chronicles,” in The Chronicler as Theologian: Essays in Honor of Ralph W. Klein (eds. M. P. Graham et al.; London: T. & T. Clark, 2003) 133–34. Begg proposes that this interest may reflect some hope that a new or recovered ark might end up in the second Jerusalem temple (p. 143). 6.  For a systematic review of the possibilities endorsed by various advocates across the ages, see J. Day, “Whatever Happened to the Ark of the Covenant?” in Temple

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texts account for the ark’s initial residence in Jerusalem, each in somewhat different terms. Second Samuel 6 recalls the first arrival of the ark in Jerusalem, brought there at David’s command in a procession led by the king, who wears a priest’s ephod and dances “before Yahweh” in celebration. First Kings 8 describes the dedication of Solomon’s temple during the fall festival, with the transfer of the ark “from the city of David, that is Zion,” to its new housing in the inner sanctuary, beneath two enormous new cherubim. Finally, Ps 132 remembers the covenant with David’s dynasty in light of David’s first decision to establish a settled home for Yahweh’s ark in “Zion.” The description of the ark’s final transfer into the new temple insists that it could be seen even from the main sanctuary by its carrying poles, and that “they remain there until this very day,” as if during the period before destruction by the Babylonians (1 Kgs 8:8). If taken at face value, the text would imply the use of a temple ark at Jerusalem during the monarchy, but such references could also be understood as later editorial flourishes without historical basis. 7 In the one reference to the ark in all the books of the prophets, Jer 3:16–17 predicts a time when Jerusalem will be restored as “the throne of Yahweh,” but the old “ark of Yahweh’s covenant” will be lost and forgotten, never to be remade. This text also assumes the continued use of the ark through the life of Solomon’s temple, a notion reflected in the late postexilic text of 2 Chr 35:3, in which the ark is restored to the temple after Josiah’s renovations. Such texts prove only the eventual conclusion that the ark must have perished with Jerusalem’s destruction in 586 b.c., without confirming its presence and use during the monarchy. The ark is generally absent from the book of Psalms, which should contain some memory of ritual from the time of the first Jerusalem temple. It is often argued that several psalms assume the activity of the ark but focus and Worship in Biblical Israel (ed. J. Day; London: T. & T. Clark, 2005) 250–70. Day concludes that the ark was probably destroyed in 586 b.c. (p. 265), but there is no evidence for this beyond the certainty that it was not available to Jews of the succeeding period. 7.  J. C. Geoghegan concludes that the usage of the phrase “until this day” confirms the existence of a monarchic Deuteronomistic History, probably from the time of Josiah, while the temple still stood (The Time, Place, and Purpose of the Deuteronomistic History: The Evidence of “Until This Day” [Providence: Brown Judaic Studies, 2006] 119–20). It is difficult, however, to insist that use of this phrase can be characterized as specifically preexilic (see B. Becking, From David to Gedaliah: The Book of Kings as Story and History [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007] 17). Brevard S. Childs concluded that the phrase tends to be a secondary addition to existing traditions (“A Study of the Formula, ‘Until This Day’,” JBL 82 [1963] 279–92).

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instead on Yahweh’s presence itself, without need to mention the ark as its vehicle. For example: • In 24:7–10, Yahweh “enters” the gates in glory, in processional grandeur. • In 47:3, God “goes up” to the sound of shouting and trumpets. • Ps 68:25 describes “the procession of my God, my king, into the sanctuary.” • In 99:1 and 5, Yahweh is enthroned on the cherubim, and the people are enjoined to prostrate themselves “at the footstool of his feet,” a metaphor for the ark’s function in 1 Chr 28:3 and directly associated with the ark’s appearance in Ps 132:7–8.

Whether these poems date from before the fall of Judah or after it, they contain references to the physical presence of Yahweh that could be celebrated in sacred procession, an activity still characteristic of the first temple. Yet even if this poetry assumes the use of the ark, the writer is content to leave it unmentioned. This silence, both here and in the prophets, raises the possibility that the Jerusalem temple could have had a statue of Yahweh, like most ancient Near Eastern sanctuaries. 8 Regardless of how we explain such language in the Psalms, we are left without any biblical tradition for the departure of the ark from Jerusalem, as for war against Jericho in Josh 6 or against the Philistines in 1 Sam 4. We only hear of how the ark entered the city and its sacred sites. From the Bible’s point of view, the use of the ark in the Jerusalem temple was “secondary,” in the archaeological sense of the word. For all that the descriptions of temple and tabernacle are so often compared, most of the matching items are said to be made new for Solomon’s project. Most important are the huge cherubim that are physically disconnected from the ark, in contrast to the modest cherubim of the ark’s kappōret in the tabernacle version. 9 Beyond these, however, the altar, the table for 8. See especially Herbert Niehr, “In Search of Yhwh’s Cult Statue in the First Temple,” in The Image and the Book: Iconic Cults, Aniconism, and the Rise of Book Religion in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. K. van der Toorn; Leuven: Peeters, 1997) 73–95; with discussion of the issue from various perspectives in articles by Christoph Uehlinger, Bob Becking, Tryggve N. D. Mettinger, and Ronald S. Hendel. 9. The separation of cherubim from the ark in Solomon’s temple could indicate that these two ritual objects were not originally associated. Hanna Liss concludes that only the priestly writer combined them by placing small cherubim on the ark’s cover (kappōret); “Kanon und Fiktion: Zur literarischen Funktion biblischer Rechtstexte,” BN 121 (2004) 19–23. For discussion of what the cherubim most resembled in Near Eastern iconography, see Roland de Vaux, “Les chérubins et l’arche d’alliance, les sphinx gardiens et les trônes divins dans l’ancien orient,” MUSJ 37 (1960/61) 93–124 (sphinxes); and R. Gilboa, “Cherubim: An Inquiry into an Enigma,” BN 82 (1996) 59–75 (dragonfly or winged snake?). The cherubim image is not restricted to the im-

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the bread of the presence, the lampstands, and all the other accessories to temple service were made new. Only the ark is understood to have had a previous ritual use. 10 In the Bible, the ark is above all mobile, and its use does not derive from association with a fixed shrine. Even the main narratives that undergird Jerusalem’s claim to the ark present it as an object reused from another ritual setting. Conceptually, each account of the ark’s entry into Yahweh’s residence both celebrates the new and acknowledges the old, as if the ark had a previous life outside the temple. As part of the Bible, we have access first of all to a narrative tradition, not to ritual itself, and these stories present an imagined procedure that need not have been reflected in Jerusalem practice. In narrative terms, however, the ark is located in Jerusalem and takes for granted that city’s religious standing.

III.  Entry into Jerusalem In the biblical texts that mention the ark by name, the ark has only one active role in the life of the Jerusalem cult, and that is to enter the city and its temple. Two texts from the historical sequence recount this movement in two stages, each requiring a festival procession. David’s transfer of the ark to Jerusalem in 2 Sam 6 offers two different starting points, first at Baalah, evidently not far from Jerusalem, and then at the house of a Philistine named Obed-Edom. The latter seems to be just outside the City of David, because the final procession of the ark is portrayed as moving slowly to its destination on the same day, with sacrifice and celebration by mediate presence of Yahweh in Solomon’s temple, where they are also carved or engraved on the sanctuary doors (1 Kgs 6:32) and on the rolling stands (7:29, 36). 10. John Van Seters argues against Victor Hurowitz (I Have Built You an Exalted House: Temple Building in the Bible in Light of Mesopotamian and Northwest Semitic Writings [Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1992]) that the description of Solomon’s temple in 1 Kgs 6–7 has nothing to do with actual building inscriptions and is basically a deuteronomistic composition (“Solomon’s Temple: Fact and Ideology in Biblical and Near Eastern Historiography,” CBQ 59 [1997] 45–57). It is not necessary, however, to insist that the language of building comes from contemporary inscriptions in order to conclude that the descriptions in these chapters are based on the actual construction and contents of the first Jerusalem temple (see M. S. Smith, “In Solomon’s Temple (1 Kings 6–7): Between Text and Archaeology,” in Confronting the Past: Archaeological and Historical Essays on Ancient Israel in Honor of William G. Dever [eds. S. Gitin, J. E. Wright, and J. P. Dessel; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006] 275–82). For detailed evaluation of the two biblical sanctuaries, see C. D. Crawford, “Between Shadow and Substance: The Historical Relationship of Tabernacle and Temple in Light of Architecture and Iconography,” in Levites and Priests in History and Tradition (eds. M. A. Leuchter and J. M. Hutton; Ancient Israel and Its Literature 9; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2010) 117–33.

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the gathered populace. Solomon’s dedication of the temple in 1 Kgs 8 also requires a procession of the ark, this time treating the City of David as the outside point of origin, with the temple and its courtyard the sacred center and destination. Again, the procession is said to be the occasion of a festival for the gathered people of Israel, with lavish sacrifices along the way. Arguably, the primary text for the tradition of Yahweh’s entry into Jerusalem with the ark is 2 Sam 6, which attributes the responsibility to David. This text has long been considered the final episode of an “Ark Narrative” that began in 1 Sam 4:1–7:1. 11 The ark first appears in the care of Eli and his two sons at Shiloh. Eli’s sons bear the ark into battle against the Philistines, who defeat the Israelites, dispatch the ark’s porters, and take it back to Ashdod as spoils of war. Yahweh himself intervenes, not tolerating this insult to his power, and the ark brings plague and terror to Ashdod, Gath, and Ekron before the Philistines decide to relinquish the object to Israel. Taken on its own, the David text of 2 Sam 6 treats the ark as settled in the vicinity of Jerusalem at a place called Baalah (MT Baale Yehuda, v. 1) and there is no hint of a prior history among the Philistines or at Shiloh. The join between the ark’s return to Israel in 1 Sam 7:1 and David’s procession to Jerusalem in 2 Sam 6 is awkward, based on the placement of the ark in “the house of Abinadab” (1 Sam 7:1; 2 Sam 6:3). The ark arrives at Kiriath-yearim, where Eleazar is consecrated for its care (1 Sam 7:1); David is then said to retrieve the ark from Baalah, where Uzza and Ahio have charge of it (2 Sam 6:2–3). It is possible that two separate ark stories have been combined, with the Philistine adventure placed before the procession to Jerusalem in order to explain the starting point outside the city. 12 David’s procession in 2 Sam 6 may then belong to a relatively early and predeuteronomistic narrative that need not have been entangled originally with the affairs of Shiloh, Eli, and the Philistine conflict. 13 Transfer of the 11.  The original proposal was advanced by Leonhard Rost, Die Überlieferung von der Thronnachfolge Davids (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1926) 119–253. In an era when early dates for biblical texts were more widely accepted, P. Miller and J. J. M. Roberts offered a careful revision, set in David’s reign, The Hand of the Lord: A Reassessment of the “Ark Narrative” of 1 Samuel (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1977). 12. This apparent combination of two distinct narratives, with the second story now to be read through the lens of the first, represents one type of large-scale revision examined by S. J. Milstein in her dissertation, Reworking Ancient Texts: Revision through Introduction in Biblical and Mesopotamian Literature (Ph.D. diss., New York University, 2010). The closest comparison from her biblical base of texts in the book of Judges would be the combination of Gideon and Abimelech in chaps. 8–9, which she calls the “combination introduction with bridge.” 13.  The difficulties with detaching the ark material in 1 Sam 4–6 from its surroundings have led more recent interpreters to emphasize revision for the larger context. See

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ark to Jerusalem in chapter six follows naturally from David’s conquest of the city and victory over the Philistines in the preceding chapter. The setting of 2 Sam 6 appears to predate the destruction of Jerusalem and its temple in 586 b.c., and it is easily understood to belong to a circle with interest in David and in his establishment of Jerusalem as the sacred center of his kingdom, with the homes of Yahweh and the human king set side by side. This chapter serves a David narrative without reference to Saul, to Samuel, or to deuteronomistic themes of promise and continuity as found in chapter seven. The narrative still celebrates the house of David as the ruling line of a living realm, perhaps even claiming a religious authority for Jerusalem worship of Yahweh that derived from David, independent of the tradition that Solomon built the temple there. In cultic terms, it is not necessary to define a narrower date, beyond the period when kings still played a leading role in the religious life of Jerusalem, as epitomized by David. The other two Jerusalem ark texts are at least conceptually dependent on the notion that David brought the object there, as described in 2 Sam 6. It is not clear whether they were influenced directly by that text. First Kings 8 is dominated by Solomon’s words, with their prototypical deuteronomistic style, but the chapter begins with a processional sequence that is full of unusual language that could suggest another pre-deuteronomistic source. 14 The event takes place at the autumn turn of the year, defined as the month of Ethanim (v. 2). Installation of the ark in the temple recalls the enormous cherubim of the construction text (1 Kgs 6:23–30), with a unique interest in the visibility of its carrying poles from the sanctuary (8:7–8). Unlike David’s procession, Solomon plays no direct role in this movement of the ark, which is managed sedately by its priests. This handling of the ark matches the assumptions of Josh 3–6, where we find for example Erik Eynikel, “The Relation Between the Eli Narratives (1 Sam 1–4) and the Ark Narrative (1 Sam 1–6; 2 Sam 6:1–19),” in Past, Present, Future: The Deuteronomistic History and the Prophets (eds. J. C. de Moor and H. F. Van Rooy; Leiden: Brill, 2000) 88–106. The core of the Samuel ark lore is still widely considered to be pre-deuteronomistic. In his work on Josh 1–6, K. Bieberstein concludes that none of the ark material in that section is pre-deuteronomistic. This character is reserved for the core ark narrative in 1 Sam 4–1 Kings 8* (Josua-Jordan-Jericho: Archäologie, Geschichte und Theologie der Landnahmeerzählungen Josua 1–6 [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995] 354). 14. Jochen Nentel delineates a principal source in 1 Kgs 8:1a*, b, 2a, 3a, 4aα*, 5*, 6*, and 7–9, commenting, “weise ich Dtr, genauer DtrH, zu, der unter Aufnahme alten materials einen Bericht von der Überlieferung der Lade in den Tempel geschaffen hat” (Trägerschaft und Intentionen des deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerks [Berlin: de Gruyter, 2000] 200).

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the same “ark of the covenant” that appears also with Solomon’s temple. 15 If this processional text originated in monarchic Judah, before destruction of Solomon’s temple, it appears to have been more thoroughly digested for use among later audiences. The third reference to the ark’s initial entry into Jerusalem is intriguing for the fact that it comes from a text of a different genre, Ps 132. Our only direct mention of the ark in all the Psalms does not speak of the ark’s entry into Jerusalem as part of ongoing temple ritual, but rather of the ark’s first arrival, just as in the two narrative texts. In recalling the time when Yahweh first took up residence in “Zion,” the psalm combines the two movements of the Samuel and Kings narratives into one. Like 2 Sam 6, but from a distinct tradition, Ps 132 begins the journey outside of Jerusalem. “We heard (news of) it in Ephratha, we found it in the fields of Yaar” (v. 6). The second location, Yaar, evokes Kiriath-yearim of 1 Sam 7:1, though neither place matches any of the Samuel sites. Having found the ark, the same first-person group proclaims, “We shall enter his lodgings, we shall bow down at the footstool of his feet” (v. 7). A call then rings out: “Arise, Yahweh, toward your resting place—you, and the ark of your power” (v. 8). The celebration includes both “your priests” and “your faithful” (v. 9). Regardless of the psalm’s date of authorship, which is debated, the ritual procession of the ark to Jerusalem derives from a tradition shared by 2 Sam 6, if not based on this text directly, with reference to Jerusalem of the Judahite monarchy. 16 Why and how would an apparently independent version of the same larger theme be preserved in a psalm? Given the combination of the ark’s procession with beautifully bedecked priests and 15.  Josh 3:3, 6, 8, etc.; 6:6, 8; 1 Kgs 8:1, 6; in contrast to 2 Sam 6, where we find only the “ark of God” (vv. 2, 3, 4, 6, 7, 12) or the “ark of Yahweh” (vv. 9, 10, 11, 13, 15, 16, 17). There is a textual alternative for v. 15, as the “ark of (the) covenant.” 16.  In an exchange of articles, Antti Laato defends an early date against the critique of Corinne Patton (Laato, “Psalm 132 and the Development of the Jerusalemite/Israelite Royal Ideology,” CBQ 54 [1992] 49–66; Patton, “Psalm 132: A Methodological Inquiry,” CBQ 57 [1995] 643–54; Laato, “Psalm 132: A Case Study in Methodology,” CBQ 61 [1999] 24–33). Patton includes the ark among her late figures in the poem, especially based on the comment in v. 5 on its lost location, along with the association of ark and resting place in v. 8 (“A Methodological Inquiry,” 650). Laato counters that the ritual in v. 8 assumes the existence of the ark, along with its importance, and he considers the “resting place” a part of larger Near Eastern religious thought, mentioned for Baal at Ugarit (“A Case Study in Methodology,” 30–32). In a recent study of the royal psalms, Markus Saur regards Ps 132:6–9, the section that treats the ark, as a preexilic tradition that has been embedded in a Second Temple composition (Die Königspsalmen: Studien zur Entstehung und Theologie [Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004] 231).

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a community bursting into song (vv. 7–9), one straightforward solution would be use of the ark in actual ritual. If the final psalm is postexilic, the continuity of custom made possible in ritual could explain the recollection of monarchic practice from Jerusalem. 17 At the same time, both 2 Sam 6 and 1 Kgs 8 are cast as accounts of great festivals, in the second case even given a date in the seventh month, at the autumn equinox, which supports a ritual connection (1 Kgs 8:2). 18 The procession of the ark envisioned in Ps 132 belongs to a ritual tradition that has not to my knowledge been recognized. Seow explores the procession in the psalm as a one-time event and compares the procession of the gods into their cities in the Enuma Elish of Mesopotamia and Ugarit’s Baal myth. His references demonstrate the importance of the gods’ ritual entry into cities as their particular dwellings. 19 This discussion, however, does not address the fact that divine residence in temples and cities may have been widely celebrated on a calendrical basis in public processions just like those presented in literature as one-time occasions. In my study of Emar’s ritual calendar, in work that had no biblical association, I observed a cluster of Near Eastern practices that reflected similar assumptions. I only recognized the features familiar to me from my work on Near Eastern traditions when I read Ps 132 for an investigation of the ark.

IV.  The God outside the City in the Wider Near East The starting point for my proposal was the zukru festival of Late Bronze Age Emar in northwestern Syria. 20 By far the most expensive rite attested in Emar’s considerable collection, the zukru celebrated Dagan, the leading 17.  For a similar view, see Saur, ibid., 232–33: “Das in Ps 132.6–9 verarbeitete alte Überlieferungsstück dürfte in regelmässigen Feiern zur Erinnerung an die Überlieferung der Lade durch David von Kirjat-Jearim nach Jerusalem zu verorten sein, die vermutlich in vorexilischer Zeit stattgefunden haben.” Earlier, see T. E. Fretheim, The Cultic Use of the Ark of the Covenant in the Monarchial Period (Th.D. diss., Princeton Theological Seminary, 1967). 18.  The Priestly and Holiness calendars for three Israelite festivals in Lev 23 and Num 28–29 place Sukkot at the full moon of the seventh month, and both of these specify sacred observance of the new moon, or first day, of that month (Lev 23:24–25; Num 29:1–6). This autumn rite, which is given no name and which stands outside the set of three Israelite festivals shared with Exod 23, 34, and Deut 16, came to be identified as the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah. 19.  C. L. Seow, Myth, Drama, and the Politics of David’s Dance (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989) 196; see F. M. Cross, Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1973) 94–97. 20.  See chap. 3 in my Time at Emar: The Ritual Calendar of the Diviner’s Archive (MC 11; Winona Lake, IN.: Eisenbrauns, 2000).

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god of Emar and the whole middle Euphrates valley. In its lavish sevenyear form, the zukru festival involved the sacrifice of 700 lambs and 50 calves. 21 At the center of the zukru was a processional rite, so important to this event that the principal tablet devotes a whole parallel section to defining the movement of Dagan—a unique feature of this text. Procession of the god should not be taken for granted as if it were universal. In the festival for putting in office the priestess of the storm god, for example, the young woman makes repeated trips back and forth to the temple, while the god himself never budges. 22 For the zukru, it is the god Dagan who is brought out of and back to his temple, and the journey brings him outside the city walls to a configuration of sacred stones called sikkānātu, which correspond as a general type to the biblical maṣṣēbôt. The two stages of the journey are not equal, however. The climax of the zukru is the return to the city, which begins with the procession of Dagan, presumably a statue or figurine, between the sacred stones. After Dagan has passed through this archaic shrine, Emar’s local city god is set on the wagon beside Dagan, and together they go back to the city gates, where a special rite is performed, before reentry. The sequence is most visible in the processional section, and I quote the version for the opening event, which occurs a full year before the special seventh-year festival. 170 During the sixth year, in the month of SAG.MU, 171 on the 15th [day], the Šaggar-day, they bring out Dagan Lord of the Offspring in procession, 172 his face uncovered. They perform the lesser sacrificial homage (kubadu) before [him] at the gate of the upright stones (sikkānātu). 173 After they sacrifice, eat, and drink, they cover his face. 174 The wagon (gišMAR.GÍD.DA/eriqqu) of Dagan passes between the upright stones. 175 He proceeds to [dNIN.URTA]. They have dNIN.URTA 23 mount (the wagon) with him; 21.  Emar (VI.3) 373 line 206, the last line of the text (Fleming, Time at Emar, 250–51). All the Akkadian texts for daily affairs, including ritual and cult administration, appear in transliteration and translation in Daniel Arnaud, Recherches au pays d’Aštata, Emar VI.3: Textes sumériens et accadiens (Paris: Éditions Recherches sur les Civilisations, 1986). 22.  For an extended treatment of this rite, with bibliography, see my Installation of Baal’s High Priestess at Emar: A Window on Ancient Syrian Religion (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992). See also the ritual study by Gerald A. Klingbeil, A Comparative Study of the Ritual of Ordination as Found in Leviticus 8 and Emar 369 (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1998). 23.  This god is almost certainly not to be understood as the Sumerian Ninurta, warrior and city god of Nippur. The reading is not firmly established, but Joan Westenholz

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their faces are covered. . . . . . . . . . . . Also, the [breads and the meat that were before (all of) the gods] go up into Emar.

The same sequence of ritual acts occurs on four different days of the festival and its preparatory year, so that the full scenario has to be reconstructed by reading all four side by side, including both the separate sacrificial and processional sections of the text. In considering how to understand this Emar rite, where the gods are all brought outside the city to witness the procession of Dagan through a shrine of stones and his return inside the walls, I recalled Mark Cohen’s interpretation of the earliest Sumerian a2-ki-ti rites. The a2-ki-ti is the ancestor of the later akītu festival, regarded as a “new year” celebration, although it was observed at both equinoxes, twice a year. The main feature of the original southern Mesopotamian rite was attention to the dominant city god in association with the city in question, through the vehicle of an a2-ki-ti house outside the walls. Even in texts for the akītu of the first millennium, the last day of the festival is given more weight than any other, as measured by the quantity of offerings. This is when the gods are brought back into the city from the a2-ki-ti (or akītu) house and returned to their sanctuaries. Cohen concludes that the ultimate reason for the sacred site outside the city was to provide a point from which to return. 24 Van der Toorn has already compared David’s procession to Jerusalem with the akītu rites, a notion that fits entirely into the framework that I propose here. 25 Late Bronze texts from Hattusha also describe various local festivals where the god is brought out of the temple and town to a nearby shrine defined by its sacred stone, or ḫuwaši. In this respect, the ritual procedure closely resembles Emar’s zukru. Again, the rites continue at the god’s has proposed, plausibly, to equate the name with Il Imari, “the God of Imar/Emar,” BLM 33:8–9; see “Emar: The City and Its God,” paper read at the Leuven RAI (1995), cited with thanks to the author. See also Fleming, Time at Emar, 94 and n. 196. 24. See Cohen, The Cultic Calendars of the Ancient Near East (Bethesda, MD: CDL, 1993) 401–6, and my discussion in Fleming, Time at Emar, 134–36. Note that Benjamin Sommer offers a brief critique of Cohen’s approach, in favor of a cosmogonic focus, but he does not distinguish adequately the Sumerian rite from later adaptations (“The Babylonian Akitu Festival: Rectifying the King or Renewing the Cosmos?” JANES 27 [2001] 93–94). 25.  “The Babylonian New Year Festival: New Insights from the Cuneiform Texts and Their Bearing on Old Testament Study,” in Congress Volume: Leuven 1989 (ed. J. A. Emerton; Leiden: Brill, 1991) 331–44; see also K. van der Toorn and C. Houtman, “David and the Ark,” JBL 113 (1994) 225 and n. 59.

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temple in town, although we can only infer a processional return. The Anatolian events did not necessarily serve pantheon heads at city centers, in contrast to the zukru and the Sumerian a2-ki-ti. While references to the a2-ki-ti house do not account explicitly for their sacred use, the Hittite ḫuwaši shrines suggest a definite explanation. They are generally identified with the god who was brought to visit the shrine, and they represent the older worship of this deity in a concrete form that is neither human nor animal. 26 The purpose of these divine excursions seems to be to pay respects to older sites that have now been superseded by temples in town centers. Such rites recognized the importance of both old and new while advocating the relative splendor of the new as progress over the rustic conditions of what was left behind. 27 When the Syrian, the eastern Mesopotamian, and the Anatolian practices are viewed side by side, they suggest a ritual tradition that is not ultimately agricultural, but is focused instead on the city as the abode of the god in question. Both the zukru and the Hittite rites bring the god to a shrine of more archaic form before returning to the city and temple. This whole ritual complex seems to be based on a linear rather than a cyclical orientation toward time: the city and temple themselves are celebrated, and these are acknowledged as having an origin in past time even when it is not clear whether their creation was understood to have been initiated by the god of the site. 28 In my research on the zukru festival at Emar, I was naturally missing any actual reference to such a moment of beginning, a time when the deity 26.  The Anatolian rituals are incorporated into administrative texts that record new imperial funding of local shrines, along with the various improvements that followed. These texts were published as a set in C. W. Carter, Hittite Cult Inventories (Ph.D. diss., University of Chicago, 1962); see my Time at Emar, 136–38. Carter’s text base is extended by Joost Hazenbos, The Organization of the Anatolian Local Cults during the Thirteenth Century b.c.: An Appraisal of the Hittite Cult Inventories (Brill: Leiden, 2003). These cult inventories address sites through most of the land controlled by the Hittites, not confined to Hattusha itself (p. 191), and the texts “often note that a god is—or used to be—represented by a NA4ḫuu ̯ aši/NA4ZI.KIN ‘stele’ ” (p. 174). 27.  At least in the case of the rites that observe visits to the old shrines for ḫuwaši stones, the older site does not appear to have been abandoned entirely. The primary cult for the deity in question, however, seems to have been taken over by the urban temple, whatever provisions may have been given at the external shrine. Also, we cannot know the actual history of worship; these external sites may be no older than the city temples, so that they acknowledge the idea of the god’s priority to this innovation without necessarily preserving a specific more ancient shrine. The answer to such a question could only be established by excavation, if both could ever be found, which to my knowledge has not been done. 28.  Fleming, Time at Emar, 138–40.

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first entered town and temple. The ritual and administrative texts that bear witness to these events do not come with liturgies and narrative explanations. We do find that first-millennium celebrations of the akītu in Assyria included reading of the Enuma Elish myth of Marduk’s elevation to kingship over the gods. 29 This text does describe the construction of the city of Babylon and the great temple of Esagila as an urban home for Marduk. 30

V.  A Jerusalem Rite of Procession The Bible’s Jerusalem tradition offers a combination of ritual and narrative that makes this celebration of the god’s new home much more explicit than is possible with our other ancient ritual traditions. All of the biblical writings understand the Davidic dynasty to have established a new capital at Jerusalem. Naturally, then, Yahweh’s residence in Jerusalem is not considered eternal, and moreover, its origin is attributed directly to the arrival of David. This idea that the entire Jerusalem base was constructed at some time in Israel’s history remains important, regardless of how we understand the relationship of the David traditions to actual events. If the Bible offers a better narrative context than is otherwise available for the celebration of the urban home of a god, the other ancient traditions fortify the case for a ritual context attached to the biblical narratives. Once we recognize the similar ritual celebration of the gods’ entry into their city homes, other commonalities suggest themselves. In the ritual rendition of 1 Kgs 8, the calendar itself is suggestive. Solomon brings the ark into the temple at the autumn equinox, in the seventh month (v. 2). Emar’s zukru festival was celebrated at the full moon of the first month in a calendar that began at the autumn equinox—essentially the same seasonal moment. It 29. The evidence for this comes from a ritual commentary for the akītu festival preserved in two versions from Assur and Nineveh (A. Livingstone, Court Poetry and Literary Miscellanea [SAA 3; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1989] 34–35). For discussion of the relationship between this text and the akītu, see Cohen, Cultic Calendars, 420–24. According to the commentary, the Assyrian akītu could include a scenario by which Marduk/Bēl was understood to have offended Assur, and he was imprisoned in the akītu house for seven days. The Enuma Elish may have been recited as an expression of the charge against Marduk, for usurping the position of Assur, who was identified with primary god Anšar. This is a particularly Assyrian reinterpretation of the movement outside the city and perhaps of the Enuma Elish association as well. For an extended study of akītu festival practice in the political framework of the Neo-Assyrian empire, see B. Pongratz-Leisten, Ina Šulmi Īrub: Die kulttopographische und ideologische Programmatik der akītu-Prozession in Babylonien und Assyrien im I. Jahrtausend v. Chr. (Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 1994). 30.  See tablet VI of the Enuma Elish; one recent translation is that of B. Foster, Before the Muses (Bethesda, MD: CDL, 1996) 1:351–402.

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is interesting to find that both Dagan and the ark begin their journeys to the city on wagons (see 2 Sam 6:3). At the end of the Late Bronze Age, the city of Emar had an emergent monarchy, but the religious stature of this king seems to have lagged behind his wealth and political power. By far the greatest financial burden for celebrating the zukru in its seven-year format is borne by the king and the palace, and royal influence is visible in every expansion of a simpler annual rite into this extravaganza. At the same time, the king has no direct ritual role, and a separate text for the modest yearly zukru observes no royal contribution at all. 31 The zukru festival has no likely counterpart to the centrality of David and Solomon as kings in the three biblical texts. In Ps 132, Yahweh’s choice of Zion as his abiding home becomes the guarantee of his oath to David that his dynasty will continue, as long as his sons remain faithful (vv. 11–14). Mesopotamia’s akītu festival came to involve a similar conjoining of human and divine rule, as appreciated long ago by participants in the myth-and-ritual approach. 32 As a whole, this Near Eastern evidence suggests that the Bible’s narratives for the procession of the ark into Jerusalem were informed by a ritual tradition tied to the annual calendar, rather than simply by rites for new shrines. The three Jerusalem texts cast this as the one-time arrival of Yahweh with the ark, but such entry of a god into his new city sanctuary belongs to a custom of regular observance. This ritual background to the Bible’s story of David and Solomon would apply whether or not an ark was ever central to the Jerusalem temple or a repeated festival of entry into the city. The description of David’s procession in 2 Sam 6 surely is informed by known ritual practice, though one could imagine a narrative construction that was an amalgam of familiar elements and literary motifs. Of the three Jerusalem texts, the one that most suggests reference to a custom of Yahweh’s processional entry is 2 Sam 6, which offers the most detail, especially in its ritual geography. If we read this text on its own, without assuming an original narrative and geographical unity with 1 Sam 4:1–7:1, the ark begins its procession at “the house of Abinadab” on a hill located by Baalah (2 Sam 6:2–4), not far from Jerusalem. 33 Through his ark, Yahweh is conducted toward 31.  Fleming, Time at Emar, 56–57. 32.  See I. Engnell, “The New Year Festivals,” in A Rigid Scrutiny: Critical Essays on the Old Testament by Ivan Engnell (ed. J. T. Willis; Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 1969) 180–84; see also Myth and Ritual (ed. S. H. Hooke; London: Oxford University Press, 1933). 33. P. K. McCarter reads simply Baalah, based especially on the Qumran text, which displays an attempt to reconcile the location with Kiriath-yearim of 1 Sam 7:1,

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Jerusalem on a “new cart,” with two sons of Abinadab, not identified as “priests,” walking in attendance. From the first, this is a ritual procession with the king at center, dancing “before Yahweh” along with “all the house of Israel” to the accompaniment of diverse musical instruments (v. 5). At “the threshing floor of Nakon,” the attendant named Uzzah touches the ark and is struck down, and the narrator is careful to explain that this accounts for the name of a site called “Pereṣ Uzzah” (Uzzah’s Breach, vv. 6–8). 34 At this interruption in the progress of the ark, David has it brought to another personal residence, “the house of Obed-edom,” where it stays for three months (vv. 10–12). Only after this interval does the king complete the passage into “the City of David” (vv. 12, 16). For this second processional stage, an ox and a fatling are sacrificed after six paces, and David once again joins all the house of Israel dancing before Yahweh—the same participants doing the same thing—this time with shouts and sounding of horns (vv. 13–15). This meticulous tracking of the ark from one named site to another suggests that these now-obscure locations had meaning for the ancient audience of the narrative. One explanation for that meaning could be a longstanding ritual tradition for procession of the ark into Jerusalem. If the route so carefully described for the ark in 2 Sam 6 had ongoing use, then its detail would have abiding interest. The participation of the king in the procession would suit a monarchic setting, as perhaps would the absence of oversight by anyone designated a priest, in contrast to the role of priests and Levites in 1 Kgs 8:1–6. Although the ark spends three months at the intermediate site of Obed-edom, each of the two processions is envisioned to occupy some part of a single day, and the entire itinerary must belong to the vicinity of Jerusalem. The individual names appear to be primary to this text; where they appear elsewhere, these references arguably depend on the David narrative. While this biblical obscurity blocks inquiry into their wider associations, it is significant in itself, an indication that the sites take their meaning from the processional tradition itself, at least so far as the Bible is concerned. Baalah is named as part of Judah’s northern boundary in Josh 15:9–10, where it is identified with Kiriath-yearim. The hybrid Kiriath-baal in Josh 15:60 and 18:14 appears to labor toward the same end of reconciling 1 Sam 7:1 with 2 Sam 6:2. 35 Abinadab appears in both passages (1 Sam but without the reference to Judah (2 Samuel [AB 9; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1984] 162–63). 34.  I have adopted McCarter’s translation (ibid., 161, 170). The name associated with the threshing floor is corrupt, and McCarter adopts “Nodan” from Qumran. 35.  See also 1 Chr 13:5, with the parallel to 2 Sam 6.

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7:1; 2 Sam 6:3), which helps connect the two ark stories. Because David’s procession in 2 Sam 6 has no other connection with the Philistine seizure in 1 Sam 4–6, we cannot assume the original unity of the two episodes, and the house of Abinadab with its location on a hill may be incorporated into 1 Sam 7:1 as a bridge to David. Taken on its own, the Philistine tale could end with the arrival of the ark at Kiriath-yearim (1 Sam 6:21), so that its presence in 2 Sam 6 could stand alone, without the necessary hypothesis of a prior Ark Narrative. 36 This story of the ark in Philistine hands still cannot be treated as the relic of a Shiloh sanctuary, because it treats the permanent loss of the ark from that site just before its destruction. As a destination, Kiriath-yearim would also be in the Jerusalem sphere, and it is likely that this story also comes from Jerusalem scribal circles, though without concern to locate the ark in the particular practice of the capital. Kiriath-yearim may be associated with Baalah only secondarily, and as the site attested in 2 Sam 6, Baalah may be the oldest biblical reference to the ark’s lodging just outside Jerusalem. Whatever the literary history, the essential point is to allow 2 Sam 6 to stand alone, without requiring it to have been composed as a conclusion to 1 Sam 4:1–7:1. The house of Abinadab has only positive associations as the residence from which Yahweh begins his progress toward the City of David. Uzzah and Ahio are only introduced with the procession of the ark on a cart (2 Sam 6:3), and these characters have their geographical point of reference in a place called Pereṣ Uzzah, which is at the threshing floor of Nakon (vv. 6–8). Generally, the threshing floor (gōren) could be a public gathering place just outside the city walls, as when it serves as the site for Ahab and Jehoshaphat to hold court outside the gate of Samaria in 1 Kgs 22:10. McCarter even considers that Pereṣ Uzzah was a gap in Jerusalem’s fortifications, with a play on the physical and the sacral “breach.” 37 In any case, the one reason to recall the name is the procession of Yahweh by the ark, and the threshing floor just outside Jerusalem would offer a natural venue for public assembly in connection with this ritual tradition. After its visit to this plaza outside of Jerusalem, the ark is sent to the house of Obed-edom, which could be part of the city or its immediate sur36.  Van der Toorn and Houtman accept the deeper unity of an ark narrative, which they consider more a “literary strand” than a “self-contained tale” (“David and the Ark,” 223–24). They observe that the problem of place names is more at the fringe of each narrative block than at the core, but the discrepancy does make it difficult to isolate an independent “Ark Narrative” text. 37.  He considers that the physical gap could have been named for an actual event involving Uzzah (p. 170). Without assuming such correspondence between the text and David’s time, the story would provide an etiology for the location.

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roundings (v. 10). Obed-edom clearly originates in this narrative, though his identification as a man from Philistine Gath inspired later efforts to account for his Israelite and more specifically Levite origins. 38 As told in the David narrative, the house of Obed-edom provides a long-term setting for the ark; if the procession account reflects a regular event, this location could be considered as much the object’s cultic home as the Jerusalem temple. Obed-edom then represents the point of departure for the second procession that completes Yahweh’s journey to the shrine in the City of David, which may have been quite close by, all in the Jerusalem circle.

VI.  The Ark in Jerusalem Cult The procession depicted in 2 Sam 6 is so detailed in its account that it begs comparison with Near Eastern ritual. Following the story’s own lead, interpreters have treated the rite as part of other accession or initiation practices, one-time events that celebrate something new. 39 The concentration in the processional account of specific ritual locations, none of which appears elsewhere in the Bible, suggests that the names are preserved as relics from ritual practice at Jerusalem. They need not originate in David’s time, and even if they did, they survive in story only because of their repeated use. Such repetition could in theory reflect special occasions such as the accession of kings, but the festival itself involves the king without celebrating any part of the royal life cycle. The procession is about the arrival of Yahweh in Jerusalem. Oddly, Yahweh’s particular shrine in Jerusalem was a temple associated not with David but with Solomon, as reflected in 1 Kgs 8:1–6. The foundational narrative for Yahweh’s entry is linked instead to David and concludes with installation of the ark in a tent at an unknown location never tied to the temple or even named, in contrast to the threshing floor of Araunah in 2 Sam 24:16–25. It is therefore difficult to explain the ritual memory of 2 Sam 6 by royal accession or temple dedication and rededication. The Near Eastern evidence suggests an alternative in the regular, calendrical recognition of divine preeminence over both a city center and the land in which it is embedded. Both Emar’s zukru and the Mesopotamian 38.  First Chronicles provides David with an extensive staff of priests and Levites to fit Mosaic expectations, which include Obed-edom as gatekeeper (15:18, 24) and musician (15:21; 16:5); see 1 Chr 26:4–8 for his succession. 39.  This is the framework for the important work of Seow, Myth, Drama, and the Politics of David’s Dance. Cf. P. K. McCarter, “The Ritual Dedication of the City of David in 2 Samuel 6,” in The Word of the Lord Shall Go Forth: Essays in Honor of David Noel Freedman in Celebration of His Sixtieth Birthday (eds. C. L. Meyers and M. O’Connor; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1983) 273–78.

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akītu were certainly defined by the calendar as annual and biannual, respectively. The festivals of the Hittite cult inventories likewise appear to have been seasonal. 40 The same celebration of a god’s entry into the city may account for the ritual tradition underlying “David’s dance.” If so, we would have indirect biblical evidence for a festival practice in Judah and Jerusalem that is distinct from the Torah scheme of three annual events and is decidedly monarchic. 41 This is what Mowinckel sought in the Psalms. 42 The question of how an ark was used in historical practice must be kept logically separate from explanation of 2 Sam 6 and the other Jerusalem passages as a biblical tradition. David’s procession is recounted in a narrative that must reflect awareness of some ritual custom at Jerusalem. A storyteller could have combined elements from Jerusalem practice with motifs unrelated to this, and the ark could be such a narrative import. The possibility that 2 Sam 6 follows the outlines of a regular Jerusalem festival for Yahweh must be evaluated on its merits, regardless of the ark itself. Nevertheless, the ark in this David text is deeply integrated in the ritual portrait and may be explained most straightforwardly as part of the practice displayed. In the earlier part of the narrative, which presents the first of two processions, the object is described as “the ark of God,” until the death of Uzzah (vv. 2, 3, 4, 6, 7; see 12). When it is entrusted to Obededom as the starting point for a second procession to the City of David, it is “the ark of Yahweh” (vv. 9, 10, 11, 13, 15, 16, 17). Whatever the background of these two formulations, they are dependent neither on the idea of a covenant and tablets contained in the ark nor on the cherubim associated elsewhere with Solomon’s temple—both notions combined at the start of the Shiloh ark narrative in 1 Sam 4:3–5. 43 It appears that the 40.  See Alfonso Archi, “Fêtes de printemps et d’automne et réintégration rituelle d’images de culte dans l’Anatolie hittite,” UF 5 (1973) 7–27. 41.  These are defined especially in Exod 23 and 34, Lev 23, Num 28–29, and Deut 16. For my own exploration of this complex, see my “The Israelite Festival Calendar and Emar’s Ritual Archive,” RB 106 (1999) 8–34; idem, “A Break in the Line: Reconsidering the Bible’s Diverse Festival Calendars,” RB 106 (1999) 161–74. 42. Sigmund Mowinckel, Psalmenstudien (Kristiania: J. Dybwad, 1921–24); see The Psalms in Israel’s Worship (New York: Abingdon, 1962). 43.  While the Philistine capture of the ark is set up by elaborate reference to “the ark of the covenant” (1 Sam 4:3, 4, 5) and “the ark of the covenant of Yahweh of Hosts who is enthroned on the cherubim” (v. 4), the report of its loss is rendered entirely in terms of “the ark of God” (4:13, 17, 18, 19, 21, 22). The account of the ark among the Philistines maintains the same simple identification as the “ark of God” or the “ark of Yahweh,” as found in David’s procession. The title is extended to “the ark of the God of Israel” in 1 Sam 5:7, 8, 10, 11; 6:3—a form that complements the characterization of Yahweh as “God of Israel” in 6:5, finally honored by the Philistines in sending it

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ark in 2 Sam 6 does not derive from the object associated with Israelite origins in the Torah and Joshua, and it may even stand separate from the ark of 1 Sam 4–6. Whereas 2 Sam 6 presents a simple ritual celebration of Yahweh’s entry into the City of David at Jerusalem, with the king at center, the preceding text bears a didactic burden, affirming Yahweh’s power to maintain his sanctity even when stripped of any human advocates. 44 David’s processions in 2 Sam 6 call for a concrete focus for the divine presence, and the ark fills that requirement. Without the ark, some other focal point would have to be imagined, such as a statue or other figure. It is more likely that the ark at the center of 2 Sam 6 was the vehicle by which we have been allowed a glimpse of an important festival tradition at Jerusalem during the monarchy. After David becomes king of Israel, makes Jerusalem his capital, and wins his first victories over the Philistines in 2 Sam 5, he consolidates his position by initiating what later generations perceive to be the great celebration of Yahweh’s establishment in this city. Based on its place in a key literary account of David and in a venerable ritual tradition for Jerusalem, the ark was assumed to be equally central to Israel’s early life, where it likewise accompanied Yahweh into his new residence, this time enlarged to the dimensions of a whole Promised Land. back to Israel. This language and its underlying interest are not part of the account of David’s procession. 44.  One implication of this separation is that the Jerusalem ritual tradition of the ark would be unrelated to Shiloh, which is linked only to the account of how the ark could not be held by the Philistines. This narrative is indeed associated with Shiloh. As observed to me by my colleague Mark Smith, perhaps we should not assume that there was only one ark in the religious heritage of Israel and Judah. In any case, the biblical ark lore cannot be attached to a single sacred site.

Creation and the Divine Spirit in Babel and Bible Reflections on mummu in Enūma eliš I 4 and rûaḥ in Genesis 1:2 Eckart Frahm

1. Introduction When the cuneiform literature of ancient Mesopotamia, buried for almost two millennia, became accessible again in the second half of the nineteenth century, scholars, startled by a number of intriguing parallels between this corpus and the Hebrew Bible, began immediately to read it in the light of the biblical text. The Bible, in turn, became subject to fresh readings and interpretations based on the newly discovered Mesopotamian texts—with significant consequences for its status as a divinely inspired source of eternal truths. 1 The very beginning of the Bible, the so-called Primeval History (Gen 1:1–11:9), played a pivotal role in discussions that unfolded in the wake of the decipherment of the Assyrian and Babylonian literary texts. The stories assembled in this part of Genesis were set in the region of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, and nowhere else in the Bible, it seemed, were there equally pronounced parallels with individual Mesopotamian texts. Most prominent among these were the similarities between the biblical flood Author’s note:  I would like to express my gratitude to Angelika Berlejung and Avi Winitzer for providing me with a number of bibliographical references, and to Mary Frazer, with whom I read parts of Enūma eliš in a tutorial, and Enrique Jimenez-Sanchez for helping me develop some of the ideas presented in this article. I have also profited from discussions I had with various scholars, among them the honoree, on the occasion of a talk on Enūma eliš that I gave in 2005 in Tokyo, at the invitation of Akio Tsukimoto. 1.  For the reactions of some conservative Christians who felt alarmed at the idea that the new cuneiform texts from Iraq might undermine the credibility of biblical history, see M. T. Larsen, The Conquest of Assyria: Excavations in an Antique Land 1840–1860 (London: Routledge, 1996) 157–65.

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story in Gen 6:5–8:22 and the Babylonian flood story as it is recorded in the epics of Gilgameš and Atraḫasīs. In 1872, when George Smith presented to the public his translation of the flood tablet of the Gilgameš epic and pointed out the story’s close parallels with the biblical account, he created a massive sensation. 2 Smith was not only the first to rediscover important portions of the Gilgameš epic; he also produced the editio princeps (based, of course, on a limited number of manuscripts) of Enūma eliš, 3 the Babylonian Epic of Creation. 4 Here, too, Smith immediately realized that there were similarities to biblical materials—similarities that prompted him to include a translation of parts of the epic in a volume published in 1875 that bore the title The Chaldean Account of Genesis. 5 Smith died only one year after this book appeared and thus had no time to elaborate on the parallels he detected. Twenty years later, however, the German biblicist Hermann Gunkel provided a detailed and influential 2.  For details, see D. Damrosch, The Buried Book: The Loss and Discovery of the Great Epic of Gilgamesh (New York: Henry Holt, 2007) 33–38. 3.  Enūma eliš is quoted in this article after the new “pedagogical” French edition of the text by P. Talon, The Standard Babylonian Creation Myth: Enūma Eliš (SAACT 4; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 2005). Talon’s book should be consulted together with the important reviews by R. Borger (Or 77 [2008] 271–85), J. Jacobs (BiOr 65 [2008] 154–58), and J. Oelsner (OLZ 94 [2009] 200–204). The recent editions of Enūma Eliš, by T. R. Kämmerer and K. A. Metzler (Das babylonische Weltschöpfungsepos Enūma Eliš [AOAT 375; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2012]) and W. G. Lambert (Babylonian Creation Myths [Mesopotamian Civilizations 16; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2013]) appeared too late to be used in this essay. An English translation of the epic by Lambert is found in “Mesopotamian Creation Stories,” in Imagining Creation (eds. M. J. Geller and M. Schipper; IJS Studies in Judaica 5; Leiden: Brill, 2008) 37–59. For another excellent English translation (on which several of the translations provided in this article are modeled), see B. R. Foster, Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature, 3rd ed. (Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2005) 436–86. 4.  Some have criticized this modern designation, arguing that Enūma eliš is neither an epic nor primarily about creation; see, for example, P. Michalowski, “Presence at the Creation,” in Lingering Over Words: Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Literature in Honor of William L. Moran (eds. T. Abusch et al.; HSS 37; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990) 383–84. Both claims seem unjustified to me. Enūma eliš is a lengthy narrative poem, which makes it an epic and not a hymn, and while it is true that much of the text describes divine battles rather than acts of creation, there is no question that these battles have a cosmogonic dimension. Since there is no creatio ex nihilo in Enūma eliš; everything that comes into being has to emerge from something that must first be destroyed. 5. G. Smith, The Chaldean Account of Genesis (London: Sampson, Low, Marston, Scarle and Rivingston: 1875). Enūma eliš is presented and discussed on pp. 61–100 of this volume.

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study of Genesis 1 in which he did just that. 6 Gunkel discussed at great length the various similarities between Enūma eliš and the first creation account in the Hebrew Bible, and he claimed, provoking significant unrest among more conservative Bible scholars, that these similarities were the result of deliberate borrowing on the part of the biblical authors. 7 Gunkel’s study contributed to an impassioned debate known as the Babel-Bible controversy, which was marked by a pronounced “Pan-Babylonism,” the term for the new fashion of regarding key elements of the Hebrew Bible as derived from Babylonian literature and culture. The debate reached its peak in 1902, when Friedrich Delitzsch gave his much-discussed lecture on Babel and Bible to the German emperor Wilhelm II. 8 Investigating the Bible’s Mesopotamian background has remained a prominent feature of biblical studies until this day, 9 and the Primeval History has continued to intrigue scholars interested in such comparative perspectives. 10 Yet with regard to the possible impact of Enūma eliš on the Bible, one can discern over the course of the years the gradual unfolding of a certain skepticism. To be sure, some scholars continued to search for links between the epic and the book of Genesis. In 1955–56, for example, Ephraim A. Speiser argued that the biblical story of the Tower of Babel in Gen 11:1–9 was based on the account of the building of Babylon found in Enūma eliš VI, 11 while Kenton L. Sparks, in an article from 2007, 6. H. Gunkel, Schöpfung und Chaos in Urzeit und Endzeit: Eine religionsgeschicht­ liche Untersuchung über Gen 1 und Ap Joh 12 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1895). 7.  Of course, Gunkel did not fail to notice that the biblical authors omitted large portions of the Babylonian epic, and he stressed that they adapted what they borrowed to fit their own theological needs. 8.  For a detailed study of the controversy, see R. G. Lehmann, Friedrich Delitzsch und der Babel-Bibel-Streit (OBO 133; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994). 9.  A prominent proponent of the idea that the study of Mesopotamian literature and culture can contribute in numerous ways to a better understanding of the Bible has been William W. Hallo; see, for example, his “Compare and Contrast: The Contextual Approach to Biblical Literature,” in The Bible in the Light of Cuneiform Literature (eds. W. W. Hallo et al.; Scripture in Context 3; Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1990) 1–30. Many important articles from the pen of the honoree demonstrate how fruitful such an approach can be as well. 10.  For a recent assessment, see R. Hendel, “Genesis 1–11 and Its Mesopotamian Problem,” in Cultural Borrowings and Ethnic Appropriation in Antiquity (ed. E. S. Gruen; Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2005) 23–36. 11. E. A. Speiser, “Word Plays on the Creation Epic’s Version of the Founding of Babylon,” Or 25 (1955–56) 317–23. For Speiser’s scholarly work on the ancient Near East, see now A. Winitzer, “Towards Assessing Twentieth-Century Ancient Near

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contended that the priestly creation account in Genesis 1 owes much to Enūma eliš and can be regarded as a case of “elite emulation in nascent Judaism.” 12 Yet Christoph Uehlinger, in his detailed 1990 study of the Tower of Babel story, denied Speiser’s claims, 13 and Michaela Bauks, in her 1997 monograph on the first verses of Genesis 1, a study that takes into account numerous ancient Near Eastern creation myths, expressed strong reservation with regard to assertions that there are close connections to Enūma eliš in the first creation account of the Bible. 14 David Tsumura, in his 2005 reappraisal of some of Gunkel’s ideas, sided with the skeptics. 15 Most recently, in his 2009 commentary on the book of Genesis, Bill Arnold came to the conclusion that “Gen 1 is not genetically related to the Enuma Elish, nor is it necessarily a direct polemic against it.” 16 One of the arguments raised by those who have questioned the idea of intertextual links between Enūma eliš and the Primeval History is that the former would have been largely inaccessible to the authors of the latter. This opinion has been voiced in strong terms by Jack Sasson, who has pointed to “the unlikelihood that a Hebrew priest would have access to, or information about, a highly secret account, recounted in the late afternoon, in the holy temple of Marduk, during the Akitu festival.” 17 Such statements, however, do not accurately reflect the true status of Enūma eliš Eastern Scholarship: The Case of E. A. Speiser,” in Gazing on the Deep: Ancient Near Eastern and Other Studies in Honor of Tzvi Abusch (eds. J. Stackert et al.; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2010) 379–410. 12.  K. L. Sparks, “Enūma Elish and Priestly Mimesis: Elite Emulation in Nascent Judaism,” JBL 126 (2007) 625–48. 13.  See C. Uehlinger, Weltreich und eine Rede: Eine neue Deutung der sogenannten Turmbauerzählung (Gen 11, 1–9) (OBO 101; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1990) 246–53. 14. M. Bauks, Die Welt am Anfang: Zum Verhältnis von Vorwelt und Weltentstehung in Gen 1 und in der altorientalischen Literatur (WMANT 74; NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1997). See, in particular, pp. 242–68 and the summary on pp. 311–19. 15. D. T. Tsumura, Creation and Destruction: A Reappraisal of the Chaoskampf Theory in the Old Testament (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2005). See, furthermore, R. S. Hess and D. T. Tsumura, eds., I Studied Inscriptions from Before the Flood: Ancient Near Eastern, Literary, and Linguistic Approaches to Genesis 1–11 (Sources for Biblical and Theological Study 4; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1994), a volume that collects various essays on possible links between Genesis 1–11 and ancient Near Eastern literature. 16. B. T. Arnold, The New Cambridge Bible Commentary: Genesis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009) 31. 17.  J. M. Sasson, “The ‘Tower of Babel’ as a Clue to the Redactional Structuring of the Primeval History (Gen. 1–11:9),” in The Bible World: Essays in Honor of C. H. Gordon (eds. G. Rendsburg et al.; New York: KTAV and the Institute of Hebrew Culture

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in first-millennium Babylonia. Far from being an esoteric composition, the epic states explicitly that everybody should be familiar with it (VII 145– 48), and numerous Babylonian school tablets confirm that students of the scribal arts often learned it by heart. 18 That Enūma eliš enjoyed wide circulation can also be gauged from the various adaptations, commentaries, and counter-texts that were written in response to the political and theological challenges the epic posed. Such texts are known from both Assyria and Babylonia, and even from outside the Mesopotamian core area. 19 During the time of the Neo-Babylonian empire, when the religious ideology promoted in the epic was in almost complete harmony with the political realities of the times, Enūma eliš must have been an extremely popular text, especially in Babylon, from where the empire was ruled. It seems almost impossible that the Judeans who had been deported by Nebuchadnezzar II in 597 and 586 b.c. would not have encountered the epic during their exile in Babylon. Ration lists from Nebuchadnezzar’s palace 20 demonstrate that members of the Judean royal family spent their days, in rather privileged circumstances, in the immediate proximity of the Marduk temple, where they cannot have failed to learn about the text. They may even have studied it in cuneiform, for the book of Daniel claims that some of the Judeans “were taught in the literature and language of the Chaldaeans” (Dan 1:4). This statement, combined as it is with a remark on the rations the Judeans received in Babylon, may not be a complete fabrication, even though Daniel is usually regarded as a much later composition. and Education of New York University, 1980) 214–15 n. 8. Sasson’s remark is quoted, with approval, by Uehlinger, Weltreich und eine Rede, 253 n. 257. 18. See the remarks by P. Gesche, Schulunterricht in Babylonien im ersten Jahrtausend v. Chr. (AOAT 275; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2000) 177–78. Enūma eliš was easily the most important religious-literary text studied in Late Babylonian schools. 19. For a more detailed discussion of the ancient responses to Enūma eliš, see E. Frahm, “Counter-Texts, Commentaries, and Adaptations: Politically Motivated Responses to the Babylonian Epic of Creation in Mesopotamia, the Biblical World, and Elsewhere,” Orient: Reports of the Society for Near Eastern Studies in Japan 45 (2010) 3–33. The article deals with “Erra and Išum” (a possible counter-text of the epic), the Assyrian version of Enūma eliš, Assyrian commentaries, the Marduk Ordeal, various Babylonian texts, the Bible, Berossos, the Palmyrene tradition, and the remarks on Enūma eliš by the Neo-Platonic philosopher Damascius. 20.  See E. Weidner, “Jojachin, König von Juda, in babylonischen Keilschrifttexten,” in Mélanges syriens offerts à Monsieur René Dussaud par ses amis et élèves (Paris: Geuthner, 1939) 923–35, and O. Pedersén, “Foreign Professionals in Babylon: Evidence from the Archive of the Palace of Nebuchadnezzar II,” in Ethnicity in Ancient Mesopotamia (eds. W. H. van Soldt et al.; PIHANS 102; Leiden: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut, 2005) 267–72.

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The dates of the various stories assembled in the Primeval History, and of the latter’s final redaction, are much debated, and there is no consensus in sight. A significant number of biblicists argue that the Priestly author, who is believed to be responsible for the first creation account in Genesis, was active during the time of the Exile (or its immediate aftermath), and at least some assign the story of the Tower of Babel to the same period. 21 If these datings are basically correct, the possibility of genetic links between Enūma eliš and the Primeval History has to be seriously reconsidered. But progress on this front will only be achieved if one can demonstrate that the similarities between the two texts are sufficiently specific. With regard to the first creation account in Genesis and Enūma eliš, the parallels discovered so far include the references, at the beginning of both texts, to heaven and earth; the apparent connection between Tiāmat and tehôm; the role that naming and separating play, in both accounts, in the creation process; and the statement in Gen 1:14 that the heavenly bodies can serve as “signs” (ʾôtôt), 22 an acknowledgment that is reminiscent of the astrological dimensions of the Babylonian epic. Yet all these similarities have not been compelling enough to convince a majority of scholars of the existence of intertextual links between the two texts. The goal of the present article is to take a fresh look at the very first verses of both Enūma eliš and Genesis 1. To pave the way for the argument I wish to make, it may help first to present the two passages to be discussed here side by side. Parallels already noted by earlier scholars are highlighted in bold type. It should be pointed out right away that the translations offered here are not without problems. The syntax of both passages is rather odd and open to different interpretations. 23 For the purposes of this study, however, the syntactical intricacies of the two texts are of minor importance. 21.  Others, however, continue to believe that the alleged author of the Tower episode, the so-called Yahwist, lived in earlier times. Due to space restrictions, the matter cannot be further discussed here. For an illuminating essay collection dealing with the complexities of dating the various redactional layers of the Hexateuch, see J. C. Gertz et al., eds., Abschied vom Jahwisten: Die Komposition des Hexateuch in der jüngsten Diskussion (BZAW 315; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2002); published in English as A Farewell to the Yahwist?: The Composition of the Pentateuch in Recent European Interpretation (T. B. Dozeman and K. Schmid, eds.; SBL Symposium Series 34; Atlanta: SBL, 2006). 22. The term is etymologically related to ittu, the Akkadian word for ominous signs. 23.  With regard to the correct understanding of the syntax of the introductory passage of Enūma eliš, see C. Wilcke, “Die Anfänge der akkadischen Epen,” ZA 67 (1977) 163–70; H. L. J. Vanstiphout, “Enûma eliš, tablet i: 3,” NABU 1987/95; W. L. Moran, “Enūma eliš I 1–8,” NABU 1988/21; and P. Talon, “Enūma eliš and the Transmission

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Gen 1:1–2

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e-nu-ma e-liš la na-bu-ú ša-ma-mu šap-liš am-ma-tum šu-ma la zak-rat 3) ZU.AB-ma reš-tu-ú za-ru-šu-un 4) mu-um-mua Ti-amatb mu-al-li-da-at gim-ri-šú-un 5) A.MEŠ-šú-nu iš-te-niš i-ḫi-qu-ma

1)

2)

2)

brʾšyt brʾ ʾlhym ʾt hšmym wʾt hʾrṣ whʾrṣ hyth thw wbhw wḥšk ʿl-pny thwm wrwḥ ʾlhym mrḥpt ʿl-pny hmym

When on high no name was given to the heavens, / Nor below was the earth called by name, / Apsû was the first (rēštû), their progenitor, / And mummu Tiāmat (i.e., the sea) was she who bore them all. / They were mingling their waters together.

In the beginning (be-rēšīt) (when) God created the heavens and the earth, / (but) the earth was (still) a formless void and darkness covered the face of the sea/the deep (tehôm), and a wind from God (or: God’s spirit) swept over the face of the waters . . .

a. Mummu is preserved in three manuscripts, K 5419c, BM 45528+, and BM 93015 (Talon’s MSS “e,” “b,” and “d”). None of them writes the word with a divine determinative. See also the reference to mu-um Ti-amat in the prayer discussed below in n. 48. b.  Borger, in his review of Talon’s edition (Or 77, 272–73), has provided good arguments for reading Ti-amtu instead of Ti-amat. The latter version of the name is, however, so widely established that in this article I refrain from replacing it with the former. Note that the name is written Ta-am?-ti in the Babylonian school text BM 77118, obv. 9′ (Gesche, Schulunterricht in Babylonien, 646–47, not considered in Talon’s edition).

That Enūma eliš I 1–5 and Gen 1:1–2 have certain features in common can hardly be denied, but scholars have been wary of regarding these features as unequivocal evidence for genetic links. The syntactical parallels and the references to heaven and earth have been dismissed as vague, the connection between Tiāmat and tehôm has been contested, and the possible link between Akkadian rēštû and Hebrew be-rēšīt has been largely ignored. 24 In this article, I will suggest that a less skeptical attitude may be in order. My reassessment of the evidence is based on the contention that there is yet another important parallel between the two passages, one that has, to my knowledge, not received any attention. The argument made of Babylonian Cosmology in the West,” in Mythology and Mythologies: Methodological Approaches to Intercultural Influences (ed. R. M. Whiting; Melammu Symposia 2; Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2001) 266–68 (all with earlier literature). The syntactical challenges of Gen 1:1–3 are discussed in great detail by Bauks, Die Welt am Anfang, 69–91. 24.  The exception is J. N. Bremmer, Greek Religion and Culture, the Bible and the Ancient Near East (Jerusalem Studies in Religion and Culture 8; Leiden: Brill, 2008) 4.

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here depends on the correct interpretation of the key term mummu in Enūma eliš I 4, an issue addressed in §2 of this essay; §3 will then establish whether the term in question has a counterpart in the biblical text. The essay will conclude with some general remarks on the relationship between Enūma eliš and the Primeval History. Five years ago, the honoree of this volume wrote a thoughtful foreword to a new English translation of Gunkel’s Urzeit und Endzeit, the book that initiated the debate dealt with in these pages. 25 His deep familiarity with the subject gives me some hope that the following analysis will be of interest to him, whether he agrees with its rather audacious conclusions or not.

2.  Mummu in Enūma eliš I 4 and elsewhere The most difficult line of the opening section of Enūma eliš is I 4: mummu Tiāmat muʾallidat gimrīšun “mummu Tiāmat was she who bore them all.” The main problem of the line is the meaning—and syntactical function—of the word mummu. Many different solutions have been proposed over time. Mummu has been translated, inter alia, as “chaos,” “noise,” “art,” “logos,” “mother,” “maker,” “matrix,” and “demiurge.” 26 It has been regarded as an epithet of Tiāmat, but also as the name of a son of hers representing the mist rising from the primordial waters. 27 Few words in Akkadian literary texts have received more diverse interpretations. Mummu occurs in Enūma eliš several times, both with and without the divine determinative, and in rather different contexts. A key question is whether all the references represent the same lemma. CAD and AHw offer different takes on this matter. CAD M/2: 197–98 lists the Enūma eliš references under two lemmata. Mummu A, translated as “craftsman, creator,” is used, according to the CAD, as an “epithet of Tiāmat” (in I 4) and as the name of the vizier of Apsû (in I 66 and passim), while mummu C, translated “roar,” is attested only once, in Enūma eliš VII 121. AHw, 672, by contrast, lists all the references under one lemma, translated by von Soden as “lebenswirkende Kraft.” An examination of the various at25. P. Machinist, “Foreword,” in H. Gunkel, Creation and Chaos in the Primeval Era and the Eschaton: A Religio-Historical Study of Genesis 1 and Revelation 12; translated and with a preface by K. W. Whitney, Jr. (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2006) xv–xx. 26.  For exact references and discussion, see A. Heidel, “The Meaning of Mummu in Akkadian Literature,” JNES 7 (1948) 98–105; and P. Talon, “Enūma eliš and the Transmission of Babylonian Cosmology,” 267. “Matrix” is used in Foster’s translation (Before the Muses, 439), “demiurge” in Lambert’s (“Mesopotamian Creation Stories,” 37). See also the discussion by M. Krebernik, “Mum(m)u,” in RlA 8:415–16. 27.  For the latter interpretation, see Heidel, “The Meaning of Mummu,” 104.

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testations of mummu, both in Enūma eliš (henceforth Ee) and outside the epic, will help to achieve greater clarity on this matter. It is possible to be fairly brief since an excellent, albeit concise, analysis of the matter by Krebernik is already available. 28 I will return to Ee I 4 later in the discussion. In Ee I 29–72, Mummu, here written with the divine determinative, is the name of the “vizier” (sukallu) and “adviser” (tamlāku) of Apsû. 29 Summoned by his master, who is annoyed by the noise made by the younger gods, Mummu advocates killing them. Even though Tiāmat is not in favor of this plan, Apsû decides to act accordingly. He attacks his divine descendants but is defeated and executed by Ea, who then founds his dwelling upon the corpse of the slain Apsû. As for Mummu, Ea binds him and holds him firm by a leadrope, apparently in his new dwelling place, where, a little later, the god Marduk, the protagonist of Enūma eliš, is born. The nature of Mummu’s physical appearance remains rather unclear throughout this passage. In Ee I 53–54, the text seems to indicate that Apsû has to sit on his knees when trying to kiss his vizier, but the interpretation of the two lines is far from certain. 30 A particularly intriguing—and difficult—couplet is Ee I 47–48, where we read: i-pul-ma dMu-um-mu ZU.AB i-ma-al-lik / suk-kal-lum la magi-ru mi-lik mu-um-mi-šu. Foster translates: “It was Mummu who answered, counselling Apsû, / Like a dissenting vizier’s was the counsel of his Mummu.” The capitalization of the last word seems to indicate that Foster regards it as another reference to the name of Apsû’s vizier. 31 Yet the omission of the divine determinative 32 makes this interpretation somewhat 28.  Krebernik, “Mum(m)u,” 415–16. 29.  The name Mummu (dMu-um-mu) occurs in ll. 30, 31, 47, 53, 65, 70, and 72. In ll. 30 and 31, the Babylonian manuscript BM 45528+ omits the divine determinative, as does the Assur tablet VAT 14109+ in l. 72. 30.  dMu-um-mu i-te-dir ki-šad-su / uš-ba-am-ma bir-ka-a-šú ú-na-áš-šaq ša-a-šu. Foster (Before the Muses, 441) translates: “He (Apsû) embraced Mummu, around his neck, / He sat on his (own) knees so he could kiss him.” Other translators assume that Mummu was sitting on Apsû’s knees, or vice versa. M. Streck (“ittašab ibakki ‘weinend setzte er sich’: iparras für die Vergangenheit in der akkadischen Epik,” Or 64 [1995] 58), for example, translates: “Mummu – er (Apsû) umarmte seinen Hals. Ihn (Mummu) abküssend setzte (Apsû) sich auf seine (Mummus) Knie.” It seems unlikely, however, that Apsû was smaller than Mummu. In Ee I 67–68, we find a reference to the “sash” (riksu), “crown” (agû), and “aura” (melammu) of one of the deities defeated by Ea. It is not completely clear whether the passage concerns Apsû or Mummu, but the former seems more probable (see Lambert, “Mesopotamian Creation Stories,” 38). For the possibility that Mummu had the shape of a ram, see below. 31.  Thus also Lambert, “Mesopotamian Creation Stories,” 38. 32.  Both in Kish, 1927–71 (Talon’s MS “A”) and 81–7–27, 80 (Talon’s MS “j”), mummu is written with the divine determinative in line 47, but without it in line 48.

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unlikely. It would seem rather that in Ee I 48, mummu designates the force that inspires the advice Mummu is about to give to his master. 33 I will attempt to describe the precise nature of this force further below. With the exception of a short flashback to Mummu’s capture in Ee I 118, there are no further references to Mummu before the final section of Enūma eliš, which consists primarily of the famous list of names Marduk receives from the other gods after defeating Tiāmat and creating the world. One of these names is Mummu. In Ee VII 86–87, Marduk is called dMu-um-mu ba-an AN-e u KI-tim mu-še-šìr dag si? / DINGIR mu-lil AN-e u KI-tim “Mummu, creator of heaven and earth (or: netherworld), who sets straight . . . , 34 / Divine purifier of heaven and earth.” 35 Mummu’s epithets are followed, after šanîš “secondly,” by another name, d Zu-lum-um-mu. Ending in -mummu, this name is probably mentioned at this point as a result of phonetic association. The final reference to mummu to be found in Enūma eliš occurs in VII 119–121b, in a passage on Marduk’s new name Addu. In two manuscripts and a commentary excerpt, mummu is here written without the divine determinative, while one manuscript does include a DINGIR sign. 36 BM 98909 (Talon’s MS “o”) and STT I 1 (Talon’s MS “AA”) have no divine determinative in line 48 either, while the preceding line is too damaged in both manuscripts to establish whether there was a DINGIR sign before mummu. 33.  For a different interpretation, see Krebernik, “Mum(m)u,” 416. Krebernik argues that mu-um-mi in Ee I 48 refers back to Tiāmat, whose epithet in I 4 is mu-ummu. This solution fails to convince me, however. 34.  Foster (Before the Muses, 480) translates “who guides those astray(?),” apparently reading pàr-si (similar: Lambert, “Mesopotamian Creation Stories,” 58), but there remains a considerable degree of uncertainty about this possibility. Nowhere else in Enūma eliš is the sign DAG used to represent the syllable par, and the cosmological context of the entry is at odds with the assumption that it deals with saving someone who was lost. 35.  Talon (Standard Babylonian Creation Myth, 106) fails to acknowledge that Mummu is one of Marduk’s fifty names, but many other translators have, I believe correctly, identified it as such. The matter has recently been discussed by Jacobs in his review of Talon’s edition (BiOr 65, 157). A more detailed analysis of the term mullilu “purifier” can be found in E. Frahm, Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries: Origins of Interpretation (GMTR 5; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2011) 355–59. 36.  The determinative is missing in LKA 8 (Talon’s MS “K”), STT I 10 (Talon’s MS “L”), and the commentary K 4657+, discussed below. LKU 38+ (Talon’s MS “H”), in contrast, offers dMu-um-mi. In his article “Les Noms de Marduk, l’écriture et la ‘logique’ en Mésopotamie ancienne” (in Essays on the Ancient Near East in Memory of Jacob Joel Finkelstein [ed. M. De Jong Ellis; Memoirs of the Connecticut Academy of Arts and Sciences 19; Hamden: Archon Books, 1977] 12), J. Bottéro discusses the possibility that a fragment of another Enūma eliš commentary, 82–3–23, 151, may likewise have regarded the mummu of line 121a as “un Nom de Marduk.” His tentative

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Ad-du lu-ú MU-šú kiš-šat AN-e li-rim-ma / ṭa-a-bu rig-ma-šú UGU KI-tim li-ir-ta-ṣi-in / (d)mu-um-mu er-pe-e-ti liš-tak-ṣi-ba-am-ma / šap-liš a-na UN.MEŠ te-ʾu-ú-ta lid-din d

Addu shall be his name, the whole sky he shall cover, / His beneficent roar (rigmu) shall thunder over the earth, / May (his?) mummu reduce the burden of the clouds (by making them rain?) 37 / And give sustenance to the people below.

A commentary on Enūma eliš, K 4657+, explains the mummu from the passage just quoted by equating it with rigmu, 38 an Akkadian word for “noise.” This commentarial note has received considerable scholarly attention. Twenty years ago, Piotr Michalowski used it in his thought-provoking attempt to explain the meaning of mummu in Ee I 4. 39 Drawing on the commentary, and on Ee I 133, a line that calls Tiāmat ummu ḫubūr restoration of line 2′ of the piece as [Mu]-um-mu is, however, most probably wrong. As suggested to me by E. Jimenez-Sanchez, it is more plausible to restore the line as [AD] | um-mu, and to translate: “[AD (an element derived from the divine name Addu, explained in the commentary entry)] (means) ‘mother’ (ummu, derived from mummu).” The equation AD = ummu (which is undoubtedly based on the very common equation between AD and abu “father”) is also attested in the Šumma ālu commentary CT 41, 34 line 6. I will come back to 82–3–23, 151 further below. 37.  My translation of lištakṣibamma follows AHw, 456 and Foster, Before the Muses, 483 (who translates the line: “As he rumbles, he shall reduce the burden of the clouds”). CAD Š/3: 396 offers instead: “May the roar of the clouds reach fullness.” This translation is apparently based on line 4′ of the commentary 82–3–23, 151, discussed in the preceding note, where we read [. . .] | ma-lu-ú “[. . .] (means) ‘to be full’.” The authors of the CAD seem to have assumed that malû, not attested in Ee VII 119–121b, serves in 82–3–23, 151 as a kind of gloss to ka-ṣi-bu, which occurs in the next line of the commentary, representing the verb šutakṣubu from Ee VII 121a. It is more likely, however, that malû elaborates on the preceding commentary entry. Lines 3′–4′ of 82–3–23, 151 are probably to be restored as [IM] | er-pe-e-tú / [SA5(= DIRIG)] | ma-lu-ú “[IM (the most common sign used to write the name of the storm-god Addu/Adad)] (means) ‘cloud’, [SA5 (= DIRIG)] (means) ‘to be full’.” The word erpetu “cloud” is usually written IM.DIRIG (= DUNGU) and not IM. For the commentator, whose goal was to find graphemes related both to the theonym Addu and the epithets accompanying that name, only the first element of the logogram was of use, but he decided to make his “acrographic” approach more transparent by explaining the second element as well. Note that the equation IM = erpetu (er-⸢pe?!⸣-[(e-)tú]) is probably also attested in another section of the commentary on Enūma eliš VII, K 4406 rev. i 9 (see Bottéro, “Les Noms de Marduk,” 8 and CAD E: 303). 38.  Rev. 10′: mu-um-mu rig-mu. Many fragments belonging to this commentary remain unpublished, but a handcopy of the piece that includes the aforementioned equation, Sm 747, is available in CT 13, 32. My remarks on K 4657+ are based on a transliteration of the tablet prepared by me in 1998. 39.  Michalowski, “Presence at the Creation.”

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pātiqat kalāma “mother noise(?), who fashions all things,” Michalowski argued that mummu in Ee I 4 “is simply another word for noise—it is a synonym of ḫubūru and rigmu as well as an anagram, and thus in a sense a homonym, for ummu.” 40 He supported this claim by positing that gimri(šun), the last word in Ee I 4, is an anagram of rigmu. Noting that noise is traditionally linked to action and creativity in Mesopotamia, Michalowski concluded that “the metaphor of noise, which is there, although poetically in absentia, at the beginning of the world, establishes a privileged position for the concept of creation, activity, independence.” 41 Two recent monographs support the idea that there is a close connection between mummu(m) and the phenomenon of sound. N. Ziegler has shown that in Old Babylonian Mari, the bīt mummim, also simply known as mummum, was a place where court musicians were trained and where musical instruments were created and repaired, 42 while A.-C. Rendu Loisel has pointed out that the Sumerian word mu7-mu7, linked by her to mummu(m), characterizes the vocal performances of Mesopotamian exorcists. 43 And yet, one wonders whether in Enūma eliš, even in Ee VII 121a, the link between mummu and noise is really as close as Michalowski thought. For starters, one must keep in mind that Assyrian and Babylonian text commentaries often create layers of meaning that were not intended by the authors of the base texts. The association of mummu with rigmu in the commentary on Ee VII 121a may well represent such a case. It was probably motivated by two factors: on the one hand, the equation, attested in the lexical tradition, between Sumerian mu7-mu7 and Akkadian rigmu, 44 and on the other, the reference to rigmu in the preceding line, 40.  Ibid., 386. In the commentary entry discussed above in n. 36, mummu seems to be replaced by ummu, which supports the last point made by Michalowski. 41.  Ibid., 389. 42. N. Ziegler, Les musiciens et la musique d’après les archives de Mari (Florilegium marianum 9 = Mémoires de N.A.B.U. 10; Paris: SEPOA, 2007) 77–78. D. Shehata (“Selbstbewusste Dichter der Hammurabi-Dynastie,” in Von Göttern und Menschen: Beiträge zu Literatur und Geschichte des Alten Orients: Festschrift für Brigitte Groneberg [eds. D. Shehata et al.; Leiden: Brill, 2010] 197–224) has suggested that the word mummu(m) also occurs in connection with literary creativity. Given the strong links between literature and music, this seems plausible, even though the respective references are all somewhat opaque. 43. A.-C. Rendu Loisel, Bruit et émotion dans la littérature akkadienne (Ph.D. diss.; Geneva: Université de Genève, 2010) 348–68. 44. See CT 51, 168 vi 39: mu7-mu7 = MIN (ri-ig-mu), as well as Diri Nippur 30, Diri Ugarit I 51 and Diri I 56 (MSL 15, 12–13, 69, 106–7). The equation is also attested in the Sa-gig commentary SBTU 1, no. 38 line 13: m u7-m u7 : ⸢ri-gim⸣. Note, furthermore, that both rigmu and ummu (which seems to replace mummu in the Enūma eliš commentary 82–3–23, 151, as discussed in n. 36 above) can be written with the sign AD.

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Ee VII 120. Since commentaries often tend to explain difficult terms by equating them with words that occur in the same context, but that are not necessarily synonyms, 45 it remains uncertain whether mummu really means “noise” in Ee VII 121a. Michalowski’s attempt to link Ee I 4 with Ee I 133 is problematic as well. It cannot be excluded that there are subtle cross-references between the two verses, but since they are separated from each other by more than 100 lines, one cannot help but remain slightly skeptical. Ummu ḫubūr in Ee I 133 may simply mean “the mother of (all that) noise”—Tiāmat, after all, was the originator of the boisterous younger gods. A more promising path towards an understanding of the actual meaning of mummu in Enūma eliš is paved by Michalowski’s remarks about the word’s association with the idea of action and creativity. A closer look at the post-Old Babylonian references to mummu outside Enūma eliš is revealing in this regard. There are, essentially, two main areas in which the word occurs during this time span. 46 First, it is a fairly common epithet of the god Ea, used almost without exception in connection with the creative qualities ascribed to this deity. Typical phrases include ša ibšimu Ea mummu “what Ea-mummu has formed” or mummu bān kala “[Ea]mummu, the creator of everything.” 47 That a kudurru from the reign of Nazi-Maruttaš (1307–1282 b.c.e.) mentions mu-um as an emblem of Ea is also of interest in this respect. 48 The emblem in question is probably 45.  For an example, see the extispicy commentary no. 42 in U. Koch-Westenholz, Babylonian Liver Omens: The Chapters Manzāzu, Padānu and Pān tākalti of the Babylonian Extispicy Series Mainly from Assurbanipal’s Library (CNI Publications 25; Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 2000). Line 66 of this commentary explains the protasis be . . . gír ip-ḫur ku-ri “If . . . the Path is concentrated and short” by arguing: n i - g i - i n la-gab-bu pa-ḫa-ru lu -gu d la-gab-bu ku-ru-ú pa-ḫa-ru ku-ru-ú “(When read) n i g i n(2), (the sign called) lagabbu (means) ‘to concentrate’; (when read) l u g u d(2), (the sign called) lagabbu (means) ‘short’; (hence) ‘to concentrate’ (is identical with) ‘(to be) short.’ ” This latter statement is of course not accurate from a linguistic point of view. 46.  Even though its date of composition remains unclear (see Frahm, Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries, 346–47, with further literature), Enūma eliš is almost certainly a post-Old Babylonian creation and needs to be read in light of contemporary texts. 47.  For references, and additional examples, see Krebernik, “Mum(m)u,” 415. 48.  MDP 2 pl. 17 iv 5 (see K. Slanski, The Babylonian Entitlement narûs (kudurrus): A Study in Their Form and Function [Boston: ASOR, 2003] 129). CAD M/2: 194, in an entry on mum, separates this reference from the other attestations of mummu, but there is little reason for such a distinction. That mu-um is just another form of mummu is indicated by a broken prayer that mentions, apparently drawing on Ee I 4, mu-um Ti-amat (BA 5 [1906] 664 line 15). For further discussion, see F. A. M. Wiggermann, “Extensions of and Contradictions to Dr. Porada’s Lecture,” in E. Porada, Man and Images in the Ancient Near East (Wakefield, RI: Moyer Bell, 1995) 90–92.

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depicted on the monument. It seems to have been a throne or temple facade equipped with the head of a ram, an animal often associated with fertility. 49 The second important environment in which mummu occurs in postOld Babylonian sources is the term bīt mummi. Rather than a music conservatory, this expression now designates a temple workshop used first and foremost for the manufacture and repair of divine statues and other cultic appurtenances. 50 Since Mesopotamian theology claimed that the gods were not made but “born” ([w]alādu) in the bīt mummi, we can again discern a clear connection between mummu and the idea of (divine) creation. Mummu, then, from the Late Bronze age onwards, seems to designate a creative energy, or spirit, closely associated with the world of the gods and occasionally hypostasized. The term appears to be related to Sumerian umum/úmun “master, creator,” which is used somewhat similarly. 51 When the various references to mummu in Enūma eliš are recapitulated, it becomes immediately clear that they likewise all occur in contexts that deal with creation or active striving. In Ee I 4, “mummu” Tiāmat is the entity from which all the other gods emerge. Interestingly, one manuscript renders the first word of the epithet that follows Tiāmat’s name in this verse, muʾallidat gimrīšun (“she who bore them all”), as mu-um-ma-al-lida-at, marking the link between mummu and the idea of creation even on the graphic level. 52 An entry in the Enūma eliš commentary K 4657+ may 49. See CAD M/2: loc. cit.; and U. Seidl, Die babylonischen Kudurru-Reliefs: Symbole mesopotamischer Gottheiten (OBO 87; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989) 33–35, 165–67. Wiggermann (“Extensions of and Contradictions to Dr. Porada’s Lecture,” 92) argues that “in origin, (Mummu’s) name is nothing more than the bleating of the ram-god: mu-mu.” This claim is, of course, highly speculative, but mummu may indeed well be onomatopoeic in origin. 50. See CAD M/2: 197–98; and A. Berlejung, Die Theologie der Bilder: Herstellung und Einweihung von Kultbildern in Mesopotamien und die alttestamentliche Bilderpolemik (OBO 162; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998) 89–93, with discussion and additional literature. The term is also used, albeit rarely, to designate the scribal academy. 51. See J. J. A. van Dijk, “Sumerische Religion,” in Handbuch der Religionsgeschichte (eds. J. P. Asmussen et al.; vol. 1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1971) 443–44; and Shehata (“Selbstbewusste Dichter der Hammurabi-Dynastie,” 212), who points to the similarity between the ki/é úmun of the Ur III period and the Old Babylonian bīt mummim. As for the etymology, Krebernik (“Mummu,” 416) points out that there may also be some connection with Sumerian m u d “to bring forth” and mú “to (let) grow.” 52.  The manuscript in question is BM 93015, Talon’s MS “d.” As noted before, the idea of divine “birth” is also expressed in contexts that mention the bīt mummi.

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emphasize the “creative” dimensions associated with mummu in Ee I 4 as well, but due to breaks in the tablet, this assumption remains uncertain. 53 In I 29–72, when Apsû takes over the initiative from Tiāmat, Mummu, now a deity, serves as his “vizier.” After Apsû’s defeat, Mummu becomes part of the world of Ea. The story of how he is vanquished by this god functions as an etiological tale that explains in mythological terms the origins of the well-established association between Ea, “the crafty god,” and Mummu. The protagonist and divine hero of Enūma eliš, however, is not Ea but Marduk, and so it comes as no surprise that the latter, along with a monopoly on divine agency, also acquires the name “Mummu” in the end—tellingly, together with the epithet “creator of heaven and earth.” The last reference to mummu in the epic can be explained as an indirect reference to an act of creation as well. In Ee VII 121a, mummu is presented as the force that makes the clouds rain, helping mankind to cultivate fields and produce food. 54 We can conclude by saying that all the references in Enūma eliš to mummu seem to designate the same dynamic principle. This principle can appear as an abstract concept or in personal manifestations. It migrates in the course of the story first from Tiāmat to Apsû, then to Ea, and finally to Marduk. In Ee I 4, when associated with Tiāmat, mummu is introduced as an abstract force. 55 The verse should therefore be translated: “(And) 53.  Obv. 2 of the commentary (for which see n. 38) reads: [mummu Tiāmat mual-li]-da-⸢at gim⸣-r [i-šú-un x x x (x x)] nab-⸢ni-tu⸣ “‘[Mummu Tiāmat] was she who bore [them] all’ (= Ee I 4) [– . . . (means)] ‘creation’.” The question is whether the word lost in the break was mummu or muʾallidatu. 54.  Above, I have argued that the commentary K 4657+ does not necessarily point to the actual sense mummu has in Ee VII 121a when it states that the word means rigmu “noise.” It should be noted that there is an alternative way to understand the commentary entry. Following CAD E: 303, one could read, not rig-mu, but bi-iš-mu, and assume that the latter is an otherwise unattested pirs formation derived from bašāmu “to form.” This would supply us with a beautiful corroboration of our thesis. Unfortunately, it is not very likely that the reading in question is correct. More suggestive is the second commentary entry on Ee VII 121a, the one from 82–3–23, 151, line 2′. Provided the restoration suggested for this line in n. 36 is correct, the scholar who composed the commentary would have regarded the word mummu as a variant of ummu “mother.” 55.  Note the missing divine determinative. Van Dijk, “Sumerische Religion,” 443, writes: “Zusammen mit dem Wasser und der Erde war dieses mummu ein tertium necessarium . . . , das formende Prinzip.” Later, in the version of Enūma eliš presented by the Neo-Platonic philosopher Damascius, mummu is transformed into a child of Tiāmat (Tauthe) and Apsû (Apasôn) (for details, see Talon, “Enūma eliš and the Transmission of Babylonian Cosmology,” 272–73). Named Môümis, this child represents, according to Damascius, the intelligible world.

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Tiāmat, (endowed with) creative spirit (mummu), 56 was she who bore them all.” 57

3.  Rûaḥ in Genesis 1:2 and its relationship to mummu Like mummu in Ee I 4, the term rûaḥ in Gen 1:2 poses significant problems. The fundamental question is whether it refers to a meteorological phenomenon, wind, or to a more ethereal entity, the (divine) spirit. In other words: Was it a divine storm that hovered over the primordial waters in the beginning, a storm that contributed to the initial chaos, or was it instead the “spirit of god,” ready to start the creation process? The latter interpretation became the prevailing one in later tradition, especially in the context of Christian pneumatology, but it cannot be taken for granted when the intentions of the original author of the text are at issue. Rûaḥ is attested about 400 times in the Hebrew Bible. Depending on the context, it can designate “wind,” “breath,” or “vital force”/“spirit,” a meaning derived from the preceding one. 58 The Bible ascribes rûaḥ to God, human beings, and even animals. Its effects are usually positive, but there is also a notion of an evil or bad rûaḥ (rûaḥ rāʿâ). 59 No other biblical book mentions rûaḥ more frequently than Ezekiel, which provides 52 attestations, suggesting that the term enjoyed particular esteem among theologians from the time of the Exile. A key passage, with no fewer than ten references to rûaḥ, is Ezek 37:1–14, a vision of how God put (his) rûaḥ within a number of dead bodies lying in the middle of a valley to make them live again. Another important reference 56.  The exact nature of the grammatical relationship between mummu and Tiāmat remains, admittedly, unclear. That mummu precedes the name instead of following it, as in the common phrase Ea mummu, is peculiar. Talon (“Enūma eliš and the Transmission of Babylonian Cosmology,” 267–68) suggests that Ee I 4 might form a nominal sentence to be translated as “the creator was Tiāmat,” but the reference, in broken context, to mu-um Ti-amat in BA 5, 664 line 15 makes it more likely that mummu is an attribute that precedes Tiāmat’s name in order to put additional emphasis on the creative powers manifest in her. 57.  I do not claim that this translation is completely new. Several scholars have interpreted the line similarly, and the results of Talon’s analysis of Ee I 4 (“Enūma eliš and the Transmission of Babylonian Cosmology,” 267–68) are not that far away from those presented here. But with no consensus having emerged so far, I have found it necessary to justify my own understanding of the verse in some detail. 58.  For a detailed study of the meaning of rûaḥ in the Hebrew Bible, with a focus on the term’s use in texts linked by the author to the Exilic Period, see H. SchüngelStraumann, Rûaḥ bewegt die Welt: Gottes schöpferische Lebenskraft in der Krisenzeit des Exils (SBS 151; Stuttgart: Verlag Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1992). The following remarks are to a large extent based on this book. 59.  See, for instance, 1 Sam 16:15; 19:9.

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to rûaḥ occurs in Ps 104:30: “When you (God) send forth your rûaḥ, they (the living creatures) are created; and you renew the face of the earth.” This verse is of particular significance for the interpretation of Gen 1:1–2 in that it also uses the verb bārāʾ “to create.” Ezek 37 and Ps 104 demonstrate that at least to some biblical authors, there was a close link between rûaḥ and the concept of creation and conception. The biblical rûaḥ is a force that sets things into motion, both literally, as “wind,” and in a more metaphorical sense, as a dynamic principle closely associated with the giving of life. This, I believe—even though I cannot engage in a full discussion of the matter—suggests that the rûaḥ mentioned in Gen 1:2 is not a chaotic “storm,” but indeed some windlike vital energy or “spirit” associated with God that the author of the first creation account regarded as instrumental for the beginning of the creation process. 60 Initially passive, it is activated by the divine word through which God fashions the world in Gen 1:3ff. Hence, Gen 1:2b should be translated: “and God’s creative spirit (or: vital energy) was hovering over the face of the waters.” 61 The goal of my argument should be obvious by now. I am suggesting that there is a strong affinity between Babylonian mummu and Hebrew rûaḥ, terms that are both used to designate an abstract notion of creativity and dynamism, 62 and that the reference to rûaḥ in Gen 1:2 may be a deliberate attempt on the part of the biblical author to transfer the concept of mummu from Ee I 4 into his own creation account. 63 This would provide us with yet another, hitherto unrecognized, parallel between Genesis 1 and Enūma eliš. There is, admittedly, an Akkadian term that is conceptually closer to rûaḥ than mummu. The nearest Akkadian counterpart of rûaḥ is šāru, a 60. Thus Schüngel-Straumann, Rûaḥ bewegt die Welt, 79–84. For a somewhat different view, see Bauks, Die Welt am Anfang, 127–41. It must be acknowledged that in another important passage in the Primeval History, one that likewise mentions “waters,” rûaḥ designates a rather concrete meteorological phenomenon. In Gen 8:1, God, determined to bring an end to the deluge, is said to have “made a wind (rûaḥ) blow over the earth, and the waters subsided.” Even here, though, rûaḥ is related to creation, in this case the “second creation” that follows the deluge. At the same time, mummu seems at least once, in Ee VII 121a, to have a meteorological dimension. 61.  For the ancient audience of Genesis 1, the term rûaḥ would of course also invoke notions such as “wind” and “breath.” 62. Like mummu in Enūma eliš, the biblical rûaḥ can be hypostasized. 1 Kgs 22:19–23 talks about a rûaḥ who “stood before God” and promised to be a “lying spirit” in the mouth of all of Ahab’s prophets. 63.  Note that both in mummu Tiāmat and in rûaḥ ʾĕlōhîm, the term for “creative spirit” precedes the divine name—even though mummu seems to serve as an attribute, while rûaḥ is the bound member of a construct chain.

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word that usually means “wind” but is also used in connection with the vital energy of various Assyrian and Babylonian deities. 64 Personal names such as Ṭāb-šār-ili/Nabû/Ištar “The wind (or: spirit) of God/Nabû/ Ištar (etc.) is good” demonstrate that the Akkadian idea of a divine šāru was quite similar to the biblical notion of rûaḥ ʾĕlōhîm. 65 Divine winds also play a certain role in Enūma eliš —in Ee IV, Marduk uses them as weapons in his fight against Tiāmat, and in Ee VII 20, he is called il šāri ṭābi “god of the fair breeze.” Yet these references, and the function of šāru in the conceptual universe of the Assyrians and Babylonians in general, are of limited significance for the thesis proposed in this paper. The point I wish to make here is that for the Judean theologian who, inspired by his encounter with Enūma eliš, composed the new creation account recorded in Genesis 1, rûaḥ represented the closest analogy he could think of with the Babylonian idea of mummu. 66 It might be worth adding that in Proverbs 8, a text almost certainly postexilic in date, the rûaḥ of Gen 1:2 was apparently reinterpreted as a reference to wisdom. 67 Prov 8:22–24 reads: “God created me (wisdom) at the beginning of his work . . . before the beginning of the earth. When there were no depths/seas (thmwt), I (wisdom) was brought forth.” Here 64.  For preliminary remarks on šāru, and the role of the winds in Mesopotamian religion, see J. Hehn, “Zum Problem des Geistes im Alten Orient und im Alten Testament,” ZAW 43 (1925) 210–25; E. Unger, Babylon: Die Heilige Stadt nach der Beschrei­ bung der Babylonier (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1931) 128–35; and S. Parpola, Assyrian Prophecies (SAA 9; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1997) xxvi. A new assessment of the evidence will be provided in E. Jimenez-Sanchez’s forthcoming Madrid Ph.D. dissertation, “The Winds in Akkadian Literature.” Mummu, unlike šāru and rûaḥ, is usually not associated with winds, but as we have seen, it is mentioned in connection with the storm god Addu in Ee VII 121a. 65. See CAD Š/2: 138–39; Parpola, Assyrian Prophecies, lxxxvii n. 69. Note that the name *Šār-ilāni-ilāʾī, rendered by Parpola as “The Spirit of God is my god” should not be considered in this context. As pointed out to me by E. Jimenez-Sanchez, it is actually written with the LUGAL sign and should be translated as “The king of the gods is my god.” 66.  It is still a long way from the rûaḥ ʾĕlōhîm of Genesis 1 to the Holy Spirit of Christian dogma. For a (problematic) attempt to link the latter concept to Mesopotamian ideas about the goddess Ištar, see Parpola, Assyrian Prophecies, xxvi–xxxi. Parpola’s ideas were critically reviewed by, among others, J. Cooper (“Assyrian Prophecies, the Assyrian Tree, and the Assyrian Origins of Jewish Monotheism, Greek Philosophy, Christian Theology, Gnosticism, and Much More,” JAOS 120 [2000] 430–44) and E. Frahm (“Wie ‘christlich’ war die assyrische Religion?,” WO 31 [2000–2001] 31–45). 67.  See M. Bauks, “Le rôle de l’Esprit Saint dans la création: Quelques considérations à partir de l’histoire de la réception de Gn 1,2,” Lumen Vitae 1998/1, 25–27. Bauks’s article also discusses other reinterpretations of Gen 1:2 in later biblical and apocryphal texts.

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we have an interesting parallel to the Mesopotamian idea that mummu belonged to the realm of Ea, the patron deity of wisdom. Proverbs 8 does not provide us with a proof for the thesis proposed in this article, but makes it a bit more plausible.

4. Conclusion First lines are always exceptionally important, and the very first lines of the Bible, probably the most influential book of all time, deserve particular attention. There are, in fact, few text passages that have been more carefully scrutinized over the past two millennia. In this article, an attempt has been made to elucidate the literary and religious background of Gen 1:1–2 by recapitulating some well-known features the passage shares with the beginning of the Babylonian Epic of Creation and by pointing out a thus-far undetected additional parallel with this text. The parallel adds weight to the hypothesis that there are intertextual links between the first creation account of the Bible and Enūma eliš. 68 Only in passing can I mention that other, less obvious similarities between the two texts seem suddenly more intriguing as well. There is, for example the noticeable correspondence between the seven tablets of the Babylonian epic on the one hand and the seven days of the biblical creation account on the other, 69 and the related matter that in both traditions the creation of human beings—described in tablet VI of Enūma eliš and ascribed to the sixth day in the biblical text—is followed by divine rest. 70 I do not, of course, wish to argue that Gen 1:1–2:3 should be regarded as a simple paraphrase of Enūma eliš, heavily abridged, but otherwise written in the same spirit. The biblical tale is clearly a counter-story, a highly critical response to the Babylonian text. It offers a thoroughly demythologized account of how the world came into being, emphasizing that an almighty male god was in charge from the very beginning, and not, as in Enūma eliš, only after having defeated a female monster of colossal 68.  As stated above, there is, obviously, still no definite proof that such links existed. Yet there is now more evidence for them than for other attempts to elucidate the background of the beginning of Genesis. This applies, for example, to the suggestion by Bremmer (Greek Religion and Culture, 339–45) that the Ahuramazda theology introduced by the Persian king Darius I (521–486 b.c.) had an impact on the first lines of Genesis. 69.  This was already noted by L. W. King, The Seven Tablets of Creation: Or the Babylonian and Assyrian Legends Concerning the Creation of the World and of Mankind (London: Luzac, 1902) 1.xci–xciii. King dismissed the parallel as spurious, however. 70.  Obviously, this sequence of events also serves as an etiology of the seven-day week and the Sabbath in the Bible.

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proportions who provided the materials for the creation of the cosmos. And yet traces of the Babylonian story shine through the new, and revolutionary, concept of creation. 71 Eventually, the first creation account in Genesis became the target of its own counter-texts, most prominently the beginning of the Gospel of John, which reinterprets Gen 1:1–2 by claiming that “in the beginning was the Word (logos).” 72 Such rewritings show very clearly that, contrary to what many believe, there is no such thing as a creatio ex nihilo in the realm of religious thought and sacred literature. 71. For a more comprehensive discussion of the motives that may have led the Priestly author of Genesis 1 to emulate the Babylonian Epic of Creation, see Sparks, “Enūma Elish and Priestly Mimesis.” 72.  For other responses to Gen 1:1–5 up to c. 200 c.e., see now S. D. Giere, A New Glimpse of Day One: Intertextuality, History of Interpretation, and Genesis 1.1–5 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009).

Niṣirti bārûti: une autre approche Jean-Jacques Glassner

Quant à vous, serviteurs, et tout autre profane ou rustre qu’il pourrait y avoir ici, appliquezvous sur les oreilles des portes très épaisses – Platon, Le Banquet, 218b.

Depuis les études pionnières que Rykle Borger leur a consacrées, les allusions multiples aux savoirs secrets qui égrènent les sources cunéiformes à partir de la seconde moitié du IIe millénaire ont fait l’objet d’une ample litt­érature. 1 Il est peut-être possible de tenter, à l’aune d’une documentation désormais mieux accessible, une nouvelle approche de la question. Il s’agit, dans le même temps, de conduire une réflexion sur la transmission du savoir. En l’état des sources, on dispose d’un texte fondateur, une véritable profession de foi offerte par Ésagil-kīn-apli, un lettré actif sous le règne d’Adad-apla-iddina de Babylone. On lit dans un sien colophon: 2  Concernant ce qui n’avait jamais bénéficié d’une édition autorisée, conformément à des trames obscures, dépourvues de duplicats, sous le règne d’Adad-apla-iddina, roi de Babylone, afin d’en permettre l’étude, Ésagilkīn-apli, le descendant d’Asalluhi-mansum, le sage du roi Hammurabi, le rejeton de Sîn, de Lisi et de Nanaia, membre éminent de la société Author’s note:  Je remercie R. D. Biggs qui a eu la bonté de lire le manuscrit avant publication. Il va de soi que les erreurs sont de mon seul fait. R. Borger, “niṣirti bārûti, Geheimlehre der Haruspizin,” BiOr 14 (1957) 190–95 et pls. 4–5; idem, “Geheimwissen,” RlA 3:188–91. 1. P.-A. Beaulieu, “New Light on Secret Knowledge in Late Babylonian Culture,” ZA 82 (1992) 98–111; J.-J. Glassner, “Savoirs secrets et écritures secrètes des scribes mésopotamiens,” Politica Hermetica 13 (1999) 15–32; B. Pongratz-Leisten, Herrschaftswissen in Mesopotamien: Formen der Kommunikation zwischen Gott und König im 2. und 1. Jahrtausend v. Chr. (SAAS 10; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1999); U. S. Koch, Secrets of Extispicy (AOAT 326; Munster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2005); A. Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods: Secret Knowledge in Ancient Mesopotamia and Biblical Israel (SAAS 19; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2008). 2.  I. L. Finkel, “Adad-apla-iddina, Esagil-kīn-apli, and the Series SA.GIG,” in A Scientific Humanist: Studies in Memory of Abraham Sachs (OPSNKF 9; eds. E. Leichty, M. deJong Ellis, et P. Gerardi; Philadelphia: University Museum, 1988) 143–59; Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods.

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de Borsippa, le trésorier de l’Ézida, le prêtre oint de Nabû qui détient les tablettes des destins des dieux et sait réunir ce qui s’oppose, le prêtre išippu et ramku de Ninzilzil, la dame honorée, la soeur aimée de son aimé, 3 le maître ingénieux de Sumer et d’Akkad, grâce à l’intelligence pénétrante qu’Éa et Asalluhi lui ont accordée, délibéra en son for intérieur et produisit la version autorisée de la série des symptômes cliniques sa.gig, du début à la fin, et en établit le texte pour l’enseignement. Fais attention! Prends garde! Ne néglige pas ton savoir! Celui qui ne peut avoir accès au savoir ne doit pas réciter à haute voix la série des symptômes cliniques Alamdimmû, il ne doit pas davantage réciter à haute voix la série physiognomonique! La série des symptômes cliniques concerne toutes maladies et toutes formes de détresse. La physiognomonie concerne les formes extérieures et les apparences (qui disent) le destin de l’humanité qu’Éa et Asalluhi ont conçu au ciel. Concernant les deux ouvrages, leur structure est une. Que l’āšipu qui rend la décision, qui veille sur la vie des gens, qui a une connaissance complète des symptômes cliniques et de la physiognomonie, inspecte, vérifie, pondère et mette son diagnostic à la disposition du roi!

Le colophon est exemplaire quant à la démarche entreprise. Voici un lettré qui affirme lui-même son autorité, qui se présente comme la source de son propre texte et de la mise en ordre du savoir qu’il véhicule. Cette mise en ordre n’est autre qu’un procès de canonisation dans sa phase finale avec délimitation et fixation définitive d’un texte. Comprenons-nous bien. Le lettré qui met en forme un ouvrage est celui qui travaille en harmonie avec les dieux qui lui ont révélé leur propre savoir. Il est de ces privilégiés qui non seulement savent recevoir et transmettre le savoir divin, mais qui ont aussi accès, par leur intelligence et leur clairvoyance, à la connaissance de l’essence des choses. Dans ce cas, l’autorité qu’ils revendiquent désigne le transfert de la qualité d’auteur, la possibilité pour eux d’être les acteurs de faits que les personnes autorisées, c’est-à-dire les puissances invisibles, reconnaissent pour leurs. 4 Le compilateur humain peut donc laisser son nom, il n’effacera jamais celui du dieu qui l’a inspiré. De surcroît, il transfert à son texte l’autorité qui est la sienne. En peu de mots, il mobilise dans sa discipline et au service de son ambition un discours à travers lequel s’affirme la certitude de détenir le monopole de la vérité. Ce texte nous donne aussi à entendre que les lettrés des périodes antérieures n’ont pas, à proprement parler, produit d’ouvrages dignes de ce 3.  Comprendre, avec Finkel, “Adad-appla-iddina,” la soeur aimée de Nabû, le dieu aimé d’Ésagil-kīn-apli. 4.  Voir Thomas Hobbes, Léviathan, ch. xvi.

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nom. Cette affirmation peut être mise en doute. On a montré ailleurs, en donnant raison au savant babylonien, que la documentation de l’époque paléo-babylonienne ignore les critères sélectifs permettant de reconnaître des manuscrits de fixation. Et pourtant, dans le même temps, le doute s’instille qui conduit à relativiser son témoignage, 5 car il est difficile de nier que certaines sources paléo-babyloniennes ont pu effectivement remplir une telle fonction. Conjointement à ce qui vient d’être dit, la canonisation exige un travail de compilation et un effort de mémorisation. En même temps, des choix sont faits, avec la part d’oubli qui les caractérise. Il annonce, enfin, que la connaissance de son oeuvre est réservée à une élite qui possède les qualifications et les compétences requises pour la recevoir. Ce témoignage est à compléter à l’aide d’une autre source, documentée par des tablettes de Ninive et en provenance de la bibliothèque d’Assurbanipal, un texte qui contient un récit étiologique narrant la révélation de la science divinatoire à un être humain, ainsi qu’une présentation des caractères requis pour exercer la fonction de devin: 6 Šamaš dans l’Ébabbar [distingua] Enmeduranki, le roi de Sippar, l’aimé d’Anu, d’Enlil [et d’Éa]. Šamaš et Adad [l’introduisirent] dans leur assemblée, l’honorèrent et [le firent asseoir] devant [eux] sur un trône en or. Ils lui [montr]èrent comment observer l’huile sur l’eau, un trésor d’Anu, [d’Enlil et d’Éa], ils lui confièrent la tablette des dieux, les viscères, un secret du ciel et de la terre inférieure (. . .) Lui-même, ensuite, [suivant] leur [com]mandement, fit entrer les gens de Nippur, de Sippar et de Babylone en sa présence, les honora et les fit asseoir sur des trônes. Il leur montra comment observer l’huile sur l’eau, un trésor d’Anu, d’Enlil et d’Éa, et il leur confia la tablette des dieux, les viscères, un secret du ciel et de la terre inférieure, et il plaça dans leurs mains le bâtonnet de cèdre, aimé des grands dieux. Le sage initié, qui garde les secrets des grands dieux, liera par serment prêté sur la tablette et le calame, par-devant Šamaš et Adad, le fils qu’il aime et il lui enseignera la tablette des dieux, les viscères, un trésor du ciel et de la terre inférieure, l’observation de l’huile sur l’eau, un secret d’Anu, d’Enlil et d’Éa, l’Enūma Anu Enlil avec son commentaire et l’évaluation des valeurs omineuses. 5. J.-J. Glassner, “Écrire des livres à l’époque paléo-babylonienne: le traité d’extispicine,” ZA 99 (2009) 15, 52. 6.  En dernier lieu, W. G. Lambert, “The Qualifications of Babylonian Diviners,” en Festschrift für Rykle Borger zu seinem 65. Geburtstag am 24. Mai 1994: tikip santakki mala bašmu (ed. S. M. Maul; CM 10; Groningen: Styx, 1998) 148–49 lines 1–29.

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Dans la suite du texte, une double exigence est manifestée pour l’exercice de cette fonction: l’intégrité corporelle et l’appartenance à un lignage prestigieux qui remonte, idéalement, à Enmeduranki. La première est une qualité inhérente à la personne, la seconde se construit à l’aide d’une généalogie. Un deuxième colophon, découvert à Assur, de l’époque médio-assyrienne, qui est donc d’une date avoisinant celle où, Ésagil-kīn-apli rédige son ouvrage, se trouve au bas d’une tablette contenant une liste de signes syllabiques, possiblement des noms propres abrégés et dont l’énumération signalerait une généalogie, et un mythe bilingue narrant la création de l’homme. 7 Il s’énonce comme suit: ad.ḫal

mu-du-ú mu-da-a li-kal-lim

Secret. L’initié peut l’expliquer à l’initié.

Un troisième colophon figure au bas d’une tablette médio-babylonienne à deux colonnes et qui est la propriété du temple de Ninurta à Nippur. 8 Le texte a pour objet de mettre en correspondance des noms divins avec des realia divers; il se subdivise en quatre sections: a) une correspondance entre des plantes, des pierres, des métaux, des animaux, des produits dérivés ou des artefacts, mais aussi des équivalences sémantiques entre termes sumériens et akkadiens; b) la description de parties du corps d’une divinité en termes de fruits et de nourriture panifiée; c) des noms divins rapprochés de localisations variées; d) une liste de noms sumériens d’armes rapprochés de noms divins et expliqués au moyen d’une philologie et d’une orthographe douteuses. On devine, à l’arrière-plan de cet apparent bric-à-brac des références à des pratiques rituelles et à des narrations mythologiques qui leur sont associées. Le colophon souligne: zu-ú

zu-a li-kal-lim

nu zu-ú nu igi-mar

L’initié peut l’expliquer à l’initié, le non-initié ne doit pas en prendre connaissance. 7. J. Bottéro et S. N. Kramer, Lorsque les dieux faisaient l’homme (Paris: Gallimard, 1989) 502–8, avec bibliographie antérieure. Le colophon du duplicat néo-assyrien de Ninive diffère: ni-ṣir-ti nam.[azu? . . .] / šá ḫal-ri šak-nu ba-[. . .] “Trésor de la divination (?) . . . dont le devin traite. . . .” 8. S. Langdon, Sumerian Liturgies and Psalms (PBS 10/4; Philadelphia: University Museum, 1919) 12. Sur ce texte, voir A. Livingstone, Mystical and Mythological Explanatory Works of Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986) 54–57, 96–97, 176–79, 186–87.

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Ces sources éclairent en le complétant le propos d’Ésagil-kīn-apli. L’on y découvre qu’il n’a rien d’un précurseur, mais qu’il est un érudit de son temps plongé dans les mêmes activités éditoriales que ses contemporains. L’on y apprend que le savoir vient des dieux qui le transmettent à leurs dévots et que, s’il revêt un caractère secret et qu’il ne peut être approprié que par certaines personnes, des élus eux-mêmes prédisposés à le recevoir, c’est précisément parce qu’il trouve son origine dans la sphère divine. En soi, le fait n’est pas nouveau en cette fin du IIe millénaire. Pour les anciens Mésopotamiens, tout savoir et tout savoir-faire viennent des puissances invisibles. Cette thèse est assénée dès l’époque d’Uruk, à la fin du IVe millénaire, à l’initiale d’un texte qui sera enseigné dans les écoles jusqu’à l’époque paléo-babylonienne, 9 un texte qui nous est connu, sans parler des exemplaires de l’époque d’Uruk, par des documents des XXVIe–XXIVe siècles provenant d’Abū Ṣalābīh, de Fara, et d’Ebla, par une tablette de l’époque d’Ur III, enfin par des copies d’époque paléo-babylonienne. L’incipit se lit comme suit (ne sont retenues que trois sources): W 20274,154: I u4 ad s ag . ki / I u4 ad. ḫ al abgal du TS ⁄ 264: I ad.gi4 / s ag . ki / ad. ḫ al / abgal  10 du SLT 42 IV 1′: ad.gi4 / s ag . ki / ad. ḫ al / abgal du Lorsque les avis et les commandements divins , à ce moment-là le savoir secret fut délivré aux experts.

Cette courte introduction est suivie par une liste de mots répétée plusieurs fois et désignant des realia, chaque mot étant précédé par un nombre entre l’unité et la dizaine. On s’interroge sur la nature de ce document. On connaît, dans le cas du Moyen Âge européen, des traités destinés à développer les capacités mémorielles, qui sont introduits par une déclaration de foi et qui consistent dans des listes d’objets familiers. Ils sont récités dans un ordre rigoureux, certains termes pouvant ouvrir à l’énoncé d’autres mots non notés par écrit, mais dont la quantité est indiquée par un nombre. 11 9.  R. K. Englund et H. J. Nissen, Die lexikalischen Listen der archaischen Texte aus Uruk (ATU 3; Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 1993) 25 et n. 49, 112ff. Voir également J. Goodnick-Westenholz, “Thoughts on Esoteric Knowledge and Secret Lore,” en Intellectual Life of the Ancient Near East: Papers Presented at the 43rd Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Prague 1996 (ed. J. Prosecky, CRRAI 43; Prague: Oriental Institute) 458–60. Elle souligne également la présence du signe ḫ a l “secret” dans le colophon d’une tablette présentant la liste lú. 10.  Voir les collations par M. Civil et R. D. Biggs, “Notes sur des textes sumériens archaïques,” RA 60 (1966) 11. 11. Voir, par exemple, F. A. Yates, L’art de la mémoire (Paris: Gallimard, 1975) 121–22, et planche hors texte 5b.

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La nouveauté est ailleurs, elle réside dans l’association de la proclamation du secret du savoir avec le procès de canonisation et la mise par écrit systématique des grands textes qui disent les fondamentaux sur lesquels reposent les connaissances érudites, les pratiques rituelles et liturgiques, les savoir-faire professionnels. Il convient donc, avant tout, d’établir la signification précise qu’il faut attribuer aux mots, à commencer par ceux qui expriment l’idée de “secret.” Deux termes, principalement, sont en usage pour la désigner, pirištu et niṣirtu. Le premier, dont l’équivalent sumérien est ḫal ou ad.ḫal, peut dériver d’une racine pzr qui signifie “cacher, dissimuler”; 12 on traduira alors le terme par “ce qui est dissimulé, secret.” Le second, qui peut désigner aussi bien une richesse matérielle qu’immatérielle, dont le correspondant sumérien est níg.šeš/sal.šeš, dérive d’une racine nṣr “veiller sur, garder”; on le traduira par “ce que l’on garde, trésor.” Dans le texte concernant les qualifications du devin mentionné précédemment, les deux termes apparaissent de conserve; aux lignes 7 et 13, niṣirtu se rapporte à la lécanomancie, un trésor d’Anu, Enlil et Éa; aux lignes 8 et 14, pirištu fait référence à l’extispicine, un secret du ciel et de la terre inférieure; l’auteur opte, cependant, pour l’emploi inverse des deux mots aux lignes 16 et 17. On admet donc qu’au milieu du VIIe siècle les deux termes peuvent être interchangeables. 13 Quoi qu’il en soit, dans tous les cas, ils désignent l’un et l’autre le savoir propre aux puissances invisibles, un savoir que celles-ci concèdent aux humains. Considérons les sources. Dans leur immense majorité, elles permettent de préciser les sens respectifs de pirištu et de niṣirtu. Le premier s’entend du savoir secret qui est le propre des dieux, le second désigne ce même savoir que les dieux ont révélé aux humains et que ceux-ci se sont approprié; le premier insiste sur l’idée de secret, le second sur celle de veiller sur lui. 14 Deux exemples suffiront à illustrer notre propos: —A. J. Sachs 1955, 1526 rev. 17: [. . .] ni-ṣir-ti um.me.a pi-riš-ti an-e [u ki-tì . . .] “. . . , trésor du maître, secret du ciel et de la terre inférieure. . . .” 12. D. Testen, “Evidence of an Early Metathesis among Akkadian piristum-Stem Nouns,” JAOS 123 (2003) 586–87. Mais voir AHw, 866 et CAD P: 398. 13.  U. S. Koch, Secrets of Extispicy (AOAT 326; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2005) passim, transcrit indifféremment níg.šeš et ad.ḫal par niṣirtu. 14. Certaines sources associent secret et maître (par exemple O. R. Gurney et P. Hulin, The Sultantepe Tablets (2 vols.; London: British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, 1957–64) 2:400, 1: ad.ḫa[l um].me.a), mais elles sont l’exception qui témoigne d’une confusion possible entre les termes, à partir d’une certaine date.

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—F. Thureau-Dangin 1922, 24+26 rev. 21–24; voir Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods, 181 et n. 219: a-ru-ú né-me-qi dan-ú-tú ad.ḫal an [u ki . . .] sal.šeš lúum-man-nu lúzu-ú ana lú[zu-ú] li-kal-lim la lúzu-ú nu [igi-mar níg.gig] d a-[nim] den-líl ù [dé-a dingir.meš gal.meš] Table de calcul (concernant) la sagesse de l’Anūtu, un secret du ciel et de la terre inférieure (. . .), un trésor pour le maître. L’initié peut l’expliquer à l’initié, mais le non-initié ne doit pas en prendre connaissance, tel est l’interdit des grands dieux Anu, Enlil et Éa.

Ciel et terre inférieure sont ici incarnés par les membres de la triade cosmique. Ces savoirs secrets, on vient de le voir, ne sont transmissibles qu’aux “initiés,” mudû. On entend par ce terme toute personne ayant acquis les éléments d’un savoir, d’un métier ou d’une fonction ou qui est admise à la connaissance de choses d’accès réservé à des privilégiés. 15 Les sources répètent comme un leitmotiv au moyen de trois propositions coordonnées que l’initié peut enseigner l’initié, que le non-initié ne peut accéder au savoir et qu’il s’agit d’un interdit des dieux. Ces trois propositions font l’objet d’études séparées par les assyriologues; en réalité, elles se complètent et s’expliquent mutuellement. Les formulaires qui ne prennent en compte que l’une des trois sont des abréviations. Les mots clef y sont kullumu, amāru et ikkibu. Le premier est habituellement traduit par “montrer,” mais, au vu du témoignage de l’Enūma eliš, 16 la traduction “expliquer” semble préférable: li-iš-šab-tú-ma maḫ-ru-u li-kal-lim en-qu mu-du-u mit-ḫa-riš lim-tal-ku Pour qu’ils soient retenus, que le plus ancien les explique, que le sage et l’érudit les méditent ensemble.

Partant, on choisit pour le second la traduction “prendre connaissance” de préférence à “voir.” Quant au troisième, il signale un “interdit” et apporte une ultime précision, mais qui n’en est pas moins essentielle. Voici deux exemples: 15.  La traduction “initié” est donc tout à fait recevable, l’usage du mot n’étant pas limité au mystagogue. 16.  À propos des cinquante noms de Marduk: Ee VII 145–46.

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—A. Boissier 1894–99, 46 rev. 6–7: 17 sal.šeš nam.azu zu-a zu-a [igi.lal] nu zu-a nu igi-mar níg.gig dpa ù dlu[gal] Trésor réservé à l’extispicine, l’initié peut l’expliquer à l’initié, le non-initié ne doit pas en prendre connaissance, c’est un interdit de Šullat et Haniš. —E. Ebeling 1923, 307 rev.  2–27 (voir Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods, 173): ad.ḫal dingir.meš gal.meš zu-u zu-a li-kal-lim nu zu a-a igi.lal [níg].gig dingir.meš gal.meš Secret des grands dieux, l’initié peut l’expliquer à l’initié, le non-initié ne doit pas en prendre connaissance, c’est un interdit des grands dieux.

L’interdit concerne l’initié qui prendrait la liberté d’enseigner le savoir à une personne qui n’y est pas préparée, comme l’exprime clairement la formule retenue par un scribe: mu-du-u la mu-da-a la [ú-kal-l]am “l’initié ne doit pas l’expliquer au non-initié.” 18 Telle est la règle impérative édictée par les dieux eux-mêmes. Toute transgression expose à une sanction imposée par les dieux, comme il est précisé dans un colophon: 19  [zu]-⸢u⸣ zu-a [li]-⸢kal ⸣-lim nu zu-u nu igi-mar ⸢pí ⸣-riš-ti di[ngir.meš g]al.meš ár-ni kab-tu tuk-ši L’initié peut l’expliquer à l’initié, le non-initié ne doit pas en prendre connaissance. C’est un secret des grands dieux, (qui le révèle) commet une lourde faute. 17.  Il s’agit des tablettes K 3837+7628; je remercie vivement Dominique Collon pour les photographies qu’elle a bien voulu me faire parvenir. Sur ce texte voir aussi Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods, 177; E. Frahm, Babylonian and Assyrian Text Commentaries: Origins of Interpretation (GMTR 5; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2011) 183 et n. 846. 18.  R. C. Thompson, Assyrian Medical Texts (London: Milford, 1923) pl. 105 line 25; voir plus récemment Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods, 117 et n. 274, 200. Dans le second segment de phrase, on relève que les scribes se montrent hésitants entre l’utilisation de la négation la, laquelle n’admet pas l’alternative positive, ou de la particule prohibitive aj ([l]a mu-du-ú la im-mar: W. G. Lambert, “A Catalogue of Texts and Authors,” JCS 16 [1962] 63, K 8177 line 7; nu zu a-a igi.lal: E. Ebeling, Keilschrifttexte aus Assur religiösen Inhalts [2 vols.; Leipzig: J. C. Hinrich, 1915–23] 2:307 rev. 26; ce texte est le plus récemment édité en A. Livingstone, Court Poetry and Literary Miscellanea [SAA 3; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1989] no. 39). 19. C. Walker et M. Dick, The Induction of the Cult Image in Ancient Mesopotamia: The Mesopotamian Mīs Pî Ritual (SAALT 1; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2001) 242, colophon, manuscrit A; aussi Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods, 172.

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Ou, mieux encore, à l’initiale d’une tablette: 20 [la du]mu tin.tirki ù la dumu bar-sip ki ù la dumu en iḫ-zu! šu-ḫu-zu níg. gig dak ù dnisaba (. . .) [dak ù dni]saba ina iḫ-zu uḫ-ḫu-zu la ú-kan-nu-uš ina lu!-up-nu ù tam-a-a-t[um] [. . .]x.me ⁄ x [(x)] x-i-ma ina a-ga-nu-til-le-e li-du-ku C’est (enfreindre) un interdit de Nabû et Nissaba que d’enseigner à une personne qui n’est ni de Babylone, ni de Borsippa, ou à une personne qui ne possède pas le savoir. (. . .) Nabû et Nissaba ne le mettront pas dans la disposition d’acquérir le savoir, mais dans la pauvreté et le dénuement (. . .) qu’ils le condamnent à l’hydropisie. 21

Pour mémoire, un serment est exigé de l’impétrant, comme le rappelle une autre source: 22  ni-ṣir-te maš.maš.meš zu-a zu-a igi.lal nu zu nu igi.lal ana dumu-ka šá ta-ram!-mu mu dasar.lú.ḫi ù ⸢dx šu⸣-úz-kir-šú-ma kul-lim-šú Trésor des exorcistes, l’initié peut l’expliquer à l’initié, le non-initié n’a pas le droit de le connaître. Quant à ton fils que tu aimes, fais-lui prêter le serment par Asalluhi et par [X (Ninurta?)], (après quoi) instruis-le!

À ce stade de l’enquête, la véritable question qui est posée concerne la nature du secret, sachant qu’il est révélé par les dieux et approprié par des hommes choisis. Sur les pas de Leo Strauss, 23 relisons Maimonide dans sa tentative d’expliquer le sens caché des mots et des paraboles bibliques. Nous y découvrons que le mot secret peut s’entendre de trois façons différentes: (1) il peut signifier un mot ou une expression qui cachent un secret; (2) il peut renvoyer au secret caché derrière ce même mot ou cette même expression; (3) il peut aussi désigner la chose à laquelle cette signification cachée fait référence. 20. BM 42282+42294, texte astronomique du 5e siècle: J. N. Lawson, “‘The God Who Reveals Secrets’: The Mesopotamian Background to Daniel 2.47,” JSOT 74 (1997) 72–73; plus récemment, Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods, 174 et n. 177 (avec bibliographie supplémentaire). 21.  L’hydropisie est un mal dont on ne peut se défaire et dont la victime est menacée d’une privation de sépulture. 22.  Ebeling, Keilschrifttexte, 230, rev. 9–11 (Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods, 166–67), il s’agit de l’incantation que le médecin récite au moment d’entrer dans la maison d’un patient. 23. L. Strauss, La Persécution et l’art d’écrire (Paris: Eclat, 2003).

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Le secret résiderait-il dans l’énoncé d’un texte sur une tablette? Une tablette de type dub ha.la offre, à l’initiale, la leçon suivante: 24 [be dub ḫa.la sal.šeš lú.ḫal] ad.ḫal an-e ù ki-tì taš-nin-ti um.me.a [šá lú.ḫal mu]-du-ú ad a-na dumu-šú ša i-ram-mu i-na-aš-ša-ru

que l’on est tenté de traduire: Tablette h a l a, un trésor du devin, (qui fait partie du) secret du ciel et de la terre inférieure, un sujet de controverse entre érudits, (une tablette) sur laquelle le devin initié doit veiller comme un père à l’intention de son fils favori.

Le texte qu’elle contient reproduit le savoir secret des dieux tel qu’il est approprié par les humains, une appropriation dont il est admis qu’elle est fondée et véridique, un principe herméneutique cher aux devins. C’est sur elle que doit veiller le maître qui la confiera au successeur qu’il se sera choisi. La tablette serait-elle de ces ṭuppāt niṣirti, ces “tablettes au secret” ou “tablettes secrètes” chères aux archives de Mari? 25 Ces dernières véhiculent, en effet, les secrets, piri[šti], royaux, 26 autrement dit les décisions prises à l’issue des conseils où il est de notoriété que le devin tient sa place, en y manifestant l’agrément des dieux à la conduite humaine. 27 Du reste, le roi n’est-il pas par excellence, dans l’imaginaire des Mésopotamiens, le dépositaire des secrets divins? Le rôle des fonctionnaires et des dignitaires du royaume est de veiller à ce que ces secrets soient préservés. 28 Dans ce cas, le secret consiste dans le libellé même du texte. 29 En pareille hypothèse, il devient possible, dans la proposition la mudû la/aj immar, de traduire le verbe amāru par “lire,” comme il est de coutume pour ce verbe lorsqu’il s’agit de correspondance ou de documents juridiques. Dans la Vision du monde infernal, le prince assyrien se tient debout devant les ša-as-su-ki enqu-ú-ti na-ṣi-ir [pi-riš]-ti be-lí-šú-u[n] “les conservateurs avisés des reg24. U. Koch, Secrets of Extispicy: The Chapter Multābiltu of the Babylonian Extispicy Series and Niṣirti bārûti Texts mainly from Aššurbanipal’s Library (AOAT 326; Münster Ugarit-Verlag, 2005) 91 lines 1–2. 25.  Sur ce type de textes, voir F. Joannès, Archives épistolaires de Mari I/2 (ARM 26; Paris: ERC, 1988) 329–30. 26.  Ibid., 429. 27.  Pour un état de la question, Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods, chapitre 1. Lenzi omet de signaler que le débat qu’il ouvre est au sujet du cabinet royal se fait l’écho d’un autre débat qui oppose les biblistes sur un sens métaphorique de secretum qui renverrait à un cabinet secret du pouvoir. 28.  Voir, par exemple, M. Birot, Lettres de Yaqqim-Addu gouverneur de Sagarâtum (ARM 14; Paris: ERC, 1974) 73 lines 8′–9′. 29.  Une hypothèse formulée par J.-M. Durand, Documents épistolaires du palais de Mari (LAPO 18; Paris: Cerf, 2000) 216.

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istres qui veillent sur les secrets de leurs seigneurs,” 30 où l’on comprend qu’il est fait allusion aux tablettes sur lesquelles les secrets des dieux ou des maîtres sont notés. Ces conclusions, toutefois, ne peuvent être étendues à l’ensemble du dossier, car il existe de nombreux documents dont seule une partie relève du secret. Ainsi, et pour ne mentionner que deux exemples: —M. J. H. Linssen 2004, p. 216, description de la fête du Nouvel An à Babylone, le deuxième jour du mois de Nisan, pendant la dernière veille de la nuit, le grand prêtre entre seul dans le temple et récite une prière à propos de laquelle il est précisé: 21 mu.šid.bi u`ru-tú é.sag.íl [pa-li]ḫ den al-la lúšeš.gal é.tuš.a [l]a ú-kal-lam 21 lignes. 31 Trésor (concernant les rites) de l’Ésagil. Celui qui craint Bēl ne l’expliquera à personne d’autre qu’au grand prêtre de l’Étuša.

Le texte de poursuivre avec l’ouverture des portes du temple aux autres prêtres. Autrement dit, de tout ce qui est écrit sur la tablette, seule cette prière relève du secret. F. Köcher 1964, le texte médical 315 décrit notamment la confection de 40 cataplasmes groupés en trois rubriques: 32 i 1–26, 18 cataplasmes subsumés en i 27: 18 me-eli š [a] nam.[rim] “18 cataplasmes contre l’anathème”; i 28–41 subsumés en i 42: [8 me]-eli ana k[úm ša lú dib-su zi-ḫi] “8 cataplasmes pour ôter la fièvre qui a saisi l’intéressé”; i 43–iii 16, subsumés en iii 17: 14 me-eli ni-ṣir-ti um.[me.a . . .] “14 cataplasmes, trésor du maître.”

Seuls les cataplasmes de la dernière rubrique sont qualifiés de secrets. Il existe, d’autre part, un second type de documents marqué également du sceau du secret, celui du commentaire érudit. Ce sont des produits dérivés, des oeuvres érudites nées, au cours du Ier millénaire, du besoin d’expliquer les textes de référence; les maîtres y glosent, annotent et expliquent le sens caché d’un mot ou d’une expression. 33 Jouant de la 30.  En dernier lieu, Livingstone, Court Poetry and Literary Miscellanea, 32 line 3. 31.  Le texte comporte en réalité 28 lignes, mais l’ensemble ne forme que 21 phrases. Les scribes comptaient les phrases et non les lignes, voir Glassner, “Écrire des livres.” 32.  Voir aussi Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods, 180–81. 33.  Sur ces commentaires, voir, en dernier lieu, S. M. Maul, “Das Wort im Worte: Orthographie und Etymologie als hermeneutische Verfahren babylonischer Gelehrter,”

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phonétique et de la sémantique, ayant recours à une vogue étymologique pour principe d’explication, on y trouve accès à plus de complexité, à une présentation plus ample des données souvent condensées dans les textes eux-mêmes. Dans le même temps, chaque phrase d’un commentaire enrichit le sens du texte commenté de potentialités nouvelles. Outre le document médio-babylonien évoqué précédemment, un seul exemple suffira à illustrer ce point: —U. Koch-Westenholz 2000, no. 19, colophon du manuscrit D: [sal.šeš nam.azu zu-a zu-àm] li-kal-lim [la zu l]a igi.lal [níg.gig dpa] ù dlugal Trésor de la divination, l’initié peut l’expliquer à l’initié, le non-initié ne doit pas en prendre connaissance, c’est un interdit de Šullat et Haniš.

Il s’agit de la seconde tablette de la série des commentaires d’explications intitulés mukallimtu. Leur objet consiste à réunir des protases similaires issues de contextes différents et d’en proposer, par le cumul des occurrences, des significations possibles. Ces tablettes sont des documents servant à l’enseignement, comme le souligne l’incipit, le maître s’adressant à son élève: be-ma šu-[ma-a-ti] ši-bi mu-kal-lim-ti šá na ana igi-ka “Tu as devant toi les présages, les variantes et les commentaires concernant la présence.” Il ressort de l’existence des commentaires que la simple lecture d’un texte ne suffit pas à en comprendre la signification profonde. Depuis les travaux de R. Labat, 34 ces faits sont bien connus et le cratylisme des Mésopotamiens ne fait plus mystère. 35 À distance du contenu politique des lettres royales de Mari, les écrits savants, quel qu’en soit le contenu, admettent simultanément plusieurs niveaux de lecture, différents degrés d’interprétation. Le lecteur babylonien ou assyrien ne se satisfait pas du suivi d’un récit ou de la description d’un rituel au fil de la narration. Son regard s’arrête sur des mots, des noms propres ou des expressions qui sont, pour lui, autant de points nodaux à partir desquels il fait passer un certain contenu sémantique, un sens inédit du récit. À partir des diverses significaen Commentaries-Kommentare (ed. G. W. Most; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999) 1–18; Frahm, Commentaries, passim. Ils datent dans leur immense majorité du Ier millénaire. 34. R. Labat, Commentaires assyro-babyloniens sur les présages (Bordeaux: Imprimerie-Librairie de l’Université, 1933). 35. S. Lieberman, “A Mesopotamian Background for the So-Called Aggadic ‘Measures’ of Biblical Hermeneutics?,” HUCA 58 (1987) 157–225; A. Cavigneaux, “Aux sources du Midrash: l’herméneutique babylonienne,” AuOr 5 (1987) 243–55.

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tions qu’il leur prête, il éclaire les textes en découvrant des significations enfouies qui n’apparaissaient pas au premier abord. Même s’il met à mal l’orthographe ou la philologie, on devine le plaisir ludique qui le conduit à imaginer un second texte, charpenté à partir d’une sorte de squelette sémiologique et sémantique, où il fait apparaître tout un paysage intellectuel ignoré du premier niveau de lecture. En un mot, la nature tout à la fois polysémique et hermétique des énoncés s’impose dans toute sa dimension! On est ici en présence du troisième sens que peut prendre le mot secret. Une source grecque se présente, à ce moment de l’enquête, pour palier le silence des documents mésopotamiens, leur caractère laconique et leur style resserré. Il s’agit d’un papyrus orphique provenant de Derveni, un document du IVe siècle av. n.è., découvert dans une tombe en janvier 1962. 36 L’auteur commence par souligner, à la colonne v, en reprenant à son compte la formule de Platon, “Je vais chanter pour ceux qui comprennent. Que les non-initiés ferment les portes de leurs oreilles!,” l’opposition forte qui sépare ceux qui ont accès au savoir et ceux qui doivent demeurer ignorants. Comme l’observe avec beaucoup de finesse C. Calame: 37 L’opposition se marque en particulier dans l’interprétation proposée quant à la nature d’Océan, à la colonne xxiii. Si les seconds doivent se contenter à ce propos d’opinions relatives à un monde d’apparences, les premiers bénéficient d’évidences; pour les uns en effet Océan n’est qu’un fleuve alors que pour les autres, qui disposent de la connaissance correcte, Océan c’est l’air et donc—selon le processus d’assimilation théologique propre à la pratique rituelle orphique—Zeus. De même, dans l’exégèse offerte à la colonne ix, quand Zeus recueille dans ses mains le pouvoir de son propre père, les ignorants donnent du texte une interprétation littérale; ils pensent que Zeus hérite de la puissance divine de son père tandis que celui qui connaît sait que ce pouvoir correspond à la capacité de mélanger les éléments. Dans chacun de ces deux cas, le savoir attribué aux initiés correspond à l’interprétation théologique ou philosophique proposée par le commentateur.

Et le même auteur d’ajouter cette remarque qui rapporte les propos du commentateur antique: “En revanche, quant à ceux qui sont initiés par un homme de l’art, si après avoir vu ils ne savent pas, à plus forte raison sontils incapables d’apprendre en entendant les paroles dites.” Voici qui décrit très précisément la situation en Mésopotamie, à partir de la fin du IIe millénaire: le commentaire est indispensable, la signification apparente pouvant être incomplète, voire erronée. Mais le monde des 36. T. Kouremenos et al., The Derveni Papyrus (Florence: Olschki, 2006). 37. C. Calame, Masques d’autorité: Fiction et pragmatique dans la poétique grecque antique (Paris: Belles Lettres, 2005) 294–95.

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lettrés mésopotamiens se heurte ici à une autre difficulté, celle-là même à laquelle Maïmonide sera confronté, bien plus tard et en d’autres lieux: comment tenir secret un enseignement transmis non plus oralement, où cette condition est facilement remplie, mais par écrit? La question, à vrai dire, est complexe. Même s’il est vrai que son usage se répand dans la société, que les ouvrages de référence sont couchés par écrit et donnent lieu à des commentaires toujours en plus grand nombre, rien ne permet de dire qu’ils sont devenus accessibles à tous publics, car l’écriture cunéiforme est de celles qui peuvent s’apprendre par additions; il n’est pas obligatoire, pour s’en servir, d’en connaître toutes les potentialités, il suffit d’avoir appris une quantité déterminée de signes et de valeurs pour en faire un usage minimal qui ne permet pas de lire correctement un ouvrage savant. On sait par ailleurs que les érudits multiplient les emplois syllabiques rares ou ceux de logogrammes inédits en lieu du monnayage syllabique pour la notation des mots. 38 Tel est le cas des devins qui créent un syllabaire qui leur est propre. Voici une liste des logogrammes et signes syllabiques qui ont des valeurs propres à l’extispicine: aš; aš.te; ki-rum; ba.ḫal; gír; an/an.dùl; ka.du10.ga; ka.gìr; ka.ḫal; ka × kak; ka × kár; dim4; šub.gu.za/aš.te; na; bar; nu.um.me; u5; zi; ri; sur; sa; gú.murgu; um.me.da; zé; kaskal; gaz.igi.kur; uzu.úr.kib; anše. mur; bi.ri; ama; pa.ḫal; sipa; al.te; ub; ugu sid.mes-su gal/tur/gar/la;

é.ḫa.la; šeš; kad5; kur-bu; še(-ri); sà.nigin ša-nu; bur; u; áb ; mi + ib-ḫi; dugud; igi.bar; igi.tab; igi.tun;

sá-ḫu; ki.kal; ki.sal; man; bà; eš; lagab; (pour ina); sig;

nigin; me.ni; dib.dib; sal.kar; géme; murgu; a.sur; a.si; a níg.tab; níg.pi.

Ces graphies sibyllines avec leurs valeurs insolites sont-elles destinées à rendre la lecture des textes impossible aux profanes? On peut en douter. Il existe de cette pratique un autre exemple fameux, un texte médio-babylonien décrivant la fabrication du verre; certains signes y sont dotés de valeurs qui ne sont pas autrement connues. Or, on possède d’autres textes décrivant la même technique, ils proviennent, pour l’essentiel de la bibliothèque d’Assurbanipal, et ne font usage d’aucun signe aux valeurs rares ou uniques. Du reste, J. Black et J. Brown observent que les derniers textes notés en écriture cunéiforme, quelle qu’en soit le contenu, comportent un nombre élevé de logogrammes. 39 Bref, les scribes ne cherchent nullement 38.  Pour une liste des logogrammes ou valeurs phonétiques rares en usage dans la physiognomonie: B. Böck, Die babylonisch-assyrische Morphoskopie (AfOB 27; Vienne: Institut für Orientalistik der Universität Wien, 2000) 44. 39. J. Black, “The Obsolescence and Demise of Cuneiform Writing in Elam,” en The Disappearance of Writing Systems (eds. J. Baines, J. Bennet, et S. Houston; London:

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à enrayer ou à contrecarrer l’enseignement de l’écriture. 40 Les sources, tout au contraire, font obstacle pour s’opposer à une telle hypothèse. On l’a vu, les maîtres doivent accomplir deux tâches, veiller sur les savoirs des dieux et les transmettre à qui de droit, le mode de transmission idéal, défendu avec vigueur par la tradition, allant d’un père à son fils. L’auteur de l’Enūma eliš, pour ne citer que lui, le souligne à son tour, s’agissant de la transmission des cinquante noms de Marduk: 41 li-šá-an-ni-ma a-bu mari li-šá-ḫi-iz “Que le père les répète et les enseigne à son fils.” Mais la réalité est différente. Considérons un court instant le colophon de la tablette dite de l’Ésagil. 42 Il nous informe que le propriétaire de la tablette est un certain Anu-bēlšunu, fils d’Anu-balassu-iqbi, descendant d’Ahiʾutu, le copiste étant Anu-bēlšunu, fils de Nidinti-Ani, descendant de Sîn-leqe-unninnī. On quitte, avec cet exemple, le modèle hautement glorifié du père enseignant à son fils. Plus généralement, dans la ville d’Uruk à l’époque séleucide, les sources montrent qu’il faut entendre par familles des lignages aux ramifications multiples et qu’il doit exister une certaine proximité entre certaines d’entre elles. Un jeune scribe peut alors y étudier soit au sein de sa propre famille, de son père ou de son oncle, soit auprès d’un membre éminent d’une autre lignée. 43 Mais la même situation prévalait déjà à Emar, en Syrie du Nord, à la fin du IIe millénaire; certains colophons y établissent, en effet, une distinction entre un père et un maître, ainsi tel apprenti devin dit-il être le fils d’un devin réputé, mais l’élève d’un autre. 44 On ne saurait omettre, enfin, du tableau que l’on vient d’esquisser, l’image de familles fictives, des lettrés se réclamant par tradition familiale, d’un même personnage illustre, mais peut-être fictif, promu au rang s’ancêtre fondateur de lignage plus par fidélité à son enseignement que du fait d’une Equinox, 2008) 45–72; J. Brown, “Increasingly Redundant: The Growing Obsolescence of the Cuneiform Script in Babylonia from 539 bc,” en The Disappearance of Writing Systems (eds. J. Baines, J. Bennet, et S. Houston; London: Equinox, 2008) 73–101. 40. Hypothèse formulée par Lenzi (Secrecy and the Gods, 140ff.), qui juge que l’écriture elle-même est le premier de tous les secrets. Il montre avec raison, toutefois, que l’art d’écrire relève également du secret, comme tout savoir-faire. 41.  Ee VII 147. 42. F. Thureau-Dangin, Tablettes d’Uruk à l’usage des prêtres du temple d’Anu au temps des Séleucides (TCL 6; Paris: Geuthner, 1922) 32; voir maintenant Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods, 202 (avec bibliographie antérieure). 43. J.-J. Glassner, “Des dieux, des scribes et des savants: Circulation des idées et transmission des écrits en Mésopotamie,” Annales HSS 60/3 (2005) 492–93. 44. D. Arnaud, Recherches au pays d’Aštata, Emar VI.4 (4 vols.; Paris: ERC, 1985– 87) 4:201 line 13. Voir à présent Y. Cohen, The Scribes and Scholars of the City of Emar in the Late Bronze Age (HSS 59; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009).

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descendance biologique. Comme le souligne à juste titre A. Duplouy, une généalogie constitue un instrument de prétention sociale, or, il n’est “rien de plus facile que de forger une généalogie. Le seul problème était, non pas de la rendre vraisemblable, mais de la faire accepter par l’opinion”. Et de préciser: “Une généalogie antique n’a rien d’un arbre généalogique, elle résulte d’une volonté d’accumuler le renom du plus grand nombre possible d’ancêtres et d’endosser le prestige” dont ils sont crédités. 45 Elles sont silencieuses, également, sur les adoptions éventuelles, qui sont pratique courante en Mésopotamie, quoique non encore documentées en milieux lettrés. Elles sont, par contre, bien attestées en Grèce. Parménide, pour ne citer que son exemple, adopte son élève Zénon comme son fils. Le principe de l’adoption du disciple est mentionné explicitement dans le serment d’Hippocrate. Au terme d’une explication théologique et mythologique d’un rituel associé à l’acte de couvrir une timbale, une source précise que “le novice pourra en prendre connaissance, mais l’étranger, celui qui n’exerce aucune responsabilité dans les rites, ne doit pas en prendre connaissance (sinon) ses jours seront abrégés,” á.è igi a-ḫu-ú la dumu en garza nu igi-mar u4.meš-šú lúgud.da.meš. 46 Le á.è/tarbû désigne un élève, une personne dont le statut est particulier, il s’agit d’un enfant élevé par un maître sans être adopté. Certaines sources donnent à voir que le modèle de la transmission d’un père à son fils ne rend que très imparfaitement compte de la réalité. Un petit document provenant des archives de l’Éanna d’Uruk au temps de Nabonide rapporte qu’un maître n’a pas effectué le travail de formation que l’on attend de lui, li-gi-in-ni a-na lú.rig7.meš ul tu-šá-aq-bi “tu n’a pas fait réciter à haute voix le contenu des tablettes liginnu aux oblats,” et de ce fait il est passible de poursuites judiciaires. 47 Pour sa part, le maître qui dévoile un secret est tenu de justifier sa conduite devant le tribunal des dieux et il encourt un châtiment divin. Une autre source néo-babylonienne, une lettre apparemment fictive découverte à Nippur, enjoint son correspondant de laisser un esclave qallu étudier, lúqal-la (. . .) im.gíd.da it-ti lú.sáman.lá.meš liq-bi “que le qallu étudie les tablettes liginnu avec 45. A. Duplouy, Le Prestige des élites (Paris: Belles Lettres, 2006) 43, 60. 46.  Sur ce texte, en dernier lieu, M. J. H. Linssen, The Cults of Uruk and Babylon: The Temple Ritual Texts as Evidence for Hellenistic Cult Practice (CM 25; Leiden: Brill, 2004) 254 iii 29–31. 47. P.-A. Beaulieu, “New Light.” Je suis la traduction offerte par M. Dietrich, “Babylonische Sklaven auf der Schreiberschule,” en Veenhof Anniversary Volume: Studies Presented to Klaas R. Veenhof on the Occasion of His Sixty-Fifth Birthday (eds. W. H. van Soldt et al.; PIHANS 89; Leiden: NINO, 2001) 76–78, qui rend bien compte des difficultés grammaticales du texte.

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les appentis scribes.” 48 Et que penser de cette précision apportée par un colophon à la fin d’une tablette reproduisant diverses parties d’un rituel: pa-liḫ d[amar.u]tu [u] dzar-pa-ni-tu4 li-[iš ]-šur l [i-šá-qir] a-na nu dumu t[in.tirk]i u a-na nu dumu bar-sip ki la ú-k[al-lam] “Celui qui craint Marduk et Zarpānītu veille sur (cette tablette) et la valorise, qu’il ne l’explique à nulle personne qui ne soit de Babylone ou de Borsippa.” 49 La nature même du secret fait qu’il s’oppose à la divulgation. Telle est une condition aisément remplie tant que l’enseignement est oral. Avec la mise par écrit des textes et des commentaires, cette condition est plus difficilement applicable. Les lettrés mésopotamiens sont confrontés à ce dilemme, tout comme Maimonide le sera en son temps: comment connaître des élèves qui ont lu vos oeuvres? Or, le contrôle de la circulation des tablettes n’est pas chose aisée. Si les prêts sont tolérés dans les bibliothèques, ils le sont au prix de conditions très restrictives. L’emprunt par inadvertance ou le vol paraissent monnaie courante au Ier millénaire, si l’on en juge d’après les mises en garde et les menaces qui essaiment les colophons et dont voici quelques exemples: “Quiconque emportera la tablette, que Šamaš l’emporte.” “Quiconque emportera la tablette, que  Šamaš lui ôte la vue; quiconque la volera ou la prendra par la force ou l’emportera en oubliant [de la rendre], que Nabû qui demeure dans le bīt mumme lui fasse verser la vie comme de l’eau.” “Quiconque l’emportera, qu’Adad et Šalla l’emportent, qu’il n’ait ni fils, ni descendance, ni personne pour l’enterrer.” “Quiconque emportera cette tablette, qu’il meure promptement par la main de Nabû.” “Quiconque emportera cette tablette, que Nabû et Nisaba, les maîtres du bīt mumme, le rendent sourd.” 50

Existe-t-il une manière de mise à l’épreuve des capacités intellectuelles de ces élèves plus ou moins bien connus des maîtres? On l’ignore. Maimonide décidera d’enseigner le savoir par bribes. Les expressions niṣirti apkallī, niṣirti bārûti, niṣirti kakugallûtu, niṣirti ummānī “secret réservé aux sages,” “secret réservé à la science divinatoire,” secret réservé à l’exorcisme,” 48.  Dietrich, “Babylonische Sklaven,” 68–73. 49.  Lambert, “Text 20,” in Literary and Scholastic Texts of the First Millennium b.c. (eds. I. Spar et W. G. Lambert; CTMMA 2; New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art/ Brepols, 2005) 121 lines 12′–13′. 50. H. Hunger, Babylonische und assyrische Kolophone (AOAT 2; Neukirchen: Neukirchener-Verlag, 1968) 96, 192, 234, 241, 271.

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“secret réservé aux maîtres,” 51 désignent les principaux domaines du savoir. Il semble devoir s’imposer, à travers cette typologie, l’idéal d’un savoir maîtrisé, mais un savoir qui paraît spécialisé et fragmenté, peut-être dans un souci d’empêcher la connaissance globale du secret des dieux. La divulgation du secret, pour autant, n’est peut-être pas aussi généralisée qu’il semble y paraître, de prime abord. Dans les sociétés babylonienne et assyrienne du Ier millénaire, il est de notoriété que la langue parlée est de moins en moins le babylonien et l’assyrien, et que l’écriture cunéiforme cède toujours davantage la place à l’écriture alphabétique araméenne. Le secret permet alors de prendre la mesure d’un jeu très complexe qui se noue autour du babylonien et de l’assyrien dont la connaissance permet de tracer une frontière entre ceux qui les pratiquent et ceux qui ne les savent pas. Ces langues jouent alors un rôle instrumental dans des relations d’autorité et d’autocensure: user du babylonien ou de l’assyrien donne le pouvoir, et ce n’est pas le moindre des paradoxes, de dire et, en même temps, de cacher. Il reste une question à laquelle nulle réponse satisfaisante ne peut être apportée en l’état des sources. On s’attendrait, en toute logique, à voir tous les textes savants marqués du sceau du secret. Or, tel n’est pas le cas. Un exemple suffira à évoquer ce point amplement souligné par les commentateurs modernes. On possède de la main de Nabû-zuqup-kēna un extrait de la série i. nam.giš.ḫur.an.ki.a dont le colophon précise qu’il est un “trésor des sages” et que “le non-initié ne doit pas en prendre connaissance.” 52 Or, deux autres tablettes de la même main, reproduisant d’autres extraits de cette série, nous sont parvenues qui ne portent nulle 51.  Il existe une catégorie de sources qualifiées de niṣirti šarrūti ou niṣirti ša šarri (voir Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods, 185–86). Ce sont des textes médicaux présentant des recettes, les ingrédients pour des médicaments, des potions ou des fortifiants. L’expression est à comprendre: “trésor concernant la royauté/la personne du roi.” Une source évoque un cas particulier, le “trésor de Šulgi, le secret du maître,” [ni]-ṣir-ti Išul-gi ad.ḫal um.me.a (Ebeling, Keilschrifttexte, 384+385 rev. 45; Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods, 181). Il faut sans doute comprendre, dans ce cas, qu’il est fait allusion à un secret que l’on fait remonter au temps de ce roi et que l’on attribue indirectement à Lu-Nanna, un sage que la tradition associe au règne de ce roi. Quant à l’inscription d’Agum (V R 33), elle concerne le secret y concerne la divination. Il existe une ultime catégorie de sources où niṣirtu est suivi d’un nom de temple: dans ce cas, le temple est le lieu qui abrite la tablette dont le contenu peut être en rapport avec le culte qui y est rendu. 52.  Sur ce texte (K 170 + Rm 520), voir Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods, 174–75 (avec bibliographie antérieure); sur cette bibliothèque, voir Lieberman, “Mesopotamian Background,” 204–17.

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trace de secret dans leur colophon. 53 Au mieux, peut-on esquisser une fragile hypothèse. Parmi les nombreuses tablettes connues de l’Enūma Anu Enlil, seules deux comportent des colophons faisant mention du secret, K 5981 54 et K 5282. 55 La première reproduit des extraits de la tablette 22, la seconde est une copie de la tablette 36. Autrement dit, il s’agit des dernières tablettes des sections concernant, respectivement, Sîn et Šamaš. Or, les autres manuscrits reproduisant la tablette 22 ignorent la mention du secret. Partant, peut-on imaginer que seules certaines copies d’une œuvre, parce qu’elles ont un statut particulier dont nous ignorons la nature, font mention du secret? On ne saurait l’affirmer. Les inventaires des sources établis par R. Borger et A. Lenzi en font foi, 56 tous les domaines du savoir et des pratiques rituelles qui leur sont associées relèvent du secret, jusqu’au savoir-faire des artisans. 57 Il n’existe donc pas de savoir ésotérique en Mésopotamie. Le secret, comme le souligne à juste titre J. Derrida à propos du sacrifice d’Abraham et du silence que Dieu impose à ce dernier, “est la forme de l’épreuve, le signe de l’obéissance absolue” 58 aux puissances invisibles. Les savoirs qu’elles révèlent à leurs dévots, et qui sont, de ce fait même, secrets, ne peuvent être manipulés indistinctement. Ils se structurent sous la condition fondamentale du respect des dieux. Ils sont dangereux par eux-mêmes puisqu’ils reproduisent leurs paroles, et le danger est d’autant plus menaçant que leurs dépositaires ont en général des compétences rituelles et liturgiques. En d’autres termes, la connaissance est étroitement liée à la religion et constitue comme un secret conservé par une élite qui 53.  Hunger, Kolophone, 299 et 309; voir Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods, 175. 54.  Voir F. Rochberg-Halton, Aspects of Babylonian Celestial Divination: The Lunar Eclipse Tablets of Enuma Anu Enlil (AfOB 22, Horn: Berger, 1988) 251; corriger E. Reiner (“Celestial Omen Tablets and Fragments in the British Museum,” en Festschrift für Rykle Borger, 234) qui y voit un exemplaire de la première tablette; Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods, 198. 55. C. Virolleaud, L’Astrologie chaldéenne: le livre intitulé “Enuma (Anu ilu) Bêl” (Paris: Geuthner, 1908–12) Adad 34:5; Lenzi, Secrecy and the Gods, 197. 56. Aucun inventaire n’est complet; voir Glassner, “Exorcisme et chronomancie selon STT 2, 300,” en Et il y eut un esprit dans l’Homme, Jean Bottéro et la Mésopotamie (eds. X. Faivre, B. Lion et C. Michel; Travaux 6; Paris: de Boccard, 2009) 75–81. 57.  Pour les artisans instruits des secrets des dieux: R. Borger, Die Inschriften Asarhaddons Königs von Assyrien (AfOB 9; Graz: Im Selbstverlage des Herausgebers, 1956) §§53, 83 line 29; H. Schaudig, Die Inschriften Nabonids von Babylon und Kyros’ des Grossen (AOAT 256; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2001) 386, Nabonide 2.9 i 32–33. Ils revendiquent tous le statut d’Êrib bîti: voir O. Schroeder, Kontrakte der Seleukidenzeit aus Warka (VS 15; Leipzig: Hinrich, 1916) 1. 58. J. Derrida, Sur parole (Paris: L’Aube, 1999) 77.

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se constitue en groupe social et érige l’activité intellectuelle en critère de distinction, les maîtres rappelant et fixant les normes et objectifs de leur métier. Transmise hors du cercle restreint de ces initiés, cette connaissance est menacée de devenir elle-même un danger pour l’ordre du monde. 59 59. Ainsi s’explique la dénonciation d’un esclave babylonien qui enseigne au fils d’un orfèvre les rudiments de l’exorcisme, de l’extispicine et de l’astrologie: M. Luukko et G. Van Buylaere, The Political Correspondence of Esarhaddon (SAA 16; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 2002) no. 65.

NB Administrative Terminology and Its Influence in Biblical Literature: Hebrew ‫ארחה‬ Ronnie Goldstein The Biblical Hebrew word ‫ ארחה‬occurs on only three different occasions in the Hebrew Bible: in 2 Kgs 25:30 (= Jer 52:34), Jer 40:1–6, and Prov 15:17. According to 2 Kgs 25:29–30, in the thirty-seventh year of the captivity of Jehoiachin king of Judah, Evil-Merodach (= Amel-Marduk), king of Babylon, released Jehoiachin from prison and tended to his needs; this gesture included a steady ‫ארחה‬: ‫ׁשּנָא אֵת ִּב ְגדֵ י ִכ ְלאֹו ְו ָאכַל ֶלחֶם ָּת ִמיד ְל ָפנָיו‬ ִ ‫ְו‬ ְ ‫ִּתנָה ּלֹו ֵמאֵת ַה ֶּמל‬ ‫ֶך ְּדבַר יֹום ְּביֹומֹו ּכֹל ְימֵי ַחּיָו׃‬ ְ ‫ָמיד נ‬ ֲ ֹ‫ארֻחָתו‬ ֲ ‫ ַו‬:‫ּכָל ְימֵי ַחּיָיו‬. ִ ּ‫ארֻחַ ת ת‬ The word appears under similar circumstances in the Jeremiah passage: when Jeremiah is freed from his chains by Nebuzaradan, the Babylonian officer is said to offer him constant assistance and to give him ‫ַׂשאֵת‬ ְ ‫ארֻחָה ּומ‬ ֲ. Finally, the term occurs in a different context entirely, in a proverb concerning the value of love: ‫ׁשם ִמּשֹׁור אָבּוס ְו ִׂש ְנאָה בֹו‬ ָ ‫הבָה‬ ֲ ‫ארֻחַת יָרָק ְו ַא‬ ֲ ‫טֹוב‬. Usually the word has been understood as “meal,” “allowance,” “ration of food,” or “provisions.” 1 In Jer 40:5, ‫ ארחה‬appears paired with ‫משאת‬, which is regularly translated as “gift” but can mean also a portion of food—as in Gen 43:34, where ‫ משאת‬designates the food taken from Joseph’s table as a present for his brothers. 2 Likewise, in Prov 15:17, the word ‫ ארחה‬has been taken to mean “meal,” “dinner”; accordingly, the verse is usually interpreted as drawing a contrast between two kinds of meals: “Better a dinner of vegetables where there is love than a fattened ox where there is hate.” 3 1.  BDB, 73, s.v. ‫ ;ארחה‬HALOT, 87, s.v. ‫ ;ארחה‬DCH, 377, s.v. ‫ארחה‬. 2.  BDB, 673, s.v. ‫ משאת‬4.a. 3.  As a verb (or verbal adjective), probably denominative, ‫ אבוס‬appears only here and in 1 Kgs 5:3, meaning probably “fatten.” The term ‫ אבוס‬appears only three times in Isa 1:3, Job 39:9, and Prov 14:4. It appears also in the version of Gen 49:6 quoted in the Midrash regarding the supposed changes in the Septuagint (Mek. 14 and parallels): ‫כי באפם הרגו שור וברצונם עקרו אבוס‬. For the contrast between eating vegetables and eating a real meal, compare also the Babylonian Theodicy, ll. 185–86 (W. G. Lambert, Babylonian Wisdom Literature [Oxford: Clarendon, 1960] 80–81): mālil irqu

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This understanding of the word, however, is rather problematic. For one, the word ‫ ארחה‬as such is unknown in other Semitic languages; furthermore, its Hebrew etymology is uncertain, and no explanation previously proposed for it has been found convincing. The one most commonly offered takes ‫ ארחה‬from ‫ארח‬, as in ‫“ אורח‬way, road,” so that the word’s original sense would thus have been “gift for the road.” 4 This derivation, however, although already reflected in the Peshitta, lacks support from other Semitic languages. Moreover, while this etymology fits the word’s occurrence fairly well in the passage in Jeremiah 40, where the ‫ ארחה‬is given to Jeremiah before he departs on his way, it does not sit equally well in the passage in 2 Kings 25, where a continual allowance is dispensed in a fixed place. The final appearance of this lexeme in Prov 15:17, where it stands in opposition to the fattened ox, is even less congenial to this explanation. 5 Other explanations offered heretofore for an Akkadian origin for the word’s etymology are problematic as well. 6 One important fact has been virtually ignored by those who have dealt with the matter of etymology to date: not only does the word lack a clear parallel in other Semitic languages, it also vanishes from the Hebrew of later times. In the Talmud and Midrash it occurs only in citations of the biblical verses above, never independently. 7 It seems necessary that a connaptan rūbê u[. . . . .] mār kabti u šarî ḫarūbu uk[latsun] “(The one) who eats (only) vegetables [will have] the meal of a prince, while the son of the notable and the rich, carobs [are their food].” 4.  For this etymology, see L. Köhler, “Zum hebräischen Wörterbuch des Alten Testamentes,” in Studien zur Semitischen Philologie und Religionsgeschichte: Julius Wellhausen zum siebzigsten Geburtstag am 17. Mai 1914, gewidmet von Freunden und Schülern und in ihrem Auftrag (ed. K. Marti; BZAW 27; Giessen: Töpelman 1914) 252–53 (cited in HALOT, 87, s.v. ‫ ;)ארחה‬see also C. H. Toy, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Proverbs (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1899) 310; DCH, 377. 5. See Ben-Yehuda, 386, s.v. ‫ארחה‬. 6.  It was suggested to compare this word to Akkadian arḫitu “monthly duty” or iaraḫḫu “a fine quality barley.” However, Akkadian arḫitu is a rare word, attested only in Old Babylonian, and iaraḫḫu appears only in lexical texts. For iaraḫtu and arḫitu, see J. A. Montgomery, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Books of Kings (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1951) 569, and the references there for previous scholarship; J. Gray, I & II Kings (OTL; London: SCM, 1970) 774. These Akkadian etymologies were rejected already by Köhler (“Hebräischen Wörterbuch,” 252) and this opinion has been reinforced more recently by M. Cogan and H. Tadmor (II Kings: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AB 11; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1988] 329). Cogan and Tadmor also rightly reject there another Akkadian etymology, that from arāḫu “to consume, eat” (HALOT, 87, s.v. ‫[ ארחה‬with earlier reference]). 7.  See the instances cited in Ben-Yehuda’s dictionary, 386. The usual term for a meal (or food) in Rabbinic Hebrew is ‫סעודה‬, or the Biblical term ‫מזון‬, while the designation for an allowance or ration is the Biblical term ‫—מנה‬never ‫ארחה‬. For ‫סעודה‬, see,

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vincing explanation of the etymology of ‫ ארחה‬account, not only for the rarity of this word’s appearance in Biblical Hebrew, but also for its disappearance in later stages of the language. The present article attempts in part to do just that. Since two of the three texts in which the word ‫ ארחה‬appears are associated with historical events from Neo-Babylonian times, it is natural to look to Akkadian materials from this period for an explanation. And, indeed, therein lies the most likely solution: it seems that the Hebrew term is a loan from Akkadian rēḫtu “remainder.” This term, which derives from the verb riāḫu “to remain, be left over,” 8 carries several more specific nuances. The plural of rēḫtu, rēḫātu “remnants,” came to denote a special and consecrated part of temple offerings, dishes from the god’s meal being sent to the king for his consumption after having been presented to the image of the god. 9 A fine example of this usage can be found in a passage concerning Sargon’s reception of the for example, m. Šabb 15:2; for ‫ מזון‬see Gen 45:23; 2 Chr 11:23; m. Ber 6:6; for ‫מנה‬, see especially Neh 12:44, 47; 2 Chr 31:19 (as also 1 Sam 1:4–5; 9:23; Exod 29:26; Lev 7:33); t. Šabb. 17:4–5; and see Ben-Yehuda, 3081. Similarly, there are other nouns in Biblical Hebrew for “meal” or “food” such as ‫לחם‬, for example Gen 3:19; 31:54; 37:25, 43:31–32; Exod 2:20; 1 Kgs 5:2–3. 8.  CAD R: 76–80, s.v. râḫu. The relation between this root and the Hebrew ‫“ רוח‬to extend, to feel relieved” (HALOT, 1196, s.v. ‫ )רוח‬needs reconsideration. Thus the meaning “to remain, remnant” may also fit Esth 4:14, where we should consider translating ‫ רוח והצלה יעמוד ליהודים ממקום אחר‬as “remnant and deliverance will remain for the Jews from another place,” understanding ‫ רוח‬as “remnant” and ‫ יעמוד ל‬as “to remain,” as in Qoh 2:9: ‫( אף חכמתי עמדה לי‬see, for instance, G. A. Barton, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Ecclesiastes [ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1908] 92). According to this reading, Mordecai claims that surely after the disaster—in which Esther and her family will also perish—there will still be Jewish remnants somewhere. Compare, for example in a SB hymn to Ninurta, bēlu dNinurta ša ina naspanti īzib(i) rēḫānu “Lord Ninurta who left behind remnants during the destruction” (W. R. Mayer, “Ein Hymnus auf Ninurta als Helfer in der Not,” Or 61 [1992] 23 line 20), and similarly in the Erra Epic: ša Erra īgugūma ana sapān mātāti u ḫulluq nišīšin iškunu pānīšu Išum mālikšu uniḫḫušuma īzibu rēḫāniš “For Erra had burned with wrath and planned to lay waste the countries and slay their peoples, but Išum, his counselor, appeased him and he (Erra) left (some) as a remnant!” (Erra V 40–41; L. Cagni, L’epopea di Erra [Studi semitici 34; Rome: Università di Roma, 1969] 126; idem, The Poem of Erra [SANE 1/3; Malibu: Undena, 1977] 60). 9. See CAD R: 340, s.v. rīḫtu. On this term and its development, see esp. A. L. Oppenheim, Ancient Mesopotamia (rev. ed.; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1977) 189, and the recent article by S. Parpola, “The Leftovers of God and King: On the Distribution of Meat at the Assyrian and Achaemenid Imperial Courts,” in Food and Identity in the Ancient World (eds. C. Grottanelli and L. Milano; Padova: S.A.R.G.O.N., 2004) 281–312. I differ slightly from Parpola’s conclusions; see especially below nn. 16–18.

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rēḫāti from Babylonian temples: “The citizens of Babylon (and) Borsippa, the temple personnel, the scholars [. . .] (and) the administrators of the country who (formerly) looked upon him (Merodach-Baladan) as their master now brought the leftovers of Bel (and) Zarpanitu (of Babylon and) Nabû (and) Tašmetu (of Borsippa) to me (rīḫāt Bēl . . . adi maḫriya ublū[nimma]) . . . and asked me to enter Babylon. . . .” 10 Likewise, the same term refers in Neo-Assyrian texts to leftovers from cultic meals (Aššur and Nabû are explicitly mentioned). 11 It furthermore appears in administrative documents from the royal archives at Nineveh. In lists of temple offerings we find regularly that a list of offerings (such as 2 cuts of shoulders . . . 1 goose, 1 duck, 10 turtledoves, etc.) is summed up as rēḫāti ša pān Aššur “the leftovers from before Aššur.” 12 In his recent discussion of this institution, Parpola claimed that the source of the “leftovers” was a yearly cultic event of approximately a month’s duration (identified by him as the quršu of Mullissu) and stressed the large quantities of food listed as rēḫāti that were apparently incorporated into the Assyrian royal banquets. 13 It is probable that from this meaning another developed, and rēḫātu came to refer to a special gift or a steady allowance, given by the king to his protégés. This is the term’s usage in the famous letter from the scholar Urad-Gula to Aššurbanipal, in which Urad-Gula complains that he is no longer receiving presents from the king, as in the times of the latter’s father: He lifted me from the dung heap; I got to receive gifts from him, and my name was mentioned among men of good fortune. I used to enjoy generous “leftovers” ([r]ēḫāti maʾdāti akkal); intermittently, he used to give me a mule [or] an ox, and yearly I earned a mina or two of silver. [In the days] of my lord’s crown-princehood I received “leftovers”(rēḫāti amaḫḫar) with your exorcists . . . 14 10. A. Fuchs, Die Inschriften Sargons II. aus Khorsabad (Göttingen: Cuvillier, 1994) 154 lines 311–13; translation in Oppenheim, Ancient Mesopotamia, 189. See now Parpola, “Leftovers,” 289. This institute was recognized long ago as comparable to ‫ הנשאר‬mentioned in 1 Sam 9:23 regarding Saul. See the summary of M. Eilat, Samuel and the Foundation of Kingship in Ancient Israel (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1998) 88–91 (in Hebrew). 11.  See the references in Parpola, “Leftovers,” 288–89. 12.  ADD 1021 = F. M. Fales and J. N. Postgate, Imperial Administrative Records, Part I: Palace and Temple Administration (SAA 7) 185, 90 rev. lines 5–6. 13.  Parpola, “Leftovers,” 289–92. 14.  ABL 1285 = S. Parpola, Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars (SAA 10) 232 no. 294 lines 16–19; and Parpola’s notes in “The Forlorn Scholar,” in Language, Literature and History: Philological and Historical Studies Presented to Erica Reiner (ed.

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Urad-Gula mentions the nāmurate (audience gift—as ‫ תשורה‬in Biblical Hebrew) 15 and the rēḫāte. In this context rēḫāte includes a yearly quantity of money and apparently a monthly domestic beast. Here the Akkadian word meaning “remnant” is excluded from its directly cultic meaning, and it is clearly attested as a steady allowance. 16 In the same manner, if with a slightly different nuance, the term appears in an epigraph intended to interpret one of Aššurbanipal’s reliefs: anāku Aššur-bāni-apli [. . .] rīḫēti šarrūtiya ušēbilšu rīḫēti šâtina imḫurma ina pān šūt-rēšiya unaššiqa qaqqaru “I, Aššurbanipal [. . .] sent him (= the king of Elam) my royal leftovers; he accepted those leftovers and kissed the ground before my officials.” 17 According to this text, Aššurbanipal gives Tammaritu, king of Elam, his royal leftovers (rīḫēti šarrūtiya), and it is clear from the context that receiving it constitutes an act of loyalty by the surrendered enemy. At the same time, Aššurbanipal’s present is depicted as a great act of mercy by the Assyrian king toward the defeated and hungry enemy. 18 This notion of the rēḫāte fits Marcel Mauss’s understanding of the functions of gifts in ancient societies, stemming from his work on this subject. He writes: “[B]etween vassals and their henchmen, the F. Rochberg-Halton; New Haven: American Oriental Society) 257-278, here p. 275; and “Leftovers,” 286–87, 293. 15.  See S. Paul, “1 Sam 9:7—An Interview Fee,” Biblica 59 (1978) 542–44. 16.  As noted by Parpola (“Leftovers,” 287–88), the same meaning is attested in another letter, CT 53, 139 (= Parpola, Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars, 182; see n. 22 below). In his edition of Urad-Gula’s letter (“Forlorn Scholar,” 275), Parpola first noted: “As far as the Neo-Assyrian evidence goes, it definitely seems to refer to food retrieved from the meals served to Assur, but the exact details of the redistribution of the rēḫāti remains obscure. . . .” Those details are explored by Parpola (“Leftovers,” 293), where he rightly states that the leftovers from divine meals must be distinguished from the leftovers in the scholar’s letters: “The latter were tokens of royal favour which could be distributed to any faithful servant.” 17. R. Borger, Beiträge zum Inschriftenwerk Assurbanipals—Die Prismenklassen A, B, C = K, D, E, F, G, H, J und T sowie andere Inschriften (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1996) 316 ll. 41–43 (this text, overlooked by Parpola, has some force in understanding the different nuances of this institution). 18.  It is possible that the word received the more general sense of a gift, as claimed by von Soden in AHw, 969, s.v. rēḫtu; 983, s.v. riḫītu. S. Parpola (Letters from Assyrian Scholars to the Kings Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal [2 vols.; AOAT 5; NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener Verlag/Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker, 1970–83] 2:329), criticizes von Soden’s translation “Geschenke,” which, he holds, is “not justified by the etymology of the word nor by nature of the goods designated as rēḫāti.” The more general meaning is attested in other cases, as for example, Šurpu III 22: “the ‘oath’: to set something aside (for the god) (= rīḫēti nadānu), but ask again for it” (Šurpu: A Collection of Sumerian and Akkadian Incantations [AfOB 11; ed. E. Reiner; Graz: n.p., 1958] 19).

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hierarchy is established by means of these gifts. To give is to show one’s superiority, to show that one is something more and higher . . . To accept without returning or repaying more is to face subordination. . . .” 19 In light of the weaknesses of previous suggestions for Hebrew ‫ארחה‬, as well as the plethora of data concerning rēḫtu, it is suggested here that the Hebrew term represents a loan from the Akkadian. The aleph in the word is not to be understood as part of the root, but rather as a preformative— perhaps a prosthetic—or as part of the Hebrew form of the loan. 20 This etymology has two advantages in comparison to the previous suggestions. First, as will be shown, it suits the three biblical passages; second, it explains why this loanword disappeared in later stages of Hebrew. The royal privilege of eating the cultic leftovers or rēḫāti was obviously kept by the Neo-Babylonian kings, and it is likely that in Neo-Babylonian the term had the same range of meanings as in Neo-Assyrian. 21 It seems probable, then, that in Neo-Babylonian times a loan from this term was employed by those scribes who wrote the passages about Jeremiah and Jehoiachin receiving the ‫ ארחה‬with the same meaning as that of Akkadian rēḫtu. This is precisely the sense of the word in 2 Kgs 25:30 (= Jer 52:34). As in the letter from Urad-Gula to Aššurbanipal, in this case (as has been commonly claimed, albeit without an etymological explanation) it refers to a regular allowance given to a dependent by the king. As noted above, the words ‫ ארחתו ארחת תמיד‬in 2 Kgs 25:30 seem superfluous after ‫ואכל לחם‬ ‫ ;תמיד לפניו‬a suggestion that better suits the passage and its context is that ‫ ארחה‬here does not simply denote a “meal” but rather is an Akkadian loan designating a steady allowance for Jehoiachin’s needs. 22 19. M. Mauss, The Gift: Forms and Functions of Exchange in Archaic Societies (trans. I. Cunnison; New York: Norton, 1967) 72. 20.  For the preformative and prosthetic aleph, see Joüon–Muraoka §§17a; 88La. The main weakness of this suggestion lies in the spelling of the word without a waw and with the unusual use of the prosthetic aleph. This, however, should not be taken as the deciding factor, since similar cases in Hebrew are known, for example, ‫( ארומה‬Judg 9:41) and ‫( רומה‬2 Kgs 23:36). Interestingly, the same variant occurs in a homonym in Rabbinic Hebrew: the word ‫ ארוחה‬in y. Sukkah 55:3, probably meaning “rustiness,” occurs in another rabbinic source, Qoh. Zut 9:18 (Midrash Zuta ʾal Shir ha-Shirim Ruth Eikha ve-Qohelet [ed. S. Buber; Berlin: Kaufmann, 1894] 127) as ‫ ;רוחא‬on which see S. Lieberman (“Forgotten Meanings,” Leshonenu 32 [1968] 97–98 [in Hebrew]). 21.  From the time of Nabonidus we know about a special case: the rēḫātu were divided between King Nabonidus and his son Belshazzar when they were stationed in different places; the rēḫātu were thus sent both to Babylonia and to Teima, as convincingly argued by P.-A. Beaulieu, The Reign of Nabonidus King of Babylon 556–539 b.c. (YNER 10; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989) 158–59. 22.  Note for ‫ארחת תמיד‬, the character of the rēḫatu in CT 53, 139 (= Parpola, Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars, 182), where the scholar claimed to have a

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Moreover, our proposal to find an Akkadian origin for ‫ ארחה‬buttresses other elements in the passage that support its historical reliability and reinforce the impression that—despite the claim that it reflects a late ideology without a historical basis—2 Kgs 25:27–30 must be based at some level on a Neo-Babylonian source. With due caution, therefore, it may be used as a historical source for Jehoiachin as well as for the policy of AmelMarduk in his short reign. 23 In a similar vein, the present suggestion accords well with the Neo-Babylonian context of Jer 40:1–6. Contrary to the common view, the ‫ ארחה‬in this passage is not to be interpreted as an allowance for the journey, nor as a simple courtesy, but rather as a royal present given to Jeremiah by Nebuzaradan in the name of the king, just as in the Akkadian texts mentioned above, where the “royal leftovers” are presented as an act of grace by the king to his subject. 24 The epigraph about Tamarrītu provides a clear contract (riksu) entitling him to eat the leftovers of the crown prince. As discussed by Parpola (“Leftovers,” 293), such contracts listing quantities of wine or bread distributed to individuals or groups at the royal court are extant; see the references in n. 30 there; see also Oppenheim, Ancient Mesopotamia, 188. It is possible now to suggest— especially in light of the rarity of the Hebrew word ‫—ארחה‬that ‫ ואכל לחם תמיד לפניו‬in ‫ ואכל לחם‬is an explanatory gloss, or an alternative version, to ‫ארחתו ארחת תמיד‬. A similar double reading can be found in the last phrase in the version of the passage in Jer 52:34: ‫עד יום מותו כל ימי חייו‬. In 2 Kgs 25:30, however, the version reads ‫כל ימי חייו‬, while the LXX to Jer 52:34 represents only ‫עד יום מותו‬. On this phenomenon, see S. Talmon, “Double Readings in the Massoretic Text,” Textus 1 (1960) 165. 23.  The reliability of the passage has been debated in recent years. Compare, for example, R. E. Clements (“A Royal Privilege: Dining in the Presence of the Great King [2 Kings 25:27–30],” in Reflection and Refraction: Studies in Biblical Historiography in Honour of A. Graeme Auld [eds. R. Rezetko, T. H. Lim, and W. B. Aucker; VTSup 113; Leiden: Brill, 2007] 56–57), who is skeptical about the historicity of the passage and stresses its ideological function, with S. Frolov (“Evil Merodach and the Deuteronomist: the Sociohistorical Setting of Dtr in the Light of 2 Kgs 25, 27–30,” Biblica 88 [2007] 174–90), who claims for it an early date of composition. See also the recent article on this matter by Y. Avishur and M. Heltzer, “Jehoiachin, King of Judah in Light of Biblical and Extra-Biblical Sources,” Transeuphratene 34 (2007) 17–36. The famous cuneiform texts mentioning Jehoiachin, published by E. Weidner (“Jojachin, König von Juda, in babylonischen Keilschrifttexten,” in Mélanges syriens offerts à M. René Dussaud [2 vols.; Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 30; Paris: Geuthner, 1939] 2:933–35), in which the king and his sons are mentioned as recipients of food rations, are dated to 592 b.c.—some thirty years earlier than the putative date of 2 Kgs 25:27–30. It is generally claimed that these texts reinforce the reliability of the verse in Kings (see for example the statement of Gray, I & II Kings, 774; according to him the Kings passage “. . . is strikingly confirmed” by the Weidner text; but compare Clements, “Royal Privilege,” 57). The term ‫ בשנת מלכתו‬in 2 Kgs 25:27 may also reflect the Babylonian term ina rēš šarrūti; on which see Montgomery, Kings, 566–67. 24.  Compare with R. P. Carrol, Jeremiah (OTL; London: SCM, 1986) 699–700 “The parting gift . . . need not be understood as Babylonian homage to the great man,

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parallel to this situation: here too “royal leftovers” are described as a royal grace doled out to sustain the hungry king upon his surrender. It seems clear that in spite of the relatively late date of the broader episode about Jeremiah in this chapter—a legendary narrative on the Babylonian king’s concern for the prophet, and a doublet of a previous episode concerning the prophet’s release from prison 25—it nonetheless preserves the Akkadian term in its appropriate context. Thus, it may well be the case that this passage was initially based on an early historical tradition. 26 Although the third passage (Prov 15:17), which stresses the spirit in which a meal is shared, cannot be said to derive from a Neo-Babylonian context, its sense of ‫ ארחה‬is also consonant with the etymology suggested above. This view is borne out when one realizes that the sense of the term in the proverb accords perfectly with the original meaning of the Akkadian cognate: leftovers. Indeed, this explanation sharpens the contrast between the two halves of the proverb even further, since ‫ארחת ירק‬, leftovers of vegetables, now stands in opposite of ‫שור אבוס‬, a big meal made from a fattened ox. This rendering of ‫ ארחה‬as the leftovers of the vegetables also provides a close juxtaposition with the previous verse (Prov 15:16), which similarly pins small against large quantities in the articulation of its moral: ‫ּומהּומָה בֹו‬ ְ ‫“ טֹוב ְמעַט ְּבי ְִראַת ה' מֵאוֹצָר ָרב‬Better a little with fear of the Lord, than great wealth with outrages.” 27 What is more, according to the current explanation, the content of Prov 15:17 corresponds better to yet another proverb ‫ִבחֵי ִריב‬ ְ ‫“ טֹוב ּפַת חֲרֵ בָה ְוׁשַ ְלוָה בָּה ִמ ַּביִת ָמלֵא ז‬Better a dry crust with peace than a house full of feasting with strife” (17:1). The contrast between ‫ פת חרבה‬and ‫ מלא זבחי‬in the latter instance resembles but may only be a courteous provision of food for the journey to Mizpah from Ramah.” Accordingly, it seems that the ‫ משאת‬in this verse refers too to a royal gift; compare Gen 43:34 cited above, and Esth 2:18, where the ‫ משאת‬are probably related to the royal banquet mentioned in the beginning of the verse (on the possible background of the Persian royal banquets mentioned by Xenophon, see below, n. 30). 25.  I have treated this passage in my The Life of Jeremiah: The Evolution of the Traditions about the Prophet in Biblical Times (Jerusalem: Bialik, in press) 37-47. 26.  Compare B. Duhm’s opinion (Das Buch Jeremia [KHAT 11; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1901] 314), shared by many commentators, according to which the passage is no earlier than the third century b.c.; see the summary of W. McKane, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Jeremiah (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1986–96) 1006. 27. This translation of ‫ מהומה‬follows the occurrence of the word in Amos 3:9: ‫מהומת רבות בתוכה ועשוקים בקרבה‬. Here, the word ‫ מהומה‬is better translated as “outrages” (as a consequence of tumult and confusion). This meaning is also preferable in Prov 15:16, rather than “confusion” as is usually translated (with this rendering the contrast in the verse between ' ‫ יראת ה‬and ‫ מהומה‬is clear—it stresses the difference between the two ways of earning possessions). This nuance might also be preferable in Ezek 22:5.

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the one between ‫ ארחת ירק‬and ‫שור אבוס‬, especially if ‫ ארחה‬in 15:17 means “leftovers.” Yet it may be possible to explain the Proverbs occurrence of ‫ ארחה‬in still another, perhaps preferable, manner. After all, the passage in Prov 15:17, which stresses a meal’s intention over its quality, may actually refer to its giving or receiving it as a present, perhaps even a cultic one. If so, it may be that ‫ ארחת ירק‬here is to be taken as “a gift (to God?) of vegetables,” 28 though this matter cannot be settled with confidence. In any case, however, the Akkadian etymology also appears to fit the attestation of ‫ ארחה‬in Proverbs as well, for which reason it is suggested here that in this case too the Hebrew lexeme is to be interpreted as a loan from Akkadian rēḫtu. 29 The context of two of the three passages in which the suggested loanword appears may offer a clue as to the time period of and reason(s) behind 28.  See the references cited above in n. 18. A cultic context might be present also in v. 16 and Prov 17:1 (and compare also the situation in 1 Sam 1:2–8). But see M. V. Fox, Proverbs (AB 18a; New York: Doubleday, 2000) 624. For the meaning “gift to god” in Akkadian, see, n. 18 above. The later Midrashim understood the verse in the cultic sense; see for example Num. Rab. 20:18. It is possible also to understand ‫ארחה‬ here as a present or allowance from the king, the verse being a piece of advice to the wise at court: it is better to receive poor-quality (royal) “leftovers” (from the king) with a good attitude than a banquet with a bad attitude. Note that, as Parpola points out, the rēḫāti lists included mainly great amounts of meat, but also vegetables. 29.  The pair of sayings in Prov 15:16–17 has long been compared (together with Prov 16:8–9 and 17:1) to a similar pair in the Instructions of Amenemope 9:5–8: “Better is poverty in the hand of the god, than wealth in the storehouse / Better is bread with a happy heart, than wealth with vexation” (trans. AEL 2:152), and 16:11–14 (AEL 2:156). See R. E. Murphy, Proverbs (WBC 22; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1998) 113; Fox, Proverbs, 596. It has been suggested that, as in the case of Prov 22:17–23: 34, the Egyptian instructions influenced the biblical verses. See especially the excellent discussion of Fox, Proverbs, 596ff., 753ff. My suggestion does not contradict this option; however, the possibility that the word ‫ ארחה‬in this verse entered the Hebrew from the Akkadian raises questions about the possible manner of transmission of the Egyptian Instructions to Israel or (more plausibly) Judea. On this issue see Fox, Proverbs, 763–65. As Fox suggests, it is likely that Amenemope was translated from the Egyptian to Aramaic some time in the seventh century, under the Neo-Assyrian Empire. It might be possible then that the word ‫ ארחה‬entered the Hebrew text at that time, under Akkadian influence. It should be noted that the Egyptian term pʾwtiw, normally translated here as “bread,” regularly denotes cultic offers of bread in Egyptian (as noted by Y. M. Grintz, From the Ancient Egyptian Literature [Jerusalem: Bialik, 1975] 180 [in Hebrew]). This then suggests that (if there is a connection between the Egyptian proverb and the Hebrew one) the term was deliberately translated (in Aramaic?) with rēḫtu/‫ ארחה‬because of the latter’s cultic sense. It has to be stressed, however, that the similarity between the Egyptian and Hebrew proverbs is not so close in this case, since the Egyptian proverb lacks the contrast between vegetables and meat. Compare the lines of the Babylonian Theodicy mentioned above in n. 3.

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this lexeme’s entrance into Biblical Hebrew. 30 During the Neo-Babylonian period, the Babylonian influence on the biblical scribes was apparently considerable, and the presence of this technical term in particular might serve as a clue to the specific composers of the passages dealt with here: Judean scribes who understood those “remnants” as a symbol of grace by the king and his court. Most probably, since the word was borrowed mainly within its Babylonian context, it did not survive after the Persian period, but rather vanished from the Hebrew language. A crucial and confirming piece of evidence in support of the suggestion offered above comes from another biblical text dated to Neo-Babylonian times: Jeremiah 52:22–23. This passage constitutes part of a broader list of the loot taken by the Babylonians from the Jerusalem temple in verses 17–23, a passage with a (most likely corrupt) parallel in 2 Kings 25:13–17. 31 Verses 21–23 concern the temple’s columns and their capitals, with the latter part focusing on the pomegranates decorating each: 30.  If this suggestion is correct, the biblical passages may contribute to our knowledge of the usage of the term in the Neo-Babylonian period. The available sources in Neo-Babylonian employ the term for the royal privilege of eating of the sacred meals (see above, n. 21). Yet if the present suggestion about 2 Kgs 25:30 and Jer 40:5 is correct, it has to be claimed that this institution kept its connotations of subordination in Neo-Babylonian times and the Neo-Babylonian kings used the term also as steady allowances and royal gifts for their protégés, and therefore the term entered Biblical Hebrew with this meaning (although it is clear from the word’s appearance in Prov 15:17 that the word entered the Hebrew Bible in a context non-related to the Neo-Babylonian administration as well, either as “remnants” or as “gift”). The biblical verses dealt with here are important, then, for the understanding of the history of this institution. Parpola, “Leftovers,” claims that this institution had a direct influence on the Persian banquets recorded by Xenophon in his Cyropaedia. It is not surprising then to find their influence in those biblical passages also. While Parpola claims a direct influence from Assyria to the Persians, it is plausible that the Persians inherited the custom from the Babylonians. 31.  Compare Jeremiah 52:22–23: ‫ׁשת‬ ֶ ֹ ‫ָביב הַּכֹל נְח‬ ִ ‫ַּכֹותרֶת ס‬ ֶ ‫ּוׂש ָבכָה ְוִרּמֹונִים עַל ה‬ ְ ‫ׁשת ְוקֹומַת הַּכ ֶֹתרֶת ָה ַאחַת ָחמֵׁש אַּמֹות‬ ֶ ֹ ‫ְוכ ֶֹתרֶת ָעלָיו נְח‬ ‫ָביב׃‬ ִ ‫ַּׂש ָבכָה ס‬ ְ ‫ָרּמֹונִים ֵמאָה עַל ה‬ ִ‫ּׁשה רּוחָה ּכָל ה‬ ָ ‫ׁש‬ ִ ‫ׁש ִעים ְו‬ ְ ‫ָרּמֹנִים ִּת‬ ִ‫ִהיּו ה‬ ְ ‫ ַוּי‬:‫ְו ָכ ֵאּלֶה ַלעַּמּוד ַהּשֵׁנִי ְוִרּמֹונִים‬ And 2 Kings 25:17: ‫ׁשת‬ ֶ ֹ ‫ָביב הַּכֹל נְח‬ ִ ‫ּוׂש ָבכָה ְוִרּמֹנִים עַל הַּכ ֶֹתרֶת ס‬ ְ ‫ׁשלֹׁש אַּמֹות‬ ָ ‫ׁשת ְוקֹומַת הַּכ ֶֹתרֶת‬ ֶ ֹ ‫ְוכ ֶֹתרֶת ָעלָיו נְח‬ ‫ַּׂש ָבכָה׃‬ ְ ‫ְו ָכ ֵאּלֶה ַלעַּמּוד ַהּשֵׁנִי עַל ה‬ The relationship between these passages, and between them and 1 Kgs 7:17–20, demands comment. Some think Jer 52:23 reflects an expansion of the words ‫על השבכה‬ in 2 Kings 25:17, themselves a gloss to the words ‫ ;על הכותרת‬see, for example, Montgomery, Kings, 568. Yet, it is more probable that the words ‫ על השבכה‬in 2 Kgs 25:17 represent a surviving fragment parallel to Jer 52:23, as claimed by Duhm, Jeremia, 380. The word ‫ ורמונים‬at the end of Jer 52:23 is problematic, another clue for the accidental form of the present verse. See McKane, Jeremiah, 1375.

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‫ַּכֹותרֶת‬ ֶ ‫ּוׂש ָבכָה ְוִרּמֹונִים עַל ה‬ ְ ‫ׁשת ְוקֹומַת הַּכ ֶֹתרֶת ָה ַאחַת ָחמֵׁש אַּמֹות‬ ֶ ֹ ‫ְוכ ֶֹתרֶת ָעלָיו נְח‬ ֹ ‫ּׁשה רו ּחָה ּכָל‬ ָ ‫ׁש‬ ִ ‫ׁש ִעים ְו‬ ְ ‫ָרּמנִים ִּת‬ ִ‫ִהיּו ה‬ ְ ‫ ַוּי‬:‫ּׁשנִי ְוִרּמֹונִים‬ ֵ ‫ׁשת ְו ָכ ֵאּלֶה ַלעַּמּוד ַה‬ ֶ ֹ ‫ָביב הַּכֹל נְח‬ ִ‫ס‬  32 ‫ָביב׃‬ ִ ‫ַּׂש ָבכָה ס‬ ְ ‫ָרּמֹונִים ֵמאָה עַל ה‬ ִ‫ה‬ The word ‫ רוחה‬appears here between the two different figures (96 and 100) concerning the pomegranates described, and no explicit explanation is given for this gap between the different numbers of pomegranates. The unknown meaning of ‫רוחה‬, together with the difference in this passage between the two numbers of pomegranates, has invited considerable speculation from antiquity on. The translators and commentators found this section of the verse unintelligible in its context and could only guess at its meaning, while the word ‫ רוחה‬has usually been thought to have the function of dealing with the gap between 96 and 100 pomegranates. 33 In light of the preceding discussion, it is now possible to suggest a partially new solution to this crux. It seems that the original sense of the word ‫ רוחה‬here is related to the mathematical difference between 96 and 100 pomegranates (that is, 4). 34 The Akkadian term rēḫtu serves regularly— generally in mathematical and economic balances and in lists—to indicate remaining quantities in administrative bookkeeping. 35 32.  “It had a bronze capital above it; the height of each capital was five cubits, and there was a meshwork [decorated] with pomegranates about the capital, all made of bronze; and so for the second column, also with pomegranates. There were 96 pomegranates ‫ רוחה‬all the pomegranates around the meshwork amounted to 100.” 33.  The word has been interpreted since antiquity as ‫“ לרוחות‬at the sides,” indicating that the number 96 is the total number of the pomegranates which can be seen encircling the pillars, since 4 of them were obstructed by the wall; see Rashi’s interpretation based on t. ʾOhal. 13, followed by many commentators (summarized in McKane, Jeremiah, 1376). A similar (though difficult to accept) hypothesis was given by Bernard Duhm, according to whom ‫ רוחה‬means “vertical,” with the verse intending to differentiate between the 96 pomegranates in horizontal rows and an additional 4 hung vertically; see Duhm, Jeremia, 380. Bright (Jeremiah, 365; followed by Carrol, Jeremiah, 865), understood the word as a form of the verb ‫רוח‬, meaning “spaced,” as in Gen 32:17, and accordingly translated it: “evenly spaced,” as a description of the pomegranates’ place within the columns. According to Volz, a notice about the remaining four pomegranates has fallen out of the text, and the words ‫ ורמונים‬at the end of verse 22, and ‫ רוחה‬in verse 23, are fragments of this notice. See the summary and comments of McKane, Jeremiah, 1376. 34.  A problem in itself is the source of the figure 96. Already in the Septuagint we find an attempt to explain this figure as the consequence of 8 pomegranates for every cubit, in a total circumference of 12 cubits; see Duhm, Jeremia, 380. 35.  Significantly, this term is frequent in Neo-Babylonian and Achaemenid documents. Thus, for example, in a Neo-Babylonian contract, from the first year of AmēlMarduk (NCBT 167 = R. A. Sack, “The Scribe Nabû-bāni-aḫi, son of Ibnâ, and the Hierarchy of Eanna,” ZA 67 [1977] 50–51 lines 1–5): “(Document concerning) 9 kur

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This is precisely the sense of ‫ רוחה‬here: the verse must thus be taken as an accounting note of sorts, intended to explain that the 96 pomegranates taken with the booty were the remnant of the 100 which originally stood in the temple. Hence a suggested translation of the verse is: “There were 96 pomegranates remaining; all the pomegranates around the meshwork amounted to 100.” Yet it is also possible that the verse was corrupted in the transmission process, and its exact form cannot be reconstructed with certainty. 36 Whatever the case, however, it seems probable that the term ‫ רוחה‬also reflects Akkadian rēḫtu, here intended to indicate the “remainder” between 100 and 96. This suggestion fits both the form and context of the list in Jer 52:17– 23. It was claimed before that the biblical passage, concentrating as it does on the loot from the temple, stems from a priestly writer. 37 However, the reliability of this detailed list is debated: while some take it as a schematic text without any real historical basis, others take it as historically accurate. 38 Hans Schmidt suggested that the author of this passage might be the priest who had taken an inventory of the objects taken from the temple by Nebuzaradan. 39 Although Schmidt’s suggestion cannot be proven with certainty, it is now possible to bolster it somewhat. In light of our suggestion, it becomes more likely that the passage is directly based on a NeoBabylonian booty list wherein the Akkadian term rēḫtu was used. As such, the list appears more historically reliable than previously thought. On this occasion, the Babylonian terminus technicus entered Hebrew in the form ‫ רוחה‬as expected. This independent evidence that ‫ רוחה‬entered Biblical Hebrew as a loanword from Akkadian rēḫtu reinforces the possibility that it also entered Hebrew in a slightly different form, with an aleph, in the three instances dealt with above. The last example also strengthens 18 qa of sesame oil amount still due (rīḫet, lit. ‘remainder’) on the contract involving 85 kur, 2 pi of sesame oil, property of the Lady of Erech and Nanâ, charged against [. . .] son of Amatea . . .” See further M. Jursa, “Accounting in Neo-Babylonian Institutional Archives: Structure, Usage, Implications,” in Creating Economic Order: Record Keeping, Standardization, and the Development of Accounting in the Ancient Near East (eds. M. Hudson and C. Wunsch; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2004) 145–98 (and the examples on 154, 157). 36.  It is possible that there were some words relating the difference of four pomegranates, maybe only “‫רוחה ארבעה‬.” 37. See McKane, Jeremiah, 1370. 38. See the summary of McKane, Jeremiah, 1370–71: “There are differences of opinion as to how the precise listing of the objects seized is to be assessed. Is this exact detail, and so evidence of historical accuracy, or is it ideological embroidery?” See also the skeptical comments of Carrol, Jeremiah, 865–66. 39.  See H. Schmidt, Die grossen Propheten (Schriften des Alten Testaments II/2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1915) 321; McKane, Jeremiah, 1371.

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the hypothesis that the word ‫ ארחה‬entered Hebrew by way of scribes who were looking for a translation of Akkadian rēḫtu, which they found in written sources. Perhaps this possibility can suggest even more about the reason the word disappeared from later Hebrew. Since the word may have been a loan used mainly by scribes seeking a translation of the Akkadian, it no longer survived after the Persian period. From ancient times, translators have guessed at its meaning. It is hoped that the suggestion presented here is received as a little more than a guess.

Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Literatures A General Introduction William W. Hallo

I.  Before Writing—and Since Literature can be oral or written. Oral literature includes in the first place proverbs, which can be passed down for generations—indeed millennia—without or before being recorded in writing, as in the case of the Bedouin. 1 Much the same can be assumed for the “oral law,” the rabbinic interpretations of the written law which were only gradually reduced to writing in postbiblical times. But in what follows, notice will be taken only of written literature. Writing was invented for the first time anywhere on the globe in the Near East, with Mesopotamia and Egypt vying for priority in the opinions of Assyriologists and Egyptologists respectively. By the late fourth millennium b.c., a fully developed system of writing had emerged in lower Mesopotamia, probably for writing Sumerian. But it was preceded by a lengthy evolution from a system of clay tokens sealed into clay bullae and/or impressed on them and later on clay tablets, this before the final step was taken of inscribing ever more conventionalized drawings of such tokens on tablets with a reed stylus. 2 Given the absence of stone and the abundance of clay and reed in lower Mesopotamia, the cuneiform (“wedge-shaped”) writing that developed out of these drawings may have preceded, and possibly even inspired—the hieroglyphic writing, on stone and many other media, in Egypt. 1. C. Bailey, A Culture of Survival: Bedouin Proverbs from Sinai and the Negev (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2004). 2. D. Schmandt-Besserat, Before Writing (2 vols.; Austin: University of Texas Press, 1992); differently P. Michalowski, “Tokenism,” American Anthropologist 95 (1993) 996–99.

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II.  Categories of Written Documentation Broadly speaking, the modern classification of ancient writings can best follow a combination of form and function. In the case of cuneiform writing, the first stimulus to writing appears to have been economic: the accumulation of capital and the emergence of cities combined to necessitate some more sophisticated and permanent record-keeping than what was available in token form; its earliest manifestation was therefore in the form of clay tablets, in one or at most two copies, whose primary function was to record economic transactions such as the entrusting of livestock to a herdsman. We may call such texts archival since they were destined for, and often enough deposited in, archives. But in short order the same form was used to produce multiple copies of lexical lists and other texts, including such as might be considered belletristic, constituting the elements of an emerging scribal curriculum whose function it was to inculcate familiarity with the newly invented writing system. Because such texts became standard wherever cuneiform was taught, we may describe them as canonical (though not in the biblical sense of divinely inspired, religiously authoritative, or legally binding). And finally, a third broad category emerged: texts inscribed on what were perhaps deemed to be more permanent surfaces such as stone—of necessity imported in lower Mesopotamia—or in multiple copies on clay. Such texts were incorporated in monumental buildings or inscribed on smaller monuments such as votive statues and vessels and may best be described as monumental. These broad categories apply in the first place to cuneiform writing as employed for Sumerian and Akkadian in Mesopotamia, for Hittite and other languages in Anatolia (Turkey) and, in the form of “alphabetic” cuneiform, for Ugaritic in Syria. But they can be extended as well to the texts in the other West Semitic writing systems of the Levant and to the hieroglyphic records of Egypt. 3 The documentation to be discussed hereafter will be principally of the “canonical” variety.

III.  Canonical Texts and the Concept of Canonicity In the sense used here, canonical texts of the cuneiform tradition are essentially those compositions which constituted the curriculum of the scribal schools at any given time. At the beginning of the curriculum, they include lexical texts, grammatical texts, and mathematical exercises; 3.  W. W. Hallo and K. L. Younger, The Context of Scripture: Canonical Compositions, Monumental Inscriptions and Archival Documents from Biblical World (3 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 1997–2003); henceforth COS.

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these primers are not included here. 4 But beginning with the intermediate stages of the curriculum, they feature what we may call literary or even belletristic texts, as well as rituals, omens, and other religious and scholarly works. These were studied in a fixed sequence that has gradually been recovered from a variety of lines of evidence. For the time of Hammurabi (ca. 1792–1750 b.c.) and the Old Babylonian period generally (ca. 2000–1600 b.c.), for example, it is possible to reconstruct a primary curriculum of four royal and divine hymns, each averaging ca. 70 lines in length, and an intermediate one of ten longer literary texts, averaging ca. 130 lines each. 5 A still more advanced curriculum, at least at Ur, was made up of an additional 14 compositions, averaging 240 lines each. 6 For the first millennium the curriculum of the scribal schools can be reconstructed from literary catalogues and other indications. 7 Beyond Mesopotamia, the literature in Hittite, Ugaritic, and Egyptian is similarly a product of the scribal schools, whether attached to temple or palace, or private in character. What all these curricula have in common is their emphasis on tradition. Contrary to more modern conceptions, the ancient Near Eastern readership—more often an audience—put little value on originality and almost none on authorship. Instead, they prized the preservation of literature handed down from antiquity or, if newly created, composed according to long-established rules (“canons”) of composition in terms of genre, subject, form, length, etc. The colophons of such compositions—the equivalent of our modern title pages—disclosed the date of the copy and sometimes such additional information as the name of the copyist, of his (or, rarely, her) patron who had paid for the copy, and the palace, temple, or private library in which they had been deposited. Rarely (in the cuneiform case almost never) did they bother to reveal the name of the author. Such information must be gleaned instead 4. N. Veldhuis, Elementary Education at Nippur (Ph.D. diss., University of Groningen, 1997). 5. S. Tinney, “On the Curricular Setting of Sumerian Literature,” Iraq 61 (1999) 159–72. 6. See E. Robson, “More than Metrology: Mathematics Education in an Old Babylonian Scribal School,” in Under One Sky: Mathematics and Astronomy in Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia (eds. A. Imhausen and J. Steele; AOAT 297; Münster, UgaritVerlag, 2002) 347. 7.  See W. W. Hallo, “The Concept of Canonicity in Cuneiform and Biblical Literature: A Comparative Appraisal,” in The Biblical Canon in Comparative Perspective (eds. K. L. Younger, W. W. Hallo, and B. F. Batto; Scripture in Context 4/Ancient Near Eastern Texts and Studies 11; Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1991) 1–19; P. Gasche, Schulunterricht in Babylonien im ersten Jahrtausend v. Chr. (AOAT 275; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2001).

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from catalogues of texts and their authors, or such unlikely places as the acrostics hidden in the composition itself. But even when the author is named, the information is not always trustworthy, since pseudepigraphical ascription to some ancient worthy of such honor was believed to enhance the authority of the text. In other words, authority counted for more than authorship. In the cuneiform case, this respect for the authority of antiquity led inevitably to a further emphasis, namely on Sumerian. This most anciently attested language of Mesopotamia gave way at the beginning of the second millennium b.c. to the Semitic Akkadian, but continued to exercise its hold on the curriculum well into the first millennium and far beyond the borders of lower Mesopotamia where it was at home. This expansion of cuneiform literature in Sumerian helps explain its survival here and there even into the Hebrew Bible. 8 In the sense used here, it is possible to identify four successive canons of Sumerian literature which, in turn, constituted the curricula of scribal schools set up on the Mesopotamian model throughout the Near East. They may be designated the Old Sumerian, Neo-Sumerian, PostSumerian, and Bilingual (Sumero-Akkadian) canons, respectively. 9 Their characteristic features include fixity of constituent compositions, fixity of order in which these compositions were studied in the scribal schools; fixity of line division for poetic works (the vast majority of the compositions) and, consequently, of their length; and glosses in the form of marginal notations, commentaries, variant readings, etc. In all these respects, the cuneiform (and hieroglyphic) canons resemble the biblical canon and its postbiblical fixation in the work of the Masoretes; where they differ is in the character of divine inspiration and binding authority imputed to the biblical canon. A further difference, not inherent in the respective corpora, has been imposed on them by modern critical scholarship. Biblical criticism began 8. W. W. Hallo, “The Expansion of Cuneiform Literature,” PAAJR 46–47 (1979–80) 307–22. 9. W. W. Hallo, “Toward a History of Sumerian Literarure,” in Sumerological Studies in Honor of Thorkild Jacobsen on His Seventieth Birthday, June 7, 1974 (AS 20; Chicago: Oriental Institute, 1976); V. A. Hurowitz, “Canon and Canonization in Mesopotamia: Assyriological Models or Ancient Realities,” in Proceedings of the Twelfth World Congress of Jewish Studies: Jerusalem, July 27–August 5, 1997 (ed. R. Margolin; Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1999) *1–*12; for Akkadian, see N. Veldhuis, “On the Curriculum of the Neo-Babylonian School,” JAOS 123 (2003) 627–33; for Egyptian, see N. Shupak, “‘Canon’ and ‘Canonization’ in Ancient Egypt,” BiOr 58 (2001) 535–47.

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with the attempt to “deconstruct” the canon into its constituent parts, or “documents,” and developed a “documentary hypothesis” to account for observed features of the Pentateuch and subsequently of other portions of the canon, a hypothesis which in the nature of the case can never hope to move beyond hypothesis to actual recovery of the putative documents. The cuneiform and hieroglyphic canons, by contrast, were not completed in antiquity, in the sense that a consensus was reached to delimit the contents and order of the canon—yet enough indications were left behind of the directions in which the process of canonization was moving to encourage the modern construction of just such a canon.

IV.  The Role of the Scribal Schools As already indicated, the canon at any given time and place was essentially the curriculum of the scribal schools. It is remarkable how nearly identical this curriculum was across long periods and widely scattered locations. In an earlier era of scholarship it was possible for Morton Smith to parody William F. Albright by referring to Abraham as “a theologian as well as a merchant prince (whose) donkey caravans could barely stagger along beneath his library of cuneiform tablets” in order to question the influence of Mesopotamian literature on the Bible. 10 Today it is clear that the entire Levant was open to such influence and that, right up to the end of the Bronze Age, this influence was largely transmitted by scribal schools on the Mesopotamian model. The Syrian contribution to cuneiform learning and literature, for example, was in part original, in part derived from West Semitic and Egyptian sources, but in largest part derivative from Mesopotamian models. 11 Much the same can be said for the literary texts found at Amarna in Egypt. 12 Wherever caches of cuneiform tablets have been discovered outside Mesopotamia, they have included “school texts” of the Mesopotamian type. Even after the triumph of the “alphabetic” script in the Iron Age, older traditions continued to infiltrate the biblical text. It is quite likely, for instance, that the striking resemblance between the laws of the goring ox in the Laws of Eshnunna and in Exodus was 10. M. Smith, “The Present State of Old Testament Studies,” JBL 88 (1969) 26; see also W. F. Albright, “Abram the Hebrew: A New Archaeological Interpretation,” BASOR 163 (1961) 36–54. 11.  W. W. Hallo, “The Syrian Contribution to Cuneiform Literature and Learning,” BM 25 (1992) 69–88. 12. M. Dietrich, “Babylonian Literary Texts from Western Libraries,” in Verse in Ancient Near Eastern Prose (eds. J. C. de Moore and W. G. E. Watson; AOAT 42; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1993) 41–67.

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mediated by some common (Amorite?) tradition preserved in Canaanite schools. The “letter” which Hezekiah addressed to God in Isaiah 38 can be compared to the Sumerian genre of letter prayers now known to have survived in bilingual (Sumero-Akkadian) form into the time of his reign, 13 and even so late a genre as apocalypse (as in Daniel) could have drawn inspiration from prototypes attested in Akkadian (and Egyptian) as late as Hellenistic times. 14

V.  The Concept of Genre in the Ancient Near East and the Bible Genre is a modern concept. There is no word for it in the ancient languages of the Near East. But there are abundant names for individual genres, and we are entitled to speak of genre as a reality for the writers of the time. Where real (as against fictitious) authorship was a matter of indifference, and originality de-emphasized, adherence to received norms was the more prized ideal. Minor departures from these norms were tolerated or even valued, but only within the requirements of a given genre. A typical Sumerian hymn, for example, ended with a doxology praising the deity apostrophized or hero celebrated in the body of the composition, and this happened so regularly that the Sumerian word for “praise” (zami) became the Akkadian word for the lyre typically accompanying the genre (sammû). Other Sumerian poetic genres took their name from other musical instruments in both Sumerian (adab, ba lag, ersḫemma, tigi) and Akkadian (respectively, adapu, balaggu, ersḫemmû, tigû). Although the genre labels in the Hebrew Psalter do not similarly derive from musical instruments, it is well to recall that the modern study of the Psalter began with the delineation of genres, or what in German scholarship were called Gattungen, that was based in part on cuneiform models. Early scholarship in addition tried to reconstruct a life setting (Sitz im Leben), most often a cultic setting, for each of the genres thus detected in Psalms and elsewhere, an attempt only more recently pursued in cuneiform studies. 15 13.  “Letter-Prayer of King Sin-Iddinam to Nin-Isina,” COS 1:532–34 #164); “Letter-Prayer of King Sin Iddinam to UTU,” COS 1:534 #165. 14.  Hallo, “Expansion of Cuneiform Literature.” 15.  W. W. Hallo, “The Cultic Setting of Sumerian Poetry,” in Actes de la XVIIe Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Université libre de Bruxelles, 30 juin–4 juillet, 1969 (RAI 17; ed. A. Finet; Ham-sur-Heure, Belgium: Comité belge de recherches en Mésopotamie, 1970) 116–34; C. Wilcke, “Der aktuelle Bezug der sumerischen Tempelhymnen und ein Fragment eines Klageliedes,” ZA 62 (1972) 35–61.

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VI.  The Major Native Genres If form and function serve as criteria for identifying the three broad categories of textual documentation (above, §II), then the canonical category, which is the concern here, can first be separated into three subdivisions by focus before further subdivisions into native genres are attempted. In keeping with COS 1, the three objects of focus of the canonical compositions of the biblical world can most usefully be identified as divine, royal, and individual. Divinity is the concern of myths, hymns, prayers, lamentations, divination, incantation, ritual and even occasional love poetry. Royalty is the subject of epic, hymnography, historiography, (auto)biography, some divination and oracles, and some instructions. Common humanity is the focus of narrative, “prophecy,” most instructions and love poems, some pseudepigrapha, proverbs, “just sufferer” compositions, dialogues, disputations and diatribes, humor, and fables. 16 Most of the “individual focus” texts can be subsumed under the heading of wisdom compositions, itself a concept borrowed from the critical study of the Bible. How do these genres correlate with those of the Bible and with those of the native sources? Where the divine focus is concerned, there is little question that the Bible includes mythologems recognizably similar to Near Eastern prototypes, such as the Deluge. Hymns and prayers abound in the Psalter and are scattered as well through the rest of the Bible, often inserted in narrative or other prosaic contexts. 17 Lamentations are represented not only in the biblical book of that (modern) name but in Jeremiah as well. The connections between these works was recognized in both the Septuagint translation and later rabbinic exegesis, to the point that the prophet Jeremiah came to be considered the author of Lamentations as well; see also the term “jeremiad” for any particularly moving lament. Ritual texts are of course a major portion of the Pentateuch but one must distinguish carefully between prescriptive ritual, which prescribes what is to be done in the future for any given rite (and proscribes what is to be avoided), and descriptive ritual, which accounts—after the fact—for the expenditures involved in a given rite. The latter is much rarer in the Pentateuch. 18 16.  See generally COS 1. 17.  See, for example, J. W. Watts, Psalm and Story: Inset Hymns in Hebrew Narrative (JSOTS 139; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992). 18.  B. A. Levine, “The Descriptive Tabernacle Texts of the Pentateuch,” JAOS 85 (1965) 307–18.

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What is most patently lacking in the Biblical corpus is divination and its ritual counterpart, incantations. Supposedly “there is no divination in Jacob, and no augury in Israel” (Num 23:23a). Actually, there were some legitimate avenues for divining God’s intent, such as the Urim and Thummim (psephomancy), 19 or such other “impetrated” techniques (induced by human intervention) as attaching ominous significance to chance utterances (cledonomancy; 1 Sam 14:8–12), shooting arrows (belomancy; for example, 1 Sam 20:35–39), interpreting the configuration of oil on water (lecanomancy; Gen 44:5, 15). But the principal pagan techniques, such as divination by “reading” the entrails of (multiple) sacrificial animals (extispicy), were either too costly for individual usage, or, as in the interpretation of dreams (oneiromancy), of events in the heavens (astrology) or on earth (terrestrial omens), of monstrous births (teratoscopy) or of medical symptoms and physiognomic characteristics, they were “oblated” (divinely bestowed). All such interpretations were catalogued in ever-larger handbooks in cuneiform. 20 Israel had no such handbooks. Indeed most of the divinatory techniques were sources of sarcastic comment at best (Ezek 21:21) or abominations to the Lord at worst (Deut 18:9–12). But Israel had another, preferred channel of communication with the deity, namely prophecy. “For the Lord God does nothing without giving his servants the prophets knowledge of his plans” (Amos 3:7). So in place of the extensive body of divinatory texts and of the incantations designed to overcome the ills portended by them, the Bible has a proportionately equally extensive body of literary prophecy unparalleled in the surrounding cultures. Only when prophecy ceased, which occurred in the time of Ezra according to tradition, did Israel resort to a new genre, apocalyptic, with analogues in those cultures. 21 When we turn to royalty as focus, we must begin by acknowledging the deep-seated antipathy to monarchy, and preference for theocracy, in evidence in much of the biblical text. There is room in it for historiography (Samuel, Kings, Chronicles) and one may perhaps compare Ecclesiastes with fictional royal autobiography. 22 But biblical epic, whose very 19. See W. Horowitz and V. A. Hurowitz, “Urim and Thummim in Light of a Psephomancy Ritual from Assur (LKA 137),” JANES 21 (1992) 95–115; C. van Dam, The Urim and Thummim: A Means of Revelation in Ancient Israel (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997). 20.  See generally W. W. Hallo and W. K. Simpson, The Ancient Near East: A History (2nd ed.; Fort Worth: Harcourt Brace, 1998) 157–63. 21.  W. W. Hallo, “Akkadian Apocalypses,” IEJ 16 (1966) 231–42. 22.  “The Adad-Guppi Autobiography,” COS 1:477–78 #147; “The Autobiography of Idrimi,” COS 1:479–80 #148; “The Marduk Prophecy,” COS 1:480–81 #149; “The

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existence is a matter of debate, dwelt not on the king but on the people of Israel as a whole. 23 And the royal hymns of the Psalter are mostly “accession psalms” referring to God (47, 93, 96, 97, 99); only a few psalms deal with a mortal king (2, 45, 72, and perhaps 20, 21, 110). Instructions to a king such as those found in Egypt are entirely lacking in the biblical corpus, as is, once more, oracular divination. The broadest comparison can be drawn with texts focused on the individual. The stories of Joseph, Mordecai, and Daniel bear comparison with the Aramaic tale of Ahiqar as novellas of wise courtiers retaining their integrity amidst adversity in a foreign court, and with Egyptian tales like those of Sinuhe and Wen-Amun 24 as masterpieces of narrative art. The Song of Songs rivals the extensive love poetry in Sumerian and Egyptian, 25 even if the protagonists there are more often royal or even divine. The book of Job continues the long tradition of “just (better: pious) sufferer” poems in Sumerian and Akkadian. 26 Proverbs are a virtually universal genre, but in addition to nearly verbatim parallels between, for example, Eccl 4:12 and a similar saying in both the Sumerian and the Akkadian versions of Gilgamesh, the “thirty” (so Prov 22:20!) proverbs of Prov 22–24 are so similar in wording and even order to the 30 chapters of the Egyptian instructions of Amenemope as to suggest a borrowing in one direction or the other. That there is a considerable degree of commensurability between the genres identified by modern scholarship in biblical and ancient Near Eastern literature is hardly surprising, given the close contact between specialists in both fields. Some degree of agreement also applies to the genres identified by the native terminologies, but this is not as systematic. Myths and epics in Sumerian, for example, are all classified as hymns, while royal hymns are more often identified generically according to their musical Dynastic Prophecy,” COS 1:481–82 #150; T. Longman, Fictional Akkadian Autobiography (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1991); idem, The Book of Ecclesiastes (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1998). 23.  W. W. Hallo, The Book of the People (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1991) 78 n. 8. 24. “Sinuhe,” COS 1:77–82 #38; “The Shipwrecked Sailor,” COS 1:83–85 #39; “The Two Brothers,” COS 1:85–89 #40; “The Report of Wenamun,” COS 1:89–93 #41. 25.  “Papyrus Harris 500,” COS 1:126–27 #49; “Cairo Love Songs,” COS 1:127– 28 #50; “Papyrus Chester Beatty I,” COS 1:128–29 #51; “Ostracon Gardiner 304,” COS 1:130 #52; “Love Lyrics of Nabu and Tashmetu,” COS 1:445–46 #128; “Dumuzi-Inanna Songs,” COS 1:540–43 #169. 26.  “Dialogue Between a Man and his God,” COS 1:487 #151; “A Sufferer’s Salvation,” COS 1:486 #152; “The Poem of the Righteous Sufferer,” COS 1:486–92 #153; “The Babylonian Theodicy,” COS 1:492–95 #154.

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accompaniment. Literary letters may be addressed to the deity, to a king (living or deceased and/or deified), or to a commoner. Lamentations may bewail the fate of a deity (notably Dumuzi/Tammuz), 27 of a city, 28 of a king, 29 or of an ordinary mortal. Instructions are unknown in Hebrew and in Akkadian; in Sumerian they are represented by only three examples, attributed respectively to a deity, an antediluvian king, 30 and a historic king, 31 while in Egyptian they are well attested with both kings 32 and commoners, 33 and in Hittite with officials 34 as their addressees.

VII.  The “Last Wedge” and the Last Hieroglyphics Having followed ancient Near Eastern literature from its beginnings, it is only fitting to mark its demise. In the case of Hittite and Ugaritic, this is easy enough as those cultures came to an abrupt end in the upheavals at the end of the Bronze Age (ca. 1200 b.c.); their successors in Anatolia and Syria did not perpetuate their scripts or their literary traditions. 35 The cases of Mesopotamia and Egypt are more complicated. The last canonical texts written in cuneiform were astronomical ones—indeed the very name Chaldean became a synonym for astronomer or astrologer in late biblical and classical times (see Dan 2:2, 5 and passim, also in the Septuagint) and it was long thought that the last-surviving cuneiform text was an astronomical almanac that could be dated on internal evidence to the year 385 of the Seleucid Era or 74/75 a.d. 36 But it has more recently been suggested that cuneiform continued to be written in some learned circles as late as the early third century a.d. 37 Hieroglyphic writing came to an 27. “A Neo-Babylonian Lament for Tammuz,” COS 1:419–20 #118; compare Ezek 8:14). 28.  “Lamenetation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur,” COS 1:535–39 #166. 29.  “An Assyrian Elegy,” COS 1:420–21 #119. 30. “Shuruppak,” COS 1:569–70 #176. 31. “Ur-Ninurta,” COS 1:570 #177. 32. “Merikare,” COS 1:61–66 #35; “Amenhet,” COS 1:66–68 #36. 33.  “Instruction of Any,” COS 1:110–15 #46; “Instruction of Amenemope,” COS 1:115–22 #47; “Dua-Khety or The Satire on the Trades,” COS 1:122–25 #48. 34.  “Instructions to Priests and Temple Officials,” COS 1:217–21 #83; “Instructions to Commanders of Border Garrisons,” COS 1:221–25 #84; “Instructions to the Royal Guard (Mešedi Protocol),” COS 1:225–30 #85. 35.  See W. A. Ward and M. S. Joukowsky, eds., The Crisis Years: The 12th Century b.c. (Dubuque: Kendall Hunt, 1992). 36. A. Sachs, “The Latest Datable Cuneiform Tablets,” in Kramer Anniversary Volume: Cuneiform Studies in Honor of Samuel Noah Kramer (ed. B. L. Eichler; AOAT 25; Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker, 1976) 379–98. 37.  M. J. Geller, “The Last Wedge,” ZA 87 (1997) 43–95.

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even slower and later end, occurring by one estimate at ca. 300 a.d., by which time it had become virtually cryptographic and was reserved for monumental inscriptions, while demotic script was employed for archival texts and hieratic for canonical ones. 38

VIII.  Survival of Ancient Near Eastern Literature in the Bible Whether abruptly or gradually, nearly all the ancient scripts of the Near East thus went out of use in antiquity and had to be deciphered following their rediscovery in modern times. Most of the monumental inscriptions and all of the archival documents and canonical compositions concealed behind the scripts first had to be excavated. But with that preliminary well launched, it was soon found that much of the legacy of the ancient Near East had been preserved over the intervening millennia in classical literature such as Berossos, in Church Fathers like Eusebius, in Qumran texts such as the Prayer of Nabonidus, and even in rabbinic texts. 39 Here it will only be necessary to characterize briefly the survivals or echoes of ancient Near Eastern documentation in the Hebrew Bible. In the monumental category we can mention, in addition to the casuistic legislation mentioned above (§IV), 40 the covenants between God and Israel which reflect the vassal treaties respectively of the Amarna Age 41 and the NeoAssyrian period, 42 in the latter case down to the wording and order of some of the curse formulas intended to enforce obedience to the suzerain’s stipulations. In the archival category, we can recall the “descriptive rituals” (above, §VI), and add reflexes of “amphictyonic” institutions. 43 38. J. Assmann, The Mind of Egypt: History and Meaning in the Time of the Pharaohs (New York: Metropolitan, 2002) 13, 414f. 39. M. Aberbach, “Mesopotamia in the Aggadah,” in EncJud (16 vols.; New York: Macmillan, 1972) 16:1512–14. 40.  “Hittite Laws,” COS 2:106–19 #19; “The Laws of Eshnunna,” COS 2:332–35 #130; “The Laws of Hammurabi,” COS 2:335–53 #131; “The Middle Assyrian Laws,” COS 2:353–60 #132; “The Neo-Babylonian Laws,” COS 2:360–61 #133; “The Edicts of Samsu-iluna and His Successors,” COS 2:362–64 #134; “Reforms of Uru-inimgina,” COS 2:407–8 #152; “The Laws of Ur-nammu,” COS 2:408–10 #153; “The Laws of Lipit-Ishtar,” COS 2:410–14 #154. 41.  “The Treaties Between Ḫatti and Amurru,” COS 2:93–100 #17; “The Treaty of Tudḫaliya IV with Kurunta of Tarḫuntašša on the Bronze Tablet Found in Ḫattuša,” COS 2:100–106 #18; “Abbael’s Gift of Alalakh,” COS 2:329 #127; “The Agreement Between Ir-Addu and Niqmepa,” COS 2:329–31 #128; “Agreement Between Pillia and Idrimi,” COS 2:331–32 #129. 42.  “The Inscriptions of Bar-gaʾyah and Matiʿel from Sefire,” COS 2:213–17 #82. 43.  “A Sumerian Amphictyony,” COS 3:315–16 #144A.

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But the literary survivals are our main concern. In treating them, we can move from the smallest literary unit to the largest 44 or vice versa (so here). The canon as a whole bears comparison with the end product of cuneiform and hieroglyphic literary efforts but contrasts, too, in the important fact that the latter were never brought to completion. We can speak of super-genres in both corpora, that is, groups of genres sharing either a common ancient designation, as, for example, the “hymns” that include both myths and epics in Sumerian, or a common modern one, as when proverbs, just sufferer poems and, in cuneiform, disputations, debates, diatribes and fables are all subsumed under the heading of “wisdom literature.” We can identify individual genres common to both corpora such as, in addition to those just mentioned, letter prayers or riddles. We can point to individual compositions such as the book of Job, which shares not only its basic theme of theodicy with an entire tradition of just sufferer poems in Sumerian and Akkadian, but also in one case the dialogue structure characteristic of the poetic portions of the biblical book. 45 We can point to literary techniques such as the acrostic employed in Akkadian as it is in Hebrew poetry, though only the latter can resort to alphabetic acrostics. Finally we can get down to the smallest unit of literary (as against purely lexical) comparison, the topos or commonplace, such as the axiom that “the three-ply cord is not easily broken” (Eccl 4:12; above, §VI), an “old saw” already voiced by Gilgamesh. 46

IX.  Intertextuality and Contextuality With that we have arrived at the level of intertextuality, defined broadly as “a text’s dependence on and infiltration by prior codes, concepts, conventions, unconscious practices, and texts.” 47 Such interpenetration between the biblical text and its literary environment is often assumed to represent biblical borrowing from the surrounding—and admittedly older—cultures. This assumption is rarely subject to proof and not always necessarily correct, but even if and when it is, it does not do justice to the particular place that the topos assumes in its respective contexts. Take the passage in which God decrees that “My life-giving spirit shall not remain in man forever; he for his part is mortal flesh: he shall live for a hundred and twenty years” (Gen 6:3). It is set in the enigmatic context of co44. So W. W. Hallo, “Sumer and the Bible: A Matter of Proportion,” in COS 3.xlix–liv. 45.  See the “Babylonian Theodicy”; cf. n. 26 above. 46.  See generally Hallo, “Sumer and the Bible.” 47. V. B. Leitch, Deconstructive Criticism: An Advanced Introduction (London: Hutchinson, 1983) 161.

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habitation of the sons of God and the daughters of men and, in a larger sense, in the context of the declining life span of humanity—somewhere between the legendary longevity of the antediluvians and the three score and ten years of the Psalmist (90:10). Now a comparable sentiment has been discovered in a bilingual (Sumero-Akkadian) wisdom composition where we read, “The days of the human being are approaching. Day to day they verily decrease, month after month they verily decrease, year after year they verily decrease! One hundred twenty years (are) the years of mankind—verily, it is their bane; (this is so) from the day that humanity exists until today!” 48 But the text in question comes from the city of Emar on the Euphrates River in Syria; it represents a local variant of a traditional Sumerian wisdom composition known as Enlil and Namzitarra; the six lines of the Emar version represent an expansion of a single line in the standard Mesopotamian version which simply has here “The (appointed/ terminal) days of the human being are approaching.” In other words, the life span of 120 years is a local expansion of the traditional topos. Whether it is the source of the biblical concept or part of a widespread West Semitic one remains an open question. 49 The question of context is thus shown to be an essential corrective to any intertextual assessment. Put another way, contextuality is a complement to intertextuality. Where intertextuality operates diachronically, evaluating the given indebtedness of a later text to an earlier one, contextuality operates more or less synchronically, regarding the nearer and further cultural environment of the biblical topos or text as clues to its meaning. Ideally, intertextuality employs a vertical axis, contextuality a horizontal one. The intertextual approach has achieved many successes in identifying the interpenetration of topoi and larger literary units across temporal and linguistic boundaries; the contextual approach, stressing contrasts as well as comparisons and attempting to operate with commensurate genres, has much to offer in the way of illuminating scripture in context. 50 48. J. Klein, “The ‘Bane’ of Humanity: A Lifespan of One Hundred Twenty Years,” ASJ 12 (1990) 57–70. 49.  Hallo, “Syrian Contribution,” 85–88. 50. See Scripture in Context: Essays on the Comparative Method (eds. C. D. Evans, W. W. Hallo, and J. B. White; PTMS 34/Scripture in Context 1; Pittsburgh: Pickwick, 1980); More Essays on the Comparative Method (eds. W. W. Hallo, J. C. Moyer, and L. Perdue; Scripture in Context 2; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1983); The Bible in the Light of Cuneiform Literature (eds. W. W. Hallo, B. W. Jones, and G. L. Mattingly; Ancient Near Eastern Texts and Studies 8/Scripture in Context 3; Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1990); Biblical Canon in Comparative Perspective (eds. K. L. Younger, W. W. Hallo, and B. F. Batto; Scripture in Context 4/Ancient Near Eastern Texts and Studies 11; Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1991).

Between Elective Autocracy and Democracy: Formalizing Biblical Constitutional Theory Baruch Halpern

I. Near Eastern myth, from Egypt to Mesopotamia, is of one mind on the issue of kingship. It holds that kingship was, in the words of the Mesopotamian myth, lowered from heaven, where it began before the dawn of time. Kingship was the natural order of the cosmos, and of humanity as well. But kingship among the gods was won, not inherited: it had an etiology. Thus, in the simple plot of the Enuma Elish, theogony reaches the rowdy descendants of Apsu and Tiamat. Apsu determines to kill the unruly brood. But the children preempt their father—who becomes the subterranean waters. To avenge her husband, Tiamat recruits an army, with a general, and challenges the gods to send out a champion against her. 1 After two such saviors return in defeat, the gods send for Marduk. Marduk is elevated to kingship over the gods. Should he return with his shield from combat with Tiamat, his kingship will be confirmed. So, endowed with the power of creation by fiat—of stars on the ecliptic with its implications of regulating times (four stars, four quarters of heaven) —Marduk challenges Tiamat in single combat. He routs her, opens her mouth with “an evil wind” and fires an arrow down her gullet into her heart. Tristan employs a like technique to slay a dragon in medieval epic. Disposing of Tiamat’s minions, Marduk divides her body “like a shellfish”: her nether half is the bowl of the earth, initially the terrestrial waters; her upper half the dome of the sky. Between the two halves are the pillars of this biosphere, the regulation of which by a few central gods ensues. 1.  The relationship between Deborah and Baraq in Judges 4 is almost an inversion of this topos, although it is Sisera who is specially slain, like the dragon Tiamat.

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Marduk builds his palace above the plate of the heavens and is confirmed as king (Enuma Elish 3–5). 2 This pattern is familiar from our earliest myths. Chaos, personified somehow, threatens the gods. One god contracts to act as champion. The savior fights, returns victorious, and the gods acclaim him as king. Even in Israel, without the element of an earlier contract, Yhwh is king of the gods because he domesticates sea and sea monsters, in the sky as on the earth, and creates order. He banishes chaos, scholars say. 3 The element of his acclamation as universal king—whether by the gods or by the Israelites—is prominent in the liturgy of the Jerusalem temple. Likewise, Yhwh in Exodus promises Israel liberation from Egypt and enfranchisement in the Promised Land. They agree in advance to worship him on their liberation. Thus, Yhwh is king of Israel because he frees her from bondage in Egypt. Unsurprisingly, this pattern reiterates itself in various cultures. After, or during, a crisis, a war hero comes to power. In the Book of Judges (2:11–18 and passim), the editor delineates a cyclical human politics: 1.  Israel sins 2.  Yhwh subjects the Israelites to foreign oppression 3.  the Israelites repent 4.  Yhwh raises up a savior 5.  the savior saves them, and 6.  presides over an era of peace

In two episodes, the cycle appears inside the narratives—justifying the editorial interpretation. God commissions Gideon to take action against the Midianites, and after his victory the people offer him something like kingship (Judg 6–8). Later, threatened by Ammon, the Gileadites send for the bandit Jephthah and elect him their leader. After his victory, he remains in power (Judg 11:1–12:7). This conception of contractual leadership is deeply embedded in Israelite culture and historiography. 4 Moses shares this status. The liberator becomes the autocrat, in place of the oppressor (very Weberian in outline). Jotham’s fable (Judg 9), the most devastating critique and strongest endorsement of kingship in the Hebrew Bible, follows from this: the olive, 2. P. Talon, The Standard Babylonian Creation Myth: Enūma Eliš (SAACT 4; Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2005). 3.  See especially J. D. Levenson, Creation and the Persistence of Evil (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983). 4.  Generally, the preceding summarizes the analysis in B. Halpern, The Constitution of the Monarchy in Israel (HSM 25; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1981). The present essay elaborates on this earlier study.

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the fig, the vine, all contribute to the general welfare. The bramble then proposes, “take refuge in my shade” (9:15). But what makes the bramble valuable for protection also makes him painful for those he protects. The thorns are not all directed one way; the complications of entry and penetration do not merely ensnare outsiders. Readers sometimes miss the point—partly because of the curse that follows, which suggests that the protector is a malefactor. But that is the point of the passage: in times of harmony, the bramble does harm. There are wrinkles. Israelite leaders must conventionally deny their worthiness. Sometimes this is explicit—Moses, Gideon, and Saul in one source notoriously protest their inadequacy to lead (Exod 3–4; Judg 6:15; 1 Sam 9:21). Sometimes the unworthiness is narrativized (Jotham’s bramble), so that Jephthah is illegitimate and an outcast at the time of his summons. Joshua must be magnified by Yhwh. In a second source, Saul hides from his election (1 Sam 10:22, on which see below). 5 Two stories in Judges do reflect negatively on human monarchy. Offered the kingship, Gideon protests, “I will not rule over you, nor shall my sons rule over you. Yhwh shall rule over you.” Human dynasty would be a rejection of Yhwh’s kingship. Gideon instead consecrates his sons as priests of an icon he erects (Judg 8:22–27). 6 And Gideon’s son, Abimelek, campaigns successfully for election as king of Shechem. The result is Shechem’s destruction, just as Jotham had warned: real trees do production, not administration. And yet, it is their very attitude that creates destructive administration. Accounts of the early monarchy, of Saul and David, replay the myth of the Israelite hero. In one version of the story, Saul wins the kingship after designation by Samuel, the accomplishment of several symbolic tasks, and success at war. Protest is there—Saul is, like Gideon, paradigmatically, the youngest in the smallest “house” in Israel—but divine designation replaces negotiation. Kingship is transferred, or lowered, from heaven (1 Sam 9:1–10:13; 13:2–14:52). 5.  The relationship of this hiding in the context of the editorial combination to the theme of confirming an unsolicited revelation is oddly confounding (but see J. L. Cooley, “The Story of Saul’s Election (1 Sam 9–10) in the Light of Mantic Practice in Ancient Iraq,” JBL 130 [2011] 247–61), and yet in a sense charming. On this point see further Halpern, Constitution, 127–45. 6.  This is probably the reason Gideon’s son, Yeter, is actually named in 8:20 (and perhaps the name is punned on proleptically in 7:6, although this is more doubtful). A later priest, Ira the Yairite (2 Sam 20:26), is probably identical with Ira the Yitrite (2 Sam 23:38; 1 Chr 11:40), the latter of whom has a kinsman, Gareb the Yitrite, in the same texts. This priest’s appointment is apparently an innovation after the Absalom revolt, and may have been a concession to northern sensibilities.

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The other storyline recreates or retains memories of the monarchy’s introduction—which makes Israel the only Near Eastern culture to have preserved the idea that kingship was a constitutional innovation. 7 The narrative in 1 Sam 8; 10:17–12:25 is remarkable. The elders, citing his sons’ unfitness as a pretext, demand that Samuel appoint a king. Yhwh agrees. Samuel describes the sacrifices entailed by royalism: conscription, corvée, both male and female, expropriation and taxation. The people insist on having a king. Through sortition, Yhwh designates a candidate, a head taller than anyone else in the crowd, who is hiding in the assembly’s baggage train, another narrativization of the candidate’s unworthiness. The people acclaim the champion: “Live the king!” Dissenters remain. But Saul defeats an enemy who had for a month been threatening Israelites in Gilead. Afterward, the people proceed back across to Gilgal to confirm his kingship. “They crowned him there.” Saul’s son too will cross the river to succeed him. Threat, acclamation, victory, in some cases a symbolic crossing of water, and coronation. Indeed, David will cross the Jordan at least once, at the end of Absalom’s revolt, to Gilgal (and, possibly, earlier from Rabbah); Jeroboam may have done so as well, from Penuel, based on the legend of Jacob’s peregrinations. The Jordan is Israel’s Rubicon, as its role in Joshua attests. 8 These texts express the theory, first, that constitutional change demands popular assent, even if the resolution is introduced, as usually in Israelite literature, through or by the elders. Second, the king reigns by acclamation, followed by the confirmation of his kingship in a pact involving the king, Yhwh’s intermediary, and the nation as a whole. Kingship requires the consent of the governed, just as it does among the gods. Third, kingship altered Israelite culture: this is a concession made in literature that must have come down to us through the court itself. It perhaps reflects the persistence of traditional forms of administration on which the kingship, and thus national state, was superimposed. The date of these texts is indeterminate, although the odds dictate, not least based on eighth-century references in Hosea (13:10–11) and texts corroborative of the historiography for our sequence in Amos and Isaiah, that the material antedates the eighth century. There are further indications, in detail, such as the envisioning of the landscape, oracular techniques, and so on. Sporadic but not consistent references to a tripar7.  Halpern, Constitution. For the source division employed here, idem, The First Historians: The Hebrew Bible and History (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1988) chap. 8. 8.  This comports with F. M. Cross’s concept of ritual conquest (Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic [Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1973]).

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tite covenant, and to divine designation and popular acclaim, pepper the historiography. The apology for Jehu’s putsch and dynasty, probably close in time to the Dan and Zakkur stelae and parallel to them, is particularly persuasive. The theory is not being retrojected, but at most adapted. The same pattern recurs in the very old literature about David, who is designated privately (1 Sam 16:1–13). He is elected and anointed by the men of Judah (2 Sam 2:4)—really, by his robber band and probably some kin-group “dignitaries” whom he bribed, some of them perhaps nomadic. He then seeks recognition by the men of Jabesh in Gilead (2:5–7). This may represent a surrogate narrative instantiation of the river crossing from Transjordan exhibited in the cases of Abraham, and especially Jacob, Joshua, and Saul. 9 It is even possible that the Gideon story falls into the same category. In their initial negotiation with him, through Abner, the Israelite elders determine what terms they are willing to accept (2 Sam 3:19). After the civil war with Ishboshet, Saul’s son, Israel’s elders approach David and anoint him king (2 Sam 5:1–3). 10 He takes Jerusalem, fights Philistines, and celebrates his entry into his new capital with the ark. Afterward, Yhwh promises him a perpetual dynasty. After the Absalom revolt, David again contracts to be king of Israel and Judah. He makes campaign promises (possibly including priestly cynosures), which he later annuls on the sly, and the negotiations are consummated in a confirmation of his kingship after a crossing of the river to Gilgal (see, again, Saul and Ishboshet). Historiographically, David is not called “King David” until after he wins his inaugural battle. Saul’s accession formula does not come until after he wins his own inaugural battle. And, of course, there is the story of the division of the kingdom: on Solomon’s death, his son Rehoboam goes to seek the succession from an assembly of the Israelites. They reject him as their king—and, after seceding from his kingdom, appoint one of their own to be their king. 9.  Cross traces its echoes to postexilic times (Canaanite Myth, 99–111). 10. The names compounded with the theophoric “-boshet,” such as Ishboshet, Mephiboshet, Jerubbeshet, are confined entirely to 2 Samuel (the MT). Since, as I have argued elsewhere, 2 Samuel is the earliest prose source in the HB (David’s Secret Demons [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001]), there is a reasonable presumption that this is not a dysphemism for “-baal,” but in fact a proper theophoric. Not coincidentally, the name Si-Bastet “man of Bastet,” is common in 21st-Dynasty Egypt. That this was the name of Ishboshet (or possibly Si-Bast) is at least as likely as pious emendation later. The equation of Boshet and Baal seems to arise out of Jeremiah, especially 3:24, where the former is in fact feminine and a difficult form to analyze on traditional language structure; Chronicles clearly adopts it.

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Thus, consistently, treatments of the early monarchy presume that a king rules only through a contractual relationship with his subjects, as well as by Yhwh’s will. That is, the theory of kingship in Israel is that of an elective autocracy. It is far from being democratic, though one could perhaps speak of a practical reality of army democracy. Even in local theory, the elders—the proprietors of the minimal lineages represented by the almost ubiquitous housing compounds of the tenth to eighth centuries—more or less disposed of the votes, if there were such, of their descendants and dependents. So no popular assembly in the Hebrew Bible ever rejects a proposal made by the elders. The organization is republican, based on a polity consisting of such households, possibly lowering at one another across districts. The election seems to be not just of an autocrat but of his descendants as well. What limitations could be imposed on royal power in these circumstances? The dispensation of justice remained largely local, and seated in the system of lineages. At the same time, the king remained the person to whom one appealed for relief from local decisions. In two later cases (Nathan in 2 Sam 12, Joab in 2 Sam 14), David’s lack of self-consciousness allows subordinates to dupe him with appeals. Indeed, Absalom’s appeal to his future constituents is portrayed as that of a promise of juridical hearing (2 Sam 15:2–6). Solomon demonstrates his wisdom by decreeing a baby be cut in half. Was the abusiveness of state appointees any different than it has been elsewhere? The idea of royal abuses remained in the literature, starting with David. His murder of Uriah—likely a fabrication—has no independent witness, so only divine revelation exposes the plot. By the same token, Jezebel suborns Jezreel’s principal citizens to haul Naboth up for treason so she can attaint his family and expropriate his vineyard. 11 But the witnesses are 11.  Note the locution: to curse God and king (see E in Exod 22:27, below, and the divergent de-pairing P in Lev 24:10–16) is to commit treason. This is the antecedent to the use of “worship” (or whatever) “foreign gods” (or whatever) in Deuteronomic and Jeremianic literature. Kings seems to take the accusation more literally. The usage in 1 Sam 26:19, “Go, serve other gods,” antedates Deuteronomy, being synonymous with exile. But the idea of cursing God and the “dignitary” (‫אלהים לא תקלל ונׁשיא בעמך‬ ‫ )לא תאר‬in E (Exod 22:27) and in P (Lev 19:32), in reverse order, honoring both (‫מפני‬ ‫)ׁשיבה תקום והדרת פני זקן ויראת מאלהיך‬, is, although unrecognized, the reverse of the exemplars represented recently by the Ekron ostracon “to (the?) baal and to Padi” and its now-associated congeners. On these, see recently and with full bibliography P. Schmitz, “Deity and Royalty in Dedicatory Formulae: The Ekron Store-Jar Inscription Viewed in the Light of Judges 7:18, 20 and the Inscribed Gold Medallion from the Douïmès Necropolis at Carthage (KAI 73),” Maarav 15 (2008) 165–73; the comparison to Judg 7:18, 20 was already made in the inscription’s first edition, S. Gitin and M. Cogan,

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co-conspirators, so it again takes divine revelation to expose the crime. 12 These cases, and those in which David is alibied for murders of which he was taxed, and a tendency for the historiography and for written prophecy to be righteously or self-righteously critical of royal policies, all trend in one direction: the institutionalization of kingship created the potential monster in the center who could only be restrained by revolution or by the threat of it. Coups and assassinations characterize the history of monarchic Israel and Judah. The justifications speak of idolatry, apostasy, tampering with the cult, sacrificing infants, and foreign entanglements. We may today suspect economic and social motivations, clothed in the mobilizing rhetoric, the Leninist invective, of religion. Regardless, it seems, in the traditional period of lineage relations, that local jurisdiction could be overruled by the king. Further, tax collection remained local in Israel into the eighth century b.c. (below). Yet, again, the only effective checks on royal authority are the inertia of tradition and the threat of unrest. It was precisely a change in this set of relations that inspired Israel’s clearest elaboration of constitutional theory, in the book of Deuteronomy. Administrative regulations in Deuteronomy follow a cultic calendar in chapters 15–16, itself following provisions against apostasy, then diet, all of which is sacralized in the absence of local “sacrifice.” Since law in Deuteronomy begins with the centralization of authority over the cult, the sequence is not surprising. In E, conversely, the cult calendar incorporates a provision against pronouncing the names of other gods, but precedes a provision about cult diet (Exod 23:10–19). 13 It does not include manumission in the sabbatical provisions (21:2–11). In J, provision against apostasy precedes the cultic calendar, with provision for cult diet after (Exod 34:11–26). The first administrative law in Deuteronomy enjoins Israel to appoint judges and bailiffs in all its settlements (Deut 16:18). This local system is “A New Type of Dedicatory Inscription from Ekron,” IEJ 49 (1999) 193–202. While it is unclear as to which baal the Ekron storejar inscription refers, nor why the juxtaposition is appropriate for the storejar’s contents, the rhetorical function of such juxtapositions is to impose the obvious equation between loyalty to a divinity and to the human sovereign. Schmitz adduces additional parallels from the Phoenician and Akkadian worlds, but parallels negating such equations about enemies have to date been left aside from the discussion, and, collected, would make a contribution. To translate the idea into more recent terms, one might also cite phrases such as “for God and country” or the Shakespearean “Cry God for Harry, England and Saint George.” 12.  Arguably, it is possible that we should assume the prophet in these cases reasons from the results to the process that underlies them, the “shining sin” (Jer 2:10). 13.  On other gods, see Exod 22:19; on diet, 22:30.

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apparently the basis of administration, although most of the actual case law in Deuteronomy anticipates enforcement by the elders, and execution—often literally—by the people. It may be significant as an antecedent that the institution of delegated central jurisdiction appears in the E source slightly before the delivery of the Covenant Code (Exod 18; 20:23–23:25). Judges, in E and Deuteronomy, can somehow be sacral appointees, whether local or central: how far this is from traditional jurisdiction by elders and people in the gate is unclear, though E seems to vest the power of appointment in the “prophet,” Moses, and, by implication, in his successors. After two cultic regulations, 14 the text prohibits worshiping the sun, the moon, or all the host of heaven (Deut 17:3). But it regulates procedure, demanding two witnesses for a conviction of this summary crime and probably all capital crimes—worshiping other gods, in this text, is not clearly distinguished from any other deviation from state policy. 15 Next comes a segment setting up a high court for capital cases and torts in the central shrine. Its constituents are “the Levitical priests or the judge who will be in those days” (Deut 17:8). 16 The priests are to deliver judgment based on Torah, now meaning canon law, rather than oracles. The judge perhaps was empowered to apply common law. 17 The court’s decisions are enforced on pain of death. 14.  Against planting a tree by Yhwh’s altar (16:21)—which seems to mean a multiplicity of altars—and sacrificing blemished cattle (17:1), repeated from 15:21, which may have similar implications. 15.  Conviction of violators requires two or three witnesses—this is why sheep and turkeys were later called as witnesses at bestiality trials in Salem. The procedural element explains why the paradigmatic law, against apostasy, is reiterated here. In essence, in Deuteronomy any capital crime represents following the ways of those other gods. Rhetorically, this is identical with the strategy adopted by Jeremiah, for whom any of the ancestral ways is worship of other or foreign gods. See n. 11. 16.  Deut 17:8, “the judge who will be in those days,” has been subject to many interpretations and is often regarded as secondary. Taken as an expression of the premise that Deuteronomy was spoken by Moses before the entry into the land, it would seem to refer to a putative future: either to the juridical status of the king in Jerusalem, or to the period of the judges, especially in light of a distributive interpretation, based on Exod 18. 17.  The priests are not delivering oracles, one would think, given the outlawing of all forms of divination but prophecy in Deut 18:9–14. They may perhaps administer the lot, the Urim and Thummim, although these crop up in late texts (save Deut 33) for the “ephod” of earlier ones. But they are in charge of the actual written Torah (Deut 17:18, in the Law of the King), and this will end up deposited with the bearers of the ark (Deut 31:9–10) for reading aloud during pilgrim festivals. The fixity of the text is relatively guaranteed by repeated reading aloud, although this is also a feature of

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Next among these administrative provisions comes the law regulating the King. After the Law of the King come two further provisions in chapter 18. The first (Deut 18:1–8) enfranchises the Levites in the central cult, guaranteeing them a living. The second (Deut 18:9–21) proscribes all forms of divination except prophecy, and proclaims that Yhwh will “raise up” a prophet “like” Moses. This figure enjoys the authority of divine inspiration, but punishment for deviation from his verdicts will come from Yhwh, not from human instruments. All in all, the Law of the King is surrounded by legislation limiting the king’s ability to tamper with the judiciary, except perhaps in managing appointments, and with the priesthoods and cult. There is even a prophetic authority outside the judiciary—here, the king is subject to the supreme legislative authority, not to judges. The cult thus insulates the king from social responsibilities and latitude. That is, the priests and “judge” administer justice. The prophet mediates Yhwh’s will and thus determines policy. The cult itself is inclusive of all eligible priests. What is left to the king? The Law of the King (Deut 17:14–20) provides that, should they wish, the Israelites may choose a hereditary king. Yhwh must select him. He must be an Israelite, not a foreigner, a detail disregarded in the embrace of Persian lieges in the Second Isaiah, Ezra–Nehemiah, and in the terminology (pḥh) of postexilic governance. 18 The law prohibits the king from having too many horses or getting horses from Egypt. It also enjoins him from multiplying wives and precious metals. Finally, it requires him to copy and to administer “this torah.” Deuteronomy, then, ties the king’s hands in two ways. The first is by direct limitation: the king is alligatus legibus, bound by the law, not a maker of it, particularly not constitutional or cultic law, by decree. The second is more indirect, namely the contextual limitations: the king has no theoretsuzerainty treaty making, where it not only has the magical effect of making the treaty efficacious, and the solemnizing effect of pomp and display, but also the practical effect of ensuring that members of the public cannot plead ignorance of the provisions. The transformation of the priesthood into a canon elite—see B. Halpern, “Fallacies Intentional and Canonical: Metalogical Confusion about the Authority of Canonical Texts,” in From Babel to Babylon: Essays in Biblical History and Literature in Honour of Brian Peckham (eds. J. R. Wood, J. Harvey and M. Leuchter; Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 455; London: T. & T. Clark, 2006) 3–25—is one of the most revolutionary aspects of the Deuteronomic programme. It reflects the revolution in literacy that occurred in the seventh century and simultaneously anticipates the archaizing that will characterize Mesopotamia in the seventh century. 18.  The Deuteronomic law, thus, is either pre-exilic or Maccabean, and the latter is linguistically impossible.

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ical authority over local and appeals jurisprudence, nor over prebends, or the cult. There is even a singular oracular authority, not explicitly priestly, that, like the Torah of Yhwh, trumps the king’s policy formulations. Like other monarchs in the ancient Near East, the king adverts routinely to oracles for informing his military history—and repeatedly so in the books of Samuel. Deuteronomy comes from the late seventh century, from the court of King Josiah. It hobbles royal power—but in one aspect not in any untraditional way. The king was not supposed to steal land from his subjects—witness the calumny heaped on Ahab and Jezebel over her theft of Naboth’s vineyard and his attainder—or property or wives, as the story of David and Bathsheba, also calumny, indicates. Common law limited official royal latitude, and violation of that common law could be invoked to justify competing dynastic claims, in the historiography in Israel, and in practice, no doubt, in Israel and Judah both. The interdiction on wives speaks to two concerns. One is external alliances—with neighboring or even distant kings whose military, diplomatic, or economic offices might help suppress dissent or tip the balance of power at home. 19 In this respect, the injunction reinforces the insistence on native kings only. The second is the network of domestic alliances. The king’s access to such local allegiances are also the target of the creation of a local or, given the role of the lineages, a circuit judiciary presided over by a non-royal high court, largely in the hands of the priesthood of the Jerusalem temple. Local favors are to be handed out by a new class, of canon experts—even the oracular nature of the priestly response to inquiries is now minimized: oracular authority now inheres only in One Prophet, an Ayatollah of the Moment, and in no other form of divination. Though divination remains necessary, through prophecy, as opposed to the rejection of omens in the Talmud, the priests are now canon lawyers as well as ritual specialists. The judges are canon lawyers. The king is a canon lawyer. 19.  The Assyrian queens commonly thought to be from Israel, wedded to Tiglathpileser III and to Sargon II (see S. Dalley, “Recent Evidence from Assyrian Sources for Judaean History from Uzziah to Manasseh,” JSOT 28 [2004] 387–401), might instead have been received from the Judahite court. The names do not indicate a point of origin specific to either polity. Israel was no doubt compelled to send palace women as tribute, but stood in no position to ensure any favorable terms for their marriages, such as the harem burials seem clearly to indicate. Judah was in a better bargaining position as a docile vassal in the late eighth century. Note the versions of the third campaign (D. D. Luckenbill, The Annals of Sennacherib [OIP 2; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1927]) with regard to Hezekiah’s remission of palace women as tribute, albeit after the time of Tiglath-pileser and Sargon.

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This is the reason de Wette saw the restriction of mantic methods as an integral part of Josiah’s centralizing regimen. 20 The ban on importing horses from Egypt is, despite its theological justification, the least perspicuous provision. The implication is that the kingdom is not to dispose of field-force arms for foreign ventures such as Qarqar—Israel, at least, depended to the very end on an Egyptian tactical tradition for chariotry. But this would also seem to preclude Judahite alliance with Egypt against powers from the east. 21 Is Deuteronomy, for all its rhetoric of nationalism, in fact a quisling document? Is its purpose to limit the king to administration, so that only on the prophet’s oracle could he revolt against the Mesopotamian overlord? And is the king to stay within his boundaries? Both Hosea and Isaiah, in the late eighth century, warn against reliance on Egyptian aid (correctly, as it turns out), which they construe as not only ineffective but injurious. The proscription of excessive wealth of course applies equally to all these issues. The watchword is limitation. Exactly why is this an issue? And why are the issues wealth, alliances, cavalry, and the erection, or really modification, of other institutions? The idea of a theoretical balance of powers was not lost on modern constitutional theorists. The idea of a Mosaic constitution is attested already in Josephus, and elaborated especially in Spinoza. Starting in the 1970s, biblical scholars, too, began to write of constitutional theory, particularly in Deuteronomy. 22 These works influenced Reformation and Enlightenment British constitutional theorists and the Founding Fathers in the United States. The provision against a foreign president pro re nata recurs in the U.S. constitution, straight out of Deuteronomy, despite the number of revolutionists born in England. The separation of religion from executive or civil judicial control is another derivative. The differences are enormous, and yet the outlines are not incompatible. It is interesting that 20.  See B. Halpern and P. Harvey, “W. L. M. De Wette’s Dissertatio Critica and Its Place in Biblical Scholarship” ZABR 14 (2008) 1–39. 21.  One can speculate on the Babylonian alliance of Josiah and the anti-Babylonian policy of Necho as the occasion for these provisions—leaving Josiah himself as the puppet of a pro-Babylonian coterie among his court, among these elements being Jeremiah and all the Shaphanites. However, the essence is that the text (and its factions) conceive Judah as an autonomous nation without imperial ambitions, within an international framework of trade and relations. How were the elite who supported this view recruited to it? 22. K. Baltzer, Das Bundesformular (rev. ed; Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1964); translated by D. E. Green as The Covenant Formulary in Old Testament, Jewish and Early Christian Writings (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1971).

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in the first instance, in the United States, states rather than voters designated the “elders” of the senate, a vestige of a sort of tribalism before confederation. Deuteronomy’s provisions give control over religious and other policy to the prophet, and over domestic administration to the courts. But there is a difference between theory and reality. In the kingdom of seventh-century Judah, the army, and thus power, remained in the king’s command. In neighboring countries, too, the king was the final court of appeal and appointed priestly functionaries, and this, too, was the practice in Judah. And, of course, the king had ultimately to decide which of many prophets was inspired by Yhwh—though some later texts presume that there was one true prophet, or great prophet, in every generation. 23 That is, the king had the latitude to choose which sacral advisor to listen to. Yhwh, and only Yhwh, enforced the prophetic Diktat; that is to say, history was the only judge of whether the king chose correctly. Still, Deuteronomy attempts to stamp a new face—the rule of law— on an existing autocracy. It is indeed constitutional. It is also remarkably ambitious. It rings in an enormous change—the law is no longer royal but stems from another source of authority, namely a canonical one. And, rightly, scholars have long marveled that this sort of legislation could come from a central authority: why would the king limit his own power?

II. What summoned the theory of Deuteronomy into being was a cultural transformation occasioned by external stimuli and the state’s response to them. In many traditional societies, members of lineages lend their support to positions advocated by elders, or the paterfamilias. This is a form of limited franchise; while we no longer think in terms of familial ballots, there is something to be said for compound-level democracy, the democ23. See b. Avot: Moses to Joshua to the elders to the prophets to the men of the assembly (knst). Just as many elders exist at one time (and this idea must depend to some extent on the tradition of 72 elders being inspired, as in Exod 24:4–9, and on the Eldad and Medad episode in Numbers 11), so more than one prophet speak at one time. On the other hand, Deuteronomy avers that at least one prophet will always be speaking the truth—as in 1 Kgs 22. The fact that one can determine who is speaking with authentic divine inspiration only on the basis of results allows for the possibility of error, false inspiration, much later fulfillment (Jer 28:9), ironic fulfillment (as with Delphic oracles), and thus competition. (1 Kgs 22 clearly indicates that the concept of deliberate divine disinformation was abroad, which in turn would seem to exonerate the prophets concerned from the crime of inventing divine words; see Ezek 14:9, where pth recurs from 1 Kgs 22 but the prophet is still at fault for answering an apostate; yet Deuteronomy does not clearly account for this possibility, nor does Jeremiah allow it.)

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racy of corporations, the republic. Here, a natural balance sets in, so that lineages busy themselves trying to limit the success, and thus the influence, of competing groups. Hence the ancient equivalents of the potlatch. Forty years ago, a friend and I stood out at night atop a building, gazing at the Boston skyline. My friend, Emmanuel Ekama, from Nigeria, grew poetic: “Look at it. It’s the greatest civilization that ever was. How could we ever have such a thing in my country? How could we have a New York City?” If this sounds like something out of an epic about Rome, well, maybe it was. His thesis was as far from Hollywood epic as you could get, though. He said, “In my country it is not all right to be rich.” The attitude is encapsulated, outside of the academy, in an old joke. God offers one wish to an Englishman. “Oh, my neighbour has this brilliant Jaguar. It races up the M-1, and the police can’t even catch him. I’d love a car like that.” God says, “Done.” He offers a wish to a Frenchman: “Oh, my neighbor has a wonderful wife—she is warm and happy, and her cooking!” God says, “And you’d like a wife like that?” The Frenchman assents. Done. And God calls a peasant. “Oh,” he says, “my neighbor has the most amazing cow. It gives milk twice a day, and very creamy too.” And God says, “So you’d like a cow like that?” The man answers, “No. I want you to kill my neighbor’s.” In a culture of envy, social pressure overrides property law in demanding redistribution—mainly, the sharing of impoverishment. 24 But the metamorphosis from a larva culture of shared poverty to a chrysalis one of nucleated capital accumulation to a moth, or butterfly, depending on your views, dynamically mobilizing this uneven wealth is difficult to negotiate across economic sectors: as in early twentieth-century Russia, it requires individuation—divorcing the nuclear family or even the person from the clan—industrialization and apparently urbanization, the concentration of labor and commerce. 25 It requires an image of the role of capital development and a sophisticated conception of long-term Public Good. In the eighth century, when Assyria established a permanent administrative presence in the Levant, international trade boomed, from Spain to Iran to Arabia and, probably, India. The ninth-century precursor came 24.  These ruminations are devoted to Peter Machinist precisely because he is a rarity, a humanist generous of spirit and venturesome in curiosity who does not participate in the insidious culture of envy that characterizes that field in the academy. 25.  See J. Jacobs, Cities and the Wealth of Nations: Principles of Economic Life (New York: Viking, 1984); O. Zimhoni, Studies in the Iron Age Pottery of Israel: Typological, Archaeological and Chronological Aspects (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press, 1997); W. F. Albright, The Excavation of Tell Beit Mirsim III (AASOR 21–22; New Haven: American Schools of Oriental Research, 1943).

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with the unification of the Western states first in a system of alliances and then under the domination of Damascus. With these developments, but especially in the eighth century, came intensified exchange in technics, such as metallurgy, architecture, agricultural processing, medicine, and divination, plus the specialization resulting from the more efficient operation of comparative advantage. The exchange extended to elite goods, such as foodstuffs, clothing and furnishings, and to elite thought, such as genres of literature (including theodicy and history) and theology. Literacy increased dramatically, and so does the number of our texts. Elite culture was imbricated in an international conversation involving display. So it was a natural target of populist rhetoric, being damned as emulation of foreigners, as un-Israelite. The elite, however, directed a tu quoque critique of its own against traditional culture. This took the form of a Sprachkritik: the people, say the very prophets who kowtow to the critique of the elite on behalf of social justice, worship icons, not gods; they believe that ritual is a license to sin, a get out of jail free card; they believe that subordinate gods, rather than the chief God, Yhwh, are responsible for their prosperity and well-being. They mistake, that is to say, the concrete, the instantiation, the appearance, the phenomenon, for the principle of Reality. The words of these prophets come to us courtesy of the royal court in Jerusalem. At roughly the same time, JE was codified as well (see Prov 25:1). There is a reason for that. The trigger was Judah’s revolt against Assyria. Shortly before 701 b.c., two decades after Assyria had deported the inhabitants of Israel, Hezekiah concentrated his rural population in fortresses in a hedgehog defense in depth. The Assyrian captured and deported them. Only the people gathered to Jerusalem remained in place. Hezekiah’s prophets, Isaiah and Micah, drew the lesson that the critique of traditional Israelite culture applied to the rural population of Judah, including their reverence toward the ancestors and a multitude of subordinate gods. Only state shrines were hereafter to be accorded recognition. Not surprising, given that only Jerusalem and, later, the wilderness remained at the king’s disposition. So, Judah entered the seventh century as an Assyrian rump vassal city-state. 26 In the aftermath, the crown distributed small groups as colonists in forts through its hinterlands, especially on routes of trade—the key issue 26. B. Halpern, “Sybil, or the Two Nations? Archaism, Alienation, and the Elite Redefinition of Traditional Culture in Judah in the Eighth–Seventh Centuries b.c.e.,” in The Study of the Ancient Near East in the Twenty-First Century (eds. J. S. Cooper and G. Schwartz; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996) 291–338.

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of the seventh and sixth centuries. 27 The areas first settled, in the Buqeiah, the Dead Sea Rift, are suitable for exotic cash crops, as are the routes of trade. With industrializing cash cropping, especially on Judah’s borders, and the intensification of the southern “spice” trade, contested among Josiah and Necho and Babylon, the vassal kingdom grew wealthy and powerful, and began to expand to its old borders and, in the Negev, beyond. The new Judahite settlements were essentially military. Tombs increasingly tended to express nuclear family autonomy, an elite trend carried from the capital to the countryside. Cooking pots and ovens shrank in size, as in Britain after 1920, reflecting smaller table fellowships. 28 Although, as D. S. Vanderhooft has observed, the ideal of kinship organization persists in the literature, the old clans were off the land, detached from ancestral houses, fields and tombs. 29 And that is why Yhwh is no longer, in Jeremiah or Ezekiel, a god who punishes the descendants of a sinner, the lineage corporation that lived, worked, and bred together, as in Deuteronomy (5:9–10), P (Exod 20:5–6) and J (Exod 34:7); instead, each rejects the proverb “the fathers have eaten vinegar,” and insists on individuated reward (Jer 31:29–30; Ezek 18). Official administration, formerly reliant on graphic markers, became purely literate and thus less dependent on personal ties than before. The relation of the nuclear family to the state was now direct, virtually military. And Deuteronomy reaches into the family, demanding denunciation of apostate brothers, even wives. 30 The totalitarian impulse of monotheism 27.  And indeed earlier, starting at least in the tenth century, as in particular the findings of Thomas Levy’s team at Khirbet en-Nahas have shown. See most recently, T. E. Levy et al., “Questions about the Reconstruction of Early Israel by Means of Scientific Methods and Their Implications for World Archaeology,” Jerusalem and the Land of Israel 7 (2010) 5–29; J. S. Holladay, “How Much Is That in . . . ? Monetization, Money, Royal States, and Empires,” in Exploring the Longue Durée: Essays in Honor of Lawrence E. Stager (ed. D. S. Schloen; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009) 207–22. 28. B. Halpern, “Jerusalem and the Lineages in the Seventh Century b.c.e.: Kinship and the Rise of Individual Moral Liability,” in Law and Ideology in Monarchic Israel (eds. B. Halpern and D. W. Hobson; JSOTSup 124; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991) 11–107. 29.  D. S. Vanderhooft, “The Israelite mišpāḥâ, the Priestly Writings, and Changing Valences in Israel’s Kinship Terminology,” in Exploring the Longue Durée: Essays in Honor of Lawrence E. Stager (ed. D. S. Schloen; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009) 485–96. 30.  See esp. P.-E. Dion, “Deuteronomy 13: The Suppression of Alien Religious Propaganda in Israel during the Late Monarchical Era,” in Law and Ideology in Monarchic Israel (eds. B. Halpern and D. W. Hobson; JSOTSup 124; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991) 147–216; Ernest G. McClain, The Myth of Invariance: The Origins of the Gods, Mathematics and Music from the Ṛg Veda to Plato (ed. P. R. Heelan; York Beach, ME: Nicolas-Hays, 1976). 

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was directed against traditional conceptions of identity. One thinks not just of Nazism, or the more chaotic Stalinism, but of Reformation intolerance of icons, even of suppressing the sign of the cross among priestly orders in North America. The Josianic reform involves iconoclasm, and suppressing dedications to astral gods in Jerusalem and the temple, and desecrating altars and graves. The law code puts paid to the veneration of astral or ancestral immortals, 31 and to any sacrifice outside the Jerusalem temple. The world outside the remade temple is secularized, disenchanted. Talleyrand attempted likewise, without success, to ban Mass outside Paris in the Civil Constitution of the Clergy in 1791. The “alien” countryside tradition—which had once been the tradition of the capital—was to be suppressed. At the same time, the tradition of systematizing custom or law, so often attributed to the Persian era, really begins with the dispatch of a local priest back from Assyria to Israel (2 Kgs 17:24–28); Deuteronomy almost seems to have been inspired by what 2 Kgs 17 calls syncretism and aboriginal religion, and is accompanied by a revisionist codification of national history. In the same period, astronomy and other methods of divination had been undergoing systematization for a century. So in a sense, Ezra is in fact making a plea that the reformation of the seventh century had been abandoned. 32 But in every realm, we see the same critique: any symbol misrepresents what it symbolizes—Jeremiah goes on about the folly of relying on the Host of Heaven, on sacrifice, on cultic practices of various sorts, on the temple, on the ark, and even on the written traditions of JE. 33 The state was unencumbered by more traditional elements, by a native population outside the capital. It therefore socialized, or enacted, a rejection of tradition in public policy discourse. That is, it insisted on a pragmatic quality for that discourse—the mark of the “prophet like (Moses)” is that he is right, for example; if a prophet is wrong, he is not inspired (Deut 18:18–21). The rejection of tradition came along with secularization, thus, of public life, which implied a limited, rather than divinized, kingship, created by humans. 31.  Non-ancestral chthonic gods are also banished, by identification of the aborigines with Rephaim and the like, to be extirpated in the conquest. 32.  A study based on risk theory, especially the work of Avner Greif (and McClain, The Myth of Invariance), might better clarify the economics of reform and its relation to ideological formation, especially on a comparative basis. 33.  See B. Halpern, “The False Torah of Jeremiah 8 in the Context of Seventh Century b.c.e. Pseudepigraphy: The First Documented Rejection of Tradition,” in From Gods to God: The Dynamics of Iron Age Cosmologies (ed. M. J. Adams; FAT 63; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009) 132–41.

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So constitutionality, the rule of law, in this instance depended on a long development, involving a more rigidly hierarchical view of the world, intensified trade and, in addition, political conditions leading to that Weberian Entzauberung, now extending into cultural realms. This is why the Deuteronomistic History from Josiah’s era could treat sin and punishment virtually the way one could treat a vending machine. Coins in, stale product out. It is also the reason that the magic evaporated from the kingship itself. And it is why the magic had to be kept out: to keep any king in future from establishing personal charisma, to institutionalize leadership, to limit it, and to preserve, forever, the essence of the Reformation. Humans might interpret text, but they could no longer, for the first time, run roughshod over it (unlike the constituents of the Judges) or, indeed, fully exercise the latitude written in Samuel’s constitution in 1 Sam 10:25, reflecting 1 Sam 8:8–19. Only a single prophet, not anyone to whom the king chose to apply, could dictate policy, and only were he consistently correct in his analysis. Or, in the case of Huldah, hers—a particularly sharp maneuver. Israelite constitutional theory, in 1  Samuel, matched homologically with the idea of Judges, translated it to humanity: 1 Sam 8; 10:17–12:25

Judg 2:11–19

A) Samuel’s sons unworthy

B) threat from Ammon

1) elders propose a kingship

1a) people apostasize 1b) Yhwh oppresses them

2) the people pass the resolution 2) people beg succor 3) Yhwh nominates a king, by 3) Yhwh raises savior mantic means 4) the people elect the nominee 4) savior saves and rules to fight their battles 5) the king (who ideally in some way proves himself in the field) is entitled to a dynasty until he sins, and Yhwh rejects his offspring— that is, until there is a coup. Then Yhwh chooses another king. So Israel elects successive dynasties, like the United States Congress. (No wonder graft is an issue in Deut 17:14–20.) Samuel’s description of a king in 1  Sam 8 characterizes kings in peripheral states in the early period of Israel’s statehood. Israel’s kings were not strong enough to impose conformity on the territory they claimed. It is only in the eighth century, after the Damascene Era and the sub-

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sequent Greater Assyrian Co-Prosperity Zone had made an impact, that standardization of weights and measures and of pottery set in, reflecting economic integration and specialization. Earlier kings worked through lineage groups and maintained control by negotiation, as reflected in the lineage basis of administration reflected in the Samaria ostraca. With the transformations of the seventh century and Judah’s integration into an imperial trade network, theory changes just a little. The king can no longer be left unfettered to evaluate competing inducements to alliance. He must now be reined in internationally as well as domestically. The new elective autocracy had an institutional counterweight to authority. When the lineage structures, the kinship system, had been dismantled politically—by foreign and domestic politics—the rejection of tradition penetrated the farther reaches of society. In this, the role of the king was largely secularized and turned away from the cult. The king’s savior role was now translated to the eschaton. Generally, a renaissance requires intensive patriation of alien traditions, technological and cultural. The canon explodes. As international cultures converge, a Reformation reaffirms a core of local identity clothed in archaizing; it cuts the canon back to size, disaggregating “native” from foreign. It is also individuating—identity inheres not in the lineage, but in the person. And the embrace of personal identity defuses the old comforts of tribalism and looses the dynamic of entrepreneurialism. To fuel such an engine, local authority must yield to private resources: theoretically, executive authority must be made predictable. Hence a canon elite, and canon law, which lawyers, and especially self-righteous prosecutors, or Inquisitors, inevitably abuse. Reformations with teeth are inevitably Enlightenments as well (the Kronstadt revolt in Russia was an unfortunate victim to armed force). And in Judah, a god formerly intimately involved in daily causation is banished, in the book of Job and in apocalyptic, to the beginnings and ends of a Deist History—or, removed from History altogether in Ecclesiastes. The banishment of the gods, though, is only a symbolic form of the death of a polytheistic view of causation. Securing such a legacy is another matter altogether.

III. Deuteronomy caps the opening salvo of its formal law code (chap. 12), as well as beginning its theological manifesto (chap. 4), by invoking the principle that its commandments, being divine, should neither be added

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to nor subtracted from (4:2; 13:1). 34 Clearly, it requires supplementation and various civil applications, ideally to be derived from it (embezzlement, for example, as a form of theft), but also aside from it (tax adjudication, for example). Deuteronomy, as Josephus says, is a constitution. The point of a constitutional screed is to prevent any future reversal of revolution. Part and parcel of that institution is the limitation of the executive, including the independence of the cult, as in the lex de imperio Vespasiani, the sequestering of the judiciary, and a restriction on mantic arts. All these provisions together accomplish exactly what the injunction against amendment, and indeed, other (or new) gods does: in an era of cultural flux, of internationalism followed by nativism, in an era of ductile writing media, subject to erasure or even destruction (Jeremiah 36, especially v. 23), Deuteronomy sets its law into stone. 34. This same preface occurs in Deut 4:2, and see Jer 26:2; Prov 30:6, neither regarding law.

Prosperity and Kingship in Psalms and Inscriptions Mark W. Hamilton In modern politics, concern for national prosperity preoccupies leaders and profoundly shapes their communications with those they lead. For ancient rulers as well, the prosperity of subjects was a concern, albeit one that appears overtly only sporadically in surviving texts. Here I examine a group of ancient Near Eastern texts addressing the role of the crown in insuring the prosperity of subjects, as that role was portrayed in a set of texts from several cultures. Thus the focus lies upon rhetorical strategies by which ancient rulers depicted themselves—or were depicted by others—as the fount of wealth for their subjects. To begin, we know a great deal about both tribute gathering and gift giving in some ancient cultures (notably the Assyrian Empire), but just how the two were connected, and how they, in turn, pertain to rulers’ concerns with the prosperity of subjects, remains unclear. 1 Nor is it clear Author’s note: Peter Machinist models for many of us the scholar’s task of seeking knowledge amid rumor, clarity amid vagueness, and collegiality in the face of agonistic self-seeking. It is an honor to call him both teacher and friend and to dedicate this study to him. 1. See, for example, J. N. Postgate, Taxation and Conscription in the Assyrian Empire (Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1974) 200–204; M. Elat, “Phoenician Overland Trade within the Mesopotamian Empires,” in Ah, Assyria: . . . Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor (eds. M. Cogan and I. Ephʾal; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1991) 21–35. The situation has improved with the assembling of tax and grant documents in various SAA volumes, and with the important studies on tribute cited below. Still much remains to be done; but see F. M. Fales and J. N. Postgate, eds., Imperial Administrative Records, Part II: Provincial and Military Administration (SAA 11; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1995) xii–xviii, xxviii–xxix; D. S. Vanderhooft, “Babylonian Strategies of Imperial Control in the West: Royal Practice and Rhetoric,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period (eds. O. Lipschits and J. Blenkinsopp; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2003) 235–62, esp. 250; R. Byrne, “Early Assyrian Contacts with Arabs and the Impact on Levantine Vassal Tribute,” BASOR 331 (2003) 11–25. The practical impossibility of speaking about an ancient economy as distinct from society as a whole, a position for which

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what ancient royal concerns with national prosperity, as expressed in the various media of royal propaganda, might say about contemporaneous ideas about the intersection of human behaviors we would call economic, sociopolitical, and religious. Yet it is clear that to ignore the population’s need for material security was to court disaster, often understood as divine disfavor, however veiled the cutoff point between masterly inactivity and malign neglect. 2 The texts I consider here are, first, a set of inscriptions from several early first-millennium kingdoms and, second, what I take to be a monarchic era psalm from the Hebrew Bible. 3 Both reveal and obscure ways in which ancient Near Eastern rulers portrayed themselves as seeking to bring about material prosperity and to celebrate such accomplishments in the oral or written media available to them. The texts demonstrate how a trope of kingly self-presentation could serve either to explain actual practices and thus legitimate rule, as in many of the inscriptions under consideration, or to imagine an unreal but desirable situation and thus reorient legitimate rule, as in certain royal psalms of the Hebrew Bible. Such texts serve rulers’ pursuit of fame, as well as the approbation of the divine realm, in that the display of care for subjects endorses a positive view of the ruler and Kevin McGeough has argued astutely in regard to Late Bronze Age Ugarit (Exchange Relationships at Ugarit [Ancient Near Eastern Studies 26; Leuven: Peeters, 2007]), means that understanding the mechanisms for transferring goods and services within even a state as complex as Neo-Assyria and its successors would require careful attention to political and religious motivations for “economic” behaviors. (For this reason, I cannot agree with McGeough in following Weber’s argument that economics excludes military action and vice versa [ibid., 373].) 2.  Consider several examples: the book of Amos contains an elaborate network of oracles denouncing economic oppression by the aristocracy (and implicitly the monarchy, although Amos’s rhetorical strategy led him to reticence on that connection), which leads to divine wrath, including the ultimate impoverishment of the nation (Amos 2:6–16; 4:6–12). Other texts show that gift giving created a network of loyalty and obligation. See, for example, lines 266–82 of the so-called “Succession Treaty of Esarhaddon,” which assume royal benefaction to notables (at least) both as a norm and as an act creating a moral obligation on the part of the recipient; see the edition of K. Watanabe, Die adê-Vereidigung anlässlich der Thronfolgeregelung Asarhaddons (Baghdader Mitteilungen 3; Berlin: Mann, 1987). Admittedly, benefactions to subordinate rulers differ from those to ordinary subjects, but the chain of gift giving and receiving began at the center and moved outward and downward, forming a circular flow of goods with the system of tribute collection. See the broader issues addressed by the essays in H. Klinkott, S. Kubisch, and R. Müller-Wollermann, eds., Geschenke and Steuern, Zölle und Tribute: Antike Abgabenformen in Anspruch und Wirklichkeit (CHANE 29; Leiden: Brill, 2007). 3.  On the early dating of many psalms, see J. Day, “How Many Pre-exilic Psalms Are There?” in In Search of Pre-Exilic Israel (ed. J. Day; JSOTSup 406; London: Continuum, 2004) 224–50.

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of the elaborate network of deference and obedience of which the ruler is part, and which sustains the ruler’s claims concerning royal largesse. In addition to analysis of the texts in question, this study serves as a test of a widely argued thesis in biblical studies, namely, that the royal psalms functioned rhetorically much like inscriptions in other parts of the Levant. 4 If this thesis is valid, we should not be surprised to learn that a few of these psalms, like the inscriptions, show an interest in material prosperity, as in fact they do. The challenge is to identify the precise ways in which the texts in question talk about prosperity, how such talk fits into their larger rhetorical program, and what we might learn from such data about royal self-understandings and assumptions about subjects and their views.

Ginsberg and Miller Revisited To situate this study, it will be helpful to revisit briefly the earlier studies of Louis Ginsberg and Patrick Miller, and the more recent analyses of Avishur and Tomes, which bear on the thesis that biblical psalms function, rhetorically, like other ancient royal inscriptions. Ginsberg begins his suggestive 1945 essay with a reference to “North Semitic Eucharistic epigraphy,” specifically the Bir-Hadad Inscription (KAI 201 = TSSI 2.1). 5 He focuses on the text’s interest in announcing Hadad’s gracious act of listening to the praying king (‫“[ וׁשמע לקלה‬and he heard his voice”], lines 4–5) and the king’s grateful keeping of his vow (‫זי נזר לה‬, line 4). Ginsberg then cites examples of vowing in both biblical and Egyptian psalms, noting that “the object of both Egyptian and Hebrew [and, we might add, Aramaean!] psalms of acknowledgment was precisely publicity. . . .” 6 This publicity resulted in monumental epigraphs outside Israel, but primarily 4.  H. L. Ginsberg, “Psalms and Inscriptions of Petition and Acknowledgment,” in Louis Ginzberg Jubilee Volume: English Section (New York: American Academy for Jewish Research, 1945) 159–71; P. Miller, “Psalms and Inscriptions,” in Congress Volume Vienna 1980 (VTSup 32; ed. J. A. Emerton; Leiden: Brill, 1980) 311–32; Y. Avishur, “Studies of Stylistic Features Common to the Phoenician Inscriptions and the Bible,” UF 8 (1976) 1–22; idem, Phoenician Inscriptions and the Bible: Select Inscriptions and Studies in Stylistic and Literary Devices Common to the Phoenician Inscriptions and the Bible (Tel Aviv–Jaffa: Archaeological Center, 2000); R. Tomes, “I Have Written to the King, My Lord”: Secular Analogies for the Psalms (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2005); E. Otto, “The Judean Legitimation of Royal Rulers in Its Ancient Near Eastern Contexts,” in Psalms and Liturgy (eds. D. J. Human and C. J. A. Vos; LHBOTS 410; London: Continuum, 2004) 131–39; compare the study of narratives in the Bible and other ancient Near Eastern media in S. B. Parker, Stories in Scripture and Inscriptions: Comparative Studies on Narratives in Northwest Semitic Inscriptions and the Hebrew Bible (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997). 5.  Ginsberg, Psalms and Inscriptions,” 159ff. 6.  Ibid., 168; see also 164 n. 14.

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oral forms within Israel, although, as Ginsberg notes, written inscriptions honoring vows taken to elicit divine favor were probably not absent there. 7 This fairly uncontroversial assumption may find confirmation in the psalmic superscription ‫“( מכתם‬inscription”), which is applied to thanksgiving hymns (see Pss 16:1; 56:1; 57:1; 58:1; 59:1; 60:1). In three of these cases we find the injunction ‫“( אל תׁשחת‬you shall not destroy”), a rubric also appearing in inscriptions. Ginsberg concludes that the biblical writers “did not hesitate to attribute to the pious kings of Judah the practice so well attested for other nations of the Ancient Orient of setting up inscriptions of petition and acknowledgement.” 8 Thirty-five years later, Miller reviewed Ginsberg’s study, concentrating on the inscriptions from Khirbet el-Qôm (especially no. 3) and Khirbet Beit Lei (nos. 3 and 5). 9 The former closely resembles psalms of thanksgiving for deliverance, while the second, though more like Second Isaiah than the Psalms, loosely resembles the conclusions of laments; the third has parallels, again loose, throughout the Hebrew Bible, saliently with texts that speak of a foreign nation ridiculing Israel or its God. Miller, citing several parallels with Psalms (for example, Pss 8; 80; 106), locates these inscriptions in the prayer life of ancient Israel. Whereas Ginsberg could cite no Hebrew inscriptional evidence for his thesis, intervening discoveries allowed Miller to show that, in general, the language of communal worship (and thus the cult) penetrated at least some aspects of the more general culture. 10 7.  Ibid., 169. Ginsberg cites Isa 38:9 in defense of this argument. Note, however, that no Hebrew inscription containing the verb or noun ‫ =( נדר‬Aramaic ‫ )נזר‬has come to light (see the concordance in F. W. Dobbs-Allsopp, J. J. M. Roberts, C. L. Seow, and R. E. Whitaker, eds., Hebrew Inscriptions: Texts from the Biblical Period of the Monarchy with Concordance [New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005]). The fragment of a stele from Jerusalem offers a tantalizing glimpse at what must once have been a larger assemblage of such texts. See the handy collection in S. Ahituv, Echoes from the Past: Hebrew and Cognate Inscriptions from the Biblical Period (Jerusalem: Carta, 2008) especially 25–26; É. Puech, “L’ostracon de Khirbet Qeyafa et les débuts de la royauté en Israël,” RB 117 (2010) 162–84; but J. N. Tubb, “Editorial: Early Iron Age Judah in the Light of Recent Discoveries at Khirbet Qeiyafa,” PEQ 142 (2010) 1–2. 8.  Ginsberg, “Psalms and Inscriptions,” 171. 9.  Khirbet el-Qôm, lines 1–3: ‫אריהו העׂשר כתבה ברך אריהו ליהוה ומצריה לאׁשרתה‬ ‫הוׁשע לה‬: “Uriah the rich had it written. Blessed be Uriah by Yahweh, for/from his foes by/for the sake of his Asherah he has rescued him.” See the discussion in DobbsAllsopp et al., Hebrew Inscriptions, 408–14. Khirbet Beit Lei, no. 3: ‫ארר חרפך‬: “Cursed be the one who reproaches you.” No. 5: ‫ אני יהוה אליכה ארצה ערי יהדה וגאלתי ירׁשלם‬: “I am Yahweh your God. I will favor the cities of Judah, and I will redeem Jerusalem.” For the readings, see Dobbs-Allsopp et al., Hebrew Inscriptions, 127–30. 10.  Miller, “Psalms and Inscriptions,” 311–32

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Over the past three decades, Yitzhak Avishur has published several studies of the stylistic parallels (especially stock phrases) shared by the Bible and other ancient Near Eastern corpora. 11 These volumes provide handy lists of parallels among the various texts considered (as well as divergences and modifications or near parallels), as well as germane discussions of grammatical or syntactical issues. Avishur does not systematically raise questions of rhetorical construction in these texts (though his study of “style” does head in that direction). Still, his work demonstrates that the biblical writers worked in a surprisingly tightly knit literary environment. More recently still, Tomes has compared Psalms with what he calls “secular analogies.” Psalmic petitions, protestations of innocence or confession, descriptions of plight, appeal to the interest of the superior, direct reproaches, and expressions of dependence in prayers resemble those in letters, as he shows with numerous examples. It is possible, as Tomes argues, that the location of so many common elements in different genres indicates that the psalmists, too, came from many walks of life, not merely the temple establishment. 12 More likely, however, the phenomenon he catalogues arises from the porous boundaries between retainer classes such as the priesthood and scribal groups, as well as the extent to which the literate language infiltrated many aspects of life. 13 Before passing to the main topic of discussion, I would add a further piece of evidence in favor of commonalities between psalms and inscriptions. Ostracon 2 from Ḥorvat Uza dates to the second half of the seventh century b.c. Though fragmentary, it speaks of reversals of fortune. In particular, lines 7–8 refer to the turning away (‫ )נסע‬of “the weeping of your mourning” ( AS6: PDT 2 117 74: 3; Ontario 1 48: 10; Primo dell’alfabeto 17: 3; Š46 > AS3: BPOA 7 2671: 2; Š47 > AS1: AUCT 2 152: 5.

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the mother of Šu-Sin, who succeeded Amar-Sin. 43 Two of her brothers, Babati and Iddin-Dagan, and a sister, Bizua, also come into prominence, seemingly out of nowhere. 44 Recently published texts shed light on the children of Abi-simti. The administrative texts from Garšana, somewhere in the Umma province, are particularly helpful in this matter. 45 The town was run by Šu-Kabta, who was married to the princess Simat-Ištaran. On short seal inscriptions of subordinates the latter is described as “princess” (dumu munus lugal), 46 but in longer inscriptions she is described as sister (nin9) and “companion” (lukur) of both kings Šu-Sin and Ibbi-Sin. 47 Taken literally, this can only mean that Šu-Sin and Ibbi-Sin were brothers, half-brothers, or cousins. In Drehem texts from the time of Amar-Sin, as in some of the Garšana seal inscriptions, she is described as a princess, and this can mean that she was either the daughter of Šulgi or Amar-Sin. It is important to note that Simat-Ištaran, like many other members of her family, never appears before the time of Amar-Sin. 48 Šu-Sin also had a “sister” named Waqartum, attested in a document from the second year of his successor Ibbi-Sin. 49 We can put all of this information together to reconstruct the family of Abi-simti, but the matter is complicated by the fact that we have little understanding of early Mesopotamian kinship systems and terminology. There are examples of the term dumu, usually glossed as “son,” being used for grandchildren. Moreover, if Miguel Civil is right and the Sumerian kinship terminology 43. R. M. Whiting, “Tiš-atal of Nineveh and Babati, Uncle of Šu-Sin,” JCS 28 (1976) 173–82. 44. P. Michalowski, “Iddin-Dagan and his Family,” ZA 95 (2005) 65–76. 45.  D. I. Owen and R. H. Mayr, The Garshana Archive (CUSAS 3; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2007). 46.  Owen and Mayr, Garshana, seals 12a, 16a, and 61. 47.  Owen and Mayr, Garshana, seals 36, 47a, and 58a (Šu-Sin); seal 26b (IbbiSin). See already R. H. Mayr and D. I. Owen, “The Royal Gift Seals of the Ur III Empire,” in Von Sumer nach Ebla und zurück: Festschrift für Giovanni Pettinato zum 27. September 1999 gewidmet von Freunden, Kollegen und Schülern (ed. H. Waetzoldt; HSAO 9; Heidelberg: Heidelberger Orientverlag, 2004) 155 n. 53. 48. First reference is in AS1.1.18 (RA 7 188: 2); see M. Such-Gutierrez, “Die Prinzessin Me-Ištaran,” AuOr 19 (2001) 87–99, published before the appearance of the Garšana material. 49. J. Klein and O. Brenner, “Sundry Early Mesopotamian Artifacts with Votive Inscriptions from a Private Collection,” forthcoming, will publish an Umma tablet (IS2) imprinted with a seal with an inscription dedicated to Šu-Sin in which the owner is described as his sister (nin9-a-ni). Note that on a seal of a retainer named Šulgi-ili, the same woman is described as a princess (Frayne, Ur III Period, 183). I am grateful to Jacob Klein for sharing the draft of his article with me.

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belongs to the Hawaiian type, then sibling terms would refer to all kin in a given generation, so that words such as šeš or nin9 would mean “cousin,” as well as “brother” and “sister.” 50 Keeping this in mind, the simplest reconstruction might look like this: Šulgi/Amar-Sin ~ Abi-simti – Iddin-Dagan – Babati – Bizua . . . Šu-Sin – Ibbi-Sin – Simat-Ištaran – Waqartum . . .

The two sons of Abi-simti would follow Amar-Sin on the throne and they are the only two members of this family who appear in the record prior to the latter’s accession. Important information is found in a Drehem text that lists deliveries from varous sources, mostly military, in the sixth month of Šulgi’s forty-third year, and includes a section that reads (ll. 18–23): 51 1 s i l a4 i - bí - den. zu 1 m áš š u- den. zu 1 maš - d a z a b ar- d ab5 1 m áš l ú - g i škim- zi- d a 2 g u d 42 u d u 18 máš š u - de n- l í l 1 lamb from Ibbi-Sin, 1 goat from Šu-Sin, 1 from the zabardab official, 1 goat from Lu-giškimzida, 2 bulls, 42 sheep, and 18 goats from Šu-Enlil.

All the people in this section are well attested, with the exception of Lugiškimzida, who is listed two more times in Drehem texts, but whose identity is unknown. 52 The zabardab was a very high officer, often designated as the highest cultic official in the polity, but also someone with elevated administrative and military authority, while Šu-Enlil is the well-known warrior prince. The listing, side-by-side, of Ibbi-Sin and Šu-Sin, in this company, only makes sense if they are taken as the two future kings of Ur. There is a possible appearance of Šu-Sin 17 years earlier or so in a long account of gifts and tableware issued for a drinking party of the king, queen, courtiers, and elites that may have to be dated as early as Š26, that is, 31 years before he took the crown of Ur. 53 The name Šu-Sin (rev. iii 1), 50. M. Civil, “Lexicography,” in Sumerological Studies in Honor of Thorkild Jacobsen (ed. S. J. Lieberman; AS 20; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1975) 142. 51.  Ontario 1 20 (Š43.6.-). 52.  Ontario 1 21: 89 (Š46.7.3) and MVN 18 150: 3 (Š47.6.20) in elite administrative and military company. 53. Phillips 13, now in the Gratianusstiftung, available online but to be edited properly in a forthcoming study by Konrad Volk. The dating referenced here has been recently proposed by P. Paoletti, Der König und sein Kreis: Das staatliche Schatzar-

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without any designation, appears in a section of very high religious dignitaries, most, if not all, appointed from the ranks of the royal family. These include: the high priests and priestesses (en) of Nanna, Inana, and Enki, Tulid-Šamši, who is otherwise known to have been an er eš dingir priestess of Sin, followed by two individuals, Šituli and Šata-saga, the latter probably a princess and future consort of Šu-Sin. 54 Still the matter remains difficult. The name Šu-Sin is attested in various Drehem documents from the time of Šulgi, sometimes in military contexts, and thus it is impossible to know if any of these attestations reference the future ruler. There was also a steward by this name. 55 On the face of it, Šu-Enlil is the most important among these persons, and the most obvious choice for crown prince, if such a category existed at the time. He is first documented as a prince in Š41, and during the ensuing years he seems to have led the army in major eastern campaigns on behalf of King Šulgi. 56 At one time his official post was that of general of Uruk, according to an incompletely preserved seal impression on an undated bulla. The name was formerly read as Šu-Sin, and I was one of those guilty of this misreading, but Walther Sallaberger has convincingly restored it as Šu-Enlil. 57 Whatever the general’s future career plans may have been, they were cut short some time during the last two months of his father’s last year, that is, right around the time of the king’s death. A delivery in his name is registered on the tenth day of the fifth (“tenth”) month, 58 but a few weeks later he is either dead or removed from any position of power, never to be heard of again. Evidence for this comes from a partially destroyed account of animals delivered to Nasa in Drehem during the last two months of Šulgi’s last year. 59 Nasa’s complicated account includes animals from the estates (nig2gur11) of four persons: a high military officer Šulgi-kalama-metebi, a lower chiv der III. Dynastie von Ur (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 2012) 321, with a preliminary discussion of the text. 54.  This will be discussed in Audrey Pitts’s doctoral thesis on the Ur III royal family. 55.  TRU 294: 8 (Š46.3.27) and probably MVN 13 113: 6 (Š47.5.8). 56.  Nisaba 8 386: 9 (Š 41.8.-). On Šu-Enlil, see J. Boese and W. Sallaberger, “Apilkīn von Mari und die Könige der III. Dynastie von Ur,” AoF 23 (1996) 37. 57.  Ibid., 37. The seal on BRM 3 52, dedicated to Šulgi, belonged to š u - de[ n- l i l2], general of Uruk, his son. I am grateful to Elisabeth Payne for her personal collation of the seal inscription and for a photograph; the first sign in the name is definitely š u. C. Keiser’s copy shows most of the en sign, but it is now almost all gone. Note that the governorship of Uruk was previously held by still another of Šulgi’s sons, namely Šarrum-ili (Paoletti, Der König, 320). 58.  NYPL 240: 7 (Š48.10.10). 59.  Nisaba 24 22 (48.12), covering months “11” and “12,” that is 6 and 7.

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officer (ra2-gaba) by the name of Puzur-Eštar, Šu-Enlil, and his mother. 60 The prince evidently had animal pens in Drehem, Nippur, Babylon, Isin, and Uruk. The procession of numbers and animal names avoids any mention of the circumstances that led to the deliveries. Was a battle lost, resulting in the death of three officers, one of whom was the king’s son, or was a military outpost overrun by highland enemies, who killed the women as well as the men? These are good possibilities to entertain, but calculations suggest that Šu-Enlil left the stage just about the same time as his father, and this is just too great a coincidence. Even more telling is the unique mention of his mother, whose estate animals are also part of this document. It is tempting to ascribe these animals to the account of Šulgisimti or Geme-Ninlila, but whoever this woman might have been, she was definitely not Abi-simti, and therefore Šu-Enlil must have been the son of a different queen than the one who begat Šu-Sin and Ibbi-Sin. Caution in all these matters is prudent, however. There is a prince ŠuEnlil who appears at least twice after the time of Šulgi: in Amar-Sin’s seventh and ninth years. 61 David Owen privately informs me: “A Šu-Enlil is a frequent royal messenger going to and from Der as late as IS 2 and receives high rations in keeping with his status, presumably as a dumulugal but never stated.” There are, to be sure, numerous references to people named Šu-Enlil in documents from Drehem, Girsu, and Umma, but most of them can be identified as scribes or messengers of different sorts (sukkal, l u2-kas4) and not as a prince. The last time such a prince makes an appearance in the record, in Ibbi-Sin’s second year, is 20 years after the é-dul-la of Šu-Enlil, son of Šulgi. I am working here with the assumption that the prince by that name who is registered in texts from Amar-Sin’s time is a different royal son, but one cannot rule out the possibility that the two are indeed one and the same and that the man was moved to a different position at the time of Šulgi’s death. 62 It is difficult to identify Ibbi-Sin, the future king in administrative records, from the time of his youth. During the reigns of Šulgi and Amar-Sin there were a number of people by that name: (a) a herdsman; (b) a mayor; 60.  The summary of the account characterizes everything as é - d u l - l a; on this term see K. Maekawa, “Confiscation of Private Properties in the Ur III Period: A Study of é dul-la and níg-GA,” ASJ 18 (1996) 103–68; W. Heimpel, “Disposition of Officials in Ur III and Mari,” ASJ 19 (1997) 63–82; M. Stępień, “The Economic Status of Governors in Ur III Times: An Example of the Governor of Umma,” JCS 64 (2012) 142–46. 61.  AUCT 1 712 (AS7.7.12) from Umma and Nisaba 15/2 144 (AS9.1.4?) from Al-Šarraki. 62.  This would reflect W. Heimpel’s idea that the texts did not refer to confiscation of property; see his “Disposition of Officials in Ur III and Mari,” ASJ 19 (1997) 63–82.

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(c) an official who was involved with birds who appears in the Šulgi-simti archive; (d) another official who was involved in the control of metals in Ur; (e) a “courier to the east” (gaba-aš); and (f) a military officer in the rank of “captain” (nu-banda3). 63 None of them appear in texts from the time of Šu-Sin, when the only attested individuals by that name are a “judge” 64 and a bodyguard/soldier. 65 Two sets of data from the reign of Ibbi-Sin complicate matters considerably. First, there are six texts from his reign, from Drehem and Ur, that mention Šulgi-simti who had presumably been dead for 18 years or so. Ozaki Tohru is of the opinion that these documents pertain to offerings for the dead queen; a reasonable assumption, but nevertheless one that requires explanation. 66 Second, there is an account from Ur, from Ibbi-Sin’s eighth year, that mentions the mother of the king in a broken passage. 67 The original tablet is in Baghdad and cannot be collated at present, so we can only rely on the published hand copy, which seems to read (ll. 8–9): ⸢ku⸣- ba-[tum], ama lugal-⸢šè⸣. 68 If correct, then Ibbi-Sin would be the son of Šu-Sin and much of the preceding analysis would be voided. But the restoration of Kubatum’s name is far from secure, and it is also possible to read different personal names in this line, for example ⸢šu⸣-ma-[ma]. In that case, the animals were disbursed for the “king’s 63.  Only first and last occurrence are listed; all texts from Drehem unless otherwise indicated: (a) MVN 8 101: 3 (Š33.12.-); (b) Umma: BPOA 6 1260: 6 (Š34.-.-); (c) BIN 3 363: 2 (Š40.6.5), SET 7: 9 (Š42.2.24); (d) Ur: UET 3 314: 3 (Š44.6.-), UET 9 366: 4 (AS7.3.-); (e) Umma: UTI 3 2006: 4 (AS8.4.14); (f) title mentioned in MVN 11 145: 6 (Š47.11.18) and OIP 121 89: 11(AS5.5.7). The same person, without title, is also probably in Nik. 2 481: rev. i 27 (Š35.12.-); Ontario 1 20: 18 (Š43.6.-); OIP 115 174: ii 7 (Š44.6+.-); OIP 181: 5 (Š45.10.28); OrAnt 11 274 2: 5 (Š47.5.30). 64.  RA 49 86 2: 8 (ŠS2.10.29). 65.  Nisaba 3/1213: 12 (ŠS4.8.14); for the term k a- ú s - s á as an Umma writing, mainly from the time of Šu-Sin of àga-ús, see B. Lafont, “The Army of the Kings of Ur: The Textual Evidence,” CDLJ (2009) 5, 10. 66. O. Tohru, “Divine Statues in the Ur III Kingdom and Their ‘Ka Du8-Ha’ Ceremony,” in On the Third Dynasty of Ur: Studies in Honor of Marcel Sigrist (ed. P. Michalowski; JCS Supp. 1; Boston: American Schools of Oriental Research, 2008) 220 with a list in n. 13. The earliest text, AUCT 2 489, must be from month ten of ŠS9, when Šu-Sin was already dead. T. Gomi, “Shulgi-simti,” 9, cited these texts, as well as TCS 186: 7 (AS7.11.28) as evidence that Šulgi-simti lived on, possibly “retired from the political and religious world.” It turns out, however, that this supposition was based on a faulty copy, as the personal name in this text, now properly published as Torino 1 363, is Šulgi-urumu, not Šulgi-simti. 67.  UET 3 1242 (IS8.3.-). 68.  Thus P. Steinkeller, “More on Ur III Royal Wives,” ASJ 3 (1981) 80; O. Tohru, “Divine Statues,” 220. Weiershäuser (Die königlichen Frauen, 157) reserves judgment on this reading.

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mother,” who may well have been none other than the dead, but now newly revered Šulgi-simti. If this were indeed the case, it would confirm the hypothesis that the children of that queen were shunted aside at the death of Šulgi in favor of the family of Abi-simti. If this was indeed a coup d’état, it was not excessively violent and some accommodation was reached with the other side, that is, with the sons of Šulgi-simti, and the dead ruler was commemorated as if Amar-Sin were his true heir, but both Šu-Sin and Ibbi-Sin, when they took over the throne, reversed some of the policies of the usurper, culminating with the institutionalized commemoration of their mothers. There is only one reasonable explanation for all of this: the mother of Šu-Sin was Abi-simti, but Šulgi-simti was the mother of Ibbi-Sin, Šu-Enlil, and possibly of Ur-Sin. If this analysis holds, then Ibbi-Sin’s assumption of the throne appears to be unexpected. Why would a child of Šulgi-simti rise out of obscurity after 18 years of rule by another branch of the royal family? It is noteworthy, in this context, that Abi-simti and Babati, Šu-Sin’s mother and uncle, as well as the crown(?) prince Ahuni, who was the general in charge of Der under Šu-Sin, all die or disappear at roughly the same time, although the queen’s sister Bizua remains at court for the first two years of Ibbi-Sin’s reign. 69 I suspect that we are dealing here with a combination of nature and politics: old age or disease may have taken some of these people, and then the still potent but politically latent other family faction took advantage of the situation and Šulgi-simti’s son Ibbi-Sin was able to take over the monarchy.

The Father of Three Princes: Šu-Enlil, Ur-Sin, and Šu-Sin Analysis of archival material leads to the conclusion that the three princes had at least two different mothers. It is more difficult to establish who was their father, but four pieces of evidence suggest that it was Šulgi. Šu-Enlil’s seal inscription settles the matter for one of the three. As far as the other two are concerned, the only contemporary source pointing in that direction is the unusual Ur III personal name Šulgi-walid-ŠuSin, “Šulgi, begetter of Šu-Sin.” 70 The other two are from literary sources preserved in manuscripts written centuries later. In a literary letter from Šu-Sin to an officer named Šarrum-bani, the king refers to Šulgi as his father; 71 the same information is embedded in a hymnic poem, where he is 69. P. Michalowski, “Iddin-Dagan and his Family,” ZA 95 (2005) 70; on Ahuni, see below. 70.  D. I. Owen, “On the Patronymy of Shu-Suen,” NABU (2000) 90. 71.  Letter of Šu-Sin to Šarrum-bani 1: 28 (lugal- < m u >), known from only one deficient source; see Michalowski, Correspondence, 409–10.

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addressed as “My son of Šulgi.” 72 If this information is valid, then all three men were the sons of Šulgi from at least two different wives, but only ŠuEnlil was designated as a prince while his father was alive; Ibbi-Sin never carried the title, and the first time that Šu-Sin is described in this manner is in documents dating from the very beginning of Amar-Sin’s reign. 73 To put all of this into proper perspective we must investigate the career of still another warrior prince, who was officially stationed in Uruk, the home of the royal family, and simultaneously at the strategic city of Der in the eastern highlands. This is where the bears come in.

Ur-Sin and Šu-Sin: Military Governors of Uruk and Der In 1977, I wrote a study on the men who controlled the cities of Uruk and Durum in Ur III times in which I made an argument for reading the city name BÀD.ANki as Durum in the alluvium and as Der close to the present-day border with Iran. 74 In 2006, P. Verkinderen revisited the matter and demonstrated conclusively that all Ur III occurrences of BÀD. ANki had to refer to highland Der, and not to Durum in the southern alluvium. 75 He pointed to the deliveries of equids from this city as indicative of its location, and in this too he is undoubtedly correct. Der was also the source of various other kinds of animals that typically come from the highlands, including the still unidentified wild animal labeled habum. 76 The equids from this city are all designated as anšekúnga. 77 The identification of this animal has been a matter of some 72. Šu-Sin Hymn B, last edited by Y. Sefati, Love Songs in Sumerian Literature: Critical Edition of the Dumuzi-Inanna Songs (Ramat-Gan: Samuel N. Kramer Institute of Assyriology, 1998) 344–52. 73.  RA 62 8 11: 6 (AS1.1.-), and NATN 825: 4 (AS1.1.20). 74.  Michalowski, “Uruk and Durum.” 75. P. Verkinderen, “Les toponymes bàdki et b à d. anki,” Akkadica 127 (2006) 109–16. On Ištaran, the titular god of the city see, most recently, C. E. Woods, “The Sun-God Tablet of Nabû-apla-iddina Revisited,” JCS 56 (2004) 23–103. 76. W. Yuhong, “The Anonymous Nasa and Nasa of the Animal Center during Šulgi 44–48 and the Wild Camel (gú-gur5), Hunchbacked Ox (g u r8- g u r8), u b i, habum and the Confusion of the Deer (lulim) with a Donkey (a n š e) or š e g9,” JAC 25 (2010) 1–20. I have not been able to trace any Afro-Asiatic etymology for this animal name. M. Civil notes (“Bilingualism in Logographically Written Languages: Sumerian in Ebla,” in Il Bilinguismo a Ebla: atti del convegno internazionale (Napoli, 19–22 aprile, 1982) [ed. L. Cagni; Naples: Istituto universitario orientale, 1982] 92) the listing of en-bu3 and u9-b u3-um in lexical texts from Ebla, noting that it is “a foreign(?) word; cf. possibly Ur III ḫa-bu-um (CAD ḫabû B).” Å. W. Sjöberg, “The Ebla List of Animals MEE 4, no. 116,” WO 27 (1996) 22–23, rejects the connection without indicating his reasons. 77.  BIN 3 497: 1–4 (Š45.6.-); CST 121: 1–3 (Š46.7.-); NYPL 228: 1–4 (Š46.7.9) –same delivery; BIN 3 419: 1–5 (AS1.5.-); Nik. 2 478: 1–4 (AS1.8.-); Nisaba 8 69:

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controversy in the past, but it is now certain that they must be a donkeyonager hybrid. These animals were used to pull wagons and for riding and, as Stephen Lieberman, for one, pointed out years ago, onagers simply cannot be tamed for such purposes. 78 In Ur III they are attested in texts from Drehem, Umma, Girsu, Ur, and Garšana; in addition, as David Owen kindly informs me, they are now documented in over 100 accounts from Al-Šarraki. In third-millennium Syria these animals were prized in Mari and Ebla, apparently bred in the area around Nagar (Tell Brak). 79 Ritual interments of such equids were discovered at Umm el-Marra in Syria and the osteological analysis performed by Jill Weber confirms that they were donkey-onager hybrids. 80 In the Drehem records deliveries of donkey hybrids come from various eastern sources and are not limited to Der. Ešnunna seems to have been an important transit point for the donkey-onager hybrids, 81 as was Išim-Šulgi, likewise in the Diyala valley, 82 Hamazi, 83 and various places controlled by high military officers stationed in the frontier. These hybrids and other animals came to the alluvium from or through Der, but as far as the Drehem administration was concerned, this city specialized in the delivery of bear cubs. Other places sporadically delivered such animals and they came 1–3 (AS1.8.-)—same delivery; Nesbit 53: 1′–3′ (time of AS, to be published by D. I. Owen). 78. S. J. Lieberman, “An Ur III Text from Drēhem Recording ‘Booty from the Land of Mardu’,” JCS 22 (1968–69) 54. Lieberman claimed that the Sumerian word for “onager” was dúsu, now generally identified as the donkey. 79. J. Oates, T. Molleson, and A. Sołtysiak, “Equids and an Acrobat: Closure Rituals at Tell Brak,” Antiquity 82 (2008) 390–400. 80.  On the burials there see, most recently, G. M. Schwartz et al., “From Urban Origins to Imperial Integration in Western Syria: Umm el-Marra 2006, 2008,” AJA 116 (2012) 157–93. On the equid remains, see J. E. Weber, “Elite Equids: Redefining Equid Burials of the Mid-to Late 3rd Millennium bc from Umm el-Marra, Syria,” in Archaeozoology of the Near East VIII: Actes des huitièmes Rencontres internationales d’archéozoologie de l’Asie du sud-ouest et des régions adjacentes, Lyon, 28 juin–1er juillet 2006 (eds. E. Vila et al.; 2 vols.; Lyon: Maison de l’Orient et de la Méditerranée, 2008) 1:499–516; C. Michel, “The perdum-mule, a Mount for Distinguished Persons in Mesopotamia during the First Half of the Second Millennium bc,” in PECUS: Man and Animal in Antiquity. Proceedings of the Conference at the Swedish Institute in Rome, September 9–12, 2002 (ed. B. S. Frizell; Rome: The Swedish Institute in Rome, 2004) 190–200. On the various equids of Near Eastern antiquity, see W. Nagel, J. Bollweg, and E. Strommenger, “Der ‘onager’ in der Antike und die Herkunft der Hausesels,” AoF 26 (1999) 154–202. 81.  RA 9 41 SA 8: 1–3 (Š44.4.-); Princeton 1 51: 1–3 (Š 44.4.-)—same delivery; OIP 115 331: 1–4 (Š47.4.-); PDT 1 580: 18–23 (AS3.3.-). 82.  AUCT 2 281: 1–3 (Š48.8.-) 83.  AUCT 1 798: 1–3 (AS1.9.-); MVN 3 217: 1–2 (AS1.9.-)—same delivery.

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occasionally as special gifts from Simanum in Syria and from Kimaš and Harši, which lay deeper in the eastern highlands. 84 The animals named az in the Sumerian language must be identified as the Syrian Brown Bear (Ursus arctus syriacus), blond-coated brown bears that were common in mountain regions of the Near East in antiquity, but are now almost extinct in much of the area. 85 These animals clearly fascinated humans from early on and representations of bears have been found in fourth- and third-millennium levels in archaeological sites in Syria, Mesopotamia, and Iran. 86 Brown bears are solitary creatures, except for mothers with cubs; they hibernate in the winter and then mate between May and July, producing one to four cubs each year. There are more than 100 references to bear cubs in Drehem documents. As a rule, they were delivered during the tenth, eleventh, twelfth, or first month of the year, most commonly one or two at a time. 87 The documentation begins in Šulgi’s 43rd year and for the rest of his reign the delivery chain begins with Ur-Sin, whose conveyances are generally characterized as a “royal delivery” (mu-kux[DU] lugal). The information contained in the texts is dry and laconic; one of the earliest of these deliveries reads as follows: 88 1. 1 am ar az 2. u r- den. z u d u m u lu g al 3. m u - k ux (DU) 4. it i ez e n an-n a 84.  From ruler of Simanum: MVN 13 710 (Š45/AS6.12.24); Kimaš: OIP 115 273 (Š47.2.15); ruler of Harši: TRU 30: 3 (Š46.1.13); MVN 3 338: 7–8 (ŠS1.9.6). On the location of the last two places see now P. Steinkeller, “Puzur-Inšušinak at Susa: A Pivotal Episode of Early Elamite History Reconsidered,” in press; he notes the association of bears with Der, Kimaš, and Harši on p. 306 n 77. 85.  See B. Gutleb and H. Ziaie, “On the Distribution and Status of the Brown Bear, Ursus arctos; and the Asiatic Black Bear, U. thibetanus, in Iran,” Zoology in the Middle East 18 (1999) 5–8; S. Calvignac, S. Hughes, and C. Hänni, “Genetic Diversity of Endangered Brown Bear (Ursus arctos) Populations at the Crossroads of Europe, Asia and Africa,” Diversity Distributions 15 (2009) 742–50; John Davison et al., “Late-Quaternary Biogeographic Scenarios for the Brown Bear (Ursus arctos), a Wild Mammal Model Species,” Quaternary Science Reviews 30 (2011) 418–30. The last two articles stress the complexities of the brown bear’s genetic history and distribution. 86. H. Pittman, “Bears at Brak,” in Of Pots and Plans: Papers on the Archaeology and History of Mesopotamia and Syria Presented to David Oates in Honour of His 75th Birthday (eds. L. al-Gailani Werr et al.; London: NABU Publications, 2002). 87.  The outlier is SumTempDocs 1, which refers to the delivery of 21 bear cubs, without specifying any source. The text was badly copied and cannot be presently located; I strongly suspect that collation would reveal that the number was only 1. 88. E. Dhorme, “Tablettes de Dréhem à Jérusalem,” RA 9 (1912) 41 AM 1.

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5. m u s i -mu -r u - u m ù lu - lu - b uki a-r á 10 lá 1-kam-aš ba-hul l.ed. u4 23- k a m One bear cub (from the account of) prince Ur-Sin; (royal) delivery, “Month of the Festival of the god An” (=10), the year “Simurum and Lullubum were Defeated for the Ninth Time” (= Šulgi year 44), day 24.

The animals are registered in the office of Nasa and then taken over by one Ahuni, with Ennum-ili acting as facilitator (gìr); others went straight to an institution named Euzga, with still uncertain function. Unfortunately, it seems that some of the poor animals died and were transferred from Ennum-ili or Lu-dingira to Ur-nigar, and later to Šulgi-urumu; in two texts the dead bear cubs are dispatched to a storehouse, but what happened there is not recorded. 89 It is not clear if they were served as a delicacy to humans, 90 but unlike the equids that were old or did not do well during the trip to the alluvium, they were not fed to dogs and lions. Those in good shape were handed over by Ennum-ili to the entertainers; primarily the udatuš, “jester” or “comic entertainer,” who apparently used trained bears in his act. 91 The professional designations of other recipients are not mentioned, as a rule, but one text specifies that the cubs went to a different Ur-nigar, who was a musician (nar). 92 This is not the place for a full discussion of the matter, but this is yet one more reason not to translate the word nar narrowly as “singer”; “musical entertainer” is perhaps the best label for this term. A tabulation of attested bear cub deliveries in the name of Ur-Sin appears in Table 1 of Appendix A below. But who precisely was this Ur-Sin, who sent bear cubs back to the homeland? One of the typical bear cub conveyances is explicit on this point: in CDLJ 2008 2 no. 1 (Š44.10.3) he is described as a “prince” and one of his equid deliveries is specified as coming from Der (NYPL 228, 89.  TRU 311, 360. 90. Lance Allred notes that wild animals such as bears and gazelles are almost never sent to the “kitchens” (emuhaldim), but end up in the Euzga, which also employed “cooks” (muhaldim; Cooks and Kitchens: Centralized Food Production in Late Third Millennium Mesopotamia [Ph.D. diss., The Johns Hopkins University, 2006] 72 n. 151); perhaps they were occasionally eaten after all as a smoked meat, but only by elites (on different interpretations of Euzga, perhaps the “smokehouse,” see Allred p. 77 with n. 161). If so, the administrative term ba- u g7 should be understood not only as “dead” but also as “slaughtered.” 91.  TRU 45; CST 24; CST 494 (u r-n igar n ar); MVN 11 209; SACT 1 23 (received by Dada gala); MVN 3 329; Nisaba 8 201, MVN 3 225. Bears are the only animals destined for such entertainment (nam-u4-d a- t u š - š è). 92.  CST 494: 4.

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Š46.7.9). 93 Three seal inscriptions of his underlings, two of them known from tablets that were written towards the very end of his tenure, spell out his titles with more detail as general of Uruk and Der. The first belonged to Ur-Enki, a “city elder” (abba ur u), who impressed it on an undated letter order (BIN 5 316). The second was rolled by one Mašum on a tablet dated to the first month of Amar-Sin’s reign, 94 and the third was in the name of the messenger (rá-gaba) Riṣ-ili. 95 The date of the last document is uncertain because the tablet remains unpublished. V. Scheil, who only provided a description of the tablet, reported that it was written in Šulgi’s last year. According to his report, it is a record of a donation of one sheep and one goat for Inana, Nannaja, Ninsun, and the Egipar, authorized (presumably gìr) by Abi-simti, while the messenger Riṣ-ili, whose seal is on the tablet, served as maškim, and the receiving official was Nasa. Such offerings, as well as the figures of Abisimti and Riṣ-ili, are presently only known from documents dated to the reign of Amar-Sin and Šu-Sin. Nasa was the main official at Drehem during the time of Šulgi, but he is still attested until the tenth month of AmarSin’s first year, when Nasa’s son Abba-saga replaced him. Until the original tablet is located, one can only speculate, but there is a good chance that it was dated to AS1. In conclusion, all indications are that Ur-Sin was active at Der until early in the last month of Šulgi’s reign, as is documented in Table 1, below. One small set of texts, however, stands out in the preserved evidence. Four accounts, three from Drehem and one possibly from Nippur, record expenditures for a royal ceremony in the temple of Ninlil on consecutive days in the second month of Š47, that is approximately a year and a half before Šulgi’s demise and the disappearance of Prince Ur-Sin from the documentary record. These texts all account for offerings made to various deities as well as sacred implements, such as the drum in the Ninlil shrine in Nippur, and included among them is a divine Ur-Sin, always in the company of another deity, Enlilazi. This is not the son of Šulgi, but a homonymous minor deity who, according to later tradition, was the “herald 93.  The earliest reference to a prince by that name is MVN 10 149: ii 3, rev. i 13 (Š34.8.-, Girsu), ten years earlier. It is not at all clear that this is the same person; note that there is an ur-den.zu dumu lugal àga-ús én s i in an undated Girsu account (AuOr 16 205 17: 11, courtesy of Audrey Pitts). 94. V. Scheil, “Cylindres et legendes inedits,” RA 13 (1916) 21 no. 8 (RIM E3/2.1.2.97 = TSDU 72), AS1.1.- . 95. V. Scheil, “Cylindres,” 20 no. 7 (RIM E3/2.1.2.95).

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of the Outer Shrine.” 96 This divine Ur-Sin is listed in the Old Babylonian “de Genouillac” and “Isin” god lists, in the later An=Anum, but not in the Nippur God List, nor, as far as I can determine, in the commonly used school Weidner list. 97 Bear cubs and a cylinder seal help us trace Ur-Sin’s successor as the general of Der. Already in the eleventh month of Amar-Sin’s second year, the animals are delivered from the prince Šu-Sin (MVN 8 123: 3, AS2.11.16). He continues to do so until sometime towards the end of AS 6 (Trouvaille 13, AS6.10.27). But other evidence suggests that he was assigned to Der earlier. In the first month of Amar-Sin’s first year he is assigned a set of nine female donkeys with three suckling ponies from “Amorite booty,” possibly for breeding kunga hybrids, 98 and in the first year of the new king’s reign he is responsible for dispatching a herd of sheep and goats from Der. 99 A seal of one of his retainers rolled on a receipt dated AS9.3.- is dedicated to Šu-Sin, general of Der. 100 Bear deliveries of this prince are tabulated in Table 2 of Appendix A below. Two sets of texts suggest that during the limited season for bear cubs, the deliveries, or perhaps registrations at Drehem, took place almost daily. A large account published by Marcel Sigrist lists almost daily deliveries that include bear cubs from Šu-Sin on the 16th, 18th, 21st, 22nd, 23rd, 26th, and 30th days, but goats, sheep and a stag on the 6th and 9th days. 101 The entries for days 16 and 18 are also documented on separate receipts (MVN 8 123 and OIP 121 130). Similarly, MVN 11 182 lists deliveries al  96.  ni mgi r èš-b ar-ra-ke4 = dšu-ma na-gi-ir a-ḫat É (CLAM 274, e- l u m g u d s ún-e c+144 [OB]); An = Anum I 192 (R. L. Litke, A Reconstruction of the AssyroBabylonian God-Lists, AN: A-nu-um and AN: Anu šá amēli [TCB 3; New Haven: Yale Babylonian Collection, 1998] 42), with reference to earlier comments by B. Landsberger and T. Jacobsen. For an alternative interpretation, see W. Yuhong and W. Junna, “The Identifications of Šulgi-simti, Wife of Šulgi, with Abi-simti, Mother of Amar-Sin and Šu-Sin, and of Ur-Sin, the Crown Prince, with Amar-Sin,” JAC 27 (2012) 1–27. This article, which appeared when this article was in press, paints a very different picture of the Ur III succession than the one presented here.   97.  TCL 15 10 56; C. Wilcke, “Die Inschriftenfunde der 7. und 8. Kampagne (1983–1984),” in Isin-Išān Baḥrīyāt III: Die Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen, 1983–1984 (ed. B. Hrouda; Munich: Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1987) 87, both with Enlilazi.   98.  RA 62 8 11 9 (AS1.1.-).   99.  MVN 15 15: 1–4 (AS1.3.-). 100.  Mesopotamia 12 92 A. 101. M. Sigrist, “Livraisons et dépenses royales durant la Troisième Dynastie d’Ur,” in Ki Baruch Hu: Ancient Near Eastern, Biblical, and Judaic Studies in Honor of Baruch A. Levine (eds. R. Chazan et al.; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1999) 127. These deliveries add up to 14 animals, but the summary notes 17, so 3 are missing.

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most day by day, from the tenth month of AS4. The tablet is incompletely preserved, but in the extant parts Šu-Sin delivers bear cubs on the 12th, 13th, and 20th days. The entry for day 13 is also registered separately in AUCT 1 944. Sometime towards the end of AS6 or soon thereafter, Šu-Sin left his post in Der. Deliveries of the cubs continue on a regular basis, but without Šu-Sin’s participation. After this, a bevy of officials are responsible for the bears: Ur-Ištaran (AUCT 1 311: 1–3, AS8.10.8), Babada-nirgal, Lugalhamati (MVN 3 348, AS8.10.-), Papanšen (DoCu EPHE 237, AS9.11.-), and then, once Šu-Sin became king, his old post at Der was handed over to still another prince by the name of Ahuni. Ahuni was an important member of the royal family, and like so many others he is never mentioned in documents before the reign of Amar-Sin; he was therefore either a son of Šulgi by Abi-simti or one of the consorts who belonged to her faction, or a son of Amar-Sin. He first appears together with the zabar dab, supposedly the highest cultic official of the state, but also a warrior, in AUCT 2 40 (AS1.7.24), and then according to TCS 336 (AS2.4.10), he married the zabar dab’s daughter. As already noted, during Šu-Sin’s reign he took over the position at Der formerly held by the new king. In ŠS2.9.10 (BIN 3 224), the prince for the first time makes his appearance with responsibility for delivering three bear cubs. The next reference to such activities is five years later, 102 allowing us to localize him at Der throughout most of Šu-Sin’s reign, but he either leaves this post or dies around the time of the king’s demise. 103 It should be noted that deliveries of bear cubs appear to be drastically reduced under Šu-Sin’s administration; the currently available documentation records only 18 of these animals in nine years. The timing of Šu-Sin’s move from Der to unspecified duties is noteworthy because it correlates with a series of seemingly related events, although their interpretation remains murky and requires an in-depth study. The simplest explanation would be to assume that this was connected with 102.  AAICAB 1/1, Ash. He is also responsible for deliveries of cattle on behalf of settlers in Der in OrAnt 16 240: 4 (ŠS3.2.29). 103.  Note a-šà é-d u l-la a-h u -n i d u m u lu gal (UET 3 1369: 10 [IS1]). The last bear cub delivery from the time of Šu-Sin is MVN 8 195: 16–17 (ŠS9.11.18), when the king was already dead, in which the delivery is ascribed to the general Ṣilluš-Dagan, probably the governor of Simurrum. Prince Ahuni is also mentioned in Nisaba 15/2 43: 3 (AS7.7.25) and Nisaba 15/2 90: ii 38 (AS 8.9.1), from Al-Šarraki which had such close contacts with Der. His wife, Geme-Karzida, receives rations on her way from Der to the royal residence in still another text from Al-Šarraki, Nisaba 15/2 514: 87–88, dated ŠS9.7.30, perhaps after the death of her husband.

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the military expedition against Huhnuri, which took place that year. But this was also a time of political tensions that are hard to discern in the cuneiform record. On the symbolic level, this is signaled by the renaming of the seventh month in Umma to honor Amar-Sin, by the appearance of a temple in his honor in Umma and the renaming of the estate of Nammahani in Girsu as the estate of Amar-Sin. The royal guard hitherto referred to as àga-ús is replaced by, or renamed, as gar du. These troops take part in the major military campaign of this reign, directed towards Huhnuri in the eastern highlands, and this may imply that the king personally took part in this war. 104 In the royal titulary the official phrase nita kalaga “mighty male” is altered to lugal kalaga “mighty king.” 105 In Girsu, the largest province in the polity, there are signs of instability and perhaps quiet resistance to the central authorities signaled by the celebration of local rulers of the past, with special accent on the remembrance of the pre-Ur III monarch Gudea. Incongruously, one of the two consorts of Šulgi to survive his death, Ninkala, is designated by the title er eš “queen,” which at the time properly belonged to Abi-simti, in a text from Amar-Sin’s fourth year, but she seems to disappear altogether from the textual record soon after. The local governor Ur-Lamma and members of his family are deposed from power, perhaps even executed, towards the end of AS3. His successor Nanna-zišagal held the office for a year or less, followed by Šarakam for perhaps two and a half years; in AS 7 the Prime Minister Arad-Nanna took over the governorship of the province, providing stability, and maintained that position for 15 years or more. 106 Beginning with AS6, seal inscriptions dedicated to the divine Šu-Sin begin to make their appearance on tablets from Umma, three years before the demise of the reigning king. Many explanations of this phenomenon have been advanced, including the proposal that these texts were postdated after Šu-Sin took over the throne of Ur, but the general context sketched above, and the appearance of seals naming divine Šu-Sin, at the 104. An Akkadian language Amar-Sin inscription from Iran that commemorates the expedition against Huhnuri in AS6 uses the term ga r d u for the troops (B. M. Nasrabadi, “Eine Steininschrift des Amar-Suena aus Tappeh Bormi [Iran],” ZA 95 [2005] 163: 11). If they were the personal guards or shock troops of the king, it would follow that he participated in the war. It is important to observe that the first mention of these troops is at the very end of AS6 (TLB 3 31: 10, AS6.12.24), that is, of the year in which the expedition took place, and the last reference is AS9.3.29 (Ontario 1 84: 10), right after the death of the king. See the charts in Allred, Cooks and Kitchens, 97–100. 105.  The various changes, reforms, and general instability during Amar-Sin’s reign require a full investigation. For now, see Sallaberger, “Ur III-Zeit,” 166–67, with earlier literature. 106.  Maekawa, “Confiscation,” 122 n. 27.

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very time that he seems to return to Sumer from his post at Der, implicate the future king in the events of the last two years of Amar-Sin’s reign. Not long later, in the tenth month of Amar-Sin’s seventh year, most if not all of the generals of the realm were summoned home to swear an oath of allegiance to their sovereign. 107 It is impossible to know for certain if some or all of these events are somehow related, but it certainly appears as if the crown were under some internal threat, and much of it seems to happen towards the end or in the aftermath of the Huhnuri campaign of AmarSin’s sixth year, when the king was probably absent from his land.

The Significance of Der Der, modern Tell ʿAqar near Badra, lay in a highly strategic point controlling one of the main routes between Sumer and the highlands. This road opened the way abroad in various directions: to Kimaš and other places further east, to Susa as well as Assur and beyond. In the words of Eckhart Frahm, “its history, which began in the Early Dynastic period or even earlier and lasted until the Late Babylonian period, has to be reconstructed almost exclusively from the evidence provided in texts from other Mesopotamian cities.” 108 Unfortunately, an Iraqi military base was located on the mound during the war with Iran, resulting in much destruction to the site. Frahm also cites Postgate and Mattila on the role of Der; it is worth repeating those words once again here: 109 [Der] stands at a bottle-neck where both the principal route from Babylonia and that from the northwest and Assyria are funneled between the outliers of the Zagros which delimit the plain on the east, and the marshy areas to the south [. . .]. For both Babylonia and Assyria any assault on or from Susiana was almost obliged to pass by Der.

The obvious strategic importance of Der does not, at first glance, appear to be reflected in the Ur III administrative record currently available, in which the city is rarely mentioned. We now know, thanks to the bears, that this is an illusion—interactions between Drehem and Der took place on an 107. P. Steinkeller, “Joys of Cooking in Ur III Babylonia,” in On the Third Dynasty of Ur: Studies in Honor of Marcel Sigrist (ed. P. Michalowski; JCS Supp. 1; Boston: American Schools of Oriental Research, 2008) 187. 108. E. Frahm, “Assurbanipal in Der,” in Of God(s), Trees, Kings, and Scholars: Neo-Assyrian and Related Studies in Honour of Simo Parpola (eds. M. Luukko et al.; Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society, 2009) 52. 109.  J. N. Postgate and R. Mattila, “Il-Yadaʾ and Sargons’s Southeast Frontier,” in From the Upper Sea to the Lower Sea: Studies on the History of Assyria and Babylonia in Honour of A. K. Grayson (ed. G. Frame; PIHANS 101; Istanbul: NINO, 2004) 240.

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almost daily basis. Moreover, as David Owen kindly informs me, the most commonly referenced place name in the mostly unpublished Ur III documents from Al-Šarraki is none other than Der. Ur III control of the city did not come easily, as is evidenced by year names from the early part of Šulgi’s reign, which refer to Der three times. 110 Year five was named after the “restoration” of the city, year eleven celebrated the return of the god Ištaran to his abode, presumably the cult statue that had been plundered by an enemy, and a variant version of year formula 21 announces the defeat of Der, which must have revolted or fallen prey to enemy forces. There is no information about the city for the next two decades. The first time it is actually mentioned in the body of an Ur III document is in Š46, but we can place it securely in the hands of Šulgi’s administration at least three years earlier on the basis of the first currently known delivery of bear cubs from Ur-Sin in Š43; the first mention of a bear in the Drehem records goes back to Š32, but it could have come from any number of places. 111 The connections between some members of the royal family and Der may also be signaled by the apparent introduction of the cult of the city’s tutelary deity, Ištaran, in Nippur. 112 While this divinity was worshipped in Girsu and elsewhere, he first appears in the Drehem records during the reign of Amar-Sin. The first trace of this cult is in a text dated AS1.2.14. 113 Although Šulgi is compared to this god in more than one royal hymn, 114 there are no references to his cult in Nippur during this reign. Most interesting are references that link Abi-simti and other elite women to the god of Der during the reign of Šu-Sin, each time towards the end of the year: (a) u4 a- bí - s í - im- t i diš t ar an in- d a- a, ki nibr uki/šà nibr uki (TAD 28: 2–3 [ŠS2.-.-]; BIN 3 559: 11–12 [ŠS2.9.23]). (b) dš ul - g i -mi- š ar n ar m u n u s, u4 diš t ar a n in-da-a (PDT 1 440: 2–3 [ŠS7.11.3], coll. T. Gomi, Orient 24 [1979] 115). 110.  These year names and related issues are analyzed by Vacin, Šulgi of Ur, 73, 78, and 84; on pp. 157–58 he discusses Šulgi Hymn D+Z, which he and others interpret as a poetic description of struggles against Gutians in the area of Der. I disagree with these opinions on philological and theoretical grounds, but this is not the place for such a debate. On the strategic role of Der in Ur III times, see now Steinkeller, “Puzur-Inšušinak.” 111.  NYPL 338: 1–3 (kungas; Š46.7.9); OIP 115 147: 6 (Š43.1.14); PDT 1 502: 1 (Š32.5.-). 112.  On Ištaran in Ur III, with somewhat different conclusions, see Weiershäuser, Die königlichen Frauen, 143–44. 113.  CDLI P424375: 5, PDT 2 1172: rev. I 4 (AS1.5.-). Apparently the statue was located in the Inana temple. 114. J. Klein, “Sum. ga-raš = Akk. Purussû,” JCS 23 (1971) 119.

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(c) l ú - dn ann a kù - d ím, s im at- dn is ab a, dam šu-ma-ma u4-dat u š, l i - bu r-ì- t ù -n i, u4 diš t ar an in- d a-⸢ša⸣-a (BPOA 7 2888 [ŠS7.11.14]; PDT 1 24 [ŠS7.11.24]); repeats same transaction for the wife of Šu-Mama). The first three are in Nippur, the last in Puzriš-Dagan. (d) dam z u- h u - t u m n u - b àn d a, u4 dištaran in-da-a (Hirose 314: 3–4 [ŠS8.10.30]). (e) u4 s i mat- diš t ar an, dd a-m u, in- d a- a, šà tum-ma-alki (CUSAS 3 1463: 5–8 [ŠS1.8.-]; see W. Heimpel, “ Two Unrecognized Terms,” 169).

The meaning of the verb in these passages has been the subject of speculation in the past, summarized by Walther Sallaberger, who was of the opinion that it meant “to set off, begin a journey, leave,”  115 following the interpretations of Edmond Sollberger and Mark Cohen. Wolfgang Heimpel has now interpreted it as “to idle (of boats),” or simply “to stay with,” presumably the same root as the comitative suffix and prefix da. 116 P. Steinkeller, more recently, following up on his earlier proposal, argues that the meaning of the verb is “to sail.” 117 At the present time, none of these interpretations is completely satisfactory. Without entering into this debate one need only observe that these disbursements took place “when PN left (to visit?)/sailed the god Ištaran/Damu.” The expenditures reference Nippur and Drehem, implying a visit to a shrine or chapel in Nippur, and indeed there is evidence that Ištaran was worshipped in the Inana temple in that city. 118 Similarly, it is not clear if goal of the trip involving the god Damu was Isin, where he was prominently celebrated, or a chapel or statue in the temple of Gula in Ur or of Nintinuga in Nippur. 119 One would like to be able to use this information as evidence that these people were traveling to the main shrine of the god in Der, but philology does not fully support such an interpretation at present. Such a visit is documented for Abi-simti six years after the event logged in account (a) in this list; just before her death, the queen traveled to the frontier city, passing through Al-Šarraki on her return, as recorded in a report of provisions “when Queen Abisimti journeyed (back) from Der to the royal residence.” 120 She appears 115.  Sallaberger, Kultische Kalendar, 181 n. 851. 116.  “Two Unrecognized Terms in Ur III Accounts of Boat Transport,” in Garšana Studies (ed. D. I. Owen; CUSAS 6; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2011) 164–69. 117.  Steinkeller, “How Did Šulgi” in this volume. 118.  PDT 2 1173, Nisaba 8 30; TJSASE 298. 119.  For example, TCL 2 5482: 3–5 and PDT 2 1173: rev. i 18–22, respectively. 120. 4. u4 a-bí-sí-im-ti er eš, d erki-ta, ki lu g al - š è b a- g i n-n a- a (Nisaba 15/2 458, ŠS8.12.-). Her commemorative place in Enigi is mentioned almost exactly a year later in ŠS9.12.17; see Steinkeller, “Ur III Royal Wives,” 79.

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again in Al-Šarraki in a text dated to the year ŠS9, but with no month name, and provisions for her commemorative place are recorded in another document from the same town, albeit without any year name. 121 These facts suggest that Der may have been, in strategic terms, one of the most significant frontier cities in the Ur III polity. 122 The fact that at least one of the generals who governed it was also, technically at least, in charge of Uruk, the residence of the queen, underscores its vital role in the politics of the time, reminiscent of the much later role of Harran in Sargonid Assyria, when it served as important frontier center administered by a royal son. As we have seen, for more than a quarter century the general governors of Der were princes of the realm, perhaps the designated crown princes: in Šulgi’s last decade the post was held by Ur-Sin, under Amar-Sin it was Šu-Sin, and then, when the latter rose to the throne, it was handed over to prince Ahuni. 123 Putting aside military, strategic, and commercial factors, it is apparent that Der was one of the key places in the ideological and genealogical geographical mentality of the extended Ur III royal family. It is last mentioned in Ibbi-Sin’s third year in a document from Al-Šarraki, not surprisingly in association with donkey-onager hybrids. 124

Enter Amar-Sin Until now, I have avoided the long-debated matter of the origins and identity of Amar-Sin, who succeeded Šulgi on the throne of Ur. Over the years most investigators have taken seriously the words of the SKL, making him the son of Šulgi, the father of Šu-Sin, and grandfather of IbbiSin. Others have proposed that the succession after Šulgi went to three brothers. If Walther Sallaberger’s hunch is correct, and Amar-Sin assumed a new name when he became king, following, most likely, the example of his predecessor, then we will be hard pressed to trace him in the archival record before his coronation. But the same cannot be said of the rest of his immediate family, Simat-Ištaran and Waqartum, as well as Abi-simti and her siblings, who likewise appear for the first time in Amar-Sin’s first year. But whatever the genealogical case may be, we must somehow relate all these events to the traces of violence and disruption that I have attempted to detect on the preceding pages. 121.  Nisaba 15/2 536: 4 (ŠS9.-.-) and Nisaba 15/2 1014: 9 ([ŠS?].12.-). 122.  Steinkeller, “Puzur-Inšušinak,” 306–7. 123.  The next generals of Der were bu-šu-DINGIR (NATN 133, IS1.7.-; NRVN 1 168, IS1.12.-; NATN 108, IS1.12.-; TMHnf 1–2 52, IS2.3.-) and EN-ì - l í (MVN 3 294, SS9.8.-; NATN 612, IS3.-.-). Their names are known only from seal inscriptions of their retainers and therefore their parentage and dates of tenure are uncertain. 124.  Nisaba 15/2 927: 5 (IS3.1.-).

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To repeat, the demise of King Šulgi was accompanied by the death or banishment of many of his wives and some of his children. Most dramatically, his two most prominent sons, the warrior prince Šu-Enlil and UrSin, general of Uruk and Der and likely crown prince, disappear within a month or so, possibly opening up the succession to another branch of the royal family. One surviving queen, Ninkala, manages to stay alive for a few years in the Lagaš province, but she exits the scene at about the same time as the governor of the province and his family, who were either executed or dramatically demoted from office. All of these traces can be arranged in different stories and it might be difficult to choose between competing narratives. Here is one. We know that Šu-Enlil was the son of one of the dead or demoted queens; Šu-Sin, and therefore Simat-Ištaran and Waqartum as well, were likely children of Abi-simti, and if Šu-Sin was also the son of Šulgi, then one must conclude, against the silence of the archives, that Abi-simti was one of Šulgi’s consorts. From this it would follow, in Shakespearian fashion, that Abi-simti somehow managed to get the upper hand, getting rid of rival queens and their sons who were most likely to ascend the throne. Her invisibility before this time would make sense if she were living with her children in Der. How does Amar-Sin fit into all of this? If Abi-simti’s child or children were begotten by Šulgi, he obviously could not be the father, so the only likely explanation is that he married the king’s former consort. He too must have been associated with Der. It would be tempting to identify him with Ur-Sin, but for two reasons that is an unlikely solution. First, Ur-Sin was the king’s son and it may stretch credulity to have him marry his father’s former woman. Second, there is an account from the eighth month of Amar-Sin’s first year that mentions kungas from Ur-Sin’s account, but with the annotation that the delivery either took place or had been scheduled for the “tenth,” that is the fifth, month of Šulgi’s last regnal year, because Ur-Sin was no longer at the post in Der. 125 If this were a reference to the new king in his former incarnation, one would not expect the name Ur-Sin to be used here, but there could be accounting explanations for such a state of affairs. Amar-Sin’s identity remains unresolved; he was most likely a royal, a son of Ur-Namma, brother or half-brother of Šulgi, possibly connected, by birth or marriage, to the royal house of Mari. The commemorative cult of Apil-kin, a deceased king of Mari whose daughter Taram-Uram was betrothed to one of Ur-Namma’s sons, first appears in the Ur III polity during the reign of Amar-Sin. This led J. Boese and 125.  Nik. 2 4781: 4: (AS1.8.-) 18 an še-kú n ga ni t a, 12 an š e k ú n g a m u n u s, e ze n-a n-na-ta, ki u r- den.zu.

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W.  Sallaberger to suggest that the unnamed prince was Šulgi and that Amar-Sin was the offspring of this union. 126 This was a good hypothesis at the time, and it still cannot be completely ruled out; but the evidence collected here points in a different direction, because it is unlikely that Amar-Sin was Šulgi’s son. Rather, I would suggest that he was a child of one of Šulgi’s brothers who married the princess from Mari. This story may seem unlikely, but it does provide a background for understanding other Ur III royal affairs. For example, the princess SimatIštaran is described as nin9, that is sister or cousin of both Šu-Sin and Ibbi-Sin and as a “royal child,” but is never designated as the sister of the king during Amar-Sin’s reign. If Šu-Sin and Ibbi-Sin had both been children of Šulgi-simti, then she would have been their sister, if she had the same mother; but if her mother was Abi-simti, she was either their halfsister or cousin. In a more complex manner, this helps to clarify some of the presently puzzling events and reforms of Amar-Sin’s reign, described above, the apparent unraveling of some of these transformations once ŠuSin takes over from his step-father king, 127 and the negative image of Amar-Sin in later Mesopotamian writings. 128 Thus we can now propose the following chart for part of the Ur III royal family:         Ur-Namma ~ Watartum?        Šulgi-simti ~ Šulgi ~ Abi-simti – Iddin-Dagan – Babati – Bizua . . . Ibbi-Sin – Šu-Enlil – Ur-Sin   Šu-Sin – Simat-Ištaran – Waqartum . . .

In addition:       Ur-Namma ~ Watartum?          Apil-kin ~ X                 X     ~    Taram-Uram               Amar-Sin ~ Abi-simti 126.  Boese and Sallaberger, “Apil-kīn von Mari,” 34–35. 127.  On Šu-Sin’s cancellation of some of the reforms of his predecessor, see Sallaberger, “Ur III-Zeit,” 167. 128. P. Michalowski, “Amar-Suʾena and the Historical Tradition,” in Essays on the Ancient Near East in Memory of Jacob Joel Finkelstein (ed. M. de Jong Ellis; Hamden: Archon, 1977) 155–57; F. Pomponio, “Le sventure di Amar-Suena,” SEL 7 (1990) 3–14.

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The arguments presented in this essay have of necessity been somewhat convoluted and require a simple recapitulation. I suggest that when Šulgi died, two of his queens somehow also met their end. At the same time, most of the male children of one of them, Šulgi-simti, also departed the scene, either killed or shunted aside. Šulgi’s most prominent sons, Šu-Enlil and Ur-Sin, the latter most probably the crown prince, were killed or demoted and many other members of the royal family, consorts and children, left the stage. Somehow, power over the kingdom was taken over by a side branch of the family headed by Amar-Sin and Abi-simti, a former consort of the deceased ruler. Their son Šu-Sin succeeded Amar-Sin, but he, in turn, was followed on the throne by a half-brother, Ibbi-Sin, son of Šulgisimti, who somehow survived the purge and had kept out of the limelight until he could rise to prominence when Šu-Sin went to his fate. 129

Exeunt omnes The end of Ur was not a good one. The highlanders she had fought for so long exacted their revenge, overrunning Mesopotamian armies in their own territory and occupying the capital for more than a decade. The last member of the royal house, Ibbi-Sin, “according to an astrological omen, and it should be stressed that it is our only real evidence so far, ‘went in fetters to Anšan, weeping’.” 130 This is one version of the affair, narrated more than a millennium later, but this is my set of stories, so before we sit down to sing sad tales of the death of kings, I suggest that we set aside our tendencies to glorify the bloody deeds of ancient rulers and reflect on the blind justice of nature and history. Rather than lament the last Ur III autocrat stumbling in fetters into the mountains, my mind invokes images of shackled bear cubs dispatched from their highland homes for death and brute entertainment in Ur. The Elamites, Šimaškians, Anšanites, and other highland human residents were no saints, but their vengeance may have given solace beyond their species: imagine the mountain valleys echoing the roars of grateful mother bears watching from their lairs as a fettered Ibbi-Sin stumbled on his way to Anšan. 129. W. Sallaberger, “Šu-Suen von Ur,” RlA 13:362–65, which appeared while this article was in press, takes the position that Šu-Sin was the son of Amar-Sin. 130. E. Sollberger, “Ibbi-Suen,” RlA 5:4.

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Appendix A: Tabulation of Bear Cub Deliveries to the Crown in the Names of Ur-Sin and Šu-Sin Table 1. Attested bear-cub deliveries in the name of Ur-Sin OIP 115 147: 6 OIP 115 173:3–4 RA 9 41 (AM1): 1–2 MVN 13 116: 13–14 MVN 18 151: 1–2 TRU 34: 1–2 StOr 9–1 24:13 JEOL 33 114 5:11–12 AUCT 2 214: 1–2 OrSP 18 pl. 4 12: 21 OIP 115 267: 4 OIP 115 268: 4 OIP 115 191: 5–6 OIP 115 294: rev. ii 9 OIP 115 293: 10

Š43.1.14 Š44.1+.14 Š44.10.23 Š45.10.16 Š46.11.21 Š46.11.27 Š47.1.3 Š47.11.15 Š47.11.23 Š47.11.28 Š47.12.10 Š47.12.12 Š48.12.5 Šnd.-.- Šnd

1* 3 1 [x] 6 4 1 1 2 2 1 2 1 [x] 2

Table 2. Attested bear cub deliveries in the name of Šu-Sin MVN 8 123: 1–3 OIP 121 130: 2 Mesopotamia 12 95 E: 14–15 MVN 11 182: 12′–13′ AUCT 1 944 MVN 11 140: 29 Torino 1 246: 1–3 Nik. 2. 476: 31 MVN 13 812 OIP 121 293: 4 Torino 1 70: 1–2 OIP 121 294: 1–3 OIP 121 297: 1–3 Nik. 2 459: 12–13 Hirose 214: 3–4 Trouvaille 13: 5–6 PDT 2 1357: ii 9′-11′

AS2.11.16 AS2.11.18

2 1

AS3.12.4 1 AS4.10.- 5 AS4.10.13 1 AS5.9.9 2 AS5.9.27 2 AS5.9.29 2 AS5.9.29 2 AS5.10.6 2 AS5.10.19 1 AS5.10.19 1 AS5.10.24 2 AS5.11.9 2 AS5.11.28 3 AS6.10.27 2 ASX.X.23 1

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Appendix B: Commemoration at the Throne of the Dead During the second half of the Ur III period, upon the death of a royal or a member of the elites, a temporary commemorative place referred to as a giš-a-nag would be set up, eventually to be replaced by a more permanent installation, the ki-a-nag. 131 A different form of commemoration was the “throne,” or “chair,” of the deceased, the giš-gu-za. A temporary form of the latter was designated as ki giš-gu-za “place for the throne/ seat.” In the case of Šulgi, offerings to the latter are attested in the following texts, all dated to the month of his death, that is the sixth month of the year: MVN 8 113: 2 (day 3); Smith CS 38 12: 7 (day 7); PDT 1 215 (day 29). The change from the temporary to the permanent commemorative “throne” took place some time between the fifth day of the first month of Amar-Sin’s reign and the fourteenth day of the second month. The ki giš-gu-za is still mentioned in AUCT 2 175: 8, which is technically dated to Š48.1.5, and which is an impossible date. This year began, as explained above, on what would otherwise be month 6, and the “first” month name was not used in Drehem, with but a small number of exceptions. Therefore, this tablet must have been made out on the fifth day of the new king’s reign and the scribe—by no means alone––by habit still used the year name he had been using for six months. A month later, a permanent giš-gu-za was established and from then on offerings were made there on a daily basis (CST 218: 1, AS1.2.20) until the first year of Šu-Sin, when all such contributions cease (SNAT 271: 10, ŠS1.10.20). If any other king had such an intense regimen of “throne” offerings, this must have taken place outside of the documentation available to us. Amar-Sin’s throne is first attested close to the beginning of his last regnal year (SumRecDreh. 20: 5, AS9.2.9; SET 66: 5, AS9.2.26) and then again a year and a half later (SNAT 271: 11, ŠS1.10.20, M  Sigrist, “Livraisons et dépenses royales,” 13X: rev. v 2′, date broken, probably ŠS1). It is noteworthy that these texts concern the “throne,” not the “place for the throne,” leading to the conclusion that he must have died at least a month earlier, perhaps very soon after the year began, or that the custom of using a temporary throne place was altered. 132 131.  On giš-a-nag as a temporary construction that was set up immediately after death, to be replaced by the permanent ki-a-nag, see Wilcke, “Himmelfahrt,” 252. It is attested only in the wake of the death of Šu-Sin and of the princess Teṣin-Mama, who died during his reign. 132.  See already Sallaberger, Kultische Kalendar, 147 n. 697.

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Beginning with the death of Amar-Sin, the commemoration of the royal throne is rarely registered in the available record. When Šu-Sin died, temporary commemoration places were set up in Ur for the dead king and all of his predecessors on the throne. The account MVN 18 108 107: 1–7 (ŠS9.10.4) lists bulls offered to the ki giš-gu-za of Ur-Namma, Šu-Sin and then of Šulgi and Amar-Sin. This is exactly when the temporary giša-nag of Šu-Sin received animal offerings (e.g. MVN 10 172, ŠS9.10.). 133 All of this is undoubtedly connected with the construction of the mausoleum of the king, which probably housed special chambers with the “thrones” of the other Ur III rulers as well. These were designated as the é giš-gu-za of the dead kings. 134 There is only one mention of Šu-Sin’s throne, which received lambs one year later, on the fourteenth, fifteenth, and eighteenth days of IS1.10 (TRU 358: 1–9). Two other examples, neither pertaining to kings, show a similar use of the ki giš-gu-za: (a) The place for the throne/seat of Watarum, probably the well-known administrator (sanga) of the city of Marad, is mentioned in AS9.11.10 (PDT 2 1229: 2). This official never appears again in the Ur III record. He is last mentioned in AS8.12.16 (ASJ 9 319 14: 5); in AS9.5.(AUCT 3 462: 3–4), a subordinate by the name of Iribum takes over a disbursal for Watarum. (b) The place for the throne/seat of the high priest of the goddess Inana is mentioned in AS4.1.23 (OIP 121 20: 2). A new priest was appointed in his place sometime soon and the next year of Amar-Sin’s reign was named “Year: Enunugalana, high priest of Inana, was chosen (by omens).” 135 133.  See, most recently, Sallaberger, “Ur-III Zeit,” 171. 134.  Sallaberger, Kultische Kalendar, 147 n. 698. 135.  Sallaberger (Kultische Kalendar, 147 n. 696) offers a collation by K. Volk of PDT 1 563 “letze Zeile,” by which I assume he means the last line of col. iii (l. 11).

A Hidden Anti-David Polemic in 2 Samuel 6:2 Nadav Naʾaman

A Ghost Town in 2 Sam 6:2 The story of the transfer of the ark to Jerusalem (2 Sam 6) opens as follows (v. 2): “Then David arose and went with all the people who were with him from the citizens of Judah (mbʿly yhwdh) to bring up from there the ark of God . . .” The MT is difficult, since it leaves miššām (“from there”) without antecedent. Already the LXX, 4QSama and 1 Chr 13:6 rendered mbʿly yhwdh as a place name (Baʿalah, that is, Kiriath-jearim), either side by side with the “citizens of Judah” or without them. 1 Some scholars omitted the yod after bʿl and rendered bʿl yhwdh as a toponym (Baʿal-Judah), thereby solving the problem of the missing antecedent of miššām. 2 In light of the place name “Bethlehem-Judah” (Judg 19:2, 18; 1 Sam 17:12; Ruth 1:1–2), the element “Judah” was considered an intentional addition to “Baʿal” to distinguish it from other place names having this theophoric element. The redundant yod was explained 1.  See references in S. Pisano, Additions or Omissions in the Books of Samuel: The Significant Pluses and Minuses in the Massoretic, LXX and Qumran Texts (OBO 57; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1984) 101–4; R. Rezetko, Sources and Revision in the Narratives of David’s Transfer of the Ark: Text, Language, and Story in 2 Samuel 6 and 1 Chronicles 13, 15–16 (LHBOTS 470; New York: T. & T. Clark, 2007) 304–5. 2. J. Wellhausen, Der Text der Bücher Samuelis untersucht (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1871) 166–67; A. F. von Gall, Altisraelitische Kultstätten (BZAW 3; Giessen: Ricker, 1898) 61; H. P. Smith, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary of the Books of Samuel (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1899) 292–93; S. R. Driver, Notes on the Hebrew Text and the Topography of the Books of Samuel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1913) 265–66; W. Caspari, “Die Namen und Namenbestandteile von Qiriat-Jeʿarim,” Theologische Studien und Kritiken 86 (1913) 93–105, here 102–3; H. W. Hertzberg, I & II Samuel (OTL; London: SCM, 1964) 275, 278; K. van der Toorn and C. Houtman, “David and the Ark,” JBL 113 (1994) 209–31, here 223.

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as the result of dittography, the yod of yhwdh being erroneously attached to the preceding bʿl. However, Kiriath-jearim is known by the names Baʿalah (Josh 15:9–10; 1 Chr 13:6) and Kiriath-Baʿal (Josh 15:60; 18:14), whereas Baʿal-Judah is not mentioned in the Bible. Moreover, Kiriathjearim was the current name of the place; the additional element “Baʿal,” possibly a secondary appellation, appears only in geographical lists and in the late text of Chronicles. Other scholars restored the toponym bʿlt yhwdh (Baʿalath-Judah), cut short the text and read it “Baʿalah,” rendered it “Baalim of Judah” (NJPS) or even “Baʿals of Judah.” 3 However, all these renderings involve emendations of the text intending to supply the missing antecedent of miššām. Some scholars dismissed the idea that mbʿly yhwdh refers to a place name and translated the text literally, “from the citizens of Judah.” They explained the absence of a place name that precedes miššām (“from there”) as the result of the growth of the text. 4 The point of departure for their explanation is the well-known thesis of Leonhard Rost, who argued for an independent literary composition of the Ark Narrative (1 Sam 4:1b–7:1; 2 Sam 6:1–20a), which was reworked and edited within 1 and 2 Samuel over the course of its history. 5 According to this hypothesis, miššām in v. 2 refers to Abinadab’s house on the hill (baggibʿāh) mentioned in 1 Sam 7:1, which originally preceded it. 6 3.  “Baʿalath-Judah”: K. Budde, Die Bücher Samuel erklärt (KACAT 8: Tübingen: Mohr, 1902) 228; A. Schulz, Die Bücher Samuel übersetzt und erklärt. Vol. 2: Das zweite Buch Samuel (EHAT 8/2; Münster: Aschendorff, 1920) 64, 66–67; “Baʿalah”: P. K. McCarter, II Samuel: A New Translation with Introduction, Notes and Commentary (AB 9; Garden City: Doubleday, 1984) 161–62; “Baʿals of Judah”: M. Leuchter, “The Cult of Kiriath Yearim: Implications from the Biblical Record,” VT 58 (2008) 526–43, here 535. 4. J. Blenkinsopp, “Kirjath-jearim and the Ark,” JBL 88 (1969) 143–56, here 146, 152; A. F. Campbell, The Ark Narrative (1 Sam 4–6; 2 Sam 6): A Form-Critical and Traditio-Historical Study (SBLDS 16; Missoula: Scholars Press, 1975) 169–71; idem, “Yahweh and the Ark: A Case Study in Narrative,” JBL 98 (1979) 31–43, here 39–40. 5. L. Rost, Die Überlieferung von der Thronnachfolge Davids (BWANT 3/6; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1926); trans. by M. D. Rutter and D. M. Gunn as The Succession to the Throne of David (Sheffield: Almond, 1982) 6–34. For discussions, see Campbell, Ark Narrative, 142–74; T. Veijola, Das Königtum in der Beurteilung der denteronomistischen Historiographie: Eine redaktionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung (Annales Academiae Scientiarum Fennicae B 198; Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1977) 37–38; van der Toorn and Houtman, “David and the Ark,” 219–25; E. M. Eynikel, “The Relation between the Eli Narratives (1 Sam. 1–4) and the Ark Narrative (1 Sam. 1–6; 2 Sam. 6:1–19),” in Past, Present, Future: The Deuteronomistic History and the Prophets (eds. J. C. de Moor and H. E. van Roy; OTS 44; Leiden: Brill, 2000) 88–106, with earlier literature. 6.  Blenkinsopp, “Kirjath-jearim,” 152; Campbell, Ark Narrative, 169–71.

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In my opinion, the texts of 1 Sam 7:1b and 2 Sam 6:1 are part of the late editorial work of the author of the book of Samuel. The original Ark Narrative continued from 1 Sam 7:1a to 2 Sam 6:2 as follows: And the men of Kiriath-jearim came and took up the ark of Yhwh, and brought it to the house of Abinadab on the hill. And David arose and went with all the people who were with him from the citizens of Judah to bring up from there the ark of God . . .

The division of the Ark Narrative into two parts required the integration of each truncated part within its new context. The short passage of 1 Sam 7:1b–2 introduces the episode of the failed attack of the Philistines on Mizpah (1 Sam 7). The Dtr inserted the twenty years in order to integrate the sojourn of the ark in Kiriath-jearim within the chronological framework of the history and selected the name of Eleazar, who was consecrated to take care of the ark, from among the names of the Aaronid priestly family (in line with 1 Sam 6:16). He also wrote 2 Sam 6:1 (“David again assembled all the elite troops of Israel, thirty thousands”) in order to introduce the episode of the transfer of the ark to Jerusalem. 7 The insertions of these editorial additions brought about two marked changes in the story: the original place name Kiriath-jearim (1 Sam 7:1a) was replaced by the designation bʿly yhwdh (2 Sam 6:2) and the original names of Uzzah and Ahio (2 Sam 6:3) were replaced by that of Eleazar (1 Sam 7:1b). 8 After the original Ark Narrative was split into two parts, miššām (“from there”) was left with no antecedent. The author of the book of Chronicles and its versions (as well as modern scholars) tried to solve the textual problem by inserting a toponym into the text. We may conclude that Baʿal-Judah is a ghost town; Kiriath-jearim was the only name by which the town is known in the original Ark Narrative (1 Sam 6:21; 7:1).

A Hidden Anti-David Polemic in the Original Ark Narrative Why did the author of the Ark Narrative select the combination baʿălê yĕhûdāh to describe the group that accompanied David on his way to bring 7.  For the idea that the late author deliberately described David as the appropriate and rightful king, contrary to Saul, see Rezetko, Sources and Revision, 86–299. For the opposite view, according to which the late author described David in a derogatory way, see J. Van Seters, The Biblical Saga of King David (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009; for the story of David and the ark, see pp. 233–41, 277–80). 8.  Campbell (Ark Narrative, 169–71) suggested that 1 Sam 7:1–2a was part of the original Ark Narrative and solved the problem of the difference of personal names by suggesting that “enough time has passed since 1 Sam 7:1 for Eleazar’s absence to be easily understood” (Campbell, “Yahweh and the Ark,” 40).

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the ark to Jerusalem? To understand this decision, we must first examine the way the institution of baʿălê (hāʿîr) (“citizens/lords of [a place]”) appears in other biblical references. The institution of lords/citizens of cities is known from a great variety of ancient Near Eastern and West Semitic texts. 9 It is mentioned in the Amarna letters, in the Aramaic inscriptions of Sefîre, in Northwest Semitic inscriptions, in the Elephantine papyri, and in the Aramaic inscriptions allegedly from Khirbet el-Qōm. 10 In some of these texts, the lords/citizens of a city were a collective body of notables who, alongside the mayor, represented the local free population before the royal authorities and decided all the internal and external affairs of the place. Members of such assemblies were selected either from among the well-to-do and aristocratic families (in urban societies), or from among the elders of the well-to-do clans/ families (in tribal and rural societies). Since the term might designate both the entire body of the free population and the institution that represents it, it should be translated either “the citizens of . . .” or “the lords of . . . ,” depending on the social context in which it is mentioned. 11 Unlike the use of the term “lords/citizens of . . .” in the ancient Near East, in the Bible the term baʿălê hāʿîr took on a distinctly pejorative connotation. This is evident from the analysis of all biblical occurrences of 9.  J. A. Soggin, “Il regno di ʾAbîmelek in Sichem (‘Giudici’, 9) e le istituzioni della città-stato Siro-Palestinese nei secoli XV–XI avanti Cristo,” in Studi in onore di Edoardo Volterra VI (Milan: Giuffre, 1972) 161–89, here 180–83; N. S. Fox, In the Service of the King: Officialdom in Ancient Israel and Judah (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 2000) 155–56. 10. Amarna: EA 102:22; 138:49; see 138:36, 44, 61; 59:2, 5; 280:18; 289:28; 290:18; Sefire: J. A. Fitzmyer, The Aramaic Inscriptions of Sefîre (rev.  ed.; Biblica et Orientalia 19A; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1995) 64; Northwest Semitic inscriptions: M. Sznycer, “‘L ’Assemblée du people’ dans les cites puniques d’après les témoignages épigraphiques,” Semitica 25 (1975) 47–68, here 65; DNWSI 1:184–85 no. 4; Elephantine: A. E. Cowley, Aramaic Papyri of the Fifth Century b.c. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1923) 280a; Khirbet el-Qōm: H. Lozachmeur and A. Lemaire, “Nouveaux ostraca araméens d’Idumée (collection Sh. Moussaïeff),” Semitica 46 (1996) 123–42, here 132 n. 30, with earlier literature. 11.  Scholars noted long ago that social terms might represent the mass of people and the body that leads these masses. See, for example, E. Würthwein, Der ʿamm haʾarez im Alten Testament (BWANT 17; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1936) 15–16; C. U. Wolff, “Traces of Primitive Democracy in Ancient Israel,” JNES 6 (1947) 98–108, here 98–100; J. Milgrom, “Priestly Terminology and the Political and Social Structure of Pre-Monarchic Israel,” JQR 69 (1978) 65–81, here 70; T. Ishida, “Royal Succession in the Kingdoms of Israel and Judah with Special Reference to the People under Arms as a Determining Factor in the Struggle for the Throne,” in Congress Volume: Jerusalem, 1986 (ed. J. A. Emerton; VTSup 40; Leiden: Brill, 1988) 96–106.

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the term. 12 Thus, baʿălê šĕkem (“lords of Shechem”) and possibly baʿălê migdal š ĕkem supported Abimelech in the murder of his seventy brothers and his forcible usurpation of his father’s position (Judges 9), after which they were severely punished (Judg 9:16–20, 57). 13 When the Levite described the rape and murder of his concubine at Gibeah, he called the evildoers “the men of the town, worthless men” (Judg 19:22). But in his words before the assembly of Israel, he accused baʿălê haggibĕʿāh (“the citizens of Gibeah”) of committing the terrible deed (Judg 20:5). It is clear that the narrator deliberately made the Levite use the pejorative appellation baʿălê (rather than the more neutral appellation “men of ”) to magnify the negative portrait of the evildoers. Within the conquest story of the book of Joshua, Jericho was besieged and conquered through a miracle and all its peoples annihilated. Yet in the survey of the history of Israel in Joshua 24, the men of Jericho who fought the Israelites as they entered Canaan are called by the derogatory name baʿălê yĕrîḥô (v. 11). The story in 1 Sam 23:1–13 relates that David “saved the inhabitants of Keilah” (v. 5). Following his victory, he and his band settled in the city under the patronage of baʿălê qĕʿîlāh (“lords of Keilah”). When David heard that Saul was preparing to besiege the city, he made oracles and was directed to leave the place (vv. 11–12). The term baʿălê qĕʿîlāh in the story carries a pejorative connotation, no doubt because of their assumed willingness to deliver David to Saul, which the writer saw as a treacherous act, given that David had saved the city from the plundering Philistines. An illuminating example is the contrast in terminology between 1 Sam 31:11 and 2 Sam 21:12. On the one hand, the former text describes in a positive manner the courage of “the inhabitants of Jabesh-gilead” (yōšĕbê yābêš gilĕʿād), who removed the bodies of Saul and his son from the wall of Beth-shean and buried them in Jabesh. The author of the story of David and the Gibeonites (2 Sam 21:1–14), on the other hand, described the deed of the men of Jabesh in a negative manner. He claimed (v. 12) that baʿălê yābêš gilĕʿād (“the citizens of Jabesh-gilead”) “had stolen” the bodies of Saul and Jonathan from the street of Beth-shean. A possible exception is the text of Judg 9:51. The story in Judg 9:50– 55 relates Abimelech’s attack on Thebez and his encampment against the 12. A. Altman, “‘Baʿălê hāʿîr’ in the Bible,” in Milet: Studies in Jewish History and Culture II (eds. S. Ettinger, Y. D. Gilat, and S. Safrai; Tel Aviv: Open University Press, 1985) 5–33, here 7–20 (Hebrew). 13.  Soggin, “Il regno,” 180–83; idem, Judges: A Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1981) 167–68.

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city. There was a fortified tower in the city “and all the men and women, and/namely kôl baʿălê hāʿîr, fled to it, and shut themselves in, and went up to the roof of the tower” (v. 51). Abimelech tried to conquer the tower and was fatally wounded by a millstone thrown down by “one woman.” It is not clear whether baʿălê hāʿîr is in apposition to the men and women mentioned before, in which case we should translate the term as “citizens of the city,” or whether it relates to a separate group, namely, “the lords of the city.” 14 Either way, there is no explicit negative connotation in this episode, unless the narrator ridiculed the warriors of the city by hinting that they were capable of flying from Abimelech, but when it came to real fighting, a woman took the initiative and did the men’s job. In sum, the negative connotation of the term baʿălê hāʿîr in biblical historiography appears in all biblical historiographic occurrences of the term. This is no doubt due to the element Baʿal, which was identified with the pagan Canaanite god. Thus when biblical authors wanted to describe the citizens or local authorities of cities in a neutral light, they avoided the term baʿălê hāʿîr, and instead called them “the men of,” “the inhabitants of,” “the elders of,” etc. The combination bʿly yhwdh is institutionally similar to bodies like “the elders of Judah” (zqny yhwdh) and “the elders of Israel” (zqny yśrʾl) current in biblical historiography. The “lords” and elders of a tribal unit were the body of representatives of that clan/extended family who supervised its internal affairs and negotiated when necessary with the king and the royal officials. Unlike the designation “elders,” which has a positive connotation as the legitimate leaders who represent the people, or parts of them, the designation “lords of Judah” in 2 Sam 6:2 is derogatory, and like all other references to the citizens/lords of a place, carries a distinctly pejorative connotation. The attribution of a derogatory designation to the Judahites who accompanied David on his way to bring the ark is the result of the failure of David’s first attempt to bring the ark to Jerusalem. David selected unauthorized men (Uzzah and Ahio) to escort the ark and as a result disaster struck when the ark was on the way to Jerusalem. David “was angry because Yhwh had inflicted a breach upon Uzzah” (2 Sam 6:8), and so left the ark in the house of a foreigner, Obed-edom the Gittite (v. 10). 15 The narrator deliberately magnified the sin of David by using the same verbal 14. G. F. Moore, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Judges (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1895) 269. 15. For the name Obed-edom, see J. M. Tebes, “The Edomite Involvement in the Destruction of the First Temple: A Case of Stab-in-the-Back Tradition?,” JSOT 36 (2011) 219–55, here 243 n. 66, with earlier literature.

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form for Yhwh’s and David’s anger (wayyiḥar; vv. 7–8) and by emphasizing that David delivered the ark, which was rescued from captivity to the Philistines, into the hands of a Philistine (vv. 9–10). Moreover, in the context of the Ark Narrative, the presence of the ark in the hands of a Philistine should have brought disaster upon its holder (1 Sam 5). However, contrary to David’s expectations, the presence of the ark in fact brought blessing to Obed-edom and to his household (v. 11). Only then, when David realized that the presence of the ark brings blessing, did he initiate once again the transfer of the ark to Jerusalem, and this time he reversed everything he did in the first attempt. He brought with him worthy “bearers of the Ark of God” (v. 13) and “all the House of Israel” (v. 15), made sacrifices to Yhwh (v. 13), and he himself was dressed like a priest and showed personal devotion to God (vv. 14–15). These combined measures guaranteed the successful delivery of the ark to its abode in Jerusalem. In light of this analysis, it is clear that the derogatory designation bʿly yhwdh is part of a hidden polemic embedded in the original story of the relocation of the ark from Kiriath-jearim to Jerusalem. David is criticized for (a) bringing unworthy delegates to transfer the ark and selecting unauthorized men to escort the ark; (b) exhibiting an undue reaction to Yhwh’s punishment of an unauthorized man who dared touch the holy ark; (c) stopping the transfer of the ark on the way to its destined place in Jerusalem and leaving it in the house of a Philistine; and (d) deciding to resume the transfer only when he realized that it brought blessing even to a foreigner. When the author of the book of Samuel reworked the Ark Narrative, he made efforts to configure it to his concept of the figure of David. He thus inserted 2 Sam 6:1, which relates how David brought with him worthy people for transferring the ark to Jerusalem (“David again assembled all the elite men of Israel, thirty thousand”), and dismissed the description of the selection of unworthy people for bringing the ark. Verse 5, which describes a ritual procession, might also be an addition of the late author, inserted in an effort to minimize the effect of the original negative description of the episode. Moreover, according to Rost’s suggestion, the episode of Michal in vv. 16, 20–23 was also inserted into the story. 16 In sum, the original context of the story of David’s transfer of the ark from Kiriath-jearim to Jerusalem is the key for the correct understanding of 2 Sam 6:2. When analyzed in this light, it becomes clear that the assumed place name Baʿal-Judah is a ghost town and was generated due to 16.  Rost, Succession Narrative, 13. For the extensive reworking of the original story of 2 Sam 6, see Rezetko, Sources and Revision, 286–99.

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misunderstanding of the original sequence of the text. It further explains the inclusion of the derogatory designation bʿly yhwdh as part of the hidden polemic of the Ark Narrative of David’s first failed attempt to bring the ark to Jerusalem. This article is dedicated to my old friend Peter Machinist, who contributed many important studies in which he brought to light ancient Near Eastern texts that—directly or indirectly—illuminate historical, religious, and cultural aspects of ancient Israel. I hope that he will enjoy this small study which, following the Machinist scholarly tradition, tries to compare a biblical and ancient Near Eastern term in an effort better to understand the way that biblical authors manipulated it so as to express their opinion of the narrated event or hero.

The Prophet and the Augur at Tušḫan, 611 b.c. Martti Nissinen

A New Prophetic Text Our knowledge of Mesopotamian prophecy is based on written evidence derived mainly from two sources and periods: the seventh-century state archives of the Assyrian Empire at Nineveh and the eighteenthcentury archives from the city of Mari. These materials, supplemented by additional Near Eastern texts dating from Old Babylonian through Hellenistic times, make it possible to draw a fairly comprehensive picture of Mesopotamian prophecy. The available evidence has now been collected in a volume to which Peter Machinist invaluably contributed his knowledge of the Mesopotamian texts and sharp editorial eye. 1 Although this anthology of 143 texts was comprehensive at the time of its publication, undoubtedly a bulk of similar such materials still remains hidden beneath Near Eastern soil. One can realistically expect new evidence to come to light in future archaeological excavations. In this vein, it is my pleasure to discuss here, in Peter’s honor, one such cuneiform text, recently published by Simo Parpola, 2 which introduces the most recent addition to the evidence of divinatory activity in Mesopotamia. ZTT 25 3 is a short administrative text belonging to the archive of 28 cuneiform tablets unearthed in 2002 at Ziyaret Tepe, on the upper course of the Tigris River in southeastern Turkey, east of the modern city of Diyarbakır. The site has been identified as the ancient city of Tušḫan, well known from Neo-Assyrian documents. 4 The probable date of the archive 1. M. Nissinen, with contributions by C. L. Seow and R. K. Ritner, Prophets and Prophecy in the Ancient Near East (SBLWAW 12; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003). Peter Machinist was this volume’s editor, and his work has left traces on every page of the book. 2. S. Parpola, “Cuneiform Texts from Ziyaret Tepe (Tušḫan), 2002–2003,” SAAB 17 (2008) 1–113. 3.  Ibid., 98–100 and pl. xxii. 4.  For the identification, see ibid., 25–27.

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is most intriguing. On the basis of the eponyms preserved in the aforementioned tablets, along with the fact that the building in which the archive was found had been destroyed by fire, it is extremely likely that the archive not only predates the destruction of Tušḫan by the Babylonians in Tammuz (IV), 611 b.c., 5 but that it also postdates the fall of Nineveh in Ab (V), 612 b.c. 6 If so, this would mean that the texts from Ziyaret Tepe document the very last year of what remained of the Assyrian empire, in a city destined for imminent destruction.

ZTT 25: Text and Translation Despite its brevity and poor state of preservation, ZTT 25 turns out to be a surprisingly informative piece of evidence concerning divination in the Assyrian empire and in the ancient Near East in general. The text reads as follows: 6 manâ 2ra[gg]im[u] (⸢lú⸣.gu[b].b[a]) 3ina abu[lli] 1 manû [er]û 5dā[gi]l [iṣṣū]ri 6 [1] manû ana bēt [ili] 7 [2 m]anâ ana [. . .] blank space 8 gi[mru] 10 manâ 1 4

6 minas (of copper to) 2the pro[p]he[t] 3at the [city] gate. 1 mina of c[oppe]r (to) 5the au[gu]r. 6 [1 (?)] mina to the house [of the god]. 7 [2 (?) m]inas to [. . .]. blank space 8 T[otal], 10 minas. 1 4

What is immediately striking in this text is its documentation of the payment of a substantial amount of copper 7 to representatives of two kinds of divination: prophecy and augury. In view of the probable historical background of the Ziyaret Tepe texts, the reason why diviners were consulted is not difficult to fathom. The fall of Nineveh and the march of the Babylonian troops northwards along the course of the Tigris did not bode well 5.  The crucial passage in the Fall of Nineveh Chronicle has been restored by Parpola as follows: – – [ina kur]—aš-šur šal-ṭa-niš [du.me uru].meš šá kur.⸢du-uš  ⸣-ḫa-a[n x x x] u kur.šu-[ub-š]e ?-a ik-šu-ud “– – [He marched about] imperiously [in Assy]ria and conquered the [citie]s of T[u]šḫa[n, . . .] and Šu[br]ia” (Parpola, “Cuneiform Texts from Ziyaret Tepe,” 14 n. 12; see also Grayson, ABC 95 lines 54–55). 6.  For the date, see Parpola, “Cuneiform Texts from Ziyaret Tepe,” 12–14. 7.  The badly damaged sign urudu is restored by Parpola from the traces at the top and the end of the break.

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for Tušḫan; on the contrary, the attack of the inimical forces was clearly on the horizon. A military threat, whether viewed from the perspective of the ones attacking or those being attacked, constituted a situation in which oracles were typically consulted. At Tušḫan, as elsewhere, diviners seem to have been readily available to mediate such knowledge.

Two Types of Diviners Of the two types of diviners mentioned in the tablet, 8 prophets are known from Neo-Assyrian prophetic oracles and other sources. 9 In lexical lists, the logographic designation lú.gub.ba appearing here corresponds to Akkadian muḫḫûm/maḫḫû, 10 though in Neo-Assyrian times it may actually have been spoken as raggimu, 11 the colloquial Neo-Assyrian term for “prophet.” Prophets appear in several Assyrian cities, more often than not in connection with Ishtar’s temples and worship. Thus the finding of a prophet in a major city of the empire’s northern regions does not come as a great surprise. Augurs also appear in Neo-Assyrian sources—no less frequently, in fact, than prophets, even though much less research has been devoted to them. 12 The term dāgil iṣṣūri is exclusively Neo-Assyrian, with its earliest attestations found in late eighth-century documents from Calah. Augurs tend to appear in reputable company. In the texts from Calah they are mentioned among recipients of wine, along with scholars and diviners of different types. 13 In later times, they appear in various contexts and 8.  For prophecy as another type of divination, see E. Cancik-Kirschbaum, “Prophetismus und Divination: Ein Blick auf die keilschriftlichen Quellen,” in Propthetie in Mari, Assyrien und Israel (eds. M. Köckert and M. Nissinen; FRLANT 201; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003) 33–53; M. Nissinen, “Prophecy and Omen Divination: Two Sides of the Same Coin,” in Divination and the Interpretation of Signs in the Ancient World (ed. A. Annus; Oriental Institute Seminars 6; Chicago: Oriental Institute, 2010) 341–51. 9.  See S. Parpola, Assyrian Prophecies (SAA 9; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1997); M. Nissinen, References to Prophecy in Neo-Assyrian Sources (SAAS 7; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 1998). 10.  l ú-gub -ba = maḫḫû (MSL 12 4:212, 213); cf. Old Babylonian: l ú - g u b - b a = muḫḫûm / mí -l ú- gu b -b a = muḫḫūt[um] (MSL 12 5:22, 23–24). 11.  Parpola, Assyrian Prophecies, xlvi. 12.  For augurs in Assyria, see especially K. Radner, “The Assyrian King and His Scholars: The Syro-Anatolian and the Egyptian Schools,” in Of God(s), Trees, Kings, and Scholars: Neo-Assyrian and Related Studies in Honour of Simo Parpola (eds. M. Luukko et al.; StudOr 106; Helsinki: Finnish Oriental Society, 2009) 221–38, esp. 231–38, which features far more on the dāgil iṣṣūri than the data assembled in CAD D 25. 13.  For example, CTN 1 3 + 3 145 i 3–6, iv 5; CTN 1 14 lines 3–5; cf. CTN 1 6 lines 20, 22–23; CTN 1 8 lines 35–36, where diviners are mentioned. For these texts,

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situations: listed alongside Egyptian scribes and dream interpreters in an administrative document; 14 concluding a treaty with the king together with scribes, haruspices, exorcists, and physicians; 15 borrowing 1.5 minas of silver; 16 complaining about someone who has allegedly deprived them of their possessions; 17 and mentioned in connection with the visit of the king of Hamath. 18 The inclusion of augurs in a treaty together with scholars implies a similar status, which is never the case with prophets, whose audience with the Assyrian king brought insult to at least one astrologer. 19 Augurs also seem to have valuable possessions at their disposal. In the texts from Ziyaret Tepe, another augur is attested: Šumu-lēšir, who is said to be from Šubria (ZTT 4 e. 6–7; cf. ZTT 2 line 3; 5 rev. 5). 20 This corresponds nicely to the fact that augurs from Šubria in eastern Anatolia were to be found in different Assyrian cities in the Neo-Assyrian period—and not only from Šubria but also from the Anatolian Commagene (Akk. Kummuḫḫu) and from the Syrian city of Hamath. 21 Hence, the appearance of an augur at Tušḫan, a city at the crossroads of Mesopotamian and Anatolian cultures and within a stone’s throw of Šubria, makes perfect sense. Augury was probably external to the Mesopotamian heartland as a form of divination, and may have spread from Anatolia to both Mesopotamia and Rome. 22 It was one of the more prominent methods of Hittite divinasee F. M. Fales, “A Fresh Look at the Nimrud Wine Lists,” in Drinking in Ancient Societies: History and Culture of Drinks in the Ancient Near East (ed. L. Milano; History of the Ancient Near East/Studies 6; Padova: S.A.R.G.O.N., 1994) 361–80. 14.  F. M. Fales and J. N. Postgate, Imperial Administrative Records, Part I: Palace and Temple Administration (SAA 7; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1992) 1 iii 11. 15. S. Parpola, Letters from Assyrian and Babylonian Scholars (SAA 10; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1993) 7 lines 6–14. 16. T. Kwasman and S. Parpola, Legal Transactions of the Royal Court of Nineveh, Part I: Tiglath-Pileser III through Esarhaddon (SAA 6; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1991) 317 line 2. 17.  G. B. Lanfranchi and S. Parpola, The Correspondence of Sargon II, Part II: Letters from the Northern and Northeastern Provinces (SAA 5; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1990) 163. 18. M. Luukko and G. Van Buylaere, The Political Correspondence of Esarhaddon (SAA 16; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project) 8 line 7. 19.  Parpola, Assyrian Prophecies, 109 line 9. 20. See Parpola, “Cuneiform Texts from Ziyaret Tepe,” 43. 21. See Radner, “The Assyrian King and His Scholars,” 235–36. 22. See B. J. Collins, Hittites and Their World (Archaeology and Biblical Studies 7; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2007) 166–69; see also J.-M. Durand, “La divination par les oiseaux,” MARI 8 (1997) 273–82. For Hittite divination, see G. M. Beckman, “The Tongue is a Bridge: Communication between Humans and Gods in

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tion along with dreams, extispicy, and, perhaps, prophecy. 23 Evidence of its practice is attested in several Hittite sources. In one letter, for example, three augurs are described writing a letter to the queen; in another, the outcome of bird divination concerning a military attack is reported to the king; and in yet other missives we learn that dreams and oracles were counterchecked by means of augury. 24 Augurs, among other diviners, also are also referred to in prayers. 25 That augury, together with extispicy, belongs to the most prominent forms of divination in the Greek, 26 Etruscan, 27 and Roman 28 cultures, may well have its origin in Anatolia. Since the Tušḫan archive dates to a dramatic moment immediately following the fall of Nineveh, we find divination functioning in a very typical context. To be sure, diviners were certainly consulted in various matters, not only in times of crisis. Nonetheless, since the primary function of divination, sociologically speaking, is to help people cope with the insecurities Hittite Anatolia,” ArOr 67 (1999) 519–34; T. van den Hout, “Bemerkungen zu älteren hethitischen Orakeltexten,” in Kulturgeschichten: Altorientalische Studien für Volkert Haas zum 65. Geburtstag (eds. T. Richter et al.; Saarbrücken: Saarbrückener Druckerei und Verlag, 2001) 423–40; R. H. Beal, “Hittite Oracles,” in Magic and Divination in the Ancient World (eds. L. Ciralo and J. Seidel; Leiden: Brill, 2002) 57–81. 23.  Whether prophecy was part of Hittite divination is somewhat unclear. However, some expressions may be best interpreted as referring to prophets; for example, in King Mursili’s second plague prayer to the storm god: “[Or] if people have been dying because of some other reason, then let me either see it in a dream, or let it be established through an oracle, or let a man of god declare it” (CTH 378.II §11; no. 11 in I. Singer, Hittite Prayers [SBLWAW 11; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2002] 60); the “man of god” could eventually be seen as fulfilling a prophetic function. 24. KBo 15.28 = no. 3 in H. A. Hoffner, Jr., Letters from the Hittite Kingdom (SBLWAW 15; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009) 84–85; HKM 47 = no. 50 in ibid., 178–81; KuT 50 and KuT 49 = nos. 92 and 93 in ibid., 262–67. 25.  CTH 376.A §7 = no. 8 in Singer, Hittite Prayers, 52; CTH 382 §11 = no. 19 in ibid., 84. 26. See S. I. Johnston, Ancient Greek Divination (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2008) 128–30. 27. See, for example, J.-R. Jannot, Religion in Ancient Etruria (trans. J. Whitehead; Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2005) 27–29, who, without discussing Near Eastern evidence, thinks that the “observation of the flight of birds, although it ultimately became a Roman specialty, was probably Etruscan in origin” (p. 29); N. Thomson de Grummond, “Prophets and Priests,” in The Religion of the Etruscans (eds. N. Thomson de Grummond and E. Simon; Austin: University of Texas Press, 2006) 41–42. 28.  See M. Beard, J. North, and S. Price, Religions of Rome: A Sourcebook (2 vols.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998) 2:171–72; note that the bird diviners lend their name, augures, to upper-class politicians who had nothing to do with observing birds (Cicero Div. 2.33, 70: non enim sumus ii nos augures qui avium reliquorumve observatione futura dicamus).

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inevitably brought about by human ignorance, 29 political upheavals and military attacks were doubtless the principal occasions when available specialists were consulted. ZTT 25 appears to provide important evidence for technical and intuitive divination being consulted side by side by the same patrons. It is interesting to note that the Tušḫan documents do not mention the firstranking diviners like haruspices and astrologers but, rather, prophets and augurs whose services were utilized in 611 b.c. Considering the proximity of the city with the Anatolian culture, the presence of the augur is quite natural, and since Ishtar of Nineveh was the patron deity of Tušḫan and the city probably boasted a temple of Ishtar, 30 the prophetic performance is nothing unexpected either.

Rewarding Diviners According to the document at hand, a total of ten minas of copper was delivered: six to the prophet, one to the augur, one (?) to a temple, and yet another two (?) to an unknown recipient. That prophets and other diviners were paid for their services is well attested from all over the ancient eastern Mediterranean. While this fact sometimes elicited accusations of greed—in the Hebrew Bible (Mic 3:5, 11), for example, and also in Greek sources 31—most diviners doubtless lived by their divinatory skills; there was nothing principally wrong with this. 32 The best evidence comes from Mari, where prophets could demand a reimbursement for their services and would be rewarded accordingly: “She demanded a laḫarûm-garment and a nose-ring, and I ga[ve them to] her,” writes the majordomo Sammetar to 29.  For the idea and function of divination, see the articles collected in Annus (ed.), Divination and the Interpretation of Signs in the Ancient World; see also W. Burkert, “Signs, Commands, and Knowledge: Ancient Divination between Enigma and Epiphany,” in Mantikê: Studies in Ancient Divination (eds. S. I. Johnston and P. T. Struck; RGRW 155; Leiden: Brill, 2005) 29–49; M. A. Flower, The Seer in Ancient Greece (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008) 72–80. 30. See Parpola, “Cuneiform Texts from Ziyaret Tepe,” 24–25, 72–73. 31.  For example, Creon in Sophocles’ Antigone 1055: “The entire race of seers is fond of silver”; for similar accusations, see Flower, The Seer in Ancient Greece, 135–36. 32.  See J. Bowden, “Oracles for Sale,” in Herodotus and His World: Essays from a Conference in Memory of George Forrest (eds. P. Derow and R. Parker; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003) 256–74. For the distress of a scholar who had fallen out of the favor of the king and, therefore, lost his income, see S. Parpola, “The Forlorn Scholar,” in Language, Literature, and History: Philological and Historical Studies Presented to Erica Reiner (ed. F. Rochberg-Halton; AOS 67; New Haven: American Oriental Society, 1987) 257–78.

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King Zimri-Lim about an anonymous female prophet at Terqa. 33 Another prophet mentioned in the same letter, Lupaḫum, 34 appears as receiving a donkey in one document and a shekel of silver in another. 35 Prophets also receive garments, 36 rings, 37 and sometimes even lances of bronze. 38 The reward given to the prophet at Tušḫan far exceeds the amounts reported as compensation in other extant sources. Karen Radner has estimated that in Neo-Assyrian times, the purchasing power of one mina of copper corresponded to one shekel of silver or bronze, ten homers of barley, or one or two camels; 39 hence the six minas mentioned in ZTT 25 made a small fortune. Assuming these amounts reflect remuneration for services rendered, an interesting question is why the prophet in this text received six times the amount that was given to the augur. Although an answer to this question must remain in the realm of speculation, it is possible that this generous bequest resulted from the divine message’s content and the prophet’s ability to inspire his audience with confidence in the desperate situation. It is also possible that the augur was needed only to double-check the prophet’s original message.

The Possible Contents of the Divine Messages Whatever the explanation, the significant expenditure of copper reflects the urgency of the situation and the patrons’ appreciation of the diviners, the prophet in particular. The outcome of the augury would probably have been a negative reply to a question like: “Will the enemy attack Tušḫan and destroy it?” 40 The actual contents of the prophecy may have 33.  ARM 26 199: 51–52; see Nissinen, Prophets and Prophecy in the Ancient Near East, 31 no. 9. 34.  ARM 26 199 lines 5–40. 35.  A. 3796 and M. 11436; see Nissinen, Prophets and Prophecy in the Ancient Near East, 83 no. 53, 89 no. 62. 36.  As evident in the ARM 26 199 passage quoted above (and n. 37); also ARM 9 22 line 14; 21 333 lines 34, 43; 22 167 line 8; 22 326 lines 6–9; see Nissinen, Prophets and Prophecy in the Ancient Near East, 84–87 nos. 54–56, 58. 37.  ARM 25 142 lines 12–15 and T. 82 (made of silver); see Nissinen, Prophets and Prophecy in the Ancient Near East, 89–90 nos. 61, 63. 38.  ARM 25 15 lines 7–9: “Two lances of bronze for Qišatum, prophet of Dagan”; see Nissinen, Prophets and Prophecy in the Ancient Near East, 88 no. 60. 39.  See K. Radner, Die neuassyrischen Privatrechtsurkunden als Quelle für Mensch und Umwelt (SAAS 6; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 1997) 248; eadem, “Money in the Neo-Assyrian Empire,” in Trade and Finance in Ancient Mesopotamia (ed. J. G. Dercksen; MOS Studies 1; Leiden: NINO, 1999) 127–57, esp. 156. 40.  Compare, for example, the outcome of augury in the Hittite letter HKM 47 lines 15–19: “We thoroughly investigated by augury the matter of (Your Majesty’s

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resembled the oracles proclaimed to Esarhaddon when his kingship was at stake: “Is there an enemy that has attacked you, while I have kept silent? The future shall be like the past!” 41 In any case, it is difficult to imagine that it anticipated the utter destruction that was about to follow. Both the prophet and the augur must have fulfilled their function, the otherwise invaluable information: how “to get things done, to make things right and to keep them that way.” 42 The extant Neo-Assyrian prophetic oracles are typically addressed to the king of Assyria. Yet this possibility is difficult to imagine in the present case, considering the historical moment when the oracle was pronounced. Oracles spoken to Esarhaddon in his absence in Nineveh during the 680 b.c. civil war between him and his brothers, as well as those addressed to Zimri-Lim while the latter was not in Mari, show conclusively that kings did not need to be present when prophecies were proclaimed to them. If Sin-šarru-iškun, Assyria’s last actual king, was still alive at the time of this oracle’s pronunciation, he could well have been its addressee. However, we do not know of his fate after Nineveh’s fall; whether he committed suicide, was murdered or executed, or just disappeared, is not recorded in any extant Assyrian source. 43 In the quite probable case that he was killed, the prophecies may have been proclaimed to the city as a collective, or, alternatively, to an important functionary in the city.

The Proclamation Situation That the copper was distributed at the city gate probably implies a public occasion. According to Parpola, “[i]f it was a fee for a solicited prophetic oracle, a plausible occasion would have been a great public gathering outside the city wall, just before an imminent battle against the invading Babylonian army.” 44 It is feasible, albeit not certain, that the planned attack on) the town Takkašta, and we obtained an answer. Regarding the campaign we said (i.e., predicted?) as follows: ‘His Majesty will (successfully) attack Takkašta and reap its crops as well’” (translation from Hoffner, Letters from the Hittite Kingdom, 180). 41.  Parpola, Assyrian Prophecies, 1.4 ii 34–37. 42.  U. S. Koch, “Three Strikes and You’re Out! A View on Cognitive Theory and the First-Millennium Extispicy Ritual,” in Annus (ed.), Divination and the Interpretation of Signs, 43–59, esp. 44. 43.  For the sources, see J. R. Novotny, “Sin-šarru-iškun,” PNA 3/I (2002) 1143– 45; cf. also H. Schaudig, “Sîn-šarru-iškun,” RlA 12:522–24. 44.  Parpola, “Cuneiform Texts from Ziyaret Tepe,” 99. A gate as the venue of a prophetic performance is documented in a letter from Mari that gives account of an incident at Babylon: “A prophet of Marduk stood at the gate of the palace, proclaiming

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divinatory acts took place on this occasion. The prophecy could also have been spoken in the temple. The one mina of copper designated for the “house [of the god]” connects the diviners with a possible ritual context in a temple, probably the above-mentioned temple of Ishtar, which provides a natural context for prophecy. It is noteworthy that the tablet is written by the scribe who also wrote tablets ZTT 12 and 13 relating to a festival arranged in the akītu temple of Tušḫan in Sivan (III), 611 b.c. Parpola plausibly suggests that “a festival was arranged at that time in the akītu house to secure the support of the goddess for the impending battle.” 45 The same festival would have provided a venue for the divinatory acts for which the prophet and the augur were rewarded. The gathering at the city gate may have been part of the same festival, the timing of which may be explained with the urgent situation. 46 Within weeks, Tušḫan was destroyed. We may never know whether the prophet and the augur survived to enjoy their newly acquired riches. incessantly: ‘Išme-Dagan will not escape the hand of Marduk. That hand will tie together a sheaf and he will be caught in it.’ This is what he kept proclaiming at the gate of the palace. [Nobo]dy said anything to him.” (ARM 26 371 lines 9–17; translation from Nissinen, Prophets and Prophecy in the Ancient Near East, 73 no. 47). 45.  Parpola, “Cuneiform Texts from Ziyaret Tepe,” 100. For the akītu temple mentioned in ZTT 12 and 13, see ibid., 72–73. 46.  The traditional, agricultural akītu took place in Nisannu (I) and Tishri (VII); however, the date of the Assyrian military akītu, which was of a more occasional nature, did not follow this rule; see A. Annus, The God Ninurta in the Mythology and Royal Ideology of Ancient Mesopotamia (SAAS 14; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2002) 90–94. For akītu in general, see Julye Bidmead, The Akītu Festival: Religious Continuity and Royal Legitimation in Mesopotamia (Piscataway, NY: Gorgias, 2002); B. Pongratz-Leisten, Ina šulmi īrub: Die kulttopographische und ideologische Programmatik der akītu-Prozession in Babylonien und Assyrien im 1. Jahrtausend v. Chr. (Baghdader Forschungen 16; Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 1994); eadem, “Akitu,” EBR 1 (2009) 694–97.

Assyria and Judean Identity Beyond the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule Eckart Otto In the announcement for “Use and Abuse of Assyriology in Deuteronomistic History Research,” a joint session of the “Assyriology and the Bible” and “Deuteronomistic History” sections at the 2009 Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in New Orleans, acknowledgement was given to Francis Brown’s 1885 book, Assyriology: Its Use and Abuse in Old Testament Study. Brown, while recognizing the extraordinarily fruitful impact of nascent Assyriology on biblical studies, had “sounded a warning against poor methodology in comparative use of cuneiform sources. Today various Assyriological texts have come to constitute staple items in Deuteronomistic History research, yet questions remain as to the appropriateness of, for example, the so-called Vassal Treaties of Esarhaddon or the Middle Assyrian Laws to biblical studies.” 1 In this announcement were mentioned two Assyrian texts that I had dealt with extensively in my 1999 monograph on the book of Deuteronomy, Das Deuteronomium: Politische Theologie und Rechtsreform in Juda und Assyrien, published by de Gruyter. 2 I do not intend to repeat here the results of this monograph, but rather to concentrate on methodological aspects of the comparative use of Neo-Assyrian texts in the exegesis of the book of Deuteronomy. Although I will confine my discussion to Deuteronomy research, this comparative methodology is paradigmatic for the rest of the Old Testament, so my remarks here apply more broadly. Author’s note:  The basis of this contribution to the Festschrift for Peter Machinist is my lecture at the session about “Use and Abuse of Assyriology in Deuteronomistic History Research” at the 2009 Annual Meeting of SBL, where I had the pleasure to cooperate with Peter Machinist, William S. Morrow, Jeffrey Stackert, and Raymond E. Person. 1.  SBL 2009 Annual Meeting Session Guide, 90. 2. For a revised and expanded version of my 1999 legal historical analysis of the Middle Assyrian Law Collection (Tablet A) see now Eckart Otto, “Die Rechtsgeschichte der Mittelassyrischen Gesetze (KAV 1),” in idem, Altorientalische und biblische Rechtsgeschichte: Gesammelte Studien (Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte 8; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2007) 192–309.

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My intention is to argue for nothing less than a revision of the methodology whereby the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule and its successors have integrated the study of cuneiform texts into Hebrew Bible scholarship. The question has always been how to explain obvious parallels between Mesopotamian texts and the Bible, a question whose importance for the study of biblical legal material was made evident by the parallels between the Codex Hammurapi, first published in 1902, 3 and the so-called Covenant Code in the book of Exodus. The answers that were given in the early 20th century were exactly those of our day—there is nothing new under the sun! 4 Consequently, it looks as if there has been no methodological progress in advocating the idea that in the ancient Near East, including Israel and Judah, there existed a common culture that included a common law, as was the opinion of the late Raymond Westbrook. 5 The view of a cultural unity of the ancient Near East, expressed in legal uniformity, can be held in two different versions, one static and one dynamic. Raymond Westbrook’s hypothesis of a “common law” represents the static version. He was of the opinion that there had been no decisive legal developments or changes between the third and first millennia, so that only in the late first millennium did the legal tradition witness significant changes, initiated in the legal system by the cultural impact of Greece. The dynamic version, by contrast, has adherents not so much in the field of the history of law, but of religions. In this version, identical cultural trends characterize the ancient Near Eastern culture from Mesopotamia to Egypt, as seen, for example, in the trend to increase the transcendence of 3. Victor Scheil, Textes élamites-sémitiques: Deuxième série (Mémoires de la délégation en Perse 4; Paris: Leroux, 1902). 4.  For a survey of the debates concerning the relation between Hammurapi’s law collection and early biblical law, especially the “Covenant Code” in Exod 21–23, see Eckart Otto, Körperverletzungen in den Keilschriftrechten und im Alten Testament: Studien zum Rechtstransfer im Alten Orient (AOAT 226; Kevelaer: Butzen & Bercker/ Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1991) 11–24; idem, “Study of Law and Ethics in the Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The Legal History of the Hebrew Bible in the Horizon of an Ancient Near Eastern Legal History,” in Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation III/2: The Twentieth Century (ed. Magne Saebø; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013) forthcoming. For a discussion of the more recent scholarship, see Eckart Otto, “Das Bundesbuch und der ‘Kodex’ Hammurapi: Das biblische Recht zwischen positiver und subversiver Rezeption von Keilschriftrecht,” ZABR 16 (2010) 1–26. 5. Raymond Westbrook, “What is the Covenant Code?” in Theory and Method in Biblical and Cuneiform Law: Revision, Interpolation and Development (ed. Bernard M. Levinson; 2nd ed.; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2006) 37–59; idem, “Introduction: The Character of Ancient Near Eastern Law,” in A History of Ancient Near Eastern Law (ed. idem; 2 vols.; HdO 72; Leiden: Brill, 2003) 1:1–92.

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the divine realm in connection with a tendency towards monotheism, such that the development of Israelite religion is part of this wider ancient Near Eastern dynamic. The German scholar Klaus Koch (my Doktorvater) was one of the representatives of this approach, 6 the horizon of which was not limited to the ancient Near East but, when dealing with creation texts like Gen 1, included also the early Greek context of pre-Socratic philosophy. 7 If, however, we are able to recognize certain traits in the developments that determined the history of several—if not all—of the religions in the ancient Near East, how do we explain these traits: as independently parallel developments, or as the results of the transfer of ideas? The more parallel religious dynamics can be detected in disparate cultural provinces of the ancient Near East, the more this model, which implies a critique of any static model of a common culture and a common law, faces limits it cannot overcome. It is unable to explain adequately the reasons for synchronic, parallel developments in different religious or legal cultures throughout the ancient Near East. Here a second model, which advocates for processes of diffusion and transfer of ideas by the reception of texts, has its starting point. In the field of legal history this model is endorsed by, among others, the American scholar David P. Wright, who advocates for the view that the Covenant Code of the book of Exodus was a direct adaptation of the Old Babylonian Codex Hammurapi. 8 Should the Judean reception of the Codex Hammurapi in the Neo-Assyrian period be explained by the assumption that the translation of this Old Babylonian text into Hebrew in the Neo-Assyrian period was a matter of Judean national pride? Did the Judeans want to have a legal corpus of their own, comparable to those of Mesopotamia, so 6. Klaus Koch, Studien zur alttestamentlichen und altorientalischen Religionsgeschichte (ed. Eckart Otto; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1988); idem, Der Gott Israels und die Götter des Orients: Religionsgeschichtliche Studien II (eds. Friedhelm Hartenstein and Martin Rösel; FRLANT 216; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007). 7. See, for example, my former assistant in Mainz, Jan C. Gertz, “Antibabylonische Polemik im priesterlichen Schöpfungsbericht?” ZTK 106 (2009) 137–55. 8.  David P. Wright, “The Laws of Hammurabi as a Source for the Covenant Collection (Exodus 20:23–23:19),” Maarav 10 (2003) 11–87; idem, “The Compositional Logic of the Goring Ox and Negligence Laws in the Covenant Collection (Ex 21:28– 36),” ZABR 10 (2004) 93–142; idem, Inventing God’s Law: How the Covenant Code of the Bible Used and Revised the Laws of Hammurabi (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). For a critique committed to Raymond Westbrook’s thesis of a “common law” in the ancient Near East, see Bruce Wells, “The Covenant Code and Near Eastern Legal Traditions: A Response to David P. Wright,” Maarav 13 (2006) 85–118; for a reply, see David P. Wright, “The Laws of Hammurabi and the Covenant Code: A Response to Bruce Wells,” Maarav 13 (2006) 211–60.

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that they translated the Codex Hammurapi because they could not find anything comparable in their own tradition? I refer to this hypothesis because it was also typical of the diffusionistic approach of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule already in the early 20th century: in the Old Testament, ancient Near Eastern texts were adopted and adjusted to a Hebrew context because the Judean authors did not have comparable texts from their own tradition at their disposal. A less convincing variation of this approach supposes that there was a kind of “infiltration” or “soaking in” of ancient Near Eastern motifs into Hebrew texts. So argues Christoph Koch in his monograph, Vertrag, Treueid und Bund, in which he speaks of the Einsickerung ‘infiltration’ of Assyrian and Aramean motifs into Judah, thereby influencing Judean loyalty oaths, which we no longer have, that in turn influenced the exilic and postexilic texts of Deut 13 and 28. The latter, then, are purely religious Deuteronomistic texts without any direct literary connections to their Neo-Assyrian roots. 9 According to Koch, “[d]as Deuteronomium der Exilszeit ist damit unbeabsichtigt zu einem sprechenden Beispiel von kulturellen und sprachlichen Kontakten im Alten Vorderen Orient geworden.” 10 But this thesis should be disputed. There was nothing “unintentional” in the reception of the ancient Near Eastern motifs of Neo-Assyrian loyalty oaths in the book of Deuteronomy. Rather, as was typical for the reception of Assyrian and, later, Babylonian and Persian motifs in the Pentateuch and the Deuteronomistic History, ancient Near Eastern texts were received and adapted rather deliberately in a mode that I prefer to call a subversive reception. This kind of reception was meant to reject the political and religious claims of the hegemonic powers, in this way defining and strengthening the Judean religious identity. The Assyrians did not launch wars, which the Assyrian king had to wage annually, in order to spread their religion. But these wars had, all the same, a religious foundation, which was a challenge to Judean intellectuals in the priestly circles in Jerusalem. The same was true for the Assyrian loyalty oaths. The adê of Esarhaddon, 9. Christoph Koch, Vertrag, Treueid und Bund: Studien zur Rezeption des altorientalischen Vertragsrechts im Deuteronomium und zur Ausbildung der Bundestheologie im Alten Testament (BZAW 383; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008); see also Juha Pakkala, “Der literar- und religionsgeschichtliche Ort von Deuteronomium 13,” in Redaktionsund religionsgeschichtliche Perspektiven zur ‘Deuteronomismus’-Diskussion in Tora und Vorderen Propheten (eds. Markus Witte and Konrad Schmid; BZAW 365; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2006) 125–37. 10.  “The book of Deuteronomy of the Exilic period became unintentionally a revealing example of cultural and linguistic contacts in the ancient Near East.” Koch, Vertrag, Treueid und Bund, 323. Emphasis mine.

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which the vassals of the Assyrian empire, among them the Judean king Manasseh, 11 had to swear in order to secure the line of succession to the throne, was sworn also to the Assyrian imperial deities. Hence, the question of Judean identity was not only a political but also a religious one. The Neo-Assyrian adê demanded absolute loyalty to the Assyrian king and his designated successor (see §10). 12 The obligation to report all forms of criticism of the king and the crown prince was expanded in §12 into the obligation immediately to lynch the traitor. 13 As the incarnation of the divine task of combating the chaos in the world, the imperial king had to be protected at any price against rebellions. The idea that the individual might suffer at the hands of this king or his organs of state was alien to this way of Assyrian thinking, for according to Assyrian royal ideology, the order they represented was the only possible framework for a successful life for that individual. In the pre-Deuteronomistic literary layer of Deut 13:2–10* and Deut 28:20–44*, the motifs of §§10, 12, and 56 of the adê to Esarhaddon 14 were expanded by motifs of the Aramean treaty tradition and in this way adjusted to the Judean context. 15 The variations between the Deuteronomic and the Neo-Assyrian loyalty oaths remain within the parameters of variation between bilingual and trilingual documents of the ancient Near East. 16 This underlines the fact that the authors of the Deuteronomic texts wanted the small group of addressees of the book of Deuteronomy to be able to identify the Neo-Assyrian text as a source of Deut 13 and 28, and so to recognize the plot of this reception as a subversive one. In Deut 13 and 28, the Judean God Yhwh replaced the Assyrian king and his crown 11. Hans-Ulrich Steymans, “Die literarische und historische Bedeutung der Thronfolgevereidigung Asarhaddons,” in Die deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerke, 331–50. 12. Kazuko Watanabe, Die adê-Vereidigung anlässlich der Thronfolgeregelung Asarhaddons (Baghdader Mitteilungen 3; Berlin: Mann, 1987) 72–73. 13.  Ibid., 74–76. 14.  Ibid., 74–76. 15. Eckart Otto, Das Deuteronomium: Politische Theologie und Rechtsreform in Juda und Assyrien (BZAW 284; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999) 15–90; Hans-Ulrich Steymans, Deuteronomium 28 und die adê zur Thronfolgeregelung Asarhaddons: Segen und Fluch im Alten Orient (OBO 145; Fribourg: Universitätsverlag/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995) 109–49, 300–312. The new tablet of Esarhaddon’s adê excavated at Tell Tayinat, in antiquity set up on display in the temple’s inner sanctum, proves that the manuscript of this adê was widespread also in western parts of the Assyrian empire; see J. Lauinger, “Some Preliminary Thoughts on the Tablet Collection in Building XVI from Tell Tayinat,” Journal for the Canadian Society of Mesopotamian Studies 6 (2012) 5–14. 16. See, for example, the tell Fehrīye inscription; see also Steymans, Deuteronomium 28, 150–94.

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prince as the object of demands for absolute loyalty, thereby delegitimizing the rule of the Assyrian king and, accordingly, Assyria’s hegemonic power. As is apparent in the curses found in the Assyrian oath of loyalty received in Deut 28, the demand for loyalty to God in Deut 13 was also confirmed by an oath. Even if the demand for absolute loyalty to the God of the Judeans was redirected—in that the objects of the demand for loyalty were swapped, and the Assyrian king and his crown prince were replaced by the Judean God—this subversive reception could nonetheless pick up the thread of Neo-Assyrian motifs. Thus, an Assyrian method of religious legitimation of power was subversively revolutionized by means of Assyrian motifs. In the Neo-Assyrian oracles that were recited when King Esarhaddon acceded to the throne, the sworn pledge of a covenant (adê) between the king and the imperial god Aššur took central stage. 17 Thus, the covenant between divinity and humanity was not, as Old Testament scholars once thought, a specific feature of Israelite religion in contrast to other religions of the ancient Near East, whose gods functioned only as witnesses to contracts and alliances. 18 The specific Judean feature with respect to the idea of covenant was rather the creation of an alliance between the deity and the people while disregarding the king, 19 who functioned in the Assyrian context as sole covenant partner, thus becoming a Leitkanal der göttlichen Gnade, as Sigmund Mowinckel once called it: a conduit of divine blessing for the people. 20 17. Simo Parpola, Assyrian Prophecies (SAA 9; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1997) 22–27; see also Otto, Deuteronomium: Politische Theologie, 79–84; Jan C. Gertz, “Covenant II. Old Testament,” RPP 3:526–28. 18. Max Weber, Die Wirtschaftsethik der Weltreligionen: Das antike Judentum. Schriften und Reden 1911–1920 (2 vols.; Max Weber Gesamtausgabe I.21.1–2; ed. Eckart Otto; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005) 1:345–50. For Max Weber’s background of contemporary Old Testament scholarship, see Eckart Otto, Max Webers Studien des antiken Judentums: Historische Grundlegung einer Theorie der Moderne (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002) 101–8, 135–51, 177–80, 252–89. 19. Eckart Otto, “Covenant”, ER2 3:2047–51. 20. Sigmund Mowinckel, Psalmenstudien II: Das Thronbesteigungsfest Jahwäs und der Ursprung der Eschatologie (Oslo: Kristiania, 1923; repr., Amsterdam: Schippers, 1966) 177–78; see Sigurd Hjelde, Sigmund Mowinckel und seine Zeit: Leben und Werk eines norwegischen Alttestamentlers (FAT 50; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006) 162–200. Sigmund Mowinckel is without doubt one of the most important Old Testament scholars of the 20th century century with the background of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule; see Eckart Otto, “Sigmund Mowinckels Bedeutung für die gegenwärtige Liturgiedebatte: Ein Beitrag zur Applikationsproblematik biblischer Überlieferung,” Jahrbuch für Liturgik und Hymnologie 19 (1975) 18–36.

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This idea of a covenant between Yhwh and his people was also a form of Judean rejection of the Assyrian claims—characteristic for the legitimation of the Assyrian ruler—that the people had no access to the world of the divine realm other than through the king, that is, through the organs of the state. This subversive reception was not the result of the loss of a Judean state in the catastrophe of 587/86 b.c. It was rather a preexilic, critical transformation of Assyrian motifs and the rejection of the Assyrian political theology in the name of a Judean identity defined by the demand of absolute loyalty to the Judean God, Yhwh, instead of to the Assyrian imperial king. This successful endeavour to define Judean religion as a protest against Assyrian royal ideology was a prerequisite for, not a consequence of, overcoming the catastrophe of the Exile. Religious ideas do not simply follow historical events; they also create history, in this case the survival of the Judean Yhwh-religion. This is the real substance of the intensive debate in German Old Testament scholarship: whether Deut 13 and 28, and the idea of covenant inhering in them, were of late preexilic or exilic origin, although the difference is only that of a few decades. The subversive reception of the legitimation of the Assyrian ruler in the book of Deuteronomy set in motion a development of some importance to nascent Judasim. In coming to terms with the political theology of Assyria, which linked all prospect of a successful life to obedience to the state organs represented by the king (who was bound to the creator god and, as such, the imperial Assyrian god, as one made in the divine image), the book of Deuteronomy already in the late preexilic period of the seventh century b.c. put the state in its place: absolute loyalty was due not to the state, but to God. This was the birth of a paradigm distinguished by the notion that it is more important to obey God than to obey human beings, a paradigm that became one of the sources of the modern notion of human rights. 21 Beginning with Deuteronomy, the Hebrew Bible counters the intermeshing of state and religion with the idea of a religious community distinct from the functions of the state, even of those of supreme powers like the Assyrians, Babylonians and Persians. 22 21. Eckart Otto, “Human Rights: The Influence of the Hebrew Bible,” JNSL 21 (1999) 1–20; idem, “Menschenrechte im Alten Orient und im Alten Testament” in idem, Altorientalische und biblische Rechtsgeschichte, 120–53. 22. Eckart Otto, “Encountering Ancient Religions. Law and Ethics,” in Religions of the Ancient World (ed. Sarah Iles Johnston; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004) 84–97, 519–21; idem, “The Departure and Return of God: Secularization and

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An exilic Deuteronomy did not become “unabsichtlich ein sprechendes Beispiel von kulturellen und sprachlichen Kontakten im Alten Vorderen Orient.” 23 This was the way in which the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule of the 20th century explained parallels between biblical and ancient Near Eastern motifs. But the notion that there existed an “unintentional” gradual infiltration of ancient Near Eastern motifs into biblical texts has not been very convincing, and some critics have instead argued that there was a lack of adequate legal terms and ideas for defining loyalty to Yhwh, requiring the adoption of motifs from Assyrian loyalty oaths. 24 Still others suppose that the reception of ancient Near Eastern motifs in biblical texts was the result of a process of modernization of the Judean religion in an international context. But especially this approach to the phenomenon of the reception of ancient Near Eastern motifs in biblical texts creates problems concerning the parallels between Neo-Assyrian loyalty oaths and Deut 13 and 28: if these chapters are dated, as Deuteronomistic, to the exilic period, the question arises as to why the biblical authors should use Neo-Assyrian motifs of the seventh century in the sixth century, when they were already outdated. We do not have up to now any Neo-Babylonian or Persian loyalty oaths of the sixth to fourth centuries b.c.; it would not make sense to modernize the Judean religion in the late Babylonian or Persian period through the use of archaic Assyrian motifs. To speak of a verspätete Rezeption ‘belated reception’ does not explain anything. 25 No, the model of reception of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule falls short. From the Neo-Assyrian period on, ancient Near Eastern motifs were taken over in diverse biblical contexts in a subversive way. The Judean authors, we can observe, took over decisive motifs of Neo-Assyrian royal ideology in order to transform them into Judean religious motifs, strengthening in this way a Judean religious identity and rejecting the political and implicitly religious claims of the hegemonic powers. We can observe the same method in the Late Babylonian Period in the Priestly source (P), Theologization in Judaism,” in Secularization and the World Religions (eds. Hans Joas and Klaus Wiegandt; Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2009) 77–107. 23.  “Unintentionally a revealing example of cultural and linguistic contacts in the ancient Near East.” Koch, Vertrag, Treueid und Bund, 323. 24.  See William S. Morrow, “A Paradox of Deuteronomy 13: A Post-Colonial Reading,” in “Gerechtigkeit und Recht zu üben” (Gen 18,19): Studien zur altorientalischen und biblischen Rechtsgeschichte, zur Religionsgeschichte Israels und zur Religionssoziologie: Festschrift für Eckart Otto zum 65. Geburtstag (eds. Reinhard Achenbach and Martin Arneth; Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte 14; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2010) 227–39. 25.  Koch, Vertrag, Treueid und Bund, 267.

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with its subversive reception of Babylonian mythological concepts of creation in the Enuma Elish, the flood in the Gilgamesh epic, and the akītu festival in the story of the tower of Babylon, completed by genealogies and ethnological charts of the same time and of mostly Phoenician origin. 26 In the postexilic period, we observe the same method at work in the Hexateuch, with its reception and transformation of basic motifs of the Achaemenid royal ideology, which claimed that it was the Persian imperial god and his royal representative who gave each people their homeland to settle (gathu-). 27 For the Judean authors, however, it was Yhwh who gave Israel their land, not only Judea and Samaria but, as Gen 15:18 and Deut 1:7 demonstrate, all the satrapy eber nāri. 28 It was not a kind of unconsciousness or weakness of the Judean religion and its theologians that caused them to take over and transform motifs out of the ideological realm of the hegemonic powers. It was rather a kind of religious self-consciousness and strength that induced them to a subversive mode of reception, transforming motifs of the hegemonic powers into Judean ones, and strengthening Judean religious identity this way by contesting claims of those powers. 26. Eckart Otto, Das Deuteronomium in Pentateuch und Hexateuch: Studien zur Literaturgeschichte von Pentateuch und Hexateuch im Lichte des Deuteronomiumrahmens (FAT 30; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000) 247; idem, Das Gesetz des Mose (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2007) 177–93. 27.  Otto, Gesetz des Mose, 194–99; idem, “Anti-Achaemenid Propaganda in Deuteronomy,” in Homeland and Exile: Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honour of Bustenay Oded (eds. G. Galil, M. Geller, and A. Millard; VTSup 130; Leiden: Brill, 2009) 547–58. 28. Eckart Otto, “Deuteronomium 1–3 als Schlüssel der Pentateuchkritik in diachroner und synchroner Lektüre,” in idem, Die Tora: Studien zum Pentateuch. Gesammelte Schriften (Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte 9; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2009) 326–28.

Psalm 22:16 and Its Sumerian and Akkadian Analogues Shalom M. Paul The first half of Psalm 22 describes the agony of a tormented individual who, in the utter despondency brought upon him by his adversaries (vv. 7, 12, 14, 17, 18), is led to the brink of the grave. In v. 16 he gives vent to his woeful and rueful state by describing his condition as ‫יָבֵׁש ַּכ ֶחרֶׂש ּכ ִֹחי‬ ‫ׁש ְּפתֵ נִי‬ ְ ‫ֻדּבָק מ ְַלקֹוחָי ְו ַלעֲפַר־ ָמוֶת ִּת‬ ְ ‫—ּולׁשֹונִי מ‬expressions ְ whose analogues can be documented from Mesopotamian texts: a) ‫‘ יָבֵׁש ַּכ ֶחרֶׂש ּכ ִֹחי‬My vigor/palate dries up like a potsherd.’ 1 Though ‫ ּכ ֹ ַח‬means ‘vigor,’ 2 in view of the following colon describing the sufferer’s “tongue” (‫)לשוני‬, it is more likely that a metathesis occurred and one should read ‫‘ ִח ִכּי‬my palate,’ as already suggested by Saadiah and independently by most modern commentators. For the substantives ‫ חך‬and ‫לשון‬ in a parallel construction, see Job 6:30: ‫ָבין‬ ִ ‫ם־ח ִּכי לֹא־י‬ ִ ‫ֵׁש־ּב ְלׁשֹונִי ע ְַולָה ִא‬ ִ ‫הי‬ ֲ  3 ‫‘ הַּוֹות‬Is injustice on my tongue? Can my palate not discern evil?’ And for a combination of the two, see Ezek 3:26: ‫אל ְַמ ָּת‬ ֱ ֶ‫ֶל־חּכֶךָ ְונ‬ ִ ‫ּולׁשֹונְךָ א ְַד ִּביק א‬ ְ ‘And Author’s Note: For my very dear friend and colleague, Peter, who excels in these multiple interdisciplinary fields: lu šalmāta lu balṭāta. 1.  For another simile pertaining to a potsherd, “shattered like a potsherd,” which is common in Mesopotamian literature, compare kīma ḫaṣbi pursīt paḫḫāri ina ribīti liḫtappû ‘May they (the demons) be shattered in the streets like sherds from a potter’s bowl’ (CT 16 33:170–71). In addition to the verb ḫepû, similar verbs meaning “to shatter/smash” are also employed. Compare duqququ (CAD D: 190); purruru (CAD P: 163). For the words denoting a potsherd, see CAD Ḫ: 131 s.v. ḫaṣbattu; 132 s.v. ḫaṣbu; I/J: 241 s.v. išḫilṣu. See also Moshe Held (“Rhetorical Questions in Ugaritic and Biblical Hebrew,” ErIsr 9 [1969] 76–77 nn. 46–48), who refers to a similar image in Jer 22:28. Compare also Jer 19:1, 10–11. 2.  For examples, consult the dictionaries. Thus it was understood by most medieval commentators, except for Rav Saadia Gaon (Psalms [New York: American Academy for Jewish Research, 1966] 89 [Hebrew]), who translates Hebrew ‫ ּכ ִֹחי‬by Arabic ‫‘ חנכי‬palate,’ and in his commentary he explains that this is an instance of metathesis, for which he brings additional examples. Ibn Ezra, in his commentary to Ps 22:16, mentions Saadiah’s suggestion (which he does not accept) but refers to him only anonymously: “one of the geonim said.” 3.  For Hebrew ‫ ַהָוּה‬, see, for example, Mic 7:3; Ps 5:10; 38:13.

349

350

Shalom M. Paul

I will make your tongue cleave to your palate and you shall be dumb’; Ps 137:6: ‫ַק־לׁשֹונִי ְל ִח ִּכי‬ ְ ‫‘ ִּת ְדב‬Let my tongue cleave to my palate’; Job 29:10: ‫ּולׁשֹונָם ְל ִחּכָם ָּדב ֵָקה‬ ְ ‫ֶחּבָאּו‬ ְ ‫ידים נ‬ ִ ‫‘ קֹול־נ ְִג‬The voices of princes were hushed, 4 and their tongues cleaved to their palates’; Job 33:2: ‫  ִהּנֵה־נָא ּפָתַ ְח ִּתי ִפי ִּד ְּברָה‬5 ‫‘ ְלׂשֹונִי ְב ִח ִּכי‬Now I open my mouth. My tongue forms words on my palate’; Lam 4:4: ‫ֶל־חּכֹו ַּב ָּצמָא‬ ִ ‫‘ ָּדבַק ְלׁשֹון   יֹונֵק א‬The tongue of the suckling cleaves to his palate for thirst’. For the interdialectal Akkadian cognates in the context of desiccation, compare: šumma lišānšu u liq pīšu [ītanabbalu (?)] ‘If his tongue and his palate [became dry again and again (?)]’. 7 “Drying up the palate,” similar to “cleaving to the palate” (see below, b), refers to the inability to speak. Compare, for example, Akkadian: šumma liq pīšu ītanabbal ‘If his palate keeps drying out’ 8; mubbil liq pî ‘(The demon) who dries up the palate’. 9 And likewise: aṣbat pīki ūtabbil lišānki ‘I (the sorcerer) seized your mouth (in other words, made you dumb). I dried up your tongue’. 10 b) ‫  מ ְַלקֹוחָי‬1 ‫ֻדּבָק‬ ְ ‫ּולׁשֹונִי מ‬ ְ ‘My tongue cleaves to my jaws/gums.’ This expression, whose parallels are cited above, also connotes the inability to speak (or, as in Lam 4:4, the inability of the suckling to cry when hungry, since his palate is parched with thirst). The hapax legomenon  12‫מ ְַלקֹוחָי‬, 4.  See Robert Gordis for this interpretation (The Book of Job: Commentary, New Translation, and Special Studies (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary, 1978) 319–30). 5.  The three words in the second colon appear to be the exact antithesis of the expression in the Psalm verse under discussion: ‫ּת ְדּבַק ְלׁשֹונִי ְל ִח ִכּי‬. ִ 6.  For Hebrew ‫ לשון‬in the masculine, as here, see also, for example, Josh 15:2; Prov 26:28. 7.  Labat, TDP 1:62 line 13 = SA.GIG tablet 7:13; for which see now N. P. Heeßel, Babylonisch-assyrische Diagnostik (AOAT 43; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2000) 142. 8.  Labat, TDP 1:64, line 55. 9.  Ebeling, KAR 2 fragment 4 iii line 4. See also idem, “Sammlungen von Beschwörungsformeln,” ArOr 21 (1953) 417. 10.  CAD A/1: 31 s.v. abālu B 2 c; the text is VAT 35:1. 11.  Since the Hebrew root ‫ דבק‬appears only here in the hophal, it has been suggested that the initial mem is enclitic and should therefore be suffixed to the previous word, ‫לשוני־מ‬. See Horace H. Hommel, “Enclitic Mem in Early Northwest Semitic, Especially Hebrew,” JBL 76 (1957) 99. However, this is unnecessary in light of the verb’s occurrence in the hiphil (see, for example, Jer 13:11; Ezek 29:4; and especially 3:26 cited in this article, where the identical expression appears). Hebrew ‫ֻדּבָק‬ ְ ‫ מ‬is elliptical for -‫ֻדּבָק ל‬ ְ ‫( מ‬compare Kimchi) or -‫ֻדּבָק ב‬ ְ ‫מ‬. For the former, see the examples cited in the text. For the latter, see Job 19:20. 12. This hapax legomenon is absent from the works of both Harold R. Cohen, Biblical Hapax Legomena in the Light of Akkadian and Ugaritic (SBL Dissertation Series 37; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1978) and Frederick E. Greenspahn, Hapax Legomena in Biblical Hebrew: A Study of the Phenomenon and Its Treatment since Antiquity

Psalm 22

351

which is the interdialectal etymological and semantic cognate of Akkadian liqu in the expression liq pî, 13 constitutes the parallel b-word to ‫חך‬. The specific expression “tongue cleaving to the mouth” apparently does not appear in Akkadian literature, yet the idea is expressed by the verbs ebēṭu, kaṣāru, and rakāsu, all of whose basic meaning is “to tie, bind,” in combination with the noun “tongue,” lišānu; thus the expression literally means “tongue-tied.” Compare, for example, [li]šānu ša innebṭa šutābulu [l]a i[liʾû] ‘(My) tongue which was bound and [could n]ot converse’ 14; lišānša kaṣrat ‘Her tongue is tied’ 15; arakkas lišānka 16 ‘I bind your tongue’. And for “binding the tongue to the palate,” compare šumma izbu lišānšu ina laq pîšu kaṣrat ‘If the malformed animal’s tongue is bound to its palate’. 17 Similarly in Hebrew, the root ‫אלם‬, whose basic meaning is “to bind,” describes one who is dumb, unable to speak. 18 See Ezek 3:26, cited above. c) ‫ׁש ְּפתֵ נִי‬ ְ ‫  ְו ַלעֲפַר־ ָמוֶת ִּת‬19 ‘You commit 20 me to the dust of death’. This unique phrase can be documented from an Assyrian medical text: 21 Sumūqan ina ṣēri . . . epri mūti malâ rittāšu ‘Sumuqan/Šakkan (god of the herds who is connected with the netherworld), 22 in the steppe . . . his hands are filled with the dust of death.’ Compare likewise a Middle with Special Reference to Verbal Forms (SBL Dissertation Series 74; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1984). 13.  For additional references, see CAD L: 205–6. Compare likewise, by metathesis, Arabic ḥalq, ḥulqum. 14.  Lambert, BWL 52 line 28 maintains that šutābulu is an ellipsis for the idiom šutābulu amāti (which may also appear without amātu) ‘to discuss, argue a matter’ (p. 298); CAD A/1: 27–28. 15.  Meier, Maqlû 1:28; see also Labat, TDP 232:9. 16.  Ebeling and Köcher, LKA 106 rev. 3. 17.  Leichty, Izbu 3:90. 18.  For this verb, see, for example, Isa 53:7; Ps 31:19; 39:3, 10; Dan 10:15; and for the noun, see, for example, Exod 3:11; Isa 35:6. 19.  For the Ugaritic semantic cognate ṯpd of Hebrew ‫‘ ׁשפת‬to place,’ see Gregorio del Olmo Lete and Joaquín Sanmartín, A Dictionary of the Ugaritic Language in the Alphabetic Tradition (Leiden: Brill, 2003) 2:925. In KTU 2 1.4.IV:29 (pʿnh lhdm yṯpd ‘He placed his feet on the footstool’), the Ugaritic verb, similar to the Hebrew, employs the preposition l/‫ל‬. See also Isa 26:12. 20.  Since the context of the verse continues the description of the troubles inflicted upon the victim by his enemies, and not by God, some commentators read: ‫‘ ְׁש ָפ ֻּתנִי‬They have committed me’, explaining the first taw as a dittography of the last letter of the previous word, ‫מות‬. 21.  Thompson, AMT 52 1:10–11. Compare ibid., 45 5:12. 22.  See Jeremy Black and Anthony Green, Gods, Demons and Symbols of Ancient Mesopotamia: An Illustrated Dictionary (London: British Museum Press for the Trustees of the British Museum, 1992) 172.

352

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Assyrian incantation for a woman having difficulty in giving birth: “The mother is enveloped in the dust of death (epri mūti).” 23 Moreover, Hebrew ‫ ָמוֶת‬also refers to the realm of the dead, the netherworld, as is evident from its parallelism with ‫( שאול‬Isa 28:15, 18; 38:18; Ps 6:6), ‫( רפאים‬the denizens of the netherworld; Prov 2:18), and ‫( שערי מות‬Ps 9:14; 107:18; Job 38:17), which is identical to ‫( שערי שאול‬Isa 38:10) and ‫שערי צלמות‬ (Job 38:17), the latter three all referring to “the gates of the netherworld.” 24 Therefore, one may cite the analogous Sumerian saḫar-kur-ra ‘the dust of the netherworld,’ which appears in the lament of the goddess Egime for her dead brother, the young warrior god Ašgi, in the myth “Lulil and His Sister”: 25 “My bed is the dust of the netherworld (saḫar-kur-ra-ka). I lie among the mourned” (line 46); “Pour out the water to the libation pipe (in other words, supply water to prevent him from suffering thirst). Pour it in the dust of the netherworld (saḫar-kur-ra-ka)” (line 59). So, too, in the epic “Inanna’s Descent to the Netherworld,” where Ninšubur appeals to Enlil, Nanna, and Enki to prevent Inanna’s death in the netherworld: “O father Enlil, let not your daughter be put to death in the netherworld. Let not your good metal be covered with the dust of the netherworld (saḫar-kur-ra-ka).” 26 23.  Wilfred G. Lambert, “A Middle Assyrian Medical Text,” Iraq 31 (1969) 31 line 37. It is paralleled in the next two lines (lines 38–39) by epri tāḫāzi ‘the dust of battle’, and epri qīšāti ‘the dust of the forests.’ 24.  For this architectural image in Sumerian, Akkadian, Biblical, and Qumran literature, see my “Gates of the Netherworld” in A Woman of Valor: Jerusalem Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honor of Joan Goodnick Westenholz (eds. W. Horowitz et al.; Biblioteca del Próximo Oriente Antiguo 8; Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Cientificas, 2010) 163–69. 25. François Thureau-Dangin, “La passion du dieu Lillu,” RA 19 (1922) 175–84. See Dina Katz, Image of the Netherworld in the Sumerian Sources (Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2003) 101, 205–8; idem, “The Naked Soul: Deliberations on a Popular Theme,” in Gazing on the Deep: Ancient Near Eastern and Other Studies in Honor of Tsvi Abusch [eds. J. Stackert et al.; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2010] 107–20; Samuel N. Kramer, The Sacred Marriage Rite: Aspects of Faith, Myth, and Ritual in Ancient Sumer (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1969) 159–60; Thorkild Jacobsen, “Death in Mesopotamia,” in Death in Mesopotamia (ed. B. Alster; Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag, 1980) 21–22. 26.  William R. Sladek translates the lines: “Father Nanna, don’t let anyone subjugate your daughter in the netherworld. Don’t let your precious metal be alloyed there with the dirt of the netherworld” (“Inanna’s Descent to the Netherworld” [Ph.D. diss., Johns Hopkins University; published by Ann Arbor, MI: University Microfilms, 1974] 156 lines 43–44; 157 lines 52–53; 158 lines 60–61; 167 lines 185–86; 168 lines 199– 200; 169 lines 212–13). For a different interpretation of the second line, see Andrew R. George, “Observations on a Passage of ‘Inanna’s Descent’,” JCS 37 (1985) 109–13. See also Jeremy A. Black et al., The Literature of Ancient Sumer (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004) 67, 71, 72.

Psalm 22

353

For “dust” itself as a synonym for the netherworld in Akkadian, compare the expression bīt epri ‘the house of dust,’ for example: ana bīt epri ša ērubu anāku ‘In the house of dust (= netherworld), which I entered.’ 27 So, too, in Ugaritic, ʿpr ‘dust’ serves as a metonym for the underworld: larṣ mšṣu qṭrh lʿpr ḏmr aṯrh ‘Who releases his spirit from the netherworld (arṣ), who protects his remains from the dust (ʿpr = underworld)’; 28 špl ʿpr ‘Lower (yourself) into the dust (= netherworld)’. 29 Note also the parallel terms ‫ עפר‬and ‫ שאול‬in Job 17:16:  31‫  ִאם־יַחַד עַל־ ָעפָר נָחַת‬3 ‫ׁשאֹל ּתֵ רַ ְדנָה‬ ְ ‫ּבַּדֵ י‬ ‘Will it [“my hope,” v. 15] descend to Sheol? Shall we go down together to the dust [netherworld]?’ This is yet another example of Biblical imagery in Psalms illuminated in the light of Mesopotamian congeners. 32 27. Simo Parpola, The Standard Babylonian Epic of Gilgamesh (SAACT 1; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 1997) 97 Tablet VII line 197. And it is in the “house of dust,” “where dust is their (the dead’s) food . . . over the door and bolt, dust has settled”; see “The Descent of Ishtar to the Underworld,” translated by Stephanie Dalley (COS 1:381 lines 8 and 11). 28.  KTU 2 1.17.I:27–28. 29.  Ibid., 1.161:22. 30.  If one reads ‫‘ טובתי‬my welfare’ with the Septuagint for the second ‫‘ תקותי‬my hope’ in v. 15, then the 3rd-person fem. pl. ‫ ּתֵ רַ ְדנָה‬would refer to both nouns, ‫ תקותי‬and ‫טובתי‬. Otherwise, the verb should be interpreted as a 3rd-person fem. sing. with a nun energeticus, referring to the dual mention of ‫ תקותי‬in the previous verse. 31.  Vocalize with the Septuagint’s 1st-person pl. ‫נֵחַת‬. For the verb ‫ נחת‬referring to descent to the netherworld, see Job 21:13. For further examples, see Nicolaas H. Ridderbos, “‫ ָעפָר‬als Staub des Totenortes,” OTS 5 (1948) 174–78. 32.  See, in addition, the following articles in my Divrei Shalom: Collected Studies of Shalom M. Paul on the Bible and the Ancient Near East, 1967–2005 (Leiden: Brill, 2005): “Psalm 7:25—A Traditional Blessing for the Long Life of the King” (51–58); “Heavenly Tablets and the Book of Life” (59–70); and “Psalm 27:10 and the Babylonian Theodicy” (121–23).

Do Ideas Travel Lightly? Early Greek Concepts of Justice in Their Mediterranean Context Kurt A. Raaflaub Just about twenty years ago, Peter Machinist participated in a conference I organized at the “Historisches Kolleg” in Munich on Beginnings of Political Thought in the Ancient World: The Near Eastern Cultures and the Greeks. 1 Like his contributions to our often intense discussions, the paper he gave stood out for its clear argument, precise reasoning, profound knowledge, acute interest in theory and methodology, and sincere quest to get to the bottom of the issues discussed. 2 We have since met on many other occasions and collaborated in other projects. The qualities that impressed me at that first occasion remained, enhanced by others, including a deep concern for students and fellow teachers, an exceptional commitment to conveying the insights of his learning to others, and a warm humanity. It is a true pleasure, therefore, to help congratulate him with a contribution that, I hope, will provide food for future discussions. The present chapter is part of a larger project that intends to illuminate the emergence of Greek political thought by taking seriously the possibility, largely neglected so far, 3 that like so many other parts of Greek 1. K. A. Raaflaub, Anfänge politischen Denkens in der Antike: Die nahöstlichen Kulturen und die Griechen (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1993). This chapter represents work in progress and is still at an early stage. A slightly different version will appear in German (K. A. Raaflaub, “Ideen im Reisegepäck? Sachliche und methodologische Überlegungen zu frühgriechischen Gerechtigkeitsvorstellungen im interkulturellen Zusammenhang des Mittelmeerraumes,” in Kulturkontakte in antiken Welten: vom Denkmodell zum Fallbeispiel. [eds. R. Rollinger and K. Schnegg; Leuven: Peeters, forthcoming]). I thank the editors of both volumes for their understanding and permission. 2. P. Machinist, “Assyrians on Assyria in the First Millennium b.c.,” in Raaflaub, Anfänge politischen Denkens, 77–104. 3.  One exception is J.-P. Vernant, The Origins of Greek Thought (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1982).

355

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culture—both material and intellectual—this one too was stimulated by impulses from the older and more highly developed civilizations of the ancient Near East. 4 This project faces formidable obstacles, however, including conceptual and terminological vagueness in dealing with the phenomenon of culture transfer, distorted ancient views of such matters, and the lack of comprehensive modern studies of ancient Near Eastern political thought. 5 I therefore divided the topic into “slices,” each designed to investigate one aspect that bears on my subject, either by comparing identifiable parallel phenomena or by searching for possible Near Eastern antecedents for important aspects of archaic Greek political thought. 6 In one of these, I briefly compared the role in Mesopotamia and archaic Greece of political concepts such as order, equality, and liberty, and the purpose and social function of legal texts inscribed on durable materials. 7 The present chapter pursues a parallel track. Comparative history is diffi4.  First explored in Raaflaub, Anfänge politischen Denkens; idem, “Influence, Adaptation, and Interaction: Near Eastern and Early Greek Political Thought,” in The Heirs of Assyria (eds. S. Aro and R. Whiting; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2000) 51–64; idem, “Poets, Lawgivers, and the Beginnings of Greek Political Reflection,” in The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Political Thought (eds. C. Rowe and M. Schofield; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000) 23–59. For bibliographical surveys, see, for example, W. Burkert, The Orientalizing Revolution: Near Eastern Influence on Greek Culture in the Early Archaic Age (trans. M. E. Pinder and W. Burkert; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992) 135–52; idem, Babylon, Memphis, Persepolis: Eastern Contexts of Greek Culture (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004) 131–42; Raaflaub, Anfänge politischen Denkens, xvii–xix. For intellectual influences in literature and philosophy, see also P. Walcot, Hesiod and the Near East (Cardiff: Wales University Press, 1966); M. L. West, Early Greek Philosophy and the Orient (Oxford: Clarendon, 1971); idem, The East Face of Helicon: West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth (Oxford: Clarendon, 1997); C. Penglase, Greek Myths and Mesopotamia: Parallels and Influence in the Homeric Hymns and Hesiod (London: Routledge, 1994); in science, bibliography in Raaflaub, “Poets, Lawgivers,” 51 n. 64. 5.  Raaflaub, “Early Greek Political Thought in Its Mediterranean Context,” in A Companion to Greek and Roman Political Thought (ed. R. Balot; Malden, MA: WileyBlackwell, 2009) 37–56, here 38–41. 6.  Previously published “slices” include Raaflaub, “Archaic Greek Aristocrats as Carriers of Cultural Interaction,” in Commerce and Monetary Systems in the Ancient World: Means of Transmission and Cultural Interaction (eds. R. Rollinger and C. Ulf; Stuttgart: Steiner, 2004) 197–217; idem, “Zwischen Ost und West: Phönizische Einflüsse auf die griechische Polisbildung?” in Griechische Archaik und der Orient: Interne und externe Impulse (eds. R. Rollinger and C. Ulf; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2004) 271–89; idem, “Zeus und Prometheus: Zur griechischen Interpretation vorderasiatischer Mythen,” in Christian Meier zur Diskussion (eds. M. Bernett, W. Nippel, and A. Winterling; Stuttgart: Steiner, 2008) 33–60; idem, “Early Greek Political Thought.” I use “Near Eastern” here broadly, to include Egypt. 7.  Raaflaub, “Early Greek Political Thought.”

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cult; that of legal history is fraught with additional pitfalls. 8 I am neither a legal historian nor an Assyriologist and thus ask for constructive criticism from both camps.

Greek–Near Eastern Correspondences My starting point is the observation that, as far as we can see, everywhere in the ancient Near East those holding power, whether kings, tribal leaders, communal elders, or officials, were responsible for upholding justice. It was considered the gods’ will that social injustice be avoided and the powerless not be abused by the powerful. 9 In Egypt, this was expressed through maʾat “order, justice, and truth” based on a principle of “vertical solidarity” in which the strong protected the weak and the weak loyally obeyed and supported the strong. Similar ideas are formulated, for example, on Hammurapi’s famous stela: “In order that the strong might not oppress the weak, that justice might be dealt the orphan (and) the widow, . . . I wrote my precious words on my stela”; or on Darius’s tomb in Naqš-i Rustam: “Saith Darius the King: . . . I am a friend to right, I am not a friend to wrong. It is not my desire that the weak man should have wrong done to him by the mighty; nor is that my desire, that the mighty man should have wrong done to him by the weak.” 10 Early Greek sources too reflect a marked concern for justice and good order, invoking the support of the supreme gods. Elite leaders are in charge of maintaining and dispensing justice. The Greek concept of social justice too protects the weaker members of society from abuse of power by the stronger. Thus in Homer refugees, suppliants, and outsiders are placed under the protection of the highest god, Zeus. Hesiod describes how the goddess of Justice, Dike, mishandled by corrupt judges, flees from earth and implores her 8. G. Thür, “Der Reinigungseid im archaischen griechischen Rechtsstreit und seine Parallelen im Alten Orient,” in Rechtsgeschichte und Interkulturalität: Zum Verhältnis des östlichen Mittelmeerraums und “Europas” im Altertum (eds. R. Rollinger and H. Barta; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2007) 179–95, here 179. 9.  For example, K. D. Irani and M. Silver, eds., Social Justice in the Ancient World (Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1995). See also M. Weinfeld, Social Justice in Ancient Israel and in the Ancient Near East (Jerusalem: Magnes/Philadelphia: Fortress, 1995). 10. J. Assmann, Maʾat: Gerechtigkeit und Unsterblichkeit im Alten Ägypten (Munich: Beck, 1990); idem, “Politisierung durch Polarisierung: Zur impliziten Axiomatik altägyptischer Politik,” in Raaflaub, Anfänge politischen Denkens, 13–28; S. N. Morschauser, “The Ideological Basis for Social Justice/Responsibility in Ancient Egypt,” in Irani and Silver, Social Justice, 101–13; ANET, 178 (Epilogue 60) on the CH; P. Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2002) 212, on Darius’s tomb (trans. of DNb 8).

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father Zeus to punish the culprits and their communities. The Athenian lawgiver Solon takes a middle position between elite and commoners, rich and poor, strong and weak, stepping in to protect both from each other; he enacts laws that are fitted equally for high and low. 11 Many other parallels suggest close connections between East and West in the sphere of law and justice. For example, legal texts, inscribed on durable material, are placed in sanctuaries under the protection of the city-deity; such texts often begin with an invocation of the gods. 12 Formulae in interstate treaties or certain methods of conflict resolution (such as decision by a purifying oath) show close analogies. 13 Hesiod, passionately concerned about justice, draws broadly on Near Eastern traditions. 14 His frequent criticism of “crooked” (skolios) judgments and urging of straight decisions recall Mesopotamian mīšarum, describing an action or instrument by which something is straightened out. 15 His personification and high valuation of “cunning intelligence” (mētis) and Solon’s ideal of a 11.  Homer: E. A. Havelock, The Greek Concept of Justice: From Its Shadow in Homer to Its Substance in Plato (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1978), especially chap. 9; Hesiod: Works and Days (WD) 256–66; Solon 5; 36.20–27; 37.9–10 West (M. L. West, ed., Iambi et Elegi Graeci ante Alexandrum Cantati, II [2nd ed.; Oxford: Clarendon, 1992]). 12. R. Pounder, “The Origin of theoi as Inscription-Heading,” in Studies Presented to Sterling Dow on His Eightieth Birthday (ed. K. J. Rigsby; Durham, NC: Duke University Press) 243–50. 13.  Treaties: P. Karavites, Promise-Giving and Treaty-Making: Homer and the Near East (Leiden: Brill, 1992); see also idem, Homer and the Bronze Age: The Reflection of Humanistic Ideals in Diplomatic Practices (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2008); S. Knipp­ schild, “Drum bietet zum Bunde die Hände”: Rechtssymbolische Akte in zwischen­ staatlichen Beziehungen im orientalischen und griechisch-römischen Altertum (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2002); R. Rollinger, “Die Verschriftlichung von Normen: Einflüsse und Elemente orientalischer Kulturtechnik in den homerischen Epen, dargestellt am Beispiel des Vertragstextes,” in Rollinger and Ulf, Griechische Archaik, 369–425. Oath: Thür, “Reinigungseid.” 14.  M. L. West, Hesiod, Theogony: Edited with Prolegomena and Commentary (Oxford: Clarendon, 1966) especially 18–30; idem, Hesiod, Works and Days: Edited with Prolegomena and Commentary (Oxford: Clarendon, 1978), especially 3–25; idem, East Face of Helicon, chap. 6; M. Erler, “Das Recht (DIKE) als Segensbringerin für die Polis,” in Studi italiani di filologia classica 3rd ser. 5 (1987) 5–36; W. Schmitz, “Griechische und nahöstliche Spruchweisheit: Die Erga kai hemerai Hesiods und nahöstliche Weisheitsliteratur,” in Rollinger and Ulf, Griechische Archaik, 311–33. 15. M. Lang, “Zum Begriff von menschlicher und göttlicher Gerechtigkeit in den Prologen der altorientalischen Codices,” in Recht und Religion: Menschliche und göttliche Gerechtigkeitsvorstellungen in den antiken Welten (eds. R. Barta, R. Rollinger, and M. Lang; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2008) 49–71, here 53 with references. Hesiod: WD 219–26, 250–51, 256–64.

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traditional form of “good order” (eunomia) have been connected with Egyptian maʾat. 16 Solon’s measures include debt relief and the liberation of debt bondsmen—crucial concerns of Near Eastern social justice. 17 His legislation forms one of few comprehensive Greco-Roman law collections which some scholars link in both structure and substance with Mesopotamian “law codes.” 18 Yet others have emphasized analogies between Greek and biblical texts, comparing the prophet Amos with Hesiod, Josiah’s legislation with Solon’s, or Nehemiah with Solon. 19 However compelling such individual correspondences may be, it is tempting to assume that Hesiod’s and Solon’s thinking about justice were also directly influenced by Near Eastern models. I begin therefore with a brief summary of the early Greek concept of justice as we grasp it in Homer, Hesiod, and Solon. 16. On mētis, see C. A. Faraone and E. Teeter, “Egyptian Maat and Hesiodic Metis,” Mnemosyne 57 (2004) 177–208; see further especially M. Detienne and J.-P. Vernant, Cunning Intelligence in Greek Culture and Society (trans. J. Lloyd; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991) and below at n. 33; on eunomia, V. Fadinger, “Solons Eunomia-Lehre und die Gerechtigkeitsidee der altorientalischen Schöpfungsherrschaft,” in Vergangenheit und Lebenswelt: Soziale Kommunikation, Traditionsbildung und historisches Bewusstsein (eds. H.-J. Gehrke and A. Möller; Tübingen: Narr, 1996) 179–218; with H. Barta, “Solons Eunomia und das Konzept der ägyptischen Maʾat—Ein Vergleich: Zu Volker Fadingers Übernahme-These,” in Altertum und Mittelmeerraum: Die antike Welt diesseits und jenseits der Levante; Festschrift für Peter W. Haider (eds. R. Rollinger and B. Truschnegg; Stuttgart: Steiner, 2006) 409–43. 17. As illustrated by several contributions in Irani and Silver, Social Justice; also Weinfeld, Social Justice, 75–96. 18.  Greek collections: K.-J. Hölkeskamp, Schiedsrichter, Gesetzgeber und Gesetzgebung im archaischen Griechenland (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1999). Near Eastern connections: especially R. Westbrook, “The Nature and Origins of the Twelve Tables,” Zeitschrift für Rechtsgeschichte 105 (1988) 74–121; idem, “Cuneiform Law Codes and the Origins of Legislation,” Zeitschrift für Assyriologie 79 (1989) 201–22; idem, “Drakon’s Homicide Law,” in Symposion 2007: Vorträge zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte (eds. E. Harris and G. Thür; Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2008) 3–16; idem, “Barbarians at the Gates: Near Eastern Law in Ancient Greece” (lecture, Brown University, Providence, RI, March, 2009, forthcoming in Westbrook, Ex Oriente Lex (eds. D. Lyons and K. Raaflaub; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013). 19. K. Seybold and J. von Ungern-Sternberg, “Amos und Hesiod: Aspekte eines Vergleichs,” in Raaflaub, Anfänge politischen Denkens, 215–39; idem, “Zwei Reformer: Josia und Solon,” in Gesetzgebung in antiken Gesellschaften—Israel, Griechenland, Rom (eds. L. Burckhardt, K. Seybold, and J. von Ungern-Sternberg; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2007) 103–61; E. M. Yamauchi, “Two Reformers Compared: Solon of Athens and Nehemiah of Jerusalem,” in The Bible World: Essays in Honor of Cyrus H. Gordon (eds. G. Rendsburg et al.; New York: KTAV, 2008) 269–92.

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Early Greek Concepts of Justice 20 Yet here we run into a first problem: strictly speaking, we do not know that what we find in these poets represents a Greek concept of justice. 21 Had we much more of the archaic period’s rich literary production, we might possibly find various concepts or emphases and no agreement among Greeks on such a concept. For two reasons, however, this is not likely. One is that all three poets share essential components of this concept. Because justice is intimately integrated into communal life and the three poets are associated with different regions and social contexts, such agreement cannot simply be explained by Homer’s influence on subsequent archaic poetry. The other is that the epic poets, and even to some extent Solon (and his contemporary, Theognis), are panhellenic in outlook: they reflect concerns that transcend local specificity and are important to all Hellenes. 22 Thus what they say about justice is likely to have found resonance among all Greeks, and in this sense it seems justified to speak of a Greek concept of justice. Yet there is a further problem: can such a concept pertain to all Hellenes, to all Greeks, not only geographically but also socially? Aristocrats, middling farmers, day laborers—all of them? Singers in the society Homer describes were dēmiourgoi, “workers among the people,” itinerant specialists, highly regarded and sought after but not permanently integrated into 20. Generally on Greek concepts of justice, V. Ehrenberg, Die Rechtsidee im frühen Griechentum (Leipzig: Hirzel, 1921); R. J. Bonner and G. Smith, The Administration of Justice from Homer to Aristotle, I (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1930); E. Wolf, Griechisches Rechtsdenken, I (Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann, 1950); K. Latte, “Der Rechtsgedanke im archaischen Griechentum,” in Latte, Kleine Schriften zu Religion, Recht, Literatur und Sprache der Griechen (Munich: Beck, 1968) 233–51; M. Gagarin, “DIKĒ in Archaic Greek Thought,” Classical Philology 69 (1974) 186–97; idem, Early Greek Law (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986); A. Lesky, “Grundzüge griechischen Rechtsdenkens,” Wiener Studien 98 (1985) 5–40. 21.  For a discussion of the “unity of Greek law,” see M. Gagarin, “The Unity of Greek Law,” in The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Greek Law (eds. M. Gagarin and D. Cohen; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005) 29–40; see also A. Hagedorn, Between Moses and Plato: Individual and Society in Deuteronomy and Ancient Greek Law (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004) 81–89. 22. G. Nagy, The Best of the Achaeans: Concepts of the Hero in Archaic Greek Poetry (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1979) 5–9; idem, “Theognis and Megara: A Poet’s Vision of His City,” in Theognis of Megara: Poetry and the Polis (ed. T. J. Figueira and G. Nagy; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1985) 22–81, here 35, 46–51; idem, Greek Mythology and Poetics (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1990) chap. 3. On the origins of panhellenism: C. Morgan, “The Origins of Panhellenism,” in Greek Sanctuaries: New Approaches (eds. N. Marinatos and R. Hägg; London: Routledge, 1993) 18–44.

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the community, hence outsiders; they sang in the men’s halls, at public gatherings, and at festivals. 23 Epic poetry was thus performed in public and not only for elite circles. Homer certainly illuminates the values of the elite on whose patronage the bards depended, but he is also remarkably critical of the elite and gives voice to communal concerns. 24 Hesiod presents himself as an independent farmer who lives far from the town, with its public square and legal or political fights, and relies primarily on his neighbors; he sets himself in sharp contrast to the corrupt elite judges. As in Homer’s case, the tension between elite and communal aspirations stimulates his political thinking. 25 Solon, though certainly a member of the elite, criticizes elite leaders and claims to stand in the middle between elite and dēmos. He is given full power as a legislator precisely because he identifies with neither side and is thus acceptable to both. 26 He writes poetry that was performed at elite symposia but also had a public function, and he must have presented his ideas in speeches to the assembly. 27 The poets who best illuminate early Greek concepts of justice thus all are—or at least claim to be—outsiders, not members of the ruling circles, voicing concerns with which all members of the community are encouraged to identify, and they all reach out to broad audiences, to all citizens. In this sense, the outlook of these three poets is not only panhellenic but also communal, integrative not exclusive; indeed, it addresses all Greeks. Next, I summarize briefly what is most important for my present purposes. In Homer, jurisdiction is an essential responsibility of leaders (basileis). Like their other functions, it is sanctioned by the highest god, 23. Singers: Odyssey 1.325–59; 8.73–83, 266–369, 469–520; as dēmiourgoi: Od. 17.382–86. Hesiod: WD 654–59. On dēmiourgoi see B. Qviller, “Prolegomena to a Study of the Homeric Demiurgoi (Murakawa’s Theory Reexamined),” Symbolae Osloenses 55 (1980) 5–22; F. Gschnitzer, Griechische Sozialgeschichte: Von der mykenischen bis zum Ausgang der klassischen Zeit (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1981) 33–34. 24.  See the bibliography listed in K. A. Raaflaub, “Homer und die Geschichte des 8. Jh.s v. Chr.,” in Zweihundert Jahre Homer-Forschung: Rückblick und Ausblick (ed. J. Latacz; Stuttgart: Teubner, 1991) 205–55, here 248 with n. 141. 25.  Hesiod: P. Millett, “Hesiod and His World,” Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 30 (1984) 84–115; H. van Wees, “The Economy,” in A Companion to Archaic Greece (eds. K. A. Raaflaub and H. van Wees; Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009) 444–67. Social conditions of early Greek political thought: Raaflaub, “Poets, Lawgivers.” 26.  See n. 11. Criticism of leaders: Solon, 4.7–14 West. On Solon, see bibliography in n. 94. Like the other “Seven Sages,” he represents a political culture that stands above the parties and thus occupies “a third position”: C. Meier, The Greek Discovery of Politics (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990) 40–52. 27.  K. A. Raaflaub, “Solone, la nuova Atene e l’emergere della politica,” in I Greci, II (ed. S. Settis; Turin: Einaudi, 1996) 1.1035–81, here 1038–42.

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Zeus; the staff (skēptron) symbolizes this and conveys communal authority. 28 Jurisdiction is performed in public, in the circle of the men who form the citizen community. 29 Two similes illustrate the communal impact of the leader’s stewardship of justice: if he is just, the community prospers and nature and people flourish; while under an unjust leader Zeus’s punishment harms nature, people, and community. On the famous shield of Achilles, a city in peace enjoys a wedding, peaceful conflict resolution through a trial, and harvest. 30 Typically, the atomized “nonsociety” of the Cyclopes has neither decision-making assemblies nor shared norms; each head of household, living in a separate cave, sets the norms independently for his family. 31 Hence norms set and shared by the community are typical of civilized society. Overall, justice, and the leaders’ obligation to maintain and render justice, are firmly embedded in a communal and thus public context, and recognized as vital for the community’s well-being. Moreover, the poet leaves no doubt that human transgressions, not the will or arbitrariness of the gods, cause human suffering beyond the fate (moira) that is allotted to every person and that not even the gods can change. 32 In Theogony, Hesiod constructs a cosmogonic and theogonic system that uses personification and genealogical connections to systematize, among much else, the forces and values that are important for humans and their communities. Cosmogonies and theogonies were widespread in the ancient Near East, but Hesiod’s differs not least in sketching the emergence of not only a new but a just world order. Zeus overthrows a wicked predecessor, who ruled with “crooked mētis.” 33 He gains supporters by offering fair and appropriate rewards, overcomes dire threats, and 28.  For example, Iliad 1.234–39. Agamemnon’s staff: 2.101–8; see J. Griffin, Homer on Life and Death (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980) 9–12; P. Easterling, “Agamemnon’s Skeptron in the Iliad,” in Images of Authority: Papers Presented to Joyce Reynolds (eds. M. Mackenzie and C. Roueché ; Cambridge: Cambridge Philological Society, 1989) 104–21. Homer and Justice: Gagarin, “DIKĒ in Archaic Greek Thought”; idem, Early Greek Law, chap. 2; Havelock, Greek Concept of Justice; V. Farenga, Citizen and Self in Ancient Greece: Individuals Performing Justice and the Law (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006) chaps. 2–3. 29.  Il. 18.497–508; see Gagarin, Early Greek Law, 26–33; Thür, “Reinigungseid,” 181–86; Farenga, Citizen and Self, chap. 2. 30.  Il. 16.384–92; 18.490–508; Od. 19.109–14. 31.  Od. 9.112–15. 32.  Od. 1.32–43. 33.  Wickedness (atasthaliē) “denotes behaviour for which men not only suffer but deserve to suffer, culpable recklessness implying a selfish disregard for the decencies of social life” (A. Heubeck, S. West, and J. B. Hainsworth, A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, I: Introduction and Books i–viii. [Oxford: Clarendon, 1988] 72 at Od. 1.7). On mētis, n. 16 above.

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rules, by consent of all Olympian gods, with fairness and justice. In several important ways, he represents an exemplary leader and thus a model to be emulated by the human nobles whose deficient leadership the poet criticizes in Works and Days. 34 Moreover, through Zeus’s marital connections and offspring Hesiod illuminates the leader’s essential qualities. Zeus’s marriage to Themis produces the three Horai (goddesses of growth and prosperity): Eunomia (good order), Dike (justice), and Eirene (peace). Themis stands for conventional norms; she thus represents an old system based on tradition. 35 By marrying her, Zeus unites this old with his own new order, which is created, based on intentionally set norms, and characterized by justice, peace, and good order. 36 Hesiod thus conceptualizes justice as a prime communal value, placing its personification near the top of the divine hierarchy. Another marriage links Zeus with Mnemosyne (Memory), a crucial quality of a good leader and important not least for jurisdiction and the upholding of communal norms. Their offspring are the nine Muses. They sing of their father’s power, fairness, and justice, and bless a leader with a “honeyed tongue” that enables him to lead his people with “straight judgments”: “his word is sure, and with expert knowledge he makes a quick end of even a great dispute.” 37 Persuasion, good norms and customs, prudent and wise leadership: all these are crucial conditions to uphold justice. 38 In Works and Days, the focus shifts to the community, and justice takes center stage: Zeus is not only powerful, capable of crushing the 34. For details, see Raaflaub, “Zeus and Prometheus,” 44–51; on Olympus as a community, see S. Scully, “The Theogony and the Enuma Elish: City-State Creation Myths,” in Appropriation and Exchange in the Ancient World: A Periplus of the Mediterranean (eds. M. E. Cohen et al.; in preparation). 35. Hes. Theog. 901–3; on Themis, L. Käppel, “Themis,” BNP 14 (2009) 424–25 with bibliography. 36. On eunomia: M. Ostwald, Nomos and the Beginnings of the Athenian Democracy (Oxford: Clarendon, 1969) 62–95; dikē: M. Gagarin, “DIKĒ in the Works and Days,” Classical Philology 68 (1973) 81–94; eirēnē: K. A. Raaflaub, “Conceptualizing and Theorizing Peace in Ancient Greece,” Transactions of the American Philological Association 139 (2009) 225–50. 37.  On their song, Theog. 915–17, cf. 36–93. Translations are from A. Athanassakis, Theogony, Works and Days, Shield: Translation, Introduction, Notes (2nd ed.; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004). 38.  Homer’s ideal leader too is preeminent in fighting and speaking: Il. 1.274; 3.216–24; 9.53–54, 440–43; Od. 8.169–73; see G. Kennedy, The Art of Persuasion in Greece (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1963) 35–39; F. Ruzé, Délibération et pouvoir dans la cité grecque de Nestor à Socrate (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1997) 75–104. Another crucial characteristic is charm: charis, Theog. 907–11; C. Meier, Politik und Anmut: Eine wenig zeitgemässe Betrachtung (Stuttgart: Hohenheim, 2000).

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mighty and raising the lowly, he also “straightens the crooked.” 39 The theme continues through the poet’s appeal to brother Perses to settle their inheritance dispute with “straight judgments” rather than playing the game of the “gift-eating” leaders. 40 It is prominent in the Myth of the Ages, where already the Silver Race commits wicked deeds of hybris and fails to observe conventional norms. Hybris characterizes the Bronze Age too, before the world descends into the violence, injustice, and immorality of the Iron Age, where might is right, as the fable of the hawk and nightingale, addressed explicitly to the basileis, illustrates. Aidos and Nemesis (respect for others and moral disapproval) will flee from earth, soon followed by Dike herself, who—mishandled “by bribe-devouring men, whose verdicts are crooked”—brings ruin on her tormenters, flees to her father Zeus, and denounces the perpetrators of unjust deeds so that they suffer punishment. 41 In two vignettes, Hesiod describes a city whose leaders “give straight judgments to visitors and to their own people and do not deviate from what is just”; Zeus allows their city to flourish. But those who engage in wicked hybris and evil deeds receive deserved retribution from Zeus. “Often a whole community together suffers in consequence of a bad man who does wrong and contrives evil.” Famine, plague, barrenness, war, and destruction descend upon them. 42 The immortals are ever present. “The eye of Zeus sees all, notices all,” even how in the poet’s own town “wrongdoers win court decisions. But I do not believe yet that Zeus’s wisdom will allow this.” Animals, ignorant of justice, eat each other. “Justice, the best thing there is, he gave to men; Zeus . . . blesses the affairs of the man who knows justice and proclaims it before the public.” 43 In sum, in Hesiod’s thinking, individuals, whether of low or high status, suffer harm from unjust acts and cause their communities to suffer. Justice is the gods’ primary concern and they, foremost among them Zeus and Dike, bless the just and will punish the unjust severely. Being powerless himself, the poet has to rely on the justice of Zeus that, he firmly believes, will ultimately prevail. Hence all he can do is to urge those in power (the elite leaders and judges) and those without (like his brother Perses) to 39.  WD 7–10. 40.  WD 27–41. 41.  Silver Age: WD 134–37; Bronze Age: WD 146; Iron Age: WD 174–201. Fable: WD 202–12; Aidos and Nemesis: WD 199–201; Dike: WD 219–24, 256–64. 42.  Two cities: WD 225–37, 238–47. See also WD 213–18, 248–51. 43.  WD 267, 272–73, 276–81.

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observe the precepts of justice and thus to enable their fellow humans and their community to prosper. 44 Solon was elected archon and appointed mediator in 594 bc. He was thus placed in a position of power by his community and legislated on the basis of a communal mandate, just as legislation at that time was often enacted by “the polis,” assembly, or people. 45 In a poem entitled “Eunomia,” expressing programmatic ideas that are likely to have been instrumental for his appointment, Solon speaks as a citizen: he begins with “Our Polis,” and says later, “My mind commands me to teach the Athenians.” 46 Justifying his measures, he presents himself as occupying a position in the middle, between elite and dēmos, writing ordinances valid for both and fitting straight justice for each or for each case. 47 He insists that, rather than the gods who do not intend to harm humans, it is the citizens’, especially the elite leaders’, greed and injustice that cause the evils the community is suffering. They disregard the solemn ordinances of Dike, who, though silent, is aware of what is happening and what was (done) before, and in the course of time with certainty (pantōs) arrives to impose punishment. This comes for the entire polis [or every polis] as an inescapable wound. 48

Based probably on the empirical observation of sociopolitical developments common in the Greek world (economic crisis, civil strife, and tyranny), Solon postulates a direct causal connection between unjust actions of citizens and suffering of the community. Like Homer and Hesiod, Solon locates this connection entirely on the human level. It is inherent in the social and political interactions within the community and it is stringent, comparable to laws of nature (such as the sequence of lightning and thunder). 49 Hence the consequences of human injustice are inevitable and 44.  Hesiod and justice: A. Lesky, Gesammelte Schriften (Bern: Francke, 1966) 479–92; Gagarin, “DIKĒ in the Works and Days”; H. Erbse, “Die Funktion des Rechtsgedankens in Hesiods Erga,” Hermes 121 (1993) 19–30. 45.  For example, ML no. 2; ER I: no. 81; see also no. 64. On early Greek lawgivers: Meier, Greek Discovery of Politics, 40–52; Hölkeskamp, Schiedsrichter; R. W. Wallace, “Charismatic Leaders,” in Raaflaub and van Wees, Companion to Archaic Greece, 411–26. 46.  Solon, fr. 4.1, 30 West. 47.  Solon, fr. 36.18–27. See n. 11. 48.  Gods: 4.1–4; quote: 14–17, my translation. 49.  9; see also fr. 11 and 13.

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can be predicted with certainty (pantōs). Unlike Hesiod’s Dike, who flees to Zeus and implores him to act, Solon’s Dike acts on her own, as a silent but inescapable demon of revenge. She appears here virtually as an abstract principle. Justice will prevail with certainty; the suffering it causes is inescapable and will come upon the entire community and every individual: debt bondage, civil strife, civil war, tyranny, and individual and collective loss of liberty. 50 These observations permit two conclusions. Unlike Hesiod, who had recommended avoiding the public and focusing on the private sphere (one’s farm and good relations with neighbors), Solon urges precisely the citizens’ involvement in public affairs. While Hesiod had believed that the consequences of injustice would affect everybody, Solon knows this. 51 His appeal carries conviction because empirical observation confirms the causality he postulates: elite injustice prompts civil strife and tyranny and thus hurts the elite no less than anyone else. Hence it is in the elite’s own best interest to observe justice. 52 Knowing all this, the citizens now have a choice between continuing to suffer under their “bad order” (dysnomia) and reestablishing “good order” (eunomia). Solon therefore firmly puts the maintenance of justice in the hands of the citizens and makes them responsible: among other measures, he empowers the assembly (ēliaia) as a court and introduces the Popularklage, enabling any citizen (ho boulomenos) to bring charges on behalf of a third party. 53 To summarize, the Greek concept of justice, gradually defined more sharply but apparently present in its essentials from very early on, is firmly embedded in the emerging polis as a citizen community. 54 The earliest poets comment on the significance of justice for individual and community and its handling by leaders and commoners alike. Justice, in all its aspects, is thus a public matter and concern. In the extant evidence, such concern is expressed not by the ruling elites but by persons outside and/or below the centers of power and addressed to all citizens in contexts that have panhellenic significance: care for justice is shared widely throughout the community and across many communities. 50.  4.18–29; contrast: Hesiod WD 256–62; see also Il. 1.348–427, 493–530. 51.  Hesiod WD 27–34, 342–52, see also 493–501, 202–85. 52.  See W. Eder, “The Political Significance of the Codification of Law in Archaic Societies: An Unconventional Hypothesis,” in Social Struggles in Archaic Rome: New Perspectives on the Conflict of the Orders (ed. K. A. Raaflaub; expanded and updated ed.; Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2005) 239–67. 53.  4.30–39; for Solon’s measures, see n. 94. 54.  See M. H. Hansen, “The Polis as a Citizen-State,” in The Ancient Greek CityState (ed. M. H. Hansen; Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1993) 7–29.

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Justice means obedience to norms that are rooted in tradition and placed under divine protection, and that attribute to high and low equal responsibility for the common good, even if the functions differ: the elite leaders as judges are charged with protecting and dispensing justice “with straight verdicts,” while all citizens, whether high or low, are called to observe the norms. These norms are communal; their enforcement and development, from conventional to enacted law, is a communal matter: “the polis” legislates, even if occasionally it delegates this power to an appointed lawgiver. 55 The gods, especially Zeus and Dike, are initially invoked as reinforcers of justice, mostly because no sufficiently powerful human agency exists to assume this function. Yet all three authors agree that human prosperity or suffering depend not on the gods’ will but on human justice or injustice. Solon is the first to conceptualize this causal relationship, located entirely on the human level, in terms of a predictable political process, comparable to natural processes. It enables humans to observe causes, anticipate and predict consequences, and take corrective or preventive measures by, for example, enacting laws and reforms to stabilize the community. This empowers the citizens, individually and collectively, to assume control over their fate and to restore and maintain a broadly based “good order” (eunomia) that is rooted in the community and equally valid for all. At this stage, the gods are theoretically dispensable and justice almost becomes an abstract principle, although in popular and religious thought (focusing, for example, on the problem of theodicy) the gods continue to play their role.

Differences between Greek and Near Eastern Concepts of Justice The question now is whether this concept of justice was in any way influenced by ancient Near Eastern ideas and concepts. This in turn prompts the question of whether it is possible to identify in Near Eastern societies comparable concepts that could have exerted such influence. Earlier, I listed some phenomena that suggest correspondence and influence. I now discuss differences before turning to methodological problems. For reasons of space, I limit myself to a few points and the comparison with Mesopotamia, summarizing and simplifying more than is desirable. As always, 55. W. Schmitz (Nachbarschaft und Dorfgemeinschaft im archaischen und klassischen Griechenland [Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2004]) illuminates communal handling of conventional norms.

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I do not pass judgment, I only compare. “Different” does not mean better or worse; it only means different. My first point concerns the question of human responsibility. The three Greek poets emphasize human, not divine, responsibility for human suffering. Even in Hesiod’s myth of Prometheus and Pandora, evils enter the world as a punishment for transgressions by Prometheus, the protector and leader of humankind. 56 By contrast, in a Sumerian myth about the origins of evils, responsibility lies squarely with the gods; humans, created to be the gods’ slaves, are merely the passive victims of divine actions. 57 Hence the Sumerian individual feels and is entirely subordinated to a superior will (whether of gods or a king empowered by them), while the Greeks apparently understood early on that they all, not only their leaders, were responsible for individual and communal well-being. 58 Next, discussing the origins of law and justice, Martin Lang points out that in Mesopotamia law and justice have their foundation in a “normcreating” mythical time, long antedating and transcending the influence of humans and even gods, who merely convey them, like a “force,” to the king, whom they charge with administering them on earth. 59 The sources of law and justice thus lie beyond the human realm, in a primordial world order. Even if all this serves the ideological purpose of legitimizing the king’s power, it makes clear that control over the law and responsibility for maintaining justice are limited to the king and those placed in power by him. His subjects are intended to see and experience that the king lives up to this divine mandate, but they have no influence on or share in it. 60 56.  Od. 1.32–43; Sol. 4.1–4; Hes. WD 42–105 with Raaflaub, “Zeus and Prometheus,” 52. 57. T. Jacobsen, “Mesopotamia,” in The Intellectual Adventure of Ancient Man (H. Frankfort et al.; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1946) 125–219, here 161– 65; S. N. Kramer and J. Maier, Myths of Enki, the Crafty God (New York: Oxford University Press, 1989) chap. 2. 58.  K. A. Raaflaub, “Polis, ‘the Political,’ and Political Thought: New Departures in Ancient Greece, c. 800–500 bce,” in Axial Civilizations and World History (eds. J. P. Arnason, S. N. Eisenstadt, and B. Wittrock; Leiden: Brill, 2005) 253–83. 59.  Lang, “Zum Begriff von menschlicher . . . Gerechtigkeit,” 57–58, with reference to E. Otto, “Der Zusammenhang von Herrscherlegitimation und Rechtskodifizierung in altorientalischer und biblischer Rechtsgeschichte,” ZABR 11 (2005) 51–92, here 58. 60.  The claim in the epilogue of CH, that the citizens should find in the text information about legal issues and thus relief, is clearly ideologically motivated as well: The Babylonian Laws (eds. G. R. Driver and J. C. Miles; Oxford: Clarendon, 1952) 1.286; D. Charpin, “Le statut des ‘codes de lois’ des souverains babyloniens,” in Le législateur et la loi dans l’Antiquité. Hommage à F. Ruzé (ed. P. Sineux; Caen: Presses universitaires de Caen, 2005) 93–107, here 100–101.

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True, the Greek gods also play a role in protecting and enforcing justice, but they do so only because, and as long as, humans are incapable of assuming this role themselves. Divine sanction of leaders in Homer’s epics is a world apart from that of the Mesopotamian kings. Nor are the Greek gods ever considered the source of law—even if conventional norms are sometimes called “divine.” 61 I consider it crucial that Greek thinking firmly places responsibility for order and justice among the people—all of them, despite the obviously important role elite and leaders have to play in this. In emphasizing so strongly the king’s responsibility in Near Eastern societies, I run the risk of overvaluing the role of the centralized monarchies that were characterized by divinely sanctioned hierarchies and palace or temple administrations, and that shaped and propelled cultural development. Besides these, there always existed forms of collective governance and maintenance of justice in tribes, cities, and city-states. To compare these with those of the early Greek polis would be productive. 62 They were a constant factor, visible only occasionally, far beneath the monarchies and empires. They operated on the basis of conventional norms, and if there was a king, the judges tended to refer to his authority and decrees, and to pass difficult or sensitive cases along to him. Archaic Greece is different in that such hierarchical structures were lacking, and it was precisely the collective institutions of government and justice that shaped and advanced 61.  On the function of the gods in Homer, see E. Kearns, “The Gods in the Homeric Epics,” in The Cambridge Companion to Homer (ed. R. Fowler; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004) 59–73, and the bibliography in F. Graf, “Zum Figurenbestand der Ilias: Götter,” in Homers Ilias: Gesamtkommentar: Prolegomena (ed. J. Latacz; 2nd ed.; Munich: Saur, 2002) 115–32; also H. Lloyd-Jones, The Justice of Zeus (2nd ed.; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983). On concepts such as “divine, unwritten, ancestral, or Hellenic law”: M. Ostwald, “Was there a Concept agraphos nomos in Greece?” in Exegesis and Argument: Studies in Greek Philosophy Presented to Gregory Vlastos (eds. E. N. Lee, A. P. D. Mourelatos, and R. M. Rorty; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1973) 70–104; see also R. W. Wallace, “Law’s Enemies in Ancient Athens,” in Symposion 2005: Vorträge zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte (eds. G. Thür and E. Cantarella; Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2007) 183–96; M. Gagarin, Writing Greek Law (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008) chap. 1. 62.  See, for example, D. Fleming, Democracy’s Ancient Ancestors: Mari and Early Collective Governance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004); Y. Schemeil, La politique dans l’ancien Orient (Paris: Presses des sciences politiques, 1999); G. Beckman, “The Hittite Assembly, ” JAOS 102 (1982) 435–42; generally, R. Blanton, “Beyond Centralization: Steps Toward a Theory of Egalitarian Behavior in Archaic States,” in Archaic States (eds. G. M. Feinman and J. Marcus; Santa Fe: School of American Research Press, 1998) 135–72.

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social, political, cultural, and legal developments. 63 This brings up two further aspects: the formulation of laws and norms, and political thinking about the nature and significance of justice. After much debate, some consensus seems to have emerged that the large list of clauses in the Codex Hammurapi and similar codes are not laws in the sense of normative statutes but, as they claim to be, legal decisions, judgments: a collection of examples, grouped in numerous categories and differentiated logically within each category, intended to illustrate that justice rules in the realm of Hammurapi, “king of justice.” This collection was derived from various sources and was only partially connected with legal practice; in the inscribed version, it is the result of scientific elaboration in scribal schools, comparable to an academic treatise and, indeed, similar to other collections (for example, of omina). 64 Even if they might appreciate the iconography and the monument as such, ordinary mortals could not possibly read the texts inscribed on the stele; these primarily served the king’s self-presentation. Legal documents and trial records, preserved in great numbers, rarely refer to these texts; they cite traditional norms, judgments, and royal edicts. The king is not only the supreme judge but also the supreme creator of norms, but these norms are expressed not through laws but through decisions and decrees—ad hoc decisions that result from specific situations and needs, react to and correct problems of the past, and do not regulate future behavior. According to Bruce Wells, [T]radition and custom were . . . the sources of the rules that possessed legal authority for ancient Near Eastern societies. Certainly, there is no ancient Near Eastern society for which it can be said that a particular document or collection of documents contained that society’s law. Bits and pieces, or even large portions, of that society’s law may appear in 63.  Vernant, Origins of Greek Thought; Meier, Greek Discovery of Politics, chap. 3; idem, “The Greeks: The Political Revolution in World History,” in Agon, Logos, Polis: The Greek Achievement and Its Aftermath (eds. J. P. Arnason and P. Murphy; Stuttgart: Steiner, 2001) 56–71; and now especially idem, A Culture of Freedom: Ancient Greece and the Origins of Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). 64.  Westbrook, “Cuneiform Laws”; idem, “Introduction: The Character of Ancient Near Eastern Law,” in A History of Ancient Near Eastern Law (ed. R. Westbrook; Leiden: Brill, 2003) 1:1–90, here 18; J. Bottéro, “The ‘Code’ of Hammurabi,” in Mesopotamia: Writing, Reasoning, and the Gods (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992) 156–84; M. van de Mieroop, King Hammurabi of Babylon (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005) chap. 8; relevant chaps. in H.-J. Gehrke, ed., Rechtskodifizierung und soziale Normen im interkulturellen Vergleich (Tübingen: Narr, 1994); E. Lévy, ed., La Codification des lois dans l’antiquité (Strasbourg: Publications de l’université de Strasbourg, 2000); BNP 7 (2005) 320–21 with further bibliography.

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some texts, such as the law collections, but those texts themselves were not the repositories of the law, merely the reflections of it. Instead, the repositories were most likely bodies of knowledge that were transmitted orally from one generation to another.

Such knowledge of the authority of law seems to date back to before the mid-third millennium, and much of it remained unchanged for ages. “Many components of the societies and cultures of the ancient Near East changed very slowly over the course of time, and law appears to have been one of the most conservative.” 65 Hence laws and legislation in the strict sense of the word seem to have been unknown in the ancient Near East. 66 On the other hand, in Greece individual laws and clusters or collections of laws, inscribed and thus preserved, clearly are—like the laws of Solon or the Roman Twelve Tables quoted in later literature—enactments of normative law, even if in structure, formulation, and occasionally content, they show analogies to Near Eastern “law codes.” The Greeks may have been inspired by Near Eastern models to inscribe such legal texts on durable material; they, too, often placed them in sanctuaries, thereby enhancing their authority and security, and such “monumentalization” may often have served the ideological purpose of demonstrating respect for the law rather than instructing a public that in most cases was not able to read these texts either. 67 Even so, content, function, and purpose of these texts were very different. 68 As mentioned before, it was the polis or assembly, the collective body of citizens, that enacted these laws or empowered a legislator to do so. What Christian Meier says of Greek culture, that uniquely in world history it was built not from a monarchical 65. B. Wells, “Law and Practice,” in A Companion to the Ancient Near East (ed. D. C. Snell; Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2005) 183–95, here 188–90 (with quotes). See also Westbrook, “Character of Ancient Near Eastern Law,” 12–23; M. P. Streck, “Recht. A. In Mesopotamien,” RlA 11:280–85. 66.  “The source most closely identifiable with what we think of today as statutes are royal decrees” (Westbrook, “Character of Ancient Near Eastern Law,” 6). 67. R. Thomas, “Written in Stone? Liberty, Equality, Orality, and the Codification of Law,” in Greek Law in Its Political Setting: Justifications Not Justice (ed. L. Foxhall and A. D. E. Lewis; Oxford: Clarendon, 1996) 9–31; J. Whitley, “Literacy and LawMaking: The Case of Archaic Crete,” in Archaic Greece: New Approaches and New Evidence (eds. N. Fisher and H. van Wees; London: Duckworth/Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 1998) 311–31, especially 322–23. 68.  For discussion, see Raaflaub, “Early Greek Political Thought,” 31–48; Hölkeskamp, Schiedsrichter; M. Gagarin, “Inscribing Laws in Greece and the Near East,” in Symposion 2003: Vorträge zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte (ed. H.-A. Rupprecht; Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2006) 9–20 (with a response by R. Westbrook, 21–25); idem, Writing Greek Law.

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position but from the middle of a society, is true for Greek legal culture as well. 69 In terms of content, such laws were mostly intended to regulate causes of frequent and intense conflicts that were detrimental to the community, and thus to reduce or prevent communal strife; to define and limit the power of officials; to institutionalize council, assembly, and the process of decision making; to regulate legal procedures; and thus overall to stabilize and better integrate the community. 70 Enacted and inscribed, law was fixed and made accessible, which improved the security of law. 71 It also became changeable. Greek law was not static but dynamic. Communities realized that the law (like their political and social order, their way of life, politeia), had, as they said, been placed “in their middle” (en mesōi) and thus under their control. Accordingly, they expanded, complemented, refined, and adapted it to changing conditions and needs, or, as happened in Athens at the turn of the fourth century, revised and systematized it and thus for the first time in world history created a “law code” approaching a “constitution.” 72 Conversely, only under these conditions was it possible to recognize that the law (nomos) was supreme, requiring unconditional obedience. 73 Accordingly, law and justice were central elements in early Greek political thought, as it is reflected in the poets discussed above. 74 Both political thought and the discourse about justice were founded in the community and its problems and tensions, from the very beginning to Plato’s philosophy and Aristotle’s theory. To my knowledge, Mesopotamia did not develop a comparable political, let alone theoretical, discourse that focused on law and justice. There seems to be little that goes beyond the frequent assertion of the king’s responsibility in this sphere (mentioned above) and the (certainly highly sophisticated) academic or scientific exercise of categorizing and subdividing lists of legal cases or judgments. 75 Moreover, 69.  Meier, Politik und Anmut, 34; idem, A Culture of Freedom. From this perspective, a comparison with ancient Israel should yield interesting results. 70.  Hölkeskamp, Schiedsrichter, especially part IV. 71.  Eder, “Political Significance.” 72.  M. H. Hansen, The Athenian Democracy in the Age of Demosthenes: Structures, Principles, and Ideology (expanded ed., Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1999), chap. 7. 73.  Hdt. 7.104; Thuc. 2.37. On nomos basileus, M. Gigante, Nomos basileus (2nd ed.; Naples: Bibliopolis, 1993). On debates concerning this issue: Wallace, “Law’s Enemies.” From this perspective, too, a comparison with Israel seems promising. 74.  Raaflaub, “Poets, Lawgivers.” 75.  Westbrook: “a significant stream of juridical scholarship,” constituting “an intellectualization of the amorphous mass that would have been customary law” (“Char-

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Hammurapi’s stela containing such a list was part of a monumental complex that comprised the king’s statue and other stelae recording his conquests and building activities. Protector of justice, conqueror, and builder: these were the three pillars of his self-representation. The “I” of the king dominates: his care for justice illustrates his abilities and achievements as a ruler, it is a means to maintain peace and order, power and popularity. The Mesopotamian concept of justice is thus determined by the perspective from above; the people, whether high or low, are passive recipients. By contrast, we saw, Solon’s protection of the weak is rooted in communal ideology. The lawgiver thinks, talks, and acts from the middle of the community; his institutional reforms enable all citizens to participate in shaping the law and maintaining justice. Despite correspondences in thought and formulation, these are significant differences that must have pushed political and legal thought in different directions.

Problems of transmission How important are these differences? Some may consider them formal, structural, and relatively slight; I think they are substantive and large. This is all I can say here. A more substantial response to this question will require more detailed research. Here I want to raise some other questions, for even if it were possible to identify many more correspondences both in form and in substance, we would still face difficult problems. One of these concerns the scope and transmission of possible Near Eastern influences. Elsewhere, I illustrated this with the Succession Myth in the Theogony, with its parallels in Near Eastern myths. In their preserved versions, the Hittite stories about Kumarbi and Ulikummi are told in a bare, purely factual narrative, without emphasizing political aspects or justice, as is characteristic of Hesiod’s version. Unless Hesiod picked these aspects up in an elaborated oral version, for which we have no evidence, they are his addition. He thus adapts an old story originating in an earlier eastern civilization and gives it a very different interpretation. 76 The Babylonian Creation Epic (Enuma elish), containing a different succession myth, shares with Hesiod the important detail that the divine assembly approves the acter of Ancient Near Eastern Law,” 18, 21). For a different opinion, see C. Wilcke, “Politik im Spiegel der Literatur, Literatur als Mittel der Politik im älteren Babylonien,” in Raaflaub, Anfänge politischen Denkens, 29–75, and now especially, “Das Recht: Grundlage des sozialen und politischen Diskurses im Alten Orient,” in Das geistige Erfassen der Welt im Alten Orient: Sprache, Religion, Kultur und Gesellschaft (ed. C. Wilcke; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2007) 209–44. 76.  Raaflaub, “Zeus and Prometheus,” 44–51.

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leader’s rise to supreme power. Yet, again, this identical fact is interpreted very differently in the two versions. 77 In the final part, the poem describes Marduk’s qualities impressively in fifty names or titles, highlighting capabilities that range from fostering vegetation to destroying enemies, creating humankind, and procuring for the needs of the other gods. Of these fifty titles, exactly one (two out of almost 200 lines in the translation) mentions Marduk’s function as god of justice. 78 Overall, then, the factual outline of Hesiod’s story unquestionably has Near Eastern antecedents, but these do not appear to contain a model for Hesiod’s strong focus on the emergence of Zeus as a just leader and creator of a just world order. The transmission of myths obviously is not identical with that of political or legal concepts. Even that of myths raises a difficult question: how did they find their way to Greece? After all, most of the relevant Mesopotamian, Hurrian, or Hittite evidence dates many centuries before Hesiod. In Mesopotamia, such texts were transmitted in scribal schools far into the first millennium, but Greeks (or, more likely, their eastern informants) were unlikely to have had access to such specialized texts. Scholars disagree about whether versions of these texts were transmitted orally as well, and how such oral and written strands of transmission might have interacted with each other. 79 But the mere fact (amply demonstrated in scholarship 80) that Greek epics reflect much eastern material seems to prove widespread oral tradition. Yet, with few exceptions, such traditions are not accessible to us, and these exceptions (such as Sanchuniathon and Philo of Byblos for the Hittite epics 81) only attest the outline of the story, not its 77.  Enuma elish: B. Foster, Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature (3rd ed.; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2005) 438–86; T. Jacobsen, The Treasures of Darkness: A History of Mesopotamian Religion (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1976) 167–91; P. Michalowski, “Presence at the Creation,” in Lingering over Words: Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Literature in Honor of William L. Moran (eds. T. Abusch, J. Huehnergard, and P. Steinkeller; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990) 381–96; comparison: West, East Face of Helicon, 280–83; G. Steiner, Der Sukzessionsmythos in Hesiods Theogonie und ihre orientalischen Parallelen (Ph.D. diss., University of Hamburg, 1958); H. Schwabl, “Weltschöpfung,” PWSup 9 (1962) 1433–1582; Walcot, Hesiod and the Near East, 27–54; R. Mondi, “The Ascension of Zeus and the Composition of Hesiod’s Theogony,” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 25 (1984) 325–44; Scully, “Theogony and the Enuma Elish.” 78.  Enuma elish VII 39–40 in Foster, Before the Muses, 478: “Who administers justice, uproots twisted testimony, / In whose place falsehood and truth are distinguished.” 79.  See bibliography in Raaflaub, “Zeus and Prometheus,” 46 n. 35. 80.  See bibliography in n. 4. 81.  Lesky, Gesammelte Schriften, 390–91; West, Hesiod, Theogony, 24–28; idem, East Face of Helicon, 283–86; A. J. Baumgarten, The Phoenician History of Philo of Byblos: A Commentary (Leiden: Brill, 1981); H. Attridge and R. A. Oden, Philo of Byblos,

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moral or political interpretation. Whether we are thinking of a “cultural bridge” in the Bronze Age or in the “Orientalizing Period,” or both, we are thus forced to “compare apples and oranges.” 82 The Greeks themselves found a simple solution for such problems. They believed that the early lawgivers had traveled widely and found inspiration for some of their reforms and laws abroad, preferably in Egypt. Herodotus and Diodorus claim this most of all for Solon. Scholars have often accepted this at face value and drawn far-reaching conclusions, even though it has long been established that such travels are part of widespread standard legends, and the assumption of “imports” of laws is based on typical but mostly mistaken Greek ways of thinking. 83 In Solon’s case, upon close examination it proves fictitious. On the other hand, in important articles Raymond Westbrook pointed to a substantial amount of correspondence, both in form and content, between Mesopotamian, biblical, Greek, and Roman “law codes.” His observations call for explanation. But in suggesting that the Greek and Roman “law codes” should essentially be considered “offshoots” of Mesopotamian legal thinking and writing, due to direct and extended contacts, such as the settlement of Phoenicians in the Aegean or of Carthaginians in Rome, he went too far. He later modified this explanation by proposing that “ideas travel lightly,” but this resolves only part of the problem. 84 It implies that everybody could carry ideas along and pass them on to whomever they met on their journeys. This may be correct for many types of ideas, but it seems too simple: Who exactly carried ideas about law and justice in their luggage? Where and how would Greeks meet such carriers, and would they have accepted these particular ideas from anybody and happily integrated them into their communities? Christoph Ulf recently suggested thinking here of “contact zones” such as Naukratis, Al Mina, or Pithekoussai, with mixed populations in culturally mixed environments, or Cilicia, North Syria, Cyprus, and Anatolia, The Phoenician History: Introduction, Critical Text, Translation, Notes (Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association, 1981); BNP 12 (2008) 944. 82.  Lesky, Gesammelte Schriften, 361, 390–91, 398–400; M. Bachvarova, “The Eastern Mediterranean Epic Tradition from Bilgamesh to the Song of Release to Homer’s Iliad,” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 45 (2005) 131–53; Thür, “Reinigungseid,” 191. In an unpublished lecture, “Ex Oriente Flux: Problems and Preconditions in Transmission,” Seth Richardson addresses similar issues. 83.  Raaflaub, “Early Greek Political Thought,” 39–41 with evidence and bibliography. 84.  Westbrook: see n. 18. The modification is in Westbrook, “Barbarians at the Gates.” For discussion, see Raaflaub, “Early Greek Political Thought,” 44–48. See also, with a different orientation, Westbrook, “Character of Ancient Near Eastern Law,” 23–24.

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where Greeks and non-Greeks were in constant close contact with each other long before the “colonizing movement” began. 85 But again, would Greeks in such contact zones have been interested in such ideas and brought them home? It is one thing to learn from Near Eastern specialists skills needed to produce a bronze relief bowl, tripods with griffins and sphinxes, or life-sized statues, or how to write or make coins, but an entirely different thing to adopt foreign concepts and ideas that affect life and leadership in a community. Phoenicians are often considered the transmitters of Near Eastern ideas. But what do we know about their concepts of law and justice? Even if, like their neighbors, they cultivated such concepts and were eager to share their knowledge with foreigners, were Greeks likely to pick it up from these people, bring it home, incorporate it into their communities and their own conceptual frameworks, and change their attitudes accordingly? Because this aspect has been neglected far too often, I am happy to see the emphasis Ulf places on the crucial role played by the receiving society in the process of transmission. In an earlier period—say, in the tenth and ninth centuries, when Greek poleis were just emerging, and communal consciousness, structures, and integration were still weak—openness to incorporating external impulses of the kind we are discussing may have been greater. In the late eighth and early seventh century, when the Homeric epics crystallized and Hesiod composed his, communities were more tightly integrated and, I suggest, no longer equally open to outside influences, at least on the communal level. 86 The lack of Phoenician settlements in the Aegean (as opposed to enoikismoi, enclaves of individual Phoenicians in Greek settlements), like that of Greek and Phoenician settlements in Etruria, must be due as well to an already high level of integration in local communities. 87 The Odyssey describes Phoenician traders with ambivalence; they were needed for the desirable objects they brought, but despised as persons with low status and less than admirable qualities: the process of stereotyp85. C. Ulf, “Rethinking Cultural Contact” Ancient West & East 8 (2009): 81–132. 86.  The results of K. A. Raaflaub, “Early Greek Infantry Fighting in a Mediterranean Context,” in Men of Bronze: Hoplite Warfare in Ancient Greece (eds. D. Kagan and G. Viggiano; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013) 95–111, seem to strengthen this assumption. 87.  Raaflaub, “Zwischen Ost und West,” 280. The Phoenician sanctuary excavated in Kommos in southern Crete (J. W. Shaw, “Phoenicians in Southern Crete,” AJA 93 [1989] 165–83; idem, “Kommos in Southern Crete: An Aegean Barometer for EastWest Interconnections,” in Eastern Mediterranean: Cyprus-Dodecanese-Crete, 16th–6th cent. b.c. [eds. V. Karageorghis and N. Stampolidis; Athens, A. G. Leventis Foundation, 1998] 13–27) lies on an east-west trading route, not in the Aegean.

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ing was well under way. 88 These were no respectable carriers of information on matters of communal importance. Would itinerant craftsmen (for example, Phoenician bronzesmiths working on Crete) have fared better? Itinerant bards had more authority, but do not seem to have crossed cultural boundaries. Hence such carriers should be sought among elite persons roaming the Mediterranean in various functions and sometimes living abroad, in close contact with non-Greeks, for extended periods. Mercenary officers like Alcaeus’s brother Antimenidas and one Pedon known from a dedication in Priene, or elite “traders” like Sappho’s brother Charaxos, and Sostratos, whom Herodotus mentions, offer good examples. 89 Such men returned home with high distinction and material profits; they were presumably able to reintegrate themselves into elite society at home, and might have offered advice when needed, based on their experiences abroad. Networks among elite families were open and reached far anyway, transcending political, ethnic, and cultural boundaries. Once we focus on connections among elites, we can think of other contact zones, including the supra-regional sanctuaries which we know to have been visited by foreigners as well. 90 Finally, we should consider the issue of need. We are a consumer society, and an amazing amount of business lives by selling us things we 88. B. Patzek, “Griechen und Phönizier in homerischer Zeit: Fernhandel und der orientalische Einfluss auf die frühgriechische Kultur,” Münstersche Beiträge zur antiken Handelsgeschichte 15 (1996) 1–32; J. Latacz, “Die Phönizier bei Homer,” in Die Phönizier im Zeitalter Homers (eds. U. Gehrig and H. G. Niemeyer; Mainz: Zabern, 1990) 11–21; J. N. Coldstream, “Greeks and Phoenicians in the Aegean,” in Phönizier im Westen (ed. H. G. Niemeyer; Mainz: Zabern, 1982) 261–75. Stereotyping: Ulf, “Rethinking Cultural Contact.” 89. Antimenidas: Alcaeus, fr. 350 Campbell (ed. D. A. Campbell, Sappho and Alcaeus [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982]); Pedon: P. W. Haider, “Griechen im Vorderen Orient und in Ägypten bis ca. 590 v. Chr.,” in Wege zur Genese griechischer Identität: Die Bedeutung der früharchaischen Zeit (ed. C. Ulf; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1996) 59–115; Charaxos: Hdt. 2.134–35; Strabo 17.1.33; Sostratos: Hdt. 4.152; A. Möller, Naukratis: Trade in Archaic Greece (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000) 54–57; and generally Raaflaub, “Archaic Greek Aristocrats.” 90.  Ulf, “Rethinking Cultural Contact”; see I. Malkin, Religion and Colonization in Ancient Greece (Leiden: Brill, 1987) 17–91; G. Shipley, A History of Samos, 800–188 b.c. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1987) 54–65; V. Rosenberger, “Reisen zum Orakel: Griechen, Lyder und Perser als Klienten hellenischer Orakelstätten,” in Die Griechen und der Vordere Orient (eds. M. Witte and S. Alkier; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003) 25–55; N. Kreutz, “Fremdartige Kostbarkeiten oder sakraler Müll? Überlegungen zum Stellenwert orientalischer Erzeugnisse in Olympia und zum Selbstverständnis der Griechen im 7. Jh. v. Chr.,” in Die Aussenwirkung des späthethitischen Kulturraumes (eds. M. Novák, F. Prayon, and A.-M. Wittke; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2004) 107–20.

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do not really need. To a much more modest extent, at least in material culture, this may have been the case as well in the ancient world. Homer describes Phoenician traders offering beautiful objects that were tempting but unnecessary. Again, I think, political or legal ideas are different. They become interesting when they are needed—for example, in a situation of crisis as it existed in Solonian Athens. In his efforts to master this crisis, Solon might have been open to information about foreign institutions and customs that suggested possible solutions—although these would have been specific and limited impulses, not broad and comprehensive ones concerning the significance and conception of law or justice as such. Justice, we saw, was a concern much earlier, woven into epic poetry not least because communal tensions and elite abuses had made it a communal issue. I even wonder whether concern for justice is not such an elementary issue for every human community that it does not have to wait for outside impulses to be stimulated. Is this not rather one of those basic values that are integral for societies developing above a minimal level? Might we not therefore think of multiple origins? If so, this concern might have been shared among many communities and states around the Mediterranean, and the idea of a basic cultural koinē seems rather attractive. If so, there would have been a common platform that would have enabled elite members of different communities and even cultures to share and exchange ideas—building on a basic understanding that justice is essential, and perhaps exploring specific solutions for specific problems. For example, debt bondage, like the existence of multiple statuses “between slave and free,” is attested in many societies from Urartu to Rome. 91 Different legal valuations of crimes committed by and against free or dependent persons or slaves, 92 or social conflicts resulting from abuse of debt bondage, the enactment of pertinent reforms, and the justification of such measures by the need to protect the weak from the oppression of the strong—these were logical consequences, documented in many places, that can have occurred independently in various societies. But different peoples dealt with these issues differently: in the Near East, debt relief and liberation of bondsmen were granted irregularly, at specific opportunities, and to demonstrate the king’s care and generosity. In Israel, such measures were institutionalized to recur in regular intervals, reflecting different con91.  M. I. Finley, Economy and Society in Ancient Greece (New York: Viking, 1982) chaps. 7–9. 92.  Visible in Near Eastern, biblical, Greek, and Roman “law codes.”

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ditions. 93 Solon, confronted with a crisis caused by massive problems in precisely this sphere, might have been interested in hearing how people in other parts of the world were handling them. Such information might have stimulated his thinking, showed him possibilities, even if in the end he chose the radical measure of abolishing debt bondage once and for all. 94 Whether or not Solon had such information, my point is that the absorption of specific and partial impulses may have been more likely than that of entire structures and systems. In our present context, this would suggest that neither the legal culture nor the concept of justice of the Greeks was entirely or even largely influenced by external factors, but within the culture or concepts they had developed over centuries, they may well have integrated specific external ideas or elements that were particularly useful at specific junctures. This seems to me compatible with the testimony of the extant evidence, and it is confirmed by many indications that have been illuminated by scholarship and mentioned in the course of this investigation. This cautious (and certainly preliminary) conclusion corresponds to one I drew elsewhere concerning Near Eastern influences on Greek communal institutions and political thought. 95 Because of the specific nature of the Greek polis and its advanced development at the time when such external impulses arrived in significant force, influences on the communal and political sphere—and probably only here—may have had a more limited impact than one would initially expect. This conclusion will serve as a thesis, to be confirmed or refuted, in my future research. 93.  Discussion in various chapters of Irani and Silver, Social Justice; Weinfeld, Social Justice, 75–96 and 152–78. 94. On Solon: A. Andrewes, “The Growth of the Athenian State,” CAH 3/3 (2nd ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982) 360–91; O. Murray, Early Greece (2nd ed.; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982) chap. 11; K.-W. Welwei, Athen: Vom neolithischen Siedlungsplatz zur archaischen Grosspolis (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1992) 150–206; Raaflaub, “Solone,” 1996; J. Blok and A. Lardinois, eds., Solon of Athens: New Historical and Philological Approaches (Leiden: Brill, 2006); Farenga, Citizen and Self, chap. 4; R. W. Wallace, “Revolutions and a New Order in Solonian Athens and Archaic Greece,” in K. A. Raaflaub, J. Ober, and R. W. Wallace, Origins of Democracy in Ancient Greece (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007) 49–82; M. Stahl and U. Walter, “Athens,” in Raaflaub and van Wees, Companion to Archaic Greece, 138–61, here 142–49 (all with sources and bibliography). 95.  Raaflaub, “Early Greek Infantry.”

The Rod that Smote Philistia Isaiah 14:28–32 J. J. M. Roberts Text: 28) aIn the year of the death of the kingb Ahaz, this oracle came. 29) Do not rejoice, O Philistia, all of you, That the roda that smote you is broken, For from the root of the serpent Shall go forth an adder; And his fruit will be a flying cobra.b 30) And in my pasturesa the poor will graze, And the needy will lie down in security, But I b will kill your root with famine, And your remnant he/itc will slay. 31) Wail, O gate! Cry out, O city! Melt in fear, O Philistia, all of you,a For from the north comes smoke, And there is no stragglerb in his ranks.c 32) And what will one answera the messengersb of the nation? That Yahweh has founded Zion, And in itc the poor of his people will find refuge.

Textual Notes 28) aAt the beginning of the verse, Syr. has ‫( ܡܫܩ�ܠܐ ܕܦܠܫܬ‬mšqlʾ dplšt), “an oracle concerning Philistia,” but the heading is not found in any other textual tradition. b 1QIsaa omitted the final letter of ‫המלך‬, but then inserted it above the line. Author’s Note:  It gives me great pleasure to contribute this study in honor of Peter Machinist. I have known Peter for well over forty years, since I was a graduate student in the Near Eastern Languages and Literatures program at Harvard, and he was a brilliant undergraduate. Early on I learned to pay close attention to anything he said or wrote. I have learned a great deal from him over the years, and my profound respect for him both as a colleague and as a scholar has grown even greater with the passing of time.

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29) aLXX reads ‫( עֹל‬ὁ ζυγὸς), but MT is supported by 1QIsaa and the other versions. b The versions all seem to reflect the text of MT, though their renderings of the text vary. LXX and Syr. are fairly literal, Vg. has “a devouring flying creature” (absorbens volucrem), while the Tg. interprets the text as a reference to the Messiah: ‫ָדֹוהי ְבכֹון‬ ִ ‫ׁשיחָא ִויהֹון עֹוב‬ ִ ‫נֹוהי ְדיִׁשַ י יִפֹוק ְמ‬ ִ ‫ְארֵי ִמ ְבנֵי ְב‬ ‫“ ְכ ִחיוֵי מ ְַפִרית׃‬for from the sons of Jesse the Messiah will come forth, and his deeds will be among you as a biting serpent.” 30) aMT has ‫“ בכורי‬the firstborn of,” but “the firstborn of the poor” is an odd expression, so odd that neither the LXX nor the Tg. translate the first word, though the ancient textual tradition does not offer an alternative reading. I follow a number of scholars in reading the preposition ‫ב‬ followed by the plural noun ‫ כר‬meaning pasture (cf. Isa 30:23) with firstperson singular suffix. b For MT’s first-person ‫“ והמתי‬I will kill,” LXX and Tg. read the third person, “he will kill,” probably to make it agree with the parallel verb; MT is supported by 1QIsaa, 4QIsao, Vg., and Syr. Another possibility is that both verbs were originally in the third person, but a scribe, bothered by the idea that a human could kill with famine—though a human king besieging an enemy city does often kill with famine—corrected the first verb to the first person to make God the subject. The correction introduced inconsistency between the two verbs that the textual tradition then tried to correct in different ways. c MT’s ‫“ יַהֲרֹג‬he/it will kill” is supported by LXX, Tg., and probably by Syr., which translates with a passive, “your remnant will be slain.” 1QIsaa has ‫“ אהרוג‬I will kill,” which is supported by Vg. The variation in the versions suggests different attempts to create consistency of person, and the same concern may be behind the text of 1QIsaa. The easier reading would be to follow 1QIsaa, but the more difficult reading of MT may be the more original. It better explains the confusion in the versions. The subject of ‫ יַהֲרֹג‬could either be the flying cobra of v. 29 or the famine (‫)רעָב‬ ָ of v. 30. 31) aLXX, Vg., and Syr. ignore the second-person suffix on ‫‏ ֻּכ ֵּל ְ֑ך‬, and that permits them to translate the infinitive absolute ‫ נָמֹוג‬as a finite verb rather than as an imperative, but MT is supported by 1QIsaa and Tg. b MT’s ‫“ ּבֹודֵ ד‬straggler” is supported by 4QIsao, Vg., Syr., and Tg. 1QIsaa’s ‫ מודד‬is an obvious transcription error. LXX has omitted the end of the verse. c MT’s ‫ָדיו‬ ָ ‫ ְּבמֹוע‬is supported by Vg., Syr., and Tg. 1QIsaa’s ‫ במודעיו‬and o 4QIsa ’s ‫ במידעיו‬are both obvious transcription errors.

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32) aMT has the singular ‫יַעֲנֶה‬, supported by Syr.; but 1QIsaa has the plural ‫יענו‬, and it is followed by LXX and Tg., while Vg. reads a passive singular that could translate either reading. b MT, Vg., Tg., and some Syr. texts have ‫אכֵי‬ ֲ ‫“ מ ְַל‬messengers of,” but 1QIsaa, LXX and some Syr. texts have ‫“ מלכי‬kings of.” Either reading makes sense, but “messengers” is more probable. The answer would be given to messengers who had traveled to Jerusalem, and they in turn would report it to the king or kings who had sent them. c The reading ‫“ ּובָּה‬and in it,” referring to Zion (MT, 1QIsao, Vg., Syr., Tg.), is superior to ‫“ ובו‬and in him,” referring to Yahweh (1QIsaa, LXX), though eventually they amount to the same thing. Yahweh has founded Zion, and within it, protected by Yahweh’s promises and sure foundation, his people will find refuge.

Introduction Isaiah 14:28–32 begins with an historical notice that dates the following oracle in the year of the death of King Ahaz. The oracle then follows with an admonition to the Philistines not to rejoice that the rod that smote them has been broken, for from the root of the serpent will come forth an even more dangerous flying cobra. The juxtaposition of the historical notice and the following verse leads quite logically to the conclusion that Ahaz was the rod that smote the Philistines, that the Philistines were rejoicing over the news of Ahaz’s demise, and that Isaiah was warning them that Hezekiah, Ahaz’s successor, would become an even more dangerous opponent of the Philistines than Ahaz had been. Yet, despite the apparent logic of these conclusions, very few modern scholars identify the serpent or the rod that smote Philistia with Ahaz. 1 For those scholars who do not simply dismiss the historical notice, 2 it is far more common to identify this enemy of Philistia as one or another of the Assyrian kings of 1.  The conservative scholar J. N. Oswalt recognizes that this is “the most obvious interpretation of the broken staff,” but he doesn’t follow it because “the biblical accounts make it plain that the Philistines had not suffered at Ahaz’s hand” (The Book of Isaiah: Chapters 1–39 [NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1986] 331). 2. Many authors dismiss the notice about Ahaz’s death as the work of a later redactor and therefore worthless for purposes of dating the oracle; so R. E. Clements, Isaiah 1–39 (New Century Bible Commentary; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1980) 148; D. K. Marti, Das Buch Jesaja (Kurzer Hand-Kommentar zum Alten Testament 10; Tübingen: Mohr, 1900) 130; O. Kaiser, Der Prophet Jesaja: Kapitel 13–39 (ATD 18; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1973) 44; B. Duhm, Das Buch Jesaia (HKAT III/1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1914) 100; and others, like J. Vermeylen (Du prophete Isaïe à l’apocalyptique [Paris: Libraire Lecoffre, 1977] 1:300 and n. 1)

384

J. J. M. Roberts

the period contemporary with Ahaz—Tiglath-pileser III, Shalmaneser V, or Sargon II. 3 The reasons for this quick dismissal of the internal logic of the passage are summarized nicely by G. B. Gray: 1) Gray assumes that the smoke that comes from the north mentioned in v. 31 must refer to the army of this new opponent of the Philistines, and since an attack from Judah would come from the east, not the north, this threatening army and the new opponent of Philistia must both be Assyrian, not Judean. 2) The oracle states that the former opponent of Philistia had inflicted injury on the Philistines in the past, which means Ahaz could not be that opponent, “for Ahaz did not smite the Philistines, but was smitten by them (2 Chr 28:18).” 4 Some scholars add the additional argument that it would be strange for the prophet to use serpent imagery of a Judean king. 5 But if one preserves the historical notice and denies that the dead Ahaz is the broken rod, then one is forced to look for an Assyrian ruler whose own demise took place at roughly the same chronological period as Ahaz’s death—a search that yields no satisfactory results. Tiglath-pileser III died in 727, Shalmaneser V in 722, and Sargon II in 705, and none of those dates can be closely linked to the date of the death of Ahaz, as I shall show. In this paper, I want to suggest that the internal logic of the passage has been dismissed too quickly, that Ahaz was indeed the rod that smote Philistia. In order to sustain this argument, we will review the evidence for the date of Ahaz’s death, examine the possibility that Ahaz did in fact inflict injury upon the Philistines, consider the snake imagery used to characterize the opponents of Philistia, consider whether it is really necessary to identify the smoke from the north as identical with the rod and serpent, follow J. A. Brewer (“The Date in Isa. 14:28,” AJSL 54 [1937] 62) in emending away the name Ahaz. 3.  So B. S. Childs, Isaiah (OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001) 128; G. B. Gray, The Book of Isaiah I–XXVII (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1912) 265; J. H. Hayes and S. A. Irvine, Isaiah, The Eighth-Century Prophet: His Times and His Preaching (Nashville: Abingdon, 1987) 237; A. S. Herbert, The Book of the Prophet Isaiah 1–39 (Cambridge Bible Commentary on the New English Bible; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973) 106; J. Jensen, Isaiah 1–39 (Old Testament Message 8; Wilmington: Michael Glazier, 1984) 151; Oswalt, Book of Isaiah, 332; J. D. W. Watts, Isaiah 1–33 (WBC 24, rev. ed.; Columbia: Thomas Nelson, 2005) 277; H. Wildberger, Isaiah 13–27: A Continental Commentary (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1997) 92; C. R. Seitz, Isaiah 1–39 (Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching; Louisville: John Knox, 1993) 136–38. 4.  Gray, Book of Isaiah, 266. 5. J. Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 1–39: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 19; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 2000) 292; Watts, Isaiah 1–33, 277.

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385

and point to a very concrete historical situation, reflected in other Isaianic texts, in which the details of this oracle make perfect sense. 6

The Date of Ahaz’s Death The biblical evidence for the dates of Ahaz’s reign and death is contradictory. According to the regnal formula in 2 Kgs 16:1–2, Ahaz was twenty years old when he came to the throne of Judah in the seventeenth year of the Israelite king Pekah son of Remaliah, and Ahaz remained on the throne for sixteen years. According to 2 Kgs 16:20, Ahaz died and was replaced by his son Hezekiah, and the regnal formula in 2 Kgs 18:1 dates the accession of Hezekiah to the third year of the Israelite king Hoshea son of Elah. Since Tiglath-pileser III’s inscriptions indicate that Hoshea seized the throne of Israel in 732, his third year and Hezekiah’s accession year would be 729. The synchronistic notice in 2 Kgs 18:9–10, based on the regnal formula, likewise links Hoshea’s seventh year and Hezekiah’s fourth year to Shalmaneser V’s campaign against Samaria in 725, again underscoring Hezekiah’s accession year as 729. In contrast, the synchronistic notice in 2 Kgs 18:13, which is clearly independent of the regnal formulas, dates Sennacherib’s campaign against Jerusalem to Hezekiah’s fourteenth year. Since Assyrian sources clearly date Sennacherib’s third campaign to 701, that synchronism would date Hezekiah’s accession to 715, not 729. Both dates cannot be correct, so the question is which synchronism is more probable. When compared to Assyrian sources, the regnal formulas in 2 Kings do not seem very reliable for this period. According to Tiglath-pileser III’s inscriptions, Menahem was still king of Israel in 738 and probably part of 737. 7 According to 2 Kgs 15:23, Menahem’s son Pekahiah succeeded his father and ruled two years in Samaria. That would bring one to 735 as the earliest date possible for Pekah son of Remaliah to have seized the Israelite throne, and since he was killed in 732 according to Assyrian records, there is no way to give him a twenty-year reign over Israel in Samaria as 2 Kgs 15:27 does. Since 2 Kgs 15:25 identifies Pekah son of Remaliah, the murderer of Pekahiah son of Menahem, as an officer in the service of Pekahiah, 6. I have alluded to this viewpoint in earlier articles, especially in my “Isaiah’s Egyptian and Nubian Oracles,” in Israel’s Prophets and Israel’s Past: Essays on the Relationship of Prophetic Texts and Israelite History in Honor of John H. Hayes (eds. B. E. Kelle and M. B. Moore; LHBOTS 446; New York: T. & T. Clark, 2006) 201–9, but this is my first full defense of this interpretation. 7.  See RINAP 1 14 line 10; 27 line 3 (8th palû, of 738 b.c.); 32 line 2 (also 8th palû, of 738 b.c.); 35 iii 5 (9th palû, of 737 b.c.).

386

J. J. M. Roberts

his “third man” (‫)ׁש ִליׁשֹו‬, ָ one cannot even assume that he was ruling as a rival to Pekahiah elsewhere in Israelite territory. There is simply no room for more than a three-year reign for Pekah son of Remaliah.ֹ At best, one might argue that he had been governing Israelite territory in the Transjordan for Pekahiah, since he is accompanied by fifty Gileadites when he murders his sovereign, and that he claimed his years as governor as part of his reign, but this is mere speculation. Moreover, Ahaz appears to have assumed the throne of Judah at about the same time as Pekah son of Remaliah seized the throne of Samaria, that is, in 735. The notice in 2 Kgs 17:1 that Hoshea came to the throne in the twelfth year of Ahaz makes no sense, since that would date the beginning of Ahaz’s reign to 744, which is clearly too early, if Pekah son of Remaliah campaigned with Rezin of Damascus against Ahaz’s predecessor, Jotham, as 2 Kgs 15:37 claims. According to 2 Kgs 15:37, God began to send Rezin of Damascus and Pekah son of Remaliah against Judah in the days of Jotham, and 2 Kgs 16:5 dates the campaign of Rezin and Pekah against Jerusalem to the time of Ahaz. Since Pekah did not seize the throne of Samaria until 735, Rezin and Pekah’s incursions into Judah can hardly date before that year, which suggests that Jotham died in 735 and was succeeded by his son Ahaz in the same year. ‎But if Ahaz became king in 735 and ruled for sixteen years, as the regnal formula in 2 Kgs 16:2 states, then Hezekiah’s accession year should be 719, not 729 or 715. All these difficulties suggest that one take the figures in the regnal formulas with a grain of salt. Back in the early 1990s, a student of mine, Jeffrey S. Rogers, wrote a Princeton Theological Seminary dissertation on the synchronisms and literary structure in 1–2 Kings. 8 He studied the synchronisms in 1–2 Kings in the light of such Mesopotamian parallels as the Synchronic Chronicle. He began with the assumption that the regnal formulas in the books of Kings derived from ancient sources, perhaps early royal chronicles, and that they were an ancient and reliable chronological framework on which to hang the narratives. This was an assumption he thought I wanted him to demonstrate in the dissertation. As his worked progressed, however, he came to doubt this assumption. He discovered that the numbers cited in the regnal formulas varied considerably in the different textual traditions. In contrast, he found that the numbers in the synchronisms standing outside the regnal formulas were far more fixed across the textual traditions. With some trepidation, he suggested that far from being an ancient 8.  J. S. Rogers, Synchronism and Structure in 1–2 Kings and Mesopotamian Chronographic Literature (Ph.D. diss., Princeton Theological Seminary, 1992).

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387

framework on which the narratives could be confidently hung, the regnal formulas were actually shaped by the surrounding narratives, the numbers dependent on the arrangement of the narratives in the different textual traditions. In any case, his work suggested that, when faced with a choice between a synchronism in the regnal formulas versus a synchronism standing outside the regnal formulas, the independent synchronism was apt to be more reliable, and certainly less subject to secondary editorial revision. In the light of his study, and since the synchronisms for Ahaz in the regnal formulas have been shown to be unreliable on other grounds, I suggest that we take the independent synchronism in 2 Kgs 18:13 as a preferable point of departure. According to this synchronism, the accession of Hezekiah and thus the death of his predecessor Ahaz took place in 715. Assuming Ahaz came to the throne in 735, he would have reigned for twenty years. The regnal formula in 2 Kgs 16:2 says that Ahaz was twenty years old when he came to the throne and that he reigned sixteen years, but if those numbers were reversed, if Ahaz were sixteen when he came to the throne and he ruled twenty years, then those twenty years would agree with the time span 735–715 established on other grounds. This tentative suggestion is based on a number of indications that Ahaz was just a youth when he came to the throne. In Isa 3:4, Isaiah threatens Judah with the rule of boys and women: ‫ׁשלּו־ ָב ֽם׃‬ ְ ‫ִמ‬ ְ ‫ֲלּול֖ים י‬ ִ ‫ׂשרֵי ֶה ֑ם ְותַ ע‬ ָ ‫ָר֖ים‬ ִ‫ְ‏ונָתַ ִּת֥י ְנע‬ I will make boys their rulers, and babes will rule over them.

But in 3:12 that threatened judgment is stated as a current reality: ִׁ ‫שׂיו ְמעֹולֵל ְונ‬ ‫ָשלּו בֹו‬ ְׁ ‫ָשים מ‬ ָ ‫ע ִַּמי נ ְֹג‬ ְ ָ ָ ֹ ֹ ‫ַּׁשרֶיך מ ְַת ִעים ְו ֶדרֶך א ְרח ֶתיך ִבּ ֵלּעּו׃‬ ְ ‫ע ִַּמי ְמא‬ My people’s rulers are babes, and women rule over him; My people, your rulers lead astray, and your paths they confuse.

Of the Judean kings who came to the throne during Isaiah’s ministry, Ahaz was clearly the youngest. The regnal formulas give the age of Jotham at accession as twenty-five (2 Kgs 15:33), Hezekiah as twenty-five (2 Kgs 18:2), and Manasseh as twenty-two (2 Kgs 21:2). Moreover, when Isaiah confronts Ahaz during the beginning stages of the Syro-Ephraimitic conflict shortly after Ahaz had come to the throne, it is interesting to note Isaiah’s mode of address to the king. In his first oracle, Isaiah addresses Ahaz personally, using the singular imperative (Isa 7:4), before switching to the plural at the end of the oracle (Isa 7:9), when there seems to be some hint that the king and his counselors did not believe God’s promise. In the

388

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second oracle, Isaiah again addresses Ahaz personally using the singular imperative (Isa 7:11), but when Ahaz rejects God’s command by refusing to ask for a sign, Isaiah then switches to the plural imperative (Isa 7:13), apparently addressing the whole royal court, and he does not revert to the singular until the very end of the oracle in vv. 16–17. It is as if Isaiah had decided that it was not the young Ahaz, but his royal counselors, perhaps including prominent women such as the queen mother, who were calling the shots. If Ahaz were only sixteen at the time, rather than twenty, that might provide a better explanation for Isaiah’s direct address to the royal court and his sarcastic dismissal of Judah’s rulers as mere babes. Given the problem with the reliability of the information in the regnal formulas, perhaps one should not give these numbers credence even as garbled figures, but, in any case, I am working on the hypothesis that Ahaz’s reign lasted twenty years, from 735 to 715, and that correspondingly the date of the oracle in Isa 14:28–32 should be assigned to the year 715.

Did Ahaz Smite the Philistines? But what is one to make of the claim that Ahaz never smote the Philistines, but was only smitten by them? It seems odd to me that critical scholars can be quite skeptical and are willing to dismiss a dating notice as a late secondary addition if it creates problems for their reconstruction, and yet at the same time are willing to swallow the Deuteronomistic Historian’s and the Chronicler’s accounts of Ahaz’s reign as the whole truth. One would have thought that the example of Ahab would have made them more skeptical. The Deuteronomistic Historian had a theological bias against Ahab and his whole dynasty, and he frequently refers to evil kings as walking in the way of the house of Ahab (1 Kgs 16:30; 21:20–26; 2 Kgs 8:18, 27; 9:7–9; 10:10–11; 21:3). He has very little good to say about Ahab, and if the Deuteronomistic Historian were our only source for Ahab, we would never have guessed that Ahab was one of the most powerful kings of Syria-Palestine in the mid-ninth century, capable of sending the largest chariot force to the coalition’s campaign against Shalmaneser III in 853. 9 One finds a similar animosity toward Ahaz on the part of both the Deuteronomistic Historian (2 Kgs 16:2–4) and the Chronicler (2 Chr 9.  The Kurkh Monolith of Shalmaneser III lists Ahab’s contribution to the coalition as consisting of 2,000 chariots and 10,000 troops, while Hadad-ezer of Damascus, the leader of the coalition, only sent 1,200 chariots, though he contributed 1,200 cavalry and 20,000 troops, and Irhuleni of Hamath sent only 700 chariots and 700 cavalry along with 10,000 troops. See RIMA 3 23 ii 89b–95. It is clear from these figures that Ahab’s power rivaled that of Damascus and Hamath.

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28:1–4). Both regarded Ahaz as an evil king for religious reasons, and, given that bias, one should not be surprised that neither record any military successes of Ahaz. Had Ahaz had any military successes against Philistia, there would be no reason to expect the Deuteronomistic Historian to record them. The Chronicler, while dependent on the Deuteronomistic History, is even more hostile to Ahaz, and his claim that Ahaz’s submission to Tiglath-pileser III was of no benefit to Ahaz (2 Chr 28:20–21) is patently false, disagreeing even with his source in 2 Kgs 16:7–10. Ahaz and Judah survived, while their enemies, the Arameans of Damascus and the Israelites were destroyed, and the Phoenicians and the Philistines were beaten into submission. Contrary to the Chronicler’s claim, there is no evidence that the Assyrians attacked Judah. Second Kings 16:6 and 2 Chr 28:5–15 claim that the Arameans and Israelites inflicted serious losses on Judah during the early stages of the Syro-Ephraimitic war, and despite the semi-legendary nature of the Chronicler’s account there is no reason to doubt the general claim. Isaiah 7:1–9 and the account of the enemy army’s surprise march on Jerusalem in Isa 10:27d–34, an account originally about the Aramean and Israelite attack on Jerusalem, indicate that the Arameans and Israelites achieved an initial success against Judah, and that Judean towns as far south as Jerusalem were in an absolute panic. 10 Second Kings mentions no Philistine incursions against Ahaz, but 2 Chr 28:18 does, and there is no reason to doubt that such incursions took place, though the date of these incursions is not so clear. One can think of two possible occasions. At the time of the Syro-Ephraimitic War, the Philistines may have made incursions into the Shephelah to distract Judah from the main attack, which was to be launched against Jerusalem by Aram and Israel. All three states were obviously interested in forcing Judah into their antiAssyrian defensive alliance. Moreover, the Philistines and Arameans appear to have cooperated in putting the pressure on Israel that eventually resulted in Pekah son of Remaliah, an ally and vassal of Rezin, replacing the pro-Assyrian dynasty of Menahem. Isaiah 9:10–11 speaks of Aramean attacks on Israel from the east and Philistine attacks from the west before speaking of intertribal warfare in Israel between Ephraim and Manasseh (Isa 9:20). It is also possible, maybe even probable, that the Philistines made incursions into Judean territory early in the major revolt against Sargon II in 720. This revolt, led by Hamath and supported by Samaria and the Philistines—indeed by almost all the Syria-Palestinian states except 10. See my article, “Isaiah and His Children,” in Biblical and Related Studies Presented to Samuel Iwry (eds. A. Kort and S. Morschauser; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1985) 193–203, esp. 201, and the earlier literature cited there.

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Judah—put the pro-Assyrian Ahaz in a precarious position, and it would not be surprising if the surrounding states had again tried to pressure him into joining the revolt, though it appears that he remained loyal to Assyria despite his difficult predicament. Nonetheless, even if Philistia struck Ahaz some serious blows in the beginning of the Syro-Ephraimitic War in 735 and again in the beginning of the Hamath revolt in 720, that is not the whole story. One has to ask how Ahaz responded once the Assyrian army arrived and the Philistines had to pull their forces from the Judean front to face the Assyrians. Hosea 10:5, which characterizes the rulers of Judah as those who move boundary markers, suggests that once the Assyrians forced the Israelites to abandon their assault on Jerusalem in order to defend their own territory, the Judean army moved north to expand their border at Israel’s expense. Such actions would be consonant with Judah’s alliance with Assyria, since loyal vassals were expected to assist Assyria in its military campaigns against its enemies. Despite the lack of explicit sources, it is also probable that Ahaz would have joined in the attack on Philistia, especially in 720, and especially along his border, when the Assyrian attack into the Philistine heartland drew their forces from Judah’s border. Ahaz would almost certainly have attempted to regain the territory he had lost to the Philistines, and in retaliation for the Philistine attacks on his territory, it is doubtful that he would have shown the isolated Philistine outposts any mercy. One should not expect the hostile Deuteronomistic Historian, much less the even more hostile Chronicler, to preserve any such positive notice of Ahaz’s victories, and the Assyrian annals seldom mention the contribution of their vassals to Assyrian conquests. In short, there is no substantive basis to categorically deny that Ahaz ever smote the Philistines.

Historical Circumstances in 715 Provoking the Oracle Before addressing the assumed identity of the serpent and the smoke from the north, let us turn to the historical circumstances of 715 that may have provoked this oracle. 11 Sometime after Sargon II put down the general rebellion in Philistia in 720, Azuri, the Philistine king of Ashdod, began writing letters to the surrounding states trying to reignite rebellion against Assyria in the west. The Assyrians got word of his actions and 11.  For a fuller discussion of these events and the sources for them, see my “Egypt, Assyria, Isaiah, and the Ashdod Affair: An Alternative Proposal,” in Jerusalem in Bible and Archaeology: The First Temple Period (eds. A. G. Vaughn and A. E. Killebrew; Atlanta: SBL, 2003) 265–83; and my “Isaiah’s Egyptian and Nubian Oracles.”

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removed him from his throne, replacing him with his brother Ahimeti. This action presupposes the presence of an Assyrian force in Philistia sufficient to impose an unpopular action on the populace. We know from Sargon’s annals that such a force was present along the border with Egypt in 716–715, so one should probably date Azuri’s removal to this time. At some point after the Assyrian army withdrew, however, the populace drove Ahimeti, the Assyrian puppet, out of town and replaced him with a commoner, perhaps a Greek or Cypriot adventurer, named Yamani or Yadna. Yamani then resumed the correspondence with the surrounding states, trying to get them to join him in a revolt against Assyria. As Sargon says in one of his inscriptions, “To the kings of the land of the Philistines, the land of Judah, the land of Edom, the land of Moab, and those who dwell by the sea, all of whom were responsible for tribute and presents to Ashur, my lord, they sent lies and seditious words in order to make them enemies with me. To Pharaoh, king of Egypt, a ruler who could not save them, they carried their present, and they kept asking him for military help.” 12 Sargon eventually responded to this seditious activity, sending an army commanded by his turtannu, who sacked Ashdod in 711. According to Isaiah 20, however, Isaiah spent three years demonstrating in Jerusalem against joining this Ashdod-led alliance against Assyria, which means that the diplomatic contact between Ashdod and Jerusalem had been going on since as early as 714. Moreover, Isaiah 20 suggests that Nubia and its Egyptian vassals were seen as the real force behind this planned revolt. A combined Nubian and Egyptian army had already fought against Assyria in Philistine territory in the failed revolt of 720, so it was not unthinkable that the Nubians might intervene again. In fact, Isaiah 18 suggests that Nubian messengers had actually appeared in Jerusalem to encourage Judah to join the Ashdod-led revolt, but its success was clearly dependent on major Nubian and Egyptian military assistance. Unfortunately, we do not know whether Azuri’s seditious activity began while Ahaz was still alive, or whether it started immediately after his death, perhaps emboldened by the death of this long-time pro-Assyrian Judean. It is also possible that it started during the last years of Ahaz’s reign, and that Ahaz is the one who reported Azuri to the Assyrians. If so, the death of Ahaz in 715 and the accession of Hezekiah, a king 12.  Sargon’s Annals of year 711: K1668b + D.T. 6 VII.b, lines 25–33; see A. Fuchs, Die Annalen des Jahres 711 v. Chr. Nach Prismenfragmenten aus Nineve und Assur (SAAS 8; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 1998); cf. his Die Inscriften Sargons II aus Khorsabad (Göttingen: Cuvillier, 1994); and Grant Frame, “The Inscription of Sargon II at Tang-i Var,” Or 68 (1999) 31–37. See also the forthcoming edition of Sargon’s inscriptions by Frame; RINAP 2/1 and 2/2.

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whose coronation service may have suggested a more anti-Assyrian bent, 13 could have led to rejoicing in Philistia and encouraged the Ashdodites to throw out Ahimeti and resume plotting revolt. Isaiah, who was certainly not pro-Assyrian, was nonetheless adamantly opposed to Judah joining in these defensive alliances, and as Isaiah 20 indicates, he actively opposed the alliance with Ashdod and their Nubian and Egyptian allies. In contrast, he urged a quiet faith in the promises God had made to the Davidic dynasty and God’s city, Zion. Isaiah’s response to the messengers from Ashdod and Nubia in Isaiah 18 and 20 is essentially the same as that to the messengers of the nation in Isa 14:32: “Yahweh has founded Zion, and in it the poor of his people will find refuge.” The similarity is so striking partly because all three oracles come out of the same historical context.

The Serpent Symbolism The serpent symbolism for these two enemies of Philistia, the dead king and his successor, is quite striking, and far from being an argument against the identity of these kings as Judean, it actually lends weight to that identity and undercuts the attempt to identify them as Assyrian. Snake symbolism, clearly borrowed from Egypt, is well attested in Judean stamp seals from the late eighth century. The seals often show cobras in a protective stance above and on either side of the sun disk, presumably a symbol of kingship. A number of Judean seals from this period also contain twowinged or four-winged cobras, the winged or flying seraphs of Isa 6:2; 14:29; and 30:6. On these seals the sun disk is absent, and the winged seraph alone seems to symbolize Judean kingship. 14 These winged seraphs also appear on at least two of the bronze bowls taken from Palestine by Tiglath-pileser III as booty or tribute during his campaigns in 734–732. On one, preserved in a water color from the 1850s, a two-winged seraph mounted on a pole stands facing outward in a protective gesture on either side of a winged dung beetle mounted on a pole. 15 Another bowl, which I 13.  For this reading of Isa 8:23b–9:6, see my “Whose Child Is This? Reflections on the Speaking Voice in Isaiah 9:5,” HTR 90 (1997) 115–29. 14. See my discussion in “The Visual Elements in Isaiah’s Vision in Light of Judean and Near Eastern Sources,” in From Babel to Babylon: Essays on Biblical History and Literature in Honour of Brian Peckham (eds. J. R. Wood, J. E. Harvey, and M. Leuchter; LHBOTS 455; New York: T. & T. Clark, 2006) 204–10, and note the earlier literature cited there. 15.  A reproduction of this drawing is found in my “The Visual Elements in Isaiah’s Vision,” 205 fig. 1.

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Fig. 1a (left): BM reg. no. ME N25; Fig. 1b (below): partial enlargement. ©Trustees of the British Museum; used with permission.

photographed in the British Museum, 16 has a dung beetle embossed in the center of the bowl, and on the two outside registers, among other figures, there is a series of two-winged, pole-mounted seraphs facing outward in a protective gesture, standing on either side of a stylized tree, perhaps an asherah. It has been argued that the dung beetle was a symbol of Judean kingship in this period, 17 and it is clear both from the presence of the polemounted seraph in the royal Jerusalem temple and from Isaiah’s vision of the winged seraphim in attendance on Yahweh, the divine king, that the winged seraphs were protective spirits closely associated with Judah’s imperial god, and hence protectors of his chosen Davidic kings. There is no comparable evidence to link serpents, winged or not, with Assyrian kingship. Winged serpents are relatively rare in Assyrian art, and while Assyrian kings often describe themselves with metaphors involving lions or wild bulls, Assyrian royal inscriptions using metaphors comparing 16.  In January of 2005, my wife, Dr. Kathryn Roberts, led a group of Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary students on a tour of the Near Eastern antiquities in the British Museum in London, the Pergamon Museum in Berlin, and the Louvre in Paris. I accompanied her and photographed a different bronze bowl with similar figures to the one seen on Layard’s watercolor. The bowl in question, excacvated by Layard at Nimrud, is housed in the British Museum (reg. no. ME N25) and has a diameter of 18.0 cm and a height of 2.0 cm. 17. Y. Yadin, “A Note on the Nimrud Bronze Bowls,” ErIsr 8 (1967) 6*; see also R. D. Barnett, “Layard’s Nimrud Bronzes and Their Inscriptions,” ErIsr 8 (1967) 1–7* and pls. 1–8; and my discussion in “Yahweh’s Significant Other,” in Engaging the Bible in a Gendered World: An Introduction to Feminist Biblical Interpretation in Honor of Katharine Doob Sakenfeld (eds. L. Day and C. Pressler; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2006) 183–84.

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Assyrian kings to serpents are rare, if they exist at all. Moreover, Isaiah uses lion (Isa 5:29) and bull imagery (Isa 10:13) to refer to Assyrian kings, and it is likely that his usage is simply mirroring Assyrian royal propaganda. Why, then, would he choose the unusual snake imagery, had he wanted to characterize an Assyrian king? It is far more likely that he chose this serpentine imagery precisely because it was so closely associated with Judean royal theology, and thus the use of this imagery supports the identification of the two rulers as the Judean kings Ahaz and Hezekiah.

The Smoke from the North If this oracle was given in 715 after the death of Ahaz and the accession of Hezekiah in response to Philistine diplomatic messages to Hezekiah urging him to join with Ashdod and their Nubian and Egyptian supporters in a planned revolt against Assyria, then there is no compelling reason to identify the smoke from the north with the rod that smote Philistia. The Philistines were happy that the pro-Assyrian Ahaz was dead, because they expected the more nationalistic Hezekiah to be more amenable to joining their coalition. Isaiah’s response to the Philistines’ diplomatic maneuver is to pour cold water on their hopes. He claims that Hezekiah will be an even more dangerous opponent than Ahaz had been. The oracle, while ostensibly addressed to the Philistines, is actually intended primarily for Hezekiah and his royal advisors. The whole point of the oracle is to influence the answer that the Judean court gives to the Philistine initiative, as v. 32 makes perfectly clear. The same is true in both Isaiah 18 and 20. Oracles ostensibly addressed to Nubian and Egyptian messengers and their Philistine allies are really intended primarily for the Judean court. If Hezekiah and his court heed the warnings against the Philistines and their Nubian–Egyptian allies and instead rely on the promises God made to Zion, they will, in effect, refuse to join the Philistine alliance and continue Ahaz’s hostile stance toward Philistia. One should note that Hezekiah did, in fact, wage war against Philistia. According to the Deuteronomistic Historian, Hezekiah “attacked the Philistines as far as Gaza and its territory, from watchtower to fortified city” (2 Kgs 18:8). Precisely when these attacks took place is not indicated, but it is possible they came early in Hezekiah’s reign, perhaps in the Ashdod conflict of 711, when Hezekiah remained a loyal vassal of the Assyrians and, as a loyal vassal, took advantage of the Philistine disaster to expand his borders. From the Assyrian records, we know that after he rebelled against Sennacherib in 705, Hezekiah continued to bully the Philistines, imprisoning in Jerusalem Padi, the Philistine

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ruler of Ekron, who had remained loyal to Assyria, but there is no reason to limit Hezekiah’s depredations against Philistia to this late period of his rebellion against Assyria. Nonetheless, in the Ashdod conflict of 714–711, the primary threat to Philistia would not have come from Judah but from Assyria, against whom Philistia was revolting. This is explicitly stated in Isa 20:4, clearly alluded to by the reference to “the smoke from the north” in Isa 14:31, and implicitly, as the agent of God’s judgment on Nubia, in Isa 18:5–6.

Errant Oxen Or: The Goring Ox Redux Martha T. Roth

I. An influential legal history study from almost 40 years ago by J. J. Finkelstein drew inspiration from the Mesopotamian and biblical “goring ox” rules. 1 My contribution to the present volume in honor of Peter Machinist, Finkelstein’s student and my first and much-admired teacher of Assyriology and beloved friend, provides a minor corrective to Finkelstein’s magisterial work and builds on insights by another important scholar of legal history and a valued colleague of both Peter Machinist and me, Raymond Westbrook. 2 The primary source materials from the ancient Near East upon which Finkelstein constructed his arguments are the several “laws of the goring ox” in three ancient compilations: the Laws of Eshnunna (LE) §§53– 1.  The three-part study saw full publication only after Finkelstein’s death in 1974. The first and second parts, respectively exploring the biblical and cuneiform material and some parallels to animal trials in the non-Western ethnographic literature, medieval Europe, early English law, and the United States, were prepared for publication by M. de J. Ellis from an incomplete manuscript and published as The Ox That Gored (Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 71; Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1981). The third part—or better, an early version of what was to be the third part—which recovered the biblical antecedents to forfeiture and seizure in late-twentieth-century American jurisprudence, appeared as J. J. Finkelstein, “The Goring Ox: Some Historical Perspectives on Deodands, Forfeitures, Wrongful Death and the Western Notion of Sovereignty,” Temple Law Quarterly 46 (1973) 169–290. For a recent (though less scholarly) treatment on deodands, see S. Kadri, The Trial: A History, from Socrates to O. J. Simpson (New York: Random House, 2005). 2.  Jack Finkelstein, who died in 1974, was one of the teachers at Yale of our honoree, Peter Machinist. Ray Westbrook, who died in 2009, started his graduate work at Yale in 1972 under Finkelstein’s supervision. Peter was my first teacher of Assyriology beginning in 1972 at Case Western Reserve University, and Ray was my colleague and most important interlocutor for more than three decades. I gratefully acknowledge my intellectual and personal indebtedness to all three teachers and colleagues, Machinist, Finkelstein, and Westbrook.

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55, the Laws of Hammurabi (LH) §§250–52, and the Covenant Code (CC) in Exod 21:28–36. One of Finkelstein’s stated aims in exploring the biblical and Mesopotamian “conceptual postulates [as well as their] system of values, [their] ways of classifying and categorizing the world of experience” 3 was to demonstrate that the “cosmic apprehension” of the biblical authors was constructed in the context of the earlier and contemporary Mesopotamian background: “There is . . . no certain way at present of explaining the verbal identity between sources that are perhaps as much as five hundred years and as many miles apart. But the fact of this identity is incontrovertible and compels us to postulate an organic linkage between them even if this linkage cannot be reconstructed.” 4 Moreover, Finkelstein added, “we are confronted here not with independent developments, but with a single, organically interrelated, literary tradition.” 5 On the other hand, although he noted “the similarities in diction . . . in the original languages . . . [and] the similarities in the formulations,” he was also concerned with the “striking divergence between the biblical and Mesopotamian rules in respect to sanction.” 6 In this last point, 3.  Finkelstein, Ox That Gored, 5. 4.  Finkelstein, Ox That Gored, 20. I doubt, however, that Finkelstein intended his thesis to be carried to such extremes as those argued by David P. Wright, “The Compositional Logic of the Goring Ox and Negligence Laws in the Covenant Collection (Ex. 21:28–36),” ZABR (2004) 93–142, and, slightly revising his positions, idem, Inventing God’s Law: How the Covenant Code of the Bible Used and Revised the Laws of Hammurabi (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009) 205–29; see further below, n. 7. The most cogent methodological statement on these matters is found in M. Malul, The Comparative Method in Ancient Near Eastern and Biblical Legal Studies (AOAT 227; Kevelaer: Butzon und Bercker, 1990) passim (p. 124: “The methodological test . . . is the test for coincidence versus uniqueness”), and see pp. 125–49 examining twelve points of similarity or difference among the ox rules in the three traditions, concluding (pp. 151–52) that “the differences . . . reflect a later internal biblical development on the basis of the earlier Mesopotamian material” and even (anticipating Wright) that one may conclude “that the connection is even more direct and that the biblical author knew first-hand the Mesopotamian work.” 5.  Finkelstein, Ox That Gored, 21. Finkelstein’s “interrelated literary tradition” was elaborated and extended by Westbrook into a “common legal tradition”—a thesis for which Westbrook was much criticized. His student Bruce Wells attempted to modify Westbrook’s claims and to mollify his critics (not altogether successfully—nor perhaps faithfully to Westbrook’s insistence) in his “Introduction” to B. Wells and F. R. Magdalene, eds., Law from the Tigris to the Tiber: The Writings of Raymond Westbrook (2 vols.; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009) 1.xi–xx. Wells there dilutes Westbrook’s claim of a “common legal tradition” (xii) into one of a “shared tradition” (also the subtitle of the first volume of the two-volume collection), drawing upon Magdalene’s elaborations of micro and macro distinctions in the several law collections (xiii). 6.  Finkelstein, Ox That Gored, 21.

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Finkelstein was approaching a cautious middle ground in the persistent debates that swirl around the question of the Hebrew Bible’s relationship to ancient Near Eastern source material, debates in which the vivid “goring ox” rules continue to dominate. 7 The “goring ox” rules—supposedly striking, bright-line events that are extraordinary and exceptional—have proven particularly enticing to those working in a comparative mode with 7.  These debates began already with the first decipherments of the Laws of Hammurabi; see F. Delitzsch’s 1901 lectures “Babel und Bibel” published in English as Babel and Bibel: Two Lectures on the Significance of Assyriological Research for Religion (trans. T. J. McCormack and W. H. Carruth; Chicago: Open Court Publishing Company, 1903), and see the article in the New York Times of 21 January 1906 reporting on Delitzsch’s tour in the United States. For the goring ox debates, see Finkelstein, Ox That Gored, 18–20; M. Malul, Comparative Method, 37–78. See also B. Eichler (“Examples of Restatement in the Laws of Hammurabi,” in Mishneh Todah: Studies in Deuteronomy and Its Cultural Environment in Honor of Jeffrey H. Tigay [eds. N. Fox et al.; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009] 365–400), who, working within the Mesopotamian tradition, explores the “restatement” of the known gorer provisions in LE §§54 and 55 by LH §§251 and 252. Eichler cautiously reserves for further discussion “the application of insights gained from this study of restatement in Mesopotamian law to the study of restatement in biblical law” (p. 400). Such restraint is absent in the speculation of David P. Wright (above, n. 4), who maintains that the Covenant Code (CC, Exod 20:22–23:19) is “an academic abstraction” and “an ideological document, a response to Assyrian political and cultural domination” that consciously “reshapes the political and theological landscape of the Laws of Hammurabi” (Inventing God’s Law, 4). Wright, alas, falls victim to a scholarly textual variant of pareidolia, finding “evidence” of intention and meaning where there is simply co-occurrence. Although on pp. 121–22 he concedes that his entire work “involves speculation,” “is essentially an act of historical reconstruction,” and “imagine[s] that CC has actually referenced its source,” Wright’s unsustainable and methodologically flawed position—he even creates a “hypothetical Akkadian law” (Inventing God’s Law, 217–18)—maintains that the Covenant Code’s authors consciously and deliberately revised the LH (Inventing God’s Law, 205): “. . . CC’s goring ox laws arose from the direct systematic revision of LH. After using LH 195–214 for its homicide, assault, miscarriage, talion, and slave injury laws in 21:12–17, CC jumped ahead to the goring ox laws in LH 250–252 to expand its legislation on homicide. Its consideration of these laws in connection with another goring ox law similar to LE 53 led it to identify contradictions whose solutions generated the distinctive features of its ox laws in 21:28–32, 35–36, including the requirement of stoning a lethal ox. As it developed laws on this supplemental topic of negligent homicide, CC created its associated laws on the topic of negligence (vv. 33–34), generated in part by other laws in the context of Hammurabi’s ox laws.” The review of Wright’s book by B. Wells (Journal of Religion 90 [2010] 558–60) points out (far too mildly, in this writer’s opinion) the central flaws in Wright’s thesis and method; see also B. Wells, “The Covenant Code and Near Eastern Legal Traditions: A Response to David P. Wright,” Maarav 13 (2006) 85–118.

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biblical material. 8 I maintain, however, that the rules feature not “goring” oxen but errant oxen—that is, beasts of burden common in an agricultural environment that are wont to go astray. 9 While errant oxen may be uncommon and unexpected in twenty-first century London, Berlin, or Chicago, the phenomenon—like the buckling walls, burst irrigation dams, open wells, and vicious dogs in the adjacent law provisions in these collections—is within the normal parameters of daily life in the setting of a premodern agricultural or urban community. Oxen figure prominently both as actors and victims in several ancient Near Eastern law collections and scholastic expressions, written in Sumerian, Akkadian, and Hittite: damage or injury to oxen (LL §§34–37, LOx §§1–5; LH §§246–48; Ai. IV Appendix [= KAV 8] 1–6 and 7–10;HL §§74, 77a); straying oxen (SLEx §10; HL §66, 79); stolen or lost oxen (LU §§C3, C5, C6; HL §§70, 71, 73, 78); and death of oxen (LOx §§ 6–8; SLEx obv. i 37–ii 2 and §9; SLHF vi 16–22, 23–31, 32–36; LH §§244–45, 249; HL §§72, 75, 76). 10 Thus I contend that, as one aspect of a larger theme, the trope of errant oxen (including those wont to gore) is a commonplace in ancient Near Eastern legal compendia, neither as unusual nor as compelling in the ancient Near East as modern commentators make out. 8. R. Westbrook, Studies in Biblical and Cuneiform Law (Paris: Gabalda, 1988) 40: “The vital link here is the distinction between an ox which gores for the first time and one whose propensity to gore has been noted and a formal warning thereon conveyed to its owner by the local authority. Such a distinction is the artificial creation of a legal system and its recurrence in all three codes cannot be dismissed as coincidence.” In addition to the authors cited above, a selection of writings certainly should include: A. van Selms, “The Goring Ox in Babylonian and Biblical Law,” Archiv Orientalní 18 (1950) 321–30, who emphasizes the differences between the Mesopotamian and biblical rules; R. Yaron, “The Goring Ox in Near Eastern Laws,” Israel Law Review 1 (1966) 396–406; R. Haase, “Die Behandlung von Tierschäden in den Keilschrift rechten,” RIDA 14 (1967) 11–65; B. Jackson, “The Goring Ox Again,” Journal of Juristic Papyrology 18 (1974) 55–93 (see also “The Goring Ox,” in B. Jackson, Essays in Jewish and Comparative Legal History [Leiden: Brill, 1975] 108–52); L. SchwienhorstSchönberger, Das Bundesbuch (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1990) 129–62; M. Malul, Comparative Method, 113–52; several studies by E. Otto, especially Körperverletzungen in den Keilschriftrechten und im Alten Testament (AOAT 226; Kevelaer: Butzon und Bercker, 1991) 147–64. 9.  So too already A. van Selms, “The Goring Ox in Babylonian and Biblical Law,” ArOr 18 (1950) 321–30. 10. Citations from law collections follow the abbreviations of M. T. Roth, Law Collections from Mesopotamia and Asia Minor (2nd rev. ed.; Atlanta: Scholars, 1997) and correct in some details the editions there. For LU, see now M. Civil, “The Law Collection of Ur-Namma,” in Cuneiform Royal Inscriptions and Related Texts in the Schøyen Collection (ed. A. R. George; CUSAS 17; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2011) 221–86.

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II. Even given this demotion of the “goring-ox rules,” I would add to the similarities noted by Finkelstein and other commentators another, previously unnoticed: the categories of persons, specifically with regard to gender and legal dependency, in the LE, LH, and Exodus rules. In recent articles, 11 I have elaborated the implications of the insight first articulated by Westbrook, 12 arguing that in the Old Babylonian law collections: • mārum and mārtum always denote (a) “son” and “daughter” respectively, (b) of any age from birth through adulthood, who are (c) dependent upon or subordinate to a head of household; • the compounds mār awīlim and mārat awīlim reference a male or female dependent of an awīlum (and not a “free person” or “member of the awīlum class,” as I 13 and others have mistranslated or misunderstood in commentaries); • without compelling reasons to the contrary, mārum should be understood to refer to a male offspring—“son”—and not to a gender-neutral “child.”

These points, obvious as they may be once articulated, considerably change much of what legal and social historians have assumed about the Old Babylonian law collections. 14 Westbrook did incorporate these in11. “A Note on mār awīlim in the Old Babylonian Law Collections” (in press, JNES); “On Persons in the Old Babylonian Law Collections: The Case of mār awīlim in Bodily Injury Provisions” (forthcoming in a Festschrift in honor of Matthew W. Stolper). The present article is the third in this series of explorations on the mār awīlim. 12.  Westbrook first published this position in Studies, 57–58; see more recently Westbrook, “Reflections on the Law of Homicide in the Ancient World,” Maarav 13 (2006) 145–74; idem, a review essay of P. Barmash, Homicide in the Biblical World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005) 148; and idem, “LH §§ 7 and 123—A contradiction?” NABU (2007) 27. 13. See already B. Levinson, “Review of Law Collections from Mesopotamia and Asia Minor, 2nd ed., by Martha T. Roth,” JNES 59 (2000) 119–21. 14.  Westbrook’s statement in Studies, 57–58, met with immediate resistance from R. Yaron, “Review of Raymond Westbrook, Studies in Biblical and Cuneiform Law (= Cahiers de la Revue biblique 26),” in Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung für Rechtsgeschichte (Romanistische Abteilung) 107 (1990) 417–33, who concluded (p. 424) “ich sehe keinen Unterschied zwischen awilum und mar awilim in den thematische verwandten oder vergleichbaren Paragraphen 17/ und 25; 42–47 und 47A; 54/, 56/ und 58.” In this Yaron was maintaining his position expressed clearly in The Laws of Eshnunna (2nd rev. ed.; Jerusalem: Magnes/Leiden: Brill, 1988) 147: “there is no difference between the mar awilim of sec. 17/ and the awilum of sec. 25, between the mar awilim of sec. 47A and the awilum of secs. 42 to 47, nor between the mar awilim of sec. 58 and the awilum in two preceding sections, 54/ and 56/”; and further, p. 148: “In LE mar/marat awilim (and mar muškenim) have no status connotation. . . . The exact import . . . has in each instance to be deduced from the context.” So too

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sights about mārum into his ancient Near Eastern law handbook—albeit without comment—when he wrote of the “goring oxen” provisions as follows (emphasis added): 15 An ox kills a person by goring. If the ox was proceeding down the street in a normal way, its owner is not liable (LH 250). However, if the ox is a known gorer and the local authority warns the owner, he is liable. If he fails to take precautions, LE 54 imposes a payment of forty shekels if the ox kills a man; LH 251, thirty shekels if it kills the son of an awīlum. LE 56 applies the same rule to a vicious dog. The owner of a wall whom the local authority had warned of its dangerous condition is to suffer death himself if the wall collapses and kills even a son (LE 58). The collapse of a building is punished by the death of the negligent builder if it killed the householder, or of the builder’s son if it killed the householder’s son (LH 229–30). . . .

Unfortunately, Westbrook’s cursory summation conflates rules from discrete collections. 16 Nonetheless, Westbrook did recognize that LE §58 and LH §251 were concerned with the death of a son and not of a “member of the awīlum class.” 17 Indeed, the accuracy of Westbrook’s observation is confirmed by another little-recognized feature of the law collecfor Yaron in reference to LH: “In three groups of sections, in CH only, the muškenum is cast as member of an inferior class, in contrast with the awilum (or mar awilim)” (p. 134). In this he was following (among others) G. R. Driver and J. Miles, The Babylonian Laws (2 vols.; Oxford: Clarendon, 1952–55) 1:88, who claimed that, in general, “[i]t is not the word [that is, the term mār awīlim] itself, which merely means the son of a free person, but the context which shows whether an adult or a minor is meant, or whether the word is used in contrast with some term denoting a person of a lower class and so gets the sense of a class distinction.” Thus in discussing the bodily injuries of LH §§195–208, they maintained that “what the draftsman intended . . . can be deduced from the context” (p. xxx). On the other hand, they also maintain that “in all these expressions mârum retains its primary or natural sense, and the burden of proof lies on those who wish to give it the secondary or artificial sense of a member of a class or guild; and they are not entitled to do this if the ordinary meaning of the word can give the sense required by context” (p. 88). 15. R. Westbrook, “Old Babylonian Law,” in A History of Ancient Near Eastern Law (ed. R. Westbrook; Leiden: Brill, 2003) 415–16, under the rubric “Crime and Delict—Homicide—Indirect.” 16. See Wells, “Introduction,” xviii: “In his understanding of the law-code tradition, Westbrook found warrant for the application of a particular method within his analysis . . . Westbrook saw it as legitimate, when attempting to reconstruct the law of a particular society, to draw upon the law from other ancient Near Eastern societies as a means of filling in such gaps.” I agree that this is the hallmark (what Wells calls the essence) of Westbrook’s work; while it led Westbrook to some profound insights, it also misleadingly implied a non-existent urtext and can, moreover, lead the unwary astray. 17.  As, for example, incorrectly in M. T. Roth, Law Collections, 68, 128.

Errant Oxen

403

tions: the pattern of descending class or social order within related topical groups of provisions, as follows: awīlum > muškēnum > son of an awīlum > son of a muškēnum > slave of an awīlum > slave of a muškēnum

The same hierarchical pattern is observable for the victims (or acted-upon parties) in the law provisions relating to errant oxen and similar phenomena not only in the Laws of Hammurabi but also—albeit in sketchier detail—in the Laws of Eshnunna and the Covenant Code in Exodus, as follows. 18 →In LE §§54–55, which follows a provision in which an ox gores another ox, the victims of a known gorer are first the awīlum and then the wardum. In LE §§56–57, the victims of a vicious dog are first the awīlum and then the wardum. (In the next provision, LE §58, the victim of a buckling wall is the mār awīlim.) Thus the victims are presented in the sequence: awīlum > wardum. →In LH §250, the only victim of the ox is the awīlum. Then in LH §§251–52, the victims of the ox (specifically the ox of an awīlum) are first the mār awīlim and then the warad awīlim. Thus the victims are again presented in the sequence awīlum > mār awīlim > warad awīlim. →Exod 21:28–36 is complicated by its redactional history: many scholars find verses 30–31 to be a later interpolation and also ignore the circumstances of the open pit in verses 33–34, completely removing it from the “goring oxen” material. 19 Yet the larger section as a redacted text, and moreover one that has played a prominent role in the legal and literary discussions of “goring oxen,” does present the victims in the predicted sequence of man, woman > son, daughter > male slave, female slave.

III. In conclusion, this contribution makes two unremarkable, even banal, yet largely overlooked points. The first point deals with subject matter. Although casual perusal of the “oxen” provisions in the ancient Near Eastern law collections has led some scholars to suppose dependency or conscious, 18.  The victims are presented also in the same sequence also in LH §§229–31, in which the house constructed by a builder for an awīlum collapses: in LH §§229 and 231 the awīlum, identified as such in the protasis, is referred to in the apodosis as the bēl bītim; thus the acted-upon parties are referred to as the bēl bītim, mār bēl bītim, and warad bēl bītim. 19.  Most scholars see verses 33–34 (open pit) and 30–31 as later interpolations. See, for example, Otto, Körperverletzungen, 156; Schwienhorst-Schönberger, Bundesbuch, 129–30.

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deliberate revision, deeper reflection calls into question this assumption. Oxen were a common feature of daily life in the ancient Near East and might easily be involved in damage and injury to persons and property, the overriding economic concerns of the law compendia. The appearance of oxen (whether goring, errant, rented, or stricken by disease) itself provides no evidence at all for the question of the degree to which the compilers of these three law collections (as well as of others) were cognizant of, dependent upon, or reacting to their legal antecedents. My second point deals with literary style. Using again these “oxen” provisions as a test case, we see that the compilers of these law collections employed an identical (and not unexpected) pattern of class hierarchy as an organizing principle. This organizing literary device certainly reflects the social positions of legal dependents (including free persons, both men and women, of any age, as well as slaves) in both ancient Mesopotamia and ancient Israel, but again it would be unwarranted to assume that this signals any relationship or dependency.

Jephthah Chutzpah and Overreach in a Hebrew Judge Jack M. Sasson

Do not be deceived; God is not mocked, for whatever a man sows, that he will also reap (Galatians 6:7)

Jephthah would hold the seventh slot in the series of judges in the book named after them if, for the sake of number symbolism, we skip over Shamgar, Balak and Abimelech, son of Gideon. These omissions can be done responsibly; but I would not take time to justify them here. 1 Four hundred and eighty years were fixed as the interval between the Exodus and the First Temple, with a comparable interval from the First to the Second Temple. The Judges period was placed midway within the first of these intervals, while Jephthah specifically was set at three hundred years from the conquest of the Promised Land. 2 Jephthah’s story covers less than two full chapters (11 and 12) in the Book of Judges and divides neatly into four tableaus, each featuring his voice. His career is steeped in violence and alienation, opening on personal dislocation and closing on fratricidal warfare. An episode from it that involves his daughter has come to be emblematic of him, his personality, and his career as a Judge of Israel. In a paper I dedicate with much pleasure to Peter, a dear friend and respected colleague for many decades, I skirt issues raised about the historicity of events recorded for Jephthah and the redactions of traditions concerning him to explore instead the motivations behind the portrait redactors achieved for this one judge of Israel. 1. They are discussed in my forthcoming Anchor Yale Bible Judges 1–12 commentary, Yale University Press. When not identified, chapters and verses refer to the Book of Judges. 2. The count may (Kimchi) or may not (Rashi) need to include Jephthah’s six years of rule. Luckily we need not deal with the sixty years the B recension of the Greek Judges allots him. See also G. F. Moore for a notice on the count (A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Judges [ICC 7; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1895] 296–97).

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The background The traditions about Jephthah are embedded in Judges for maximum moralizing. After Abimelech failed to inherit power from his father Gideon, Tola of Issachar appears, about whom we are told almost nothing (10:1– 2). Yair from Gilead comes next. He is said to have thirty sons who rode on thirty donkeys, a reference to their high status. They each controlled a town in Gilead (10:3–5). After Jephthah’s rule, three judges link him to Samson and what is said about them is equally focused on progeny: Ibzan of Bethlehem (possibly in Asher) has thirty sons and thirty daughters, each finding a match from beyond his or her own borders (12:8–10). Abdon of Ephraim has forty sons but only thirty grandsons, all riding donkeys, so high dignitaries (12:13–15). All this attention on procreation might seem irrelevant in these narratives, since the judges of Israel earn their posts by the grace of God and not through heredity; yet, the core episode in the Jephthah narratives requires keeping this easy fertility in mind lest we miss a major lesson. In Judges, the normal pattern for how history unfolds is fairly well set: Israel sins; an angry God unleashes enemies; Israel begs for mercy; God selects charismatic leaders, empowering them through his divine effulgence (‫ ;)רוח־יהוה‬Israel takes control, but soon weakens its devotion, with the expected negative divine reaction. After Yair, however, the pattern is disrupted. Israel sins and meets the expected punishment. When it begs for respite, God cannot be mollified: “No. I will not deliver you again,” he says, “Go cry to the gods you have chosen; let them deliver you in your time of distress!” (10:13–14). Israel multiplies its effort, but the expected turnabout does not take place; rather, we are told about God that ‫ותקצר‬ ‫( נפשו בעמל ישראל‬10:16). This is often rendered (since the LXX), “He could no longer bear Israel’s misery,” implying a merciful change of heart. In fact, it has the opposite sense: as in other texts that use this idiom, God actually “loses patience with Israel’s behavior.” 3 In effect, as Jephthah is about to move on stage, God had pulled out of the rescue business, leaving Israel to its own devices. The consequence was crucial: With no judge (‫ )שופט‬or savior (‫ )מושיע‬forthcoming, and with armies facing each other, 3. For similar uses of the idiom ‫קצר נפׁש‬, see Num 21:4: “[The Hebrews] set out from Mount Hor by way of the Sea of Reeds to skirt the land of Edom. But the people grew restive on the journey”; Judg 16:16: “Finally, after [Delilah] nagged him and pressed him constantly, he was wearied to death”; Zech 11:8: “I lost the three shepherds in one month; then my patience with them was at an end, and they in turn were disgusted with me.” The noun ‫ עמל‬is often paired with ‫“ און‬misfortune, evil act” and the like, and so it can have a negative valence. D. M. Gunn finds ambiguity in the phrasing of 10:16 (Judges [Blackwell Bible Commentaries; Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2005] 167).

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the leaders of Gilead (‫ )שרי גלעד‬make the first pledge in this narrative: “Whoever is first to attack Ammon will be the chief (‫ )ראש‬of Gilead” (10:18). 4 Jephthah will know how to operate in this power vacuum.

How to become a judge At the first mention of Jephthah, his pedigree is scrolled backwards. He is said to be a ‫גבור חיל‬, an elite status based primarily on means but also on military prowess. It is therefore surprising to learn that his mother was a ‫זונה‬, a prostitute. In Mesopotamian literature, prostitutes have an equivocal fate, at once satisfying and sordid (see Gilgamesh Tablet VII). According to law codes, which themselves are literary products, they may marry (LL §§27, 30; CH §181; MAL §§A40, 49, 52); but in actual legal documents they may lose their children. 5 The same is likely for the Bible, where they are feared as seducers but can also be praised for heroism. This prostitute was impregnated by a Gileadite. To judge from the name ‫יפתח‬, the child was her first, an “opener of the womb.” Gilead, the hilly area east of the Jordan between the Arnon and Jabbok rivers, is applied as a personal name to descendants of Joseph who thus act as an eponym. Because we were just introduced to judge Yair of Gilead, he of the sixty sons and daughters, we might speculate that he also sired Jephthah. In accord with a Proppian analysis of folk and fairy tales, the story is launched when Gilead’s legitimate sons disassociate Jephthah from their father, driving him away from home. Whether or not their action was sanctioned by legal traditions is debatable; but the narrative replays a theme from lore and from real life: men like Jephthah with little future create it elsewhere by collecting equally dislocated riffraff. 6 When no one in Gilead would face the Ammonites, its elders offer Jephthah the role of ‫קצין‬, a military leader, likely with a specific term of command (11:6). The ensuing negotiation gives crucial insight into Jephthah’s tactical control of arguments. 4.  The vocabulary is discussed in J. R. Bartlett (“The Use of the Word ‫ש‬ ‎ ‫ ‬רא‬‎as a Title in the Old Testament,” VT 19 [1969] 1–10). 5. See the review of J. Cooper (“Prostitution,” RlA 11:15–17, with previous bibliography). 6.  Much has been written about the motif of the rise of an exiled son, with repeated associations among Idrimi of Alalah, Jephthah, and David (E. Greenstein and D. Marcus, “The Akkadian Inscription of Idrimi,” JANES 8 [1976] 59–96, especially 75–77); J. D. Schloen has collected the relevant references, even if he misapplies this motif to Ugaritic myths (“The Exile of Disinherited Kin in KTU 1.12 and KTU 1.23,” JNES 52 [1993] 209–20). N. Naʾaman catalogues bands of roving mercenaries in the Bible (“Ḫabiru-Like Bands in the Assyrian Empire and Bands in Biblical Historiography,” JAOS 120 [2000] 621–24). The Book of Judges is well represented in his collection.

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As an opening in his negotiations, Jephthah zeroes in on his status by accusing the elders (his “brothers” among them?) of hatefully dislodging him from his father’s home. 7 In spurning them, he uses the same sarcasm earlier assigned to God (10:14): why do you come to me when in trouble (11:7)? The elders catch the hint and make him ‫ראש‬, chief over Gilead, implicitly treating him as one of theirs (11:8; compare 10:18). Jephthah, however, gives permanence to their acceptance by reshaping the offer into an oath that is contingent on divine fulfillment: “If you are taking me back to battle the Ammonites and Yhwh hands them over to me, I must then become your chief (‫( ”)ראש‬11:9). The elders accept the premise; but when Jephthah returns with them to Mizpah, with its ancient shrine (Gen 31:43–55), it is the people who elect him by acclamation, both as chief (‫ )ראש‬and military commander (‫)קצין‬, dispensing with the need for divine confirmation through victory. 8 This is a stunning development; but to grasp its implication it need only be recalled that acclamation by the people was one of the ways in which Saul came to be Israel’s first national king (1 Sam 9–10:16). 9 The matter might have ended here; but at Mizpah, the text says, Jephthah “stated all the terms pertaining to him before Yhwh” (11:11). Jephthah is not informing God so as to hold the elders to their promise since they have already fulfilled it; rather the reverse: with the sworn agreement having already been discharged, he is making certain that the condition attached to it will come true. Jephthah, therefore, has manipulated 7. D. Marcus is correct to recognize that the bargaining has to do with establishing his rightful inheritance; but he misjudges when dismissing leadership status as the other goal for Jephthah (“The Bargaining between Jephthah and the Elders [Judges 11:4–11],” JANES 19 [1989] 95–100). 8.  In the Mari archives the šāpiṭum administrated the provinces for the king, his authority buttressed by control of bazaḫatums “armed contingents.” The merḫûm was the commander of tribal elements in the king’s army, often used to solve hostile outbreaks. (In our story, ‫ ראש‬and ‫ קצין‬seem to approximate their respective authority.) The Hebrew ‫ שופט‬actually combines features of both the šāpiṭum and the merḫûm, and if we imagine that the king they represented was the Hebrew God, owner of the Promised Land, we arrive at a pretty good approximation of what we find in Judges. On the Mari vocabulary, see J.-M. Durand (“Environnement et occupation de l’espace: Les nomades,” in Supplément au Dictionnaire de la Bible [vol. 14; Paris: Letouzey & Ané, 2008] 298–324) and H. Reculeau (“Environnement et occupation de l’espace: Les sédentaires” in Supplément au Dictionnaire de la Bible [vol. 14; Paris: Letouzey & Ané, 2008] 325–57). 9.  The other two avenues involved the casting of lots (1 Sam 10:17–27) and Saul’s singular bravery (1 Sam 11). In fact, God had instructed Samuel to anoint Saul as a ‫( נגיד‬1 Sam 9:16), a difficult expression to pin down, but one that probably does not entail continuity.

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the language of pledges, essentially saddling God with a fait accompli: not only has he committed God to give him victory, but by combining two offices, with civil and military responsibilities, Jephthah in effect has assumed the prerogatives of a judge, circumventing divine reluctance to select one. The second tableau takes the process one step further.

How to acquire ‫רוח־יהוה‬ This first of four tableaus about Jephthah has given a clue to the character that the editors want to create for him: He whines and allots blame, but only for tactical purposes; he haggles, but only for assured advantage. Most strikingly, Jephthah engages God in a future that he wishes to shape for himself. The second tableau displays Jephthah’s sophisticated control of diplomacy as he declares war on the Ammonites; but its primary goal is to extract a sign of acceptance from God. Normally, this is exhibited as an investment of divine zeal (‫)רוח־יהוה‬ that suddenly and dynamically captures its targets, by landing on (‫)היה‬, clothing (‫)לבש‬, or gripping (‫ )צלח‬them. With the enemy camped in Gilead, Jephthah first personalizes the tension. “What is there between you and me,” he tells the king of Ammon, “that you bring the battle to my land?” (11:12). On receiving an ultimatum from Ammon, Jephthah declares war, carefully justifying it by appealing to the centuries of undisputed control Israel had over the land, ever since God delivered it to Moses. The issue now is neither to unlock the veracity of Jephthah’s claim nor to evaluate how it differs from traditions elsewhere about it. Rather, it is to notice how this episode builds on some of the traits the narrator wants highlighted. When, centuries earlier, Yarim-Lim of Yamḫad posted a similar declaration of war to an erstwhile ally, he wrote: “[The god] Šamaš must investigate your conduct and mine and come to judgment. While I have acted as father and brother toward you, you have acted as villain and enemy toward me.” 10 Similarly, Jephthah tells the Ammonites, “I have done you no wrong; yet you would do me harm by attacking me. May Yhwh, the Judge, decide this day between the people of Israel and the people of Ammon!” (11:27). With an appeal to divine justice at its core, Jephthah’s challenge has effectively pushed God into making a decision: If there is any validity to Moses’ conquest of the disputed territory, Yhwh had better take Jephthah’s side. This obligation, more than any agreement Jephthah has made with his brethren, is what 10.  I offer a new discussion of this text in “Casus Belli in the Mari Archives,” forthcoming in the Proceedings of the 52nd RAI (Münster).

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leads God to bestow his spirit (‫ )רוח־יהוה‬on him. He is now a judge of Israel in all the important ways. Yet, as Jephthah maneuvers his army, there is still one more reassurance he wants out of this god.

Vows When setting off to war, beyond organizing a large and disciplined army and investing in decent spies, good generals consult the gods, sacrifice to them, and bring them along as talismans out to battle. More economical, however, is to petition a god with a specific goal in mind, pledging gifts or services in return for divine patronage. The petition, the condition, and the promise are essential components of a vow (‫ ;)נדר‬but they operate differently depending on their application. 11 Legal documents and prayers carefully itemize what is pledged in a vow, including gifts, services, increased devotion, or adoption of atypical practices. 12 In such material, the uncertainty is not about whether to discharge the pledge, but whether heaven will act favorably on the petition. In narrative, however, the reverse is at stake. There is hardly any doubt that the condition will be met; instead, whether or how to resolve the pledge generates the plotline and gives shape to the personality of the character involved. 13 In Ugaritic lore, King Keret loses control of his future when he forgets a promise to an unforgiving goddess. In Genesis, Jacob’s fortunes begin to decay when he neglects to fulfill pledge components of a very chutzpadich vow (Gen 28:20–22). 14 Jephthah’s vow produces its own complications.

Jephthah’s vow Here is how the text presents Jephthah’s vow (Judg 11:30–31): 11.  A vow differs from a ‫“ שבועה‬oath” in that it does not generally include a curse, that presumably it has a term limit, and that it becomes void if the condition is not fulfilled. 12.  I discuss vows in the ancient Near East, with bibliography, in a study on “The Vow of Mutiya, King of Shekhna,” in Crossing Boundaries and Linking Horizons: Studies in Honor of Michael C. Astour on his 80th Birthday (eds. G. D. Young, M. W. Chavalas, and R. E. Averbeck; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 1997) 483–98. 13.  When Absalom cites a vow he allegedly made when in exile as reason for going to Hebron (2 Sam 15:8), we (but not necessarily David) are clued to its fabrication because no terms are attached to it. 14.  A point made by T. Cartledge (Vows in the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East [JSOTSup 147; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992] 166–75): If God stays with him, protects, feeds, and clothes him, and if God brings him back home, then that God will be his god (Gen 28:19–22). Since this vow comes after God had made him fervent promises, in effect Jacob has found a way to bind his god via a vow.

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‫אם־נתון תתן את־בני עמון בידי והיה היוצא אׁשר יצא מדלתי ביתי לקראתי‬ ‫בׁשובי בׁשלום מבני עמון והיה ליהוה והעליתהו עולה׃‬ If you deliver the Ammonites into my hands, then the one who comes out to meet me by going through the gates of my home on my safe return from the Ammonites, that one will be Yhwh’s and I will have him offered as a burnt victim.

Most commentators propose that Jephthah’s vow was flawed because it was unnecessary. This is true not just because in narrative what is requested of heaven tends to be fulfilled, but also because biblical narrators rarely challenge a character’s privileged knowledge of God’s decision. It is crucial to note, however, that Jephthah embedded a second condition in his vow. He would deliver on his promise, he says: ‫בשובי בשלום מבני‬ ‫עמון‬. This is often rendered something like “when I return with victory (or triumph) from the Ammonites”; in fact, this is the same language that Jacob used in his vow at Bethel, ‫( ושבתי בשלום‬Gen 28:21). In both cases, they are stipulating making payment only after a safe return from a dangerous mission. 15 This might seem like a perfectly natural wish, given the many traditions about leaders not returning home from campaigns (for example Saul, Ahab, and Josiah); but here this extra request engages two aspects of the sensibility that has been shaped for Jephthah: He may trust in God, but like Gideon he sees no harm in bolstering the chances for a happy ending. More subtly, Jephthah wants to return not to Tov, where he controlled ruffians, but to Mizpah, where those who rejected him probably lived and where God witnessed his consecration as a de facto judge. This setting in Mizpah stimulates yet a third provision that Jephthah builds into his pledge. God must select his own gift by motivating a victim to be the first in stepping out from Jephthah’s compound. Since antiquity, the suggestion has been that Jephthah meant to include animals among the potential greeters, and some translations read “whatever comes from my doors” for “whoever” in order convey this. For Pseudo-Philo, God 15.  For the idiom ‫ׁשוב בׁשלום‬, see also Josh 10:21; Judg 8:9; 11:13. In some translations Jephthah’s important condition in 11:31 is elided, for example in Boling’s translation in his early Anchor Bible commenary, “when I return with victory from the Ammonites” (R. Boling, Judges: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AB 6A; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1975] 206); or G. F. Moore, “when I return successfully from the Ammonites . . .” (Commentary on Judges, 299), and “when I return in triumph from the Ammonites” (NIV; NRSV also has “victorious from”). Cartledge (Vows, 147) writes, “The phrase . . . has been understood by some as an implied condition, but a return in peace is to be assumed if the Ammonites are defeated, so this adds nothing new to the condition. . . .” Cartledge is citing disapprovingly Adolf Wendel (Das freie Laiengebet im vorexilischen Israel [Leipzig: Pfeiffer, 1931] 109).

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retaliated against Jephthah because a dog may have trotted out from his gates. This is far-fetched: Israelites did not keep dogs as house pets and did not grant animals the opportunity to lead victory parades. 16 In fact, in the other usage of the expression “those who come out from the gates of a house,” only human beings are at stake (Josh 2:19). What is significant, however, is that the choice of victim reinforces the gambling personality created for Jephthah. Biblical lore knows of other occasions in which God is forced into decisions, for example when Abraham’s servant maneuvered God into selecting a bride for Isaac (Genesis 24). Here, however, Jephthah has selfishly pledged the life of another human being as substitute for his own. Sordid as the offer might be, it would not have jolted us had Jephthah simply stopped at the first clause. The pledge would have been to deliver a member of his household to God, as Hannah did when she begged for the future Samuel (‫ונתתיו ליהוה‬, 1 Sam 1:11). 17 By adding that extra clause, Jephthah consigned the victim to a particularly loathsome fate. When animals are offered as holocaust (‫)עולה‬, violence never slackens: the trussing is brutal, the bleating is shrill, blood spurts everywhere, limbs jerk, and the bowels let go. Then there is the cracking of bones, the ripping of organs, the screeching of fire, and the acrid stench of burning flesh. Imagine all these steps when they involve a human victim, and especially one that is dearest to you. Naturally, the question arises: Where could Jephthah, or more precisely his creators, have drawn inspiration for such a violent offer?

Human sacrifice There is much discussion in the literature whether Jephthah was impervious to Hebrew traditions that forbid human sacrifice, especially as reflected in Deuteronomistic writing, or whether he was simply imitating vile Canaanite practices. The premises themselves are flawed. From Canaan, there is as yet practically no incontestable record of its practice. In Hebrew narratives, albeit not necessarily in real life, ritualized killing is scarcely condemned, with reference to the extermination of prisoners, the hacking of kings “before Yhwh” (1 Sam 15:33), the immolation of Hebrew princes, and the construction of fortifications over the corpses of immolated brothers. 18 Most famously, there is also the near sacrifice of Isaac. 16.  The last measure is even harder to apply to sacrificially acceptable animals, such as sheep, goats, cattle, or giraffes; see D. Marcus (Jephthah and His Vow [Lubbock, TX: Texas Tech University Press, 1986] 16–18). 17.  Or even when, after its first defeat at Hormah (Num 14:43–45), Israel pledged that town to God were he to give them victory over their enemies (Num 21:3). 18.  The two are the sons of Hiel of Bethel (1 Kgs 16:34; see Josh 6:26).

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Still, it is asked, could the Jephthah narrator have poached on nonHebraic, especially Greek, traditions where there is a rich repertoire of tales about the sacrifice (or near sacrifice) of human beings? While the story of Iphigenia is most often brought into comparison, it is commonly acknowledged that, with its multiple settings for Agamemnon’s vow and its diverse resolutions, none of the versions has a sequence that matches the steps found in the Jephthah account: 1) a request to be fulfilled by a divinity, for which 2) there is a pledge to sacrifice a human being, and 3) a stipulation on how the victim is to be singled out. 19 There are, however, three examples that compare well, all from Late Antiquity. Pausanias tells of a Boeotian king who, facing a drought, accepts advice from Delphi to kill the first person he meets on his way back. His son Lophis is the victim, his spurting blood turning into gushing water as it hits the soil (Paus., Description of Greece 9.33.4). Pseudo-Plutarch offers another etiology for a body of water. To gain a victory, Maiandros pledges an unspecified victim who will meet him. His entire family does. According to some versions, he felt such remorse on killing his kin that he let a river bear away his body, as well as his name (Pseudo-Plutarch, de Fluviis 9.1). The latest example is taken from Maurus Servius, a commentator on Virgil’s Aeneid (notes to 3.121 and 11.264). 20 Caught in a storm, King Idomeneus of Crete pledges the first person to meet him on his safe landing. His son does; but the resolution is unclear in all but Mozart’s opera, Idomeneo (K. 366). Servius lived among Christians of the fourth century, some of whom attributed materials to him. So, through them he may have drawn on Jephthah’s story for inspiration. These examples from the classics are interesting, in a Stith Thompson Motif-Index of Folk-Literature sort of way; but despite frequent allusions to them in biblical scholarship, they are hardly the stuff that might seriously contribute to shaping a Hebraic tale, if only because of their obscurity or their late development. So, we are left to pursue an inner-biblical understanding of what the story meant for its audience. 19. The comparison is often discussed; see D. Marcus, Jephthah and His Vow, 38–49; P. Day, “From the Child Is Born the Woman: The Story of Jephthah’s Daughter,” in Gender and Difference in Ancient Israel (ed. P. Day; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989) 60–62; T. Römer, “Why Would the Deuteronomists Tell about the Sacrifice of Jephthah’s Daughter?” JSOT 23 (1998) 27–38, with earlier literature. Rich lore about human sacrifice in Greek literature is found in D. Hughes, Human Sacrifice in Ancient Greece (London: Routledge, 1991) 71–138. 20.  Interesting comments on the Servius development of the Idomeneus narrative (through Mozart’s opera) are in the Introduction of Theodore Ziolkowski, Scandal on Stage: European Theater as Moral Trial (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009).

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The Daughter In biblical lore, when individuals are slated to play a role in a developing narrative, they are generally introduced earlier, if only to identify them by name. For example, Rebecca is announced long before God chooses her as Isaac’s bride (Gen 22:23), Laban is introduced long before he duels mischievously with Jacob (Gen 24), and David’s children are brought together (2 Sam 3:2–5) before they begin their murderous competition. Jephthah’s daughter, however, makes her debut like a supernova and with nary a hint of her existence previously. 21 Biblical narrators try not to be intrusive, deflecting the audience’s own construction of events only to avert potentially damaging conjectures. For example, the order to have Isaac sacrificed is labeled a “test” (Gen 22:1), lest we question God’s motivation. So when it is said of Jephthah’s daughter that ‫“ רק היא יחידה‬she was absolutely the only daughter,” and that ‫“ אין־לו ממנו בן או־בת‬from him [‫?ממנה‬: “beside her”; see LXX, Syr., Vulg.], there was no (other) son or daughter” (Judg 11:34), we are alerted to a potential shift in condition. Jephthah, of course, knew all about the shape of his family. We may presume too that he expected a greeting at home, since it is in his pledge. “When Jephthah arrived at his home in Mizpah, there was his daughter coming out to meet him, with timbrel and dance!” This NJPS translation gives the impression that just one person trotted out to meet Jephthah when, as is evident from other victorious returns (for example at 1 Sam 18:6–7) and from the use of plural nouns (‫תפים‬, ‫)מחלות‬, she took part in a procession that included a small crowd. 22 It would not be out of character for Jephthah to have ignored the possibility that his only daughter would be first to step out in a crowd. Fortunately, we do not have to penetrate his mind, for we have his reaction as guide. First, his eyes locked on his beloved daughter when they could have landed on another person in the crowd. The irony here is profound: Jephthah may have wished God to choose, but the choice turns out to be Jephthah’s just the same, a selection that is ripe for a psychological 21.  Nothing is said about her mother and she remains so famously nameless that Pseudo-Philo (and many commentators since) felt the need to assign her one (“Seʾila”). Later she is identified as ‫“ בת יפתח‬daughter of Jephthah,” not an impossible personal name; see Bathshua, wife of Judah and daughter of Shua, and likely also Bathsheba. The latter’s father is given as Eliam in 2 Sam 11:3, but Ammiel in 1 Chr 3:5. Some have conjectured that she might be the daughter of Sheva who rebelled against David (2 Sam 20:1). 22.  Much has been built on the false premise of her exit as one single indvidual; see for example P. Trible (Texts of Terror: Literary-Feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984] 101).

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explanation. Second, he rends his garment, in Hebrew a sign of great frustration in some contexts, mourning in others. Third, he shrieks ‫אהּה‬ “my daughter!” This “Ahah!” is an onomatopoeic cri d’angoisse, and it occurs about a dozen times in Hebrew. Strikingly, in the narratives and in the prophets, it is overwhelmingly (8 out of 12 times) followed by “Lord God” (or other divine address), indicating that it is directed to God. 23 For example, Joshua pleads (7:7) “Ahah, Lord God! Why would you have this people cross the Jordan, just to deliver us to the Amorites for destruction?” This exclamation confirms that Jephthah is not so much addressing the daughter he will consign to the flames as he is the god who has done him wrong. The charges he will soon lay on his daughter can equally be meant for God. We may now loop back to the portrait the narrator has been constructing for Jephthah. In his meetings with the elders and in his letter to the Ammonites Jephthah proves to be a kvetcher, but one with a talent for using perceived victimhood as a basis for concessions. Jephthah had hoped to draw God into this circle of dupes. He would go eyeball to eyeball with him and expect God to blink first, just as God did for Abraham when the life of Isaac was being wagered in a high-stakes game. But even as Jephthah loses his gamble and is cut to the quick by events, he remains fully in character. When he says, “you have brought me low; you are now among my tormentors” (11:35), he lays a twofold blame on his daughter. Moreover, by claiming that his pledge is beyond retraction, Jephthah once more deflects onto God the responsibility of justifying his poor judgment.

The choices If in narratives vows are tracked mostly for their resolution of pledges, then our narrator had several options for concluding the story. Since Roman times, commentators have assumed that the daughter was sacrificed and scathingly indicted Jephthah’s deed and character. Artistic depictions and scholarly assessments largely have followed suit; but especially in recent years a series of inspired feminist contributions have sharpened the daughter’s status in culture and in memory. Nevertheless, a venerable minority opinion has argued that, whether intentionally or accidentally, the daughter was consecrated to divine service rather than sacrificed. The arguments for both conclusions are nicely charted in David Marcus’s careful study of 1986. While he gravitates towards a non-sacrificial resolution of 23.  An exception is Joel 1:15. In 2 Kgs 3:10, as in our passage, the appeal to God is presumed.

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the daughter’s fate, Marcus credits the narrator with “devising a deliberately ambiguous ending.” 24 There is something to Marcus’s opinion; but I would not term the plotting ambiguous, at least not in any rhetorical sense, in which a word, expression, or idea is open to multiple interpretations. What we have here, instead, are conflicting clues that lead to incompatible yet individually coherent endings. The narrator relies exclusively on dialogue, thus constricting all potential solutions to what the characters, by their words, allow us to consider.

The Jephthah solution Jephthah knew what he had pledged. Had the narrator wished to formulate an ending consistent with that pledge, two avenues were available. The first path would take the readers directly to the tale’s atrocious conclusion at v. 39. Following immediately on his grief-stricken lecture to his daughter, we would learn that, “[Jephthah] did to her as he had pledged. She had never known a man (or: she was not to know a man).” However, to avoid exalting a perverse act of piety and thereby exposing God’s passivity, the narrator could have taken another path, which is to rely on several dei ex machina available to Hebraic traditions. A substitute animal could have manifested itself, as happened for Isaac (Gen 22). The Gileadites could have prevailed on Jephthah to change his mind, as was done for Saul’s son, Jonathan (1 Sam 14). The narrator could have given Jephthah refuge in redemptive acts, known already to Mari Amorites and later codified in Lev 27:1–8. In fact, he was criticized in rabbinic lore precisely for that failure. 25

What the daughter understood What the daughter understood her father to have pledged is at the heart of the discrepancy. In Hebrew, direct quotations are commonly introduced by forms of the verb ‫“ אמר‬to say,” and if there is to be a string of them in a dialogue, they tend to be separated by pertinent responses, also similarly introduced. This pattern is by no means universal; but when it is broken, attention is being drawn or gaps are being ignored. The daughter’s initial reaction to her father’s overwrought charges is restrained: “Father!” she says, “You have made a pledge to Yhwh; do with me as pledged, given that Yhwh has vindicated you against your Ammonite enemies” (11:36). 24.  Marcus, Jephthah and His Vow, 50 25.  See the fine discussion on all these topics in W. Smelik, The Targum of Judges (Leiden: Brill, 1995) 555–57. Hebrew narrators are generally reluctant to draw on legal traditions to solve literary problems, provoking us into endless debates why this is so.

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The daughter disregards the double-dosed onus Jephthah has set on her. Subtly censorious, nonetheless, she twice affirms the need to fulfill any pledge to God. 26 What, in fact, is there for an unmarried daughter to say when learning that both her father and her God had agreed to trade her life for her people’s victory? It is just as well, therefore, that Jephthah keeps shut the mouth that is costing him so much; instead, he listens to a proposal with a premise he knows to be false. The daughter continues: “May this be done for me: let me be (‫הרפה‬ ‫ ;ממני‬see Deut 9:14) for two months, to go and roam the mountains, my friends and I, bewailing (my) ‫( ”בתולי‬11:37). Her request is at once vague and precise. She is firm about obtaining release from her father’s control, a rebuke to him no matter what fate she expected to meet; but she is imprecise, perhaps also ungrammatical, about her trajectory. Why the surcease is for two months is not clear, at least for the moment; neither is the import of her mountain destination, nor why her friends would leave their families to join her. The crux here is the phrase ‫ ואבכה על־בתולי‬in v. 37, normally rendered “to bewail my virginity/maidenhood.” If with her own words the daughter is lamenting not reaching puberty, as Day has argued, then the daughter must certainly have grasped her father’s brutal plans; for any other arrangement would not have prevented her reaching that stage. 27 However, if she fears consecration into divine service, then she is imagining a confined life, with no hope of bearing the child that might normally memorialize her—or her father for that matter. What would strengthen assigning to her this second reflection is to know something about consecrating women to religious organizations in ancient Israel, as we do about the gubabtus of Kanesh and the nadītus of Mesopotamia. 28 These women were cloistered as in-laws of diverse gods: 26.  Insensitive readers have latched on her answer to turn her into a manipulative martyr. Ostensibly a daddy’s girl, Jephthah’s daughter forces her own death to avoid being married out of home (P. Reis, “Spoiled Child: A Fresh Look at Jephthah’s Daughter,” Prooftexts 17 [1997] 290). See also R. Ryan, Judges (Readings: A New Biblical Commentary; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2007), esp. p. 91: “Jephthah’s daughter is manipulative and intent on her own self-sacrifice for reasons which are not disclosed.” 27.  Day, “From the Child.” 28.  On the former, see C. Michel, “Les filles consacrées des marchands assyriens,” Topoi 10 (2009) 145–63. For the latter, it might suffice to look at R. Harris, “The Nadītu Women,” in Studies Presented to A. Leo Oppenheim, June 7, 1964 (ed. J. A. Brinkman; From the Workshop of the Chicago Assyrian Dictionary 1; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1964) 106–35; idem, Ancient Sippar. A Demographic Study of an Old-Babylonian City (1894–1595 b.c.) (PIHANS 36; Istanbul: Nederlands HistorischArchaeologisch Instituut, 1975). On the nadītus of Sippar, see F. van Koppen and D. Lacambre, “Sippar and the Frontier between Ešnunna and Babylon: New Sources for the History of Ešnunna in the Old Babylonian Period,” JEOL 41 (2008–9) 151–77.

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some were celibate; none were to have children. In the Bible, the ‫צבאת‬ (Exod 38:8) were connected to sanctuaries and in one passage those who slept with them were labeled sinful (1 Sam 2:22). The devotees of Tammuz in Jerusalem may have belonged to the same institutions (Ezek 8:14; see Dan 11:37). We know too that the fertility of certain women was controlled, especially after abnormal activities. Tamar, raped by Amnon, was forced to live in seclusion in Absalom’s home (2 Sam 13:20). We are left then without a clear notion of what the daughter expected her future to be. Luckily we have the narrator’s comment on what transpired.

The aftermath Jephthah gives his daughter permission to do as she requested. She returns two months later and her father fulfills his promise. It is at this point, after her immolation, that we learn that ‫“ והיא לא־ידעה איש‬she herself had not known a man” (11:39). Given her father’s resolve, it does not much matter whether this tidbit is circumstantial (what she was at death) or consequential (how she died as a virgin). 29 What does matter is that with this act we move from the events as described in a tale and enter the narrator’s comment on them. “It came to be a custom [‫ ]חק‬in Israel,” we are told, “regularly, the women of Israel would set out to commemorate (‫ ;לתנות‬see 5:11) the daughter of Jephthah of Gilead, four days a year” (vv. 39b-40). 30 In the cultic cycle of ancient Israel there is no mention of such celebration. Could the narrator simply have conjured it up to divert attention from a distasteful ending? 31 Did it reflect a living institution that was slighted in a male-oriented Bible? Or might it be, as argued in the literature, an etiology for puberty or for a prenuptial ceremony, both of which are reflected in classical literature? 32 Yet the narrator must certainly want us to The women consecrated at Sippar may have been celibate; those consecrated to Marduk could marry but could not give birth. 29.  The latter is one argument made by those who have her consecrated rather than sacrificed; see Marcus, Jephthah and His Vow, 33–34. 30. On ‫מימים ימימה‬, see M. Haran, “Zeḇaḥ Hayyamîm,” VT 19 (1969) 11–22. On ‫לתנות‬, see Smelik, Targum, 557 n. 1379. 31. Biblical historiography readily explains historically sacred sites (for example, Bethel and Achor) and institutionalized practices (for example, circumcision and the Passover). Some customs are given gratuitous or incongruous etiologies. For example, the priests of Dagon do not tread on their thresholds because the Ark of Yhwh decapitated that god’s statue (1 Sam 5:5). Or: the blind and the lame cannot enter the temple, because David hated them (2 Sam 5:8). 32. The debate is well charted in Marcus, Jephthah and His Vow; Gunn, Judges, 133–69; and (somewhat scattered) in B. Miller, Tell It on the Mountain: The Daughter of Jephthah in Judges 11 (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical, 2005). In the Middle Ages,

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recognize the daughter’s horrible fate, for it would hardly make sense for him to wish us to know that the women of Israel gathered four days a year to memorialize a young girl just because she was vowed to die a spinster. 33 Whatever the anthropological value of the tradition, there is no denying that the narrator used this emblematic scene to rebuke Jephthah. This indictment of Jephthah’s character will prove even more powerful if we assign the fourth tableau about him (in chap. 12), not to events occurring after the immolation of the daughter, but to those during the two-month surcease he gives his daughter, for they would expose how little Jephthah learned from his experience; which is also to say, how relentlessly negative his portrayal remains. That episode, famous for its “shibboleth” incident, is set immediately after Jephthah’s triumph over the Ammonites, and is inspired by it. The Ephraimites, obviously seeking a share of the spoils, accuse Jephthah of warring without them. In the days of Gideon, the same tribe had a similar complaint; but Gideon knew how to mollify. Jephthah, instead, proves true to form. He first accuses them of abandoning him, and then attacks them. Even after defeating them, he corners and butchers an astronomical number of their fighters (42,000). In the Hebrew text, Jephthah is said to rule six years; in one of the Greek versions, sixty—extreme numbers on either end. He is said to be buried not in Mizpah or even Tov, but in “in the towns of Gilead,” lacking the precise location normally attached to judges. Expanding on this odd phrasing, the rabbis had Jephthah die in battle, with portions of his body scattered all around—a small price to pay for his bad judgment. Yet, on facing another invasion by the Ammonites, the prophet Samuel cited the great wonders God performed for his people, singling out Gideon and Jephthah among them (1 Sam 12:11). 34 It may therefore be that in some Jewish commentators were almost unanimous in saving the daughter from death, with notable exceptions. In his comments on Lev 27:29, Ramban (Nachmanides) argues that she was indeed killed, Jephthah being ignorant of halachic laws that would not permit such severe restriction on a human being (Commentary on the Torah: Leviticus [ed. C. Chavel; New York: Shilo, 1974] 479–83). Centuries later, during commemoration for the Winter Solstice, Jews recall the blood that dripped from Jephthah’s knife: “The tekufah of Tevet, why? During this tekufah Jephthah made his vow concerning his daughter, and for four days during this tekufah the daughters of Israel mourned her. When Jephthah slaughtered his daughter all the waters turned to blood. And since it says Every year for four days in the year (Jgs 11.40), we observe all four tekufot” (cited from E. Baumgarten, “‘Remember That Glorious Girl’: Jephthah’s Daughter in Medieval Jewish Culture,” JQR 97 [2007] 197), who quotes R. Judah the Pious’ twelfthcentury Sefer ha-kavod. 33.  This is Ramban’s opinion (Commentary on the Torah, 482). 34. “And the Lord sent Jerubbaal, and Bedan, and Jephthah, and Samuel . . .” Much ink has been spilt on identifying Bedan, with suggestions to equate him with

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traditions, Jephthah’s reputation was much more appealing than what our narrator drafted for him. The portrait achieved in Judges, however, is what is retained over the centuries.

Conclusion Traditions about Jephthah may have been many; but as gathered in the Book of Judges they gave occasion to mull over the problem of power when there is a spiritual or moral vacuum. The story is framed between two series of short notices about “minor” judges and thus stands removed from the more substantial tales of Gideon and Samson on either side. Together with the isolation from divine support that God maintains during Jephthah’s rule, the series of episodes acquires a parabolic texture. Jephthah, much like Saul, can display all the signs of success, but because he could not rise above the scars of rejection, he will remain a troubled personality throughout. Opportunistic, he can grasp power although it is not his to have—but truth to tell, also not Israel’s to give. Controlling, he imagines himself capable of manipulating Israel’s God. He plans selfishly and, in one scene that distills his many faults as well as his few virtues, he makes a vow that is emblematic of his incapacity to adjust to life as leader of consequence. To the last, the narrator rigidly portrays Jephthah in character: In the two months in which his daughter resolutely faces a gratuitous death, Jephthah never summons the courage to break his vow and risk suffering the consequences. Even after Jephthah dies, God’s continued disinterest in Israel is made evident by the absence of the usual notice about sin, punishment, and deliverance that normally separates the rule of each judge. Three of them are said to lead Israel for a total of 25 years, not one of them challenged by the usual enemies God sends to discipline Israel. They seem simply happy with producing children and making nice Schiduch for them. Ahead are stories about Samson, an adult but with the hormones of an addled teenager; which is also to say that the experiment in giving rule to Israel via God-selected judges had run its course. Kingship will not be too far ahead. Baraq (LXX), with Samson (rabbinic lore), and with Abdon (H. Ewald). Zakovitch suggests that it is a doublet for Jephthah, offered as a gloss in our passage; but he is challenged by J. Day (“Bedan, Abdon or Barak in 1 Samuel XII 11?,” VT 43 [1993] 261–64) and others. Hebrews 11:32 obviously depended on the LXX version of this verse.

The Remembrance of Kings Past The Persona of King Ibbi-Sin T. M. Sharlach To produce an article suitable as a šulmānu, or greeting-gift, for Peter Machinist is a daunting if not impossible task. In my days as a student in his classes, and later as a teaching “fellow” for his course on Job, I often felt like Job himself, humbled before the whirlwind of his comprehensive knowledge of all aspects of ‘the life of the mind,’ from Marduk to Maimonides. This fearsome knowledge, however, is tempered by his sweet spirit and genuine interest in his fellow humans, be they colleagues or first-year undergraduates. It would be difficult to find two Mesopotamian monarchs more different than Tukulti-Ninurta I, the subject of the honoree’s Ph.D. dissertation, and Ibbi-Sin, the subject of this contribution. The great warrior whose lengthy reign strengthened Middle Assyrian power, who found fame (or infamy) by attacking Babylon, and who allegedly met his death in an uprising in his own palace, seems to have little in common with IbbiSin, in whose reign one finds the sudden collapse of the mighty and tightly centralized Ur III state, an event which he appears to have been helpless to check. One possible parallel is the decline that followed each monarch’s reign, but the contrast between the great warrior, “the furious, merciless storm,” 1 as the Tukulti-Ninurta Epic styles him, and the rather hapless Ibbi-Sin is far greater than the similarity. However, one can see in both cases substantial literary evidence concerning the persona of each king. To take such evidence unquestioningly as historical fact is clearly problematic Author’s note: I would like to express profound gratitude to the honoree for all he taught me about the ancient Near East and about being a teacher. I would also like to thank Piotr Steinkeller who, as always, offered many insightful comments. Avi Winitzer’s input and support also were quite helpful. Naturally, the responsibility for any errors remains my own. 1. “Tukulti-Ninurta Epic” in M. Chavalas, The Ancient Near East: Historical Sources in Translation (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2006) 150.

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(though tempting); 2 here I will argue that the literary portrayal of Ibbi-Sin can be reinterpreted in the light of other types of evidence from the Ur III period to suggest that Ibbi-Sin was a boy, quite possibly a young boy, when he inherited the crown. Perhaps it was his youth and the many dangers this posed to the kingdom’s stability that explain his helpless or even fearful literary persona; such a possibility may shed light as well on some otherwise bizarre decisions made during his reign.

Ibbi-Sin’s Literary Persona Although he is the subject of no (known) epic, unlike Tukulti-Ninurta or several of the Sargonic rulers, Ibbi-Sin does appear in a fair number of what are classified as literary texts: royal hymns, lamentations, and belles lettres. His echo in Mesopotamian historiography also extends to divinatory literature. In the words of Michalowski, “Old Babylonian teaching materials told the tale of the fall of Ur in poems such as the Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur, and those who studied the omen texts knew well that the portents linked to Ibbi-Sin meant only one thing: disaster.” 3 Ibbi-Sin’s depiction in the Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur (LSUR) and in the Royal Correspondence may prove instructive. Although one might expect that as the reigning monarch he would have a prominent role in all the literary accounts of the catastrophic destruction of the Third Dynasty of Ur, such is not the case. It is only in the Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur that he is awarded a substantive role; and even in this composition, he seems to be a rather pathetic figure, a victim of fate rather than a powerful actor: 2.  One insightful discussion of the problems in treating Mesopotamian literature responsibly can be found in P. Michalowski, “Sailing to Babylon, Reading the Dark Side of the Moon,” in The Study of the Ancient Near East in the Twenty-First Century (eds. J. Cooper and G. Schwartz; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996) 177–93, which stresses the importance of considering the larger textual world, including the production of the text and its reception: “While one cannot deny that there are allusions to historical facts, or rather to interpretations of historical events, in certain Sumerian and Akkadian literary works, it does not necessarily follow that one must view all texts in the light of political or military events . . .” (190). 3. P. Michalowski, “How to Read the Liver—in Sumerian,” in “If a Man Builds a Joyful House”: Assyriological Studies in Honor of Erle Verdun Leichty (eds. A. Guinan et al.; Leiden: Brill, 2006) 247–57, here 256. On the “disaster” tradition concerning Ibbi-Sin in the omen corpus, see idem, The Correspondence of the Kings of Ur: An Epistolary History of and Ancient Mesopotamian Kingdom (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011) 212–13; and A. Winitzer, “Writing and Mesopotamian Divination: The Case of Alternative Interpretation,” JCS 63 (2011) 85–86.

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The lands that had taken the same road (in obedience to Ur) were split into factions. The food offerings of Ur, the shrine (that received) magnificent food offerings, were changed (for the worse). Nanna traded away his people numerous as ewes. Its king sat immobilized in the palace, all alone/afraid. Ibbi-Sin was sitting in anguish in the palace, all alone/afraid. In the Enamtila, the palace of his delight, he was crying bitterly. 4

The precise nature of Ibbi-Sin’s emotional state is a curious matter. The semantic range of the Sumerian term ní-te-na encompasses English “alone” and “afraid,” 5 and while seemingly one must finally opt for one in translation, it is not impossible that the Sumerian here is deliberate in its ambiguity. Later in the poem, the same mood of helplessness is stressed: Ur, which had been confident in its own strength, stood ready for slaughter . . . (Those) in the city who had not been felled with weapons, died of hunger, Hunger filled the city like water, it would not cease . . . Its king breathed heavily in his palace, all alone/afraid; Its people dropped (their) weapons, . . . {saying}: “Ur—inside it there is death, outside it is death . . . Oh, we are finished! 6 

On the whole, here Ibbi-Sin appears to be as much sinned against as sinning: he is not blamed for the fall of the dynasty. Weakness, rather than hubris, seems to be his fatal flaw. I turn now to the belles lettres, the so-called Royal Correspondence of Ur, which also portrays the king as weak and troubled. This correspondence consists of Old Babylonian copies of letters written between several kings, chiefly the great Shulgi and then Ibbi-Sin, and their high officials. It should be noted that there exists considerable debate in the field as to whether in essence these letters (a) are based on historical originals, 7 (b) 4.  LSUR lines 101–6. See P. Michalowski, The Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur (Mesopotamian Civilizations 1; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1989) 43. 5.  As noted in Michalowski’s commentary to LSUR line 104 (Lamentation, 81). 6.  LSUR lines 387–402. Ibid., 61. 7.  W. W. Hallo, for instance, has long held that the Royal Correspondence does reflect actual letters from the royal chancery that became part of a later scribal curriculum, a position most recently defended in his “A Sumerian Apocryphon? The Royal Correspondence of Ur Reconsidered,” in Approaches to Sumerian Literature: Studies in Honour of Stip (H. L. J. Vanstiphout) (CM 35; eds. P. Michalowski and N. Veldhuis; Leiden: Styx-Brill, 2006) 85–104.

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represent scribal fictions, 8 or (c) reflect some hybrid of the two. 9 For the present purposes, happily, the question can be set aside: what matters is Ibbi-Sin’s depiction in this corpus, that is, his literary persona: a person betrayed, perhaps even a petulant figure. Insofar as one can determine the exact course of historical events within which these letters are set, it seems that Ibbi-Sin had placed a relative from the royal house of Mari, Išbi-Erra, in charge of Isin. The literary evidence reports that, due to a grain shortage in the south, Ibbi-Sin entrusted IšbiErra with a small fortune to procure grain from the north and to ship it downriver to Ur. Išbi-Erra was subsequently accused of trying to cheat the king. Say to Išbi-Erra: This is what your lord(?), Ibbi-Suen, says: As long as Enlil was my lord(?), what course were you following? And is this how you alter your word? . . . You have received 20 talents of silver to purchase grain. You purchase it at the price of one shekel of silver per 2 gur of grain, but in dealing with me, you fix the price at one shekel of silver per gur of grain! 10

The same letter complains, “Today Enlil hates me! He hates his son Sin.” 11 Wilcke describes this letter as bitter in tone; 12 in my view, it could even be read as petulant and immature, in much the same vein as Ibbi-Sin’s characterization of Išbi-Erra as “the stupid monkey from the mountains.” 13 He complained in another letter, “This man from Mari, with the understanding of a dog, should not exercise lordship!” 14 8. F. Huber, “La Correspondance Royale d’Ur, un corpus Apocryphe,” ZA 91 (2001) 169–206. 9.  The topic now finds its more elaborate treatment in P. Michalowski, The Correspondence of the Kings of Ur: An Epistolary History of and Ancient Mesopotamian Kingdom (Mesopotamian Civilizations 15; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), which, however, appeared only after this article was submitted. 10.  ETCSL translation of 3.1.18, “Letter from Ibbi-Suen to Išbi-Erra about his bad conduct,” n.p. Online: http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk./cgi-bin/etcsl.cgi?text=t.3.1.18#. 11. Ibid. 12. C. Wilcke, “Drei Phasen des Niedergangs des Reiches von Ur III,” ZA 60 (1970) 54–69, here 62. 13. ETCSL Letter 20, from Ibbi-Sin to the governor of Kazallu, Puzur-Shulgi: “Today Enlil loathes Sumer and has elevated to the shepherdship of the Land an ape which was descended from those mountain lands.” The “stupid monkey of the foreign lands” is also mentioned in an official Ur III year name late in the reign of Ibbi-Sin, year 23. See also Å. Sjöberg, “The Ape from the Mountain who Became the King of Isin,” in The Tablet and the Scroll: Near Eastern Studies in Honor of William W. Hallo (eds. M. Cohen and D. Snell; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 1993) 211–20, here especially p. 211 n. 2. 14.  ETCSL letter 20.

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Išbi-Erra, it appears, was concerned more about territory and power than about the juvenile insults Ibbi-Sin came up with; he seceded shortly thereafter. But in a sense, this secession was the result of already severe problems, not the root cause of them. The Ur III state had, in effect, collapsed well before.

The Collapse of the Ur III State Although according to conventional chronological divisions, the Third Dynasty of Ur extended from 2112 to 2004 b.c., in actuality some key administrative organs of the state appear to have been in crisis by Ibbi-Sin Year 2. The few tablets that are known from this period make it clear that major elements of the bureaucratic structures of the state, such as the central livestock depot, Puzrish-Dagan, were systematically dismantled, starting upon Ibbi-Sin’s accession to power and ending tidily on New Year’s Eve in Ibbi-Sin Year 2. 15 The dynasty’s short duration has always been a bit surprising given its strength and organization. Thorkild Jacobsen commented: How an empire like that of the Third Dynasty of Ur—to judge by our sources the most efficiently-organized structure of its kind, before Assyrian times—could so quickly and so completely collapse without pressure from any enemy state is quite puzzling. 16

Ur and its associated territories were eventually sacked by enemies from the east, the Elamites, who then withdrew their forces rapidly—but this occurred about twenty years after Ibbi-Sin’s accession, in 2004 b.c. So why did the state begin crumbling immediately after Shu-Sin’s death? Studies have indicated a serious economic and agricultural collapse including monumental inflation from Ibbi-Sin’s sixth to eighth years, 17 but these all occurred after the decision to dismantle the bureaucracy of the state. Why so powerful a state was unable to survive this economic downturn remains unclear. The death of the king Shu-Sin, with the accession of Ibbi-Sin, appears to have been a critical turning point in this process. If there had been weakness at the center, for instance some sort of contention over 15.  Sallaberger noted (“Ur III-Zeit,” in Mesopotamien: Akkade-Zeit und Ur III-Zeit [OBO 160/3; eds. W. Sallaberger and A. Westenholz; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1999] 121–414, here 260): “Ebenso planmäßig stellt sich dann das Ende am 30. xii IS2 dar. . . .” 16. T. Jacobsen, “The Reign of Ibbī-Suen,” JCS 7 (1953) 36–47, here 36. 17. T. Gomi, “On the Critical Economic Situation at Ur Early in the Reign of Ibbisin,” JCS 36 (1984) 211–42.

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the succession, one could better understand the manifest weakness of the state. Yet little such evidence exists. Rival sons vying to be crown prince may have been an issue in the reigns of earlier monarchs of the Third Dynasty, 18 but there is no evidence for the existence of alternate crown princes, or even brothers, for Ibbi-Sin. The Sumerian King List indicates unequivocally that Ibbi-Sin was ShuSin’s son: it records, “Ibbi-Sin the son of Shu-Sin ruled for 24 {variant MSS, 25} years.” 19 Another text, unfortunately damaged, suggests that Kubatum, Shu-Sin’s main wife, was Ibbi-Sin’s mother. 20 The problem thus may not have been the identity of the heir but this heir’s age.

Was Ibbi-Sin a Boy King? Ancient Mesopotamia, unlike Egypt, 21 divulges very few occasions of a boy acceding to the throne. One notable exception is the case of the Assyrian king, Adad-nirari III (810–783 b.c.), whose mother Semiramis acted as regent, but this episode occurred late in Assyrian history, and Semiramis’s legend is known from Greco-Roman—not Mesopotamian–– sources. 22 This instance indicates nonetheless that, at times of crisis precipitated by the lack of a strong male heir, women of the royal family could play powerful roles. 18.  For example, P. Michalowski, “The Death of Shulgi,” Or 46 (1977) 220–25. 19.  According to the Sumerian King List, from ETCSL. The Ur III exemplar of the Sumerian King list ends with Shulgi. See P. Steinkeller, “An Ur III Manuscript of the Sumerian King List,” in Literatur, Politik und Recht in Mesopotamien: Festschrift für Claus Wilcke (eds. W. Sallaberger et al.; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2003) 267–92. 20.  Steinkeller’s emends UET 2.1242 (IS6): [k u ] - b a ! - [ t u m ] a m a l u g a l (“More on the Ur III Royal Wives,” ASJ 3 [1981] 77–92, here 80). An earlier suggestion by Sollberger that the king Ibbi-Sin may have been the same man who appears in the reign of Shulgi weighing metals in Ur texts and that this Ibbi-Sin may have been a son of Shulgi (E. Sollberger, “Remarks on Ibbisin’s Reign,” JCS 7 [1953] 48–50, here 50) was dismissed by Jacobsen. Jacobsen believed, “The proposed identification of the Ibbi-Suen mentioned in UET III 314, 318, and 327 with the later king appears difficult as his function—weighing quantities of copper—suggests a smith . . . rather than a member of the royal house.” (Jacobsen quoted in Sollberger, “Remarks,” 50). 21.  Egyptian history is full of youthful rulers. The most famous “boy king” is of course King Tut-ankh-amen, who was crowned King of Upper and Lower Egypt when he was only about eight years of age (on a special, boy-sized throne), and died before he was twenty. Egyptian history also presents other youthful rulers, for instance, the less famous but perhaps more interesting Pepy (II) of the late Old Kingdom. Pepy came to the throne when about five or six years old and ruled for 94 years (2278–2184 b.c.). 22.  On the Greek legends about Semiramis, see the account in book two of the Bibliotheca Historica of Diodorus Siculus, a Sicilian writing in the first century b.c. (LCL series of 1933, translated by C. Oldfather, digitized by B. Thayer, available online at www.penelope.uchicago.edu).

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It seems unlikely, however, that the phenomenon of a child as regent was unknown in the previous two and a half millennia of Mesopotamian history. Rather, it would seem that Mesopotamian royal rhetoric precluded any overt mention of a king’s youth, in a manner reminiscent of its silence concerning palace intrigues or “harem conspiracies.” In Egypt, apparently, such details were recorded openly; in Mesopotamia these can only be inferred from other data. In fact, this possibility was already put forth by Thorkild Jacobsen, who posited in 1953 that Ibbi-Sin may have been a young boy at the time of his assumption of the throne: The new king [Ibbi-Sin] appears to have been the son of his predecessor . . . He married shortly after his accession to a princess of royal blood, Geme-Enlilla(k), and may thus have become king while still an unmarried youth. 23

What follows will develop Jacobsen’s idea, which I believe to be correct. Since 1953, however, the question of his age seems to have been neglected, 24 while much attention has been paid to the admittedly troubling matter of his alleged marriage to his sister. Now on this latter topic, dissenting opinions have been offered. For example, Steinkeller comments: Geme-Enlil {was} Ibbi-Sin’s wife and his own sister . . . by the time of her marriage, she was still a mere girl. To my knowledge, the practice of brother-sister marriages among royalty is otherwise completely unique in Mesopotamia. 25

For Steinkeller, then, the sibling-marriage interpretation in this instance seems unavoidable, something suggestive of possible influence from Egyptian royal ideology. 26 Others have objected and offered alternative explanations. Michalowski, for instance, proposed that there may have been two different women with the same name, Geme-Enlilla, one of whom was the young princess (IbbiSin’s sister), the other of whom was older and was a priestess, a lukur 23.  Jacobsen, “The Reign of Ibbī-Suen,” 36–37. 24.  Jacobsen’s suggestion was not totally lost. For instance, Hallo, in his general work on the history of the ancient Near East (W. W. Hallo and W. K. Simpson, The Ancient Near East: A History (2nd ed.; Fort Worth: Harcourt Brace, 1998), does not explicitly label Ibbi-Sin a boy king, though he does comment that upon his accession: “he was still represented as a beardless youth on the seals he bestowed on his favored retainers” (p. 81). 25.  Steinkeller, “More on the Ur III Royal Wives,” 80–81. 26.  Ibid.

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of Ninurta. 27 But there were a wide range of choices of names for elite women, and thus one would not expect duplication. Furthermore, there is reason to believe that in Ur III times the position of lukur of Ninurta was generally filled by a princess, rendering the possibility of two sisters, or at best aunt and niece, with the same name even less likely. 28 Another factor to be considered involves Geme-Enlilla’s age. Texts dating to Shu-Sin 7 and Shu-Sin 8 contain attestations of a woman named Eštar-tukulti, whose title is wet nurse to the princess. 29 If Geme-Enlilla were still nursing at this time, then obviously she would have been an infant or at most a toddler. Of course, it is possible that nurses remained as family dependents long after the children were grown. Alternatively, it may be proposed that Geme-Enlilla may not have been so very young after all. Instead of being a small child under the care of a nanny or nurse, perhaps she was already a mother and was herself employing said nanny. 30 But if there really was only one Geme-Enlilla, and she was a lukur to the god Ninurta, one can assume that she would remain, in an earthly sense, celibate and would therefore be unlikely to require the services of a wet nurse. In short, there are strong reasons to think that there was only one Geme-Enlilla and that she was Shu-Sin’s daughter. But is there equally compelling evidence to indicate that Ibbi-Sin was in fact also Shu-Sin’s son and Geme-Enlilla’s full brother? In theory, one can imagine a situation in which Shu-Sin had no heir but attempted to provide one by marrying his daughter to a young man (Ibbi-Sin) who then would become king; this would explain why Shu-Sin’s daughter, the princess, appears as queen. But this possibility must ultimately be rejected: as discussed above, Ibbi-Sin was almost certainly the son of Shu-Sin and his chief wife, Kubatum. The fact that there appears to have been a clean succession at the end of Shu-Sin’s reign does not mean of course that succession problems did not arise earlier. A quick look at the family tree under Shu-Sin reveals not only 27. P. Michalowski, “Royal Women of the Ur III Period—Part III,” ASJ 4 (1982) 129–39, here 136. 28. For another royal daughter as an earlier luku r to Ninurta, see A. Hattori, “Texts and Impressions: A Holistic Approach to Ur III Cuneiform Tablets from the University of Pennsylvania Expeditions to Nippur” (Ph.D. diss., University of Pennsylvania, 2002) 213 and n. 690. 29.  For example, on the tablet published by Forde, Nebraska 11 (SS8 xi 26), see Steinkeller, “More on the Ur III Royal Wives,” 87–88. 30.  Michalowski (“Royal Women of the Ur III Period—Part III,” 137) wrote: “In light of the fact that our information on the matter is so slight, I would prefer not to identify the princess Geme-Enlila with the queen who bore the same name.”

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a distinct lack of sons, but also a very small family. 31 By contrast, Shulgi had dozens of sons and daughters! 32 Possibly Shu-Sin did lack an heir for much of his reign; eventually, however, he produced a son, whose birth may have been commemorated in a hymn. 33 The evidence suggests that Kubatum bore children early in Shu-Sin’s reign but died before the end of Shu-Sin’s sixth year. 34 If the scenario of a long-delayed arrival of an heir is correct, Ibbi-Sin would have been between three and nine years of age when crowned. Under normal circumstances, one would not expect a child to be married. But the public image of king in the ancient Near East necessitated the presence of a queen (NIN). The latter was in charge of domestic duties, chiefly supervising the palace and its staff, but also had important ritual and sacrificial responsibilities. Like the American role of First Lady, the office of queen could be held by someone other than the wife of the ruler. 31.  Frayne’s list of the known progeny of Shu-Sin lists three daughters and no sons. See D. Frayne, Ur III Period (RIME 3/2; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1997) 337 (hereafter RIME); Ibbi-Sin’s progeny are listed as two daughters (RIME, 375). Trying to reconstruct the royal family is made more difficult by the fact that not all children necessarily can be expected to show up in documentation and that one does not know which children are the offspring of which fathers or mothers. The year name for Ibbi-Sin 5 commemorates a marriage between the royal house of Zabšali and a royal daughter, Tukin-hatti-migriša, but there is no exact information as to the parentage of Tukin-hatti-migriša. She could very easily have been Ibbi-Sin’s sister, as noted already by Jacobsen, “The Reign of Ibbī-Suen,” 37. 32.  One may wonder whether the inordinate stress on sex and fertility in the extant corpus of Shu-Sin’s Hymns in fact can be linked to possible problems with Shu-Sin’s own fertility. 33.  This is Shu-Sin Hymn A (a bal-bal-e to Bau; following the ETCSL translation): “It was she who gave birth to the holy one, gave birth to the holy one, the queen has given birth to the holy one,” or in Jacobsen’s translation (The Harps that Once . . . Sumerian Poetry in Translation [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987] 95): “She is clear: she has given birth! She is clear: she has given birth. The queen is clear: she has given birth!” While Steinkeller suggested that the birth celebrated here might have been that of Geme-Enlilla (Steinkeller, “More on the Ur III Royal Wives,” 81), it is unclear to me whether the royal family would have been so excited about the birth of a girl. The birth of Ibbi-Sin, a son and heir, might be more in keeping with patriarchal values. 34.  ARRIM 02 03 2: u d u n iga ki-a-n ag ku -b a- t u m l u k u r l u g al, dated to SS6 month 4. She had a child in SS3, igi-kár ku-b a- t u m n i n- e d u m u t u - d a, MVN 16.960. Kubatum seems to have had a living daughter by Shu-Sin 4, according to the evidence of BIN 3 571 (a sacrificial animal for NIN- N i b r u m u d u m u -m í k u ba-tum-šè). Given that she was of childbearing years, she presumably died young, and one could even wonder whether her death was due to the complications of pregnancy and childbirth, which seem to have been the primary cause of death for young women in ancient times.

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Under special circumstances, this position could be occupied by the queen mother (as in the reign of Shu-Sin) or by another relative of the ruler. The simplest solution may thus be that Ibbi-Sin’s first lady/queen was his sister, not because they were married, but because he was too young to wed. Corroborative evidence that Ibbi-Sin was indeed a small boy at his accession to power can in fact be mustered. An inscription on a cylinder seal adds further credence to the boy-king hypothesis. On an official gift-seal (the so-called in-na-ba type) now housed in the Metropolitan Museum, an important official bears the otherwise unprecedented title “boyhood buddy,” in Sumerian du10-ús-sa nam-dumu-ka-ni-i[r]. 35 The king here appears without a beard, which also is, to my knowledge, unprecedented. If the hypothesis of Ibbi-Sin’s youth proves to be correct, it would explain why the state appears to have been too weak to cope with the economic downturn. The dynasty could perhaps have survived the years of Ibbi-Sin’s youth if he had had a strong figure, such as his mother or grandmother, to serve as regent for him. But his mother Kubatum died three or four years before her husband, Shu-Sin; and in any case, she had never exercised much power at court. All official duties of queenship were apparently held by Shu-Sin’s mother, the powerful Abi-simti. Abi-simti, herself of royal blood from a northern neighboring kingdom, could easily have acted as regent, but she too died in Shu-Sin’s last years. 36 And so the decision may have been made to turn to one of those few relatives remaining to him—a sister, probably not so much older than himself, who would exercise the functions of first lady, therefore taking on the title “queen,” though one need not see any actual marriage to her younger brother. Significant power was apparently handed over to some of Ibbi-Sin’s relatives on the distaff line. Išbi-Erra may have been sent to hold the more troublesome northern regions while Ibbi-Sin grew up in the southern city of Ur. But Išbi-Erra appears to have betrayed his young king instead, setting up his own rival dynasty. Disentangling the exact events that led to the collapse of the Third Dynasty of Ur remains a desideratum. The present contribution does not 35. Translated by Frayne “childhood companion” (RIME, 389): i - b í - dEN. ZU di ngi r-ka l a m-m a-n a lu gal kalag-ga dlu gal - u r i5ki-m a l u g al an- u b - d al i mmu-ba-[ke4] dEN.ZU-a-b u -šu sagi d u10-ús - s a n am- d u m u - k a-n i - i [ r ] i n-na-ba. 36.  Though she is often said to have originated in the Diyala region, Michalowski has recently proposed a Mari origin for Abi-Simti. See P. Michalowski, “Iddin-Dagan and his Family,” ZA 95 (2005) 65–76.

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claim to change the fundamental understanding of actual historical events. But perhaps one can be encouraged to move towards a more nuanced view of the sources. Instead of taking literary pieces like the Royal Correspondence or the Lamentation over the Destruction Sumer and Ur as direct reflections of historical events, one may perhaps better consider them as the remembrance of kings past. Ibbi-Sin appears to have been remembered not as a mighty warrior but as a helpless and even petulant figure, a depiction that may be rooted in the king’s youth. If Ibbi-Sin were a boy when crowned, one would also have a cogent explanation for his apparent marriage to his sister and for the weakness of the crown in dealing with the crises that would soon engulf the state.

Hittite Gods in Egyptian Attire A Case Study in Cultural Transmission Itamar Singer* The “International Age” of the 14th–13th centuries b.c. is well known as a time of cross-fertilization among various cultures of the ancient Near East in a wide array of intellectual realms, from language to mythology and from technology to ideology. The case of Hittite-Egyptian relations after the Battle of Qadesh is particularly well suited to in-depth investigations of mutual cultural influences, due to the wealth of written information and also to some promising new archaeological discoveries. 1 Yet, the tracking down of the path of transmission of a cultural element from one culture to the other is a notoriously difficult and circuitous enterprise, usually involving a Sisyphean search for a putative Urtext or Urobjekt, its transfer to another culture, and its tradition through the ages (Überlieferung). The results can often be rather frustrating. The following study focuses on a rare case in which the transmission of a cultural paradigm is almost direct and is set at a well-defined point in time. I hope that this intercultural Hittite-Egyptian investigation constitutes a fitting tribute to my friend Peter Machinist, who brilliantly captured the spirit and the distinctiveness of ancient Near Eastern cultures. 2 In Year 21 of Ramesses II (1259 b.c.), sixteen years after the Battle of Qadesh, Hatti and Egypt reached a peace agreement, which was probably *Editors’ note: We lament the passing of Professor Singer last year. The manuscript appearing here, with the exception of the final proofs, reflects the version approved by him. 1.  For some references, see I. Singer, “The Urḫi-Teššub Affair in the Hittite-Egyptian Correspondence,” in The Life and Times of Ḫattušili III and Tutḫaliya IV: Proceedings of a Symposium held in Honour of J. de Roos, 12–13 December 2003, Leiden (ed. T. van den Hout; Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten, 2006) 27–29. 2. P. Machinist, “On Self-Consciousness in Mesopotamia,” in The Origins and Diversity of Axial Age Civilizations (ed. S. N. Eisenstadt; Albany: Suny, 1986) 183–202, 511–18; idem, “The Question of Distinctiveness in Ancient Israel: An Essay,” in Ah, Assyria: . . . Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor (eds. M. Cogan and I. Ephʿal; Scripta Hierosolymitana 33; Jerusalem: Magnes) 196–212; reprinted in Essential Papers on Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. F. E. Greenspahn; New York: New York University Press, 1991) 420–42.

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first drafted by diplomats traveling between the two courts. Thereafter, each side composed its own final version in the name of its monarch, and the parallel documents were dispatched to each other’s court. Accordingly, the Akkadian fragments discovered at Boğazköy as early as 1906 must be the version written by the Egyptians. They exhibit the typical grammatical style of the Akkadian written at the Ramesside court. 3 Although this version has been preserved in three duplicates, all are fragmentary and lack the end of the text containing the list of divine witnesses. 4 The version written by the Hittites in Akkadian was incised on a silver tablet, which was ceremoniously brought to Egypt by an official delegation. There it was translated into Egyptian and was carved onto the walls of the temple of Amon in Karnak and in the Ramesseum. These duplicate versions are also fragmentary, but fortunately they preserve a large portion of the list of divine witnesses that will form the subject of this paper. 5 A close comparison between the Akkadian and the Egyptian versions of the treaty has always stood at the center of scientific interest and has produced a large array of grammatical and historical studies, including Edel’s monumental republication of the two juxtaposed texts. 6 The situ3.  See A. Rainey and Z. Cochavi-Rainey, “Comparative Grammatical Notes on the Treaty between Ramses II and Hattusili III,” in Studies in Egyptology presented to Miriam Lichtheim (2 vols.; ed. S. Israelit-Groll; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1990) 1:796–823. See now also M. Müller, Akkadisch in Keilschrifttexten aus Ägypten: Deskriptive Grammatik einer Interlanguage des späten zweiten vorchristlichen Jahrtausends anhand der Ramses-Briefe (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2010). 4.  For the full text edition, see E. Edel, Der Vertrag zwischen Ramses II. von Ägypten und Ḫattušili III. von Ḫatti (Berlin: Mann, 1997); henceforth Vertrag. For English translations see G. Beckman, Hittite Diplomatic Texts (2nd ed.; Atlanta: Scholars, 1999) 96–100; Y. Cohen, “The Hittite-Egyptian treaty,” in The Ancient Near East: Historical Sources in Translation (ed. M. W. Chavalas; Oxford: Blackwell, 2006) 244–52. 5. E. Edel, “Der ägyptisch-hethitische Friedensvertrag zwischen Ramses II. und Hattusilis III.,” TUAT 2:135–53; idem, Vertrag; K. A. Kitchen, Ramesside Inscriptions, Historical and Biographical (8 vols.; Fasc. 5.; Oxford: Blackwell, 1968–90) 2:225–32; idem, Ramesside Inscriptions, Translated & Annotated. Vol. II. Ramesses II, Royal Inscriptions (2 vols.; Oxford: Blackwell, 1994–96) 2:79–85. 6. S. Langdon and A. H. Gardiner, “The Treaty of Alliance between Hattušili, King of the Hittites, and the Pharaoh Ramesses II of Egypt,” JEA 6 (1920) 179–205; A. R. Schulman, “Aspects of Ramesside Diplomacy: The Treaty of Year 21,” Journal of the Society for the Study of Egyptian Antiquities 8 (1977–78) 112–30; A. Spalinger, “Considerations on the Hittite Treaty between Egypt and Hatti,” Studien zur Altägyptischen Kultur 9 (1981) 299–358; G. Kestemont, “Accords internationaux relatifs aux ligues Hittites (1600–1200 av. J.C.), Dossier C: Le dossier égyptien,” OLP 12 (1981) 15–78; M. Gutgesell, Der Friedensvertrag Ramses und die Hethiter. Geheimdiplomatie im alten Orient (Hildesheim: Bernward, 1984); C. Zaccagnini, “The Forms of Alliance and Subjugation in the Near East of the Late Bronze Age,” in I trattati del mondo antico: forma, ideologia, funzione (eds. L. Canfora et al.; Rome: Bretschneider, 1990)

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ation is quite different with regard to the list of divine witnesses. Since it is only preserved in the Egyptian version, it has been investigated mainly by Egyptologists, notably as a source for the study of the so-called Group Writing. 7 Hittitologists have only cursorily referred to it within the context of general studies on the divine lists in treaties. 8 Egyptologists who have commented on the divine list—like Wilson, 9 Helck, 10 Edel, 11 and Kitchen 12—have all been versed in cuneiform and some of them consulted Hittitologists on specific problems. 13 However, I dare say, none of them was sufficiently familiar with Hittite theological concepts and with the vast bibliography on the subject. They picked their cuneiform parallels from early editions of Hittite treaties 14 and did not make sufficient use of systematic investigations into the structure of the divine lists with their many existing variants. 15 37–79; Rainey and Cochavi-Rainey, “Comparative Grammatical Notes”; H. Klengel, Hattuschili und Ramses. Hethiter und Ägypter—ihr langer Weg zum Frieden (Mainz: von Zabern, 2002) 75–93; Edel, Vertrag. 7.  See, for example, F. A. K. Breyer, “Anatolisches Sprachmaterial in ägyptischhieroglyphischen Inschriften—ein Vorbericht,” in Das Ägyptische und die Sprachen Vorderasiens, Nordafrikas und der Ägäis: Akten des Basler Kolloquiums zum ägyptischnichtsemitischen Sprachkontakt, Basel 9.-11. Juli 2003 (ed. T. Schneider; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2004) 259–70; idem, Ägypten und Anatolien. Politische, materielle und sprachliche Beziehungen zwischen dem Niltal und Kleinasien im 2. Jahrtausend v. Chr. (Wien: Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2010). 8.  For example, G. Kestemont, “Le panthéon des instruments Hittites de droit public,” Or 45 (1976) 147–77. 9.  “Treaty between the Hittites and Egypt,” in Ancient Near Eastern Texts relating to the Old Testament (2nd ed.; ed. J. B. Pritchard; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1955) 199–201, here 201. 10.  Die Beziehungen Ägyptens zu Vorderasien im 3. und 2. Jahrtausend v. Chr (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1971) 216–19. 11.  “Der ägyptisch-hethitische Friedensvertrag zwischen Ramses II. und Hattusilis III,” in TUAT 2:150–51; Vertrag, 66–104. 12.  Ramesside Inscriptions: Translated & Annotated, 2:83–85, 143. 13.  “Treaty between the Hittites and Egypt,” translated by J. A. Wilson (ANET, 201); W. Helck, Die Beziehungen Ägyptens zu Vorderasien im 3. und 2. Jahrtausend v. Chr. (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1971) 216–19; Edel, “Friedensvertrag,” 150–51; idem, Vertrag, 66–104; Kitchen, Ramesside Inscriptions, 83–85; idem, Ramesside Inscriptions: Translated & Annotated, 2:143 (henceforth RITA II/II). 14. E. Weidner, Politische Dokumente aus Kleinasien (Leipzig: Hinrich, 1923); J. Friedrich, Staatsverträge des Ḫatti-Reiches in hethitischer Sprache (2 vols.; Leipzig: Hinrich, 1926, 1930). 15.  Kestemont, “Accords”; idem, “Panthéon”; G. del Monte, Il trattato fra Muršili II di Ḫattuša e Niqmepaʿ di Ugarit (Rome: Istituto per l’Oriente, 1986) 100–106; E. Laroche, “The Pantheons of Asia Minor: The Organization of the Hittite Gods,” in Mythologies (2 vols.; ed. Y. Bonnefoy; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991) 1:221–22; I. Singer, “‘The Thousand Gods of Hatti’: The Limits of an Expanding

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In the present study, I have purposely refrained from making use of any of the verdicts reached by experts regarding the accuracy and quality of the Egyptian translation of the Akkadian text, and the Akkadian translation of the Egyptian text. Opinions differ widely, 16 and in any case, this current investigation has little to do with the grammatical skill of the scribes. Rather, it focuses on some theological issues resulting from the rendering of the Hittite divine world into Egyptian. Before setting out on this comparative study, it should be reiterated that even though there are enough Hittite sources to enable a meaningful comparison with the Egyptian list, one is not dealing here with a direct comparison between two versions of the same text. Without the hopedfor discovery of fragments containing the cuneiform divine list, one simply cannot determine what stood before the eyes of the Egyptian translator. If there are flaws or inconsistencies in the hieroglyphic version, one cannot automatically blame these on the Egyptian scribe(s). Some might have been there in the cuneiform version, although this is an unlikely scenario for the redaction of an official silver tablet. The challenge faced by the Egyptian scribe(s) who transcribed this list into hieroglyphs (perhaps through a hieratic intermediary) was far more difficult than for the rest of the treaty. Here not only was a first-class control of Akkadian required, but also a basic knowledge of everything from phonetic rules of transcription to Near Eastern theology. I shall withhold my verdict on the success of the Egyptian scribe(s) facing this challenge to the end of the investigation. One more preliminary remark remains to be made. My main guiding principle in attempting to explain the difficulties raised by the Egyptian text is utmost fidelity to the principles inherent in the Hittite divine witness lists. Far-fetched and forced explanations that are not embedded in the Hittite evidence are better left out. In particularly thorny cases, it is better to admit the limits of present understanding and await future discoveries that may yield better solutions. From the reign of Šuppiluliuma I onwards, the order of the deities invoked as witnesses in the state treaties and other oath texts is more or less fixed, although some variations do occur in the century and a half Pantheon,” Israel Oriental Studies 14 (1994) 90–93; D. Yoshida, Untersuchungen zu den Sonnengottheiten bei den Hethitern (Heidelberg: Winter, 1996) 7–53; D. Schwemer, “Das hethitische Reichspantheon. Überlegungen zu Struktur und Genese,“ in Götterbilder, Gottesbilder, Weltbilder: Polytheismus und Monotheismus in der Welt der Antike. Band I. Ägypten, Mesopotamien, Persien, Kleinasien, Syrien, Palästina (eds. R. G. Kratz and H. Spieckermann; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006) 243–53. 16.  Compare, for example, the opinion of Spalinger, “Considerations,” to that of Rainey and Cochavi-Rainey, “Comparative Grammatical Notes.”

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of documentation. The deities appearing in these lists 17 are divided into several typological categories with the same deities usually classified under the same groups. In partial adherence to the terminology of Kestemont, 18 the following groups appear in the corpus, though not all of them are represented in each individual treaty: the four main gods of the pantheon (two sun deities and two storm gods); dynastic gods (quite rare); acolytes of the storm god (sacred bulls and mountains); storm god hypostases (“of the gate-house,” “of the army,” “of rescue”); local storm gods; tutelary deities (DKAL/LAMMA); Telipinus; Hebats; IŠTARs; oath deities; war gods (DZABABA); various local deities; ḫabiru and lulaḫḫi gods; the totality of male and female gods; primeval gods of the underworld (of Mesopotamian origin); geographical and cosmological elements. As has been mentioned above, some deities may oscillate between the groups, which shows that their classification had not been finalized. The order of appearance of the groups is not rigid either, although the overall hierarchy, descending from the main celestial gods of Hatti to the gods of the underworld (of foreign origin) and to all-inclusive definitions of the divine world and of nature, follows a fixed pattern. Some divergences from this basic structure are no doubt due to scribal lapses, but others are not, and these are arguably the most interesting cases for disclosing theological thought and its development. The following list of divine witnesses in the Egyptian version is based on Edel’s transliteration and numeration, 19 to which I added dividing lines separating the various groups of deities. b1 b2 b3 b4 b5 b6 b7 b8 b9 b 10 b 11 b 12

pꜢ-Rʿ pꜢ-nb n tꜢ-pt pꜢ-Rʿ n dmj n ʾArnn Swtḫ pꜢ nb n tꜢ-pt Swtḫ n Ḫt Swtḫ n dmj n ʾArnn Swtḫ n dmj n Ḏpʾalnd Swtḫ n dmj n Piirq Swtḫ n dmj n Ḫissp Swtḫ n dmj n Sris Sw[tḫ] n dmj n Ḫlp Swtḫ n dmj n Lḫsin Swtḫ [n dmj n . . .]r[. . .

the Re, the lord of heaven the Re of the town of Arinna Sutekh, the lord of heaven Sutekh of Hatti Sutekh of the town of Arinna Sutekh of the town of Zippalanda Sutekh of the town of Piiyariq Sutekh of the town of Ḫiššašpa Sutekh of the town of Šarišša Su[tekh] of the town of Ḫalab Sutekh of the town of Liḫšina Sutekh [of the town of . . .]r[. . .

17.  Who are not necessarily representative of the Hittite pantheon in general; see Schwemer, “Reichspantheon,” 250 with n. 30. 18.  Kestemont, “Panthéon”; see also Laroche, “Pantheon,” 221–22; Schwemer, “Reichspantheon,” 244. 19.  Edel, Vertrag, 66–81.

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b 13 [Swtḫ n dmj n . . . [Sutekh of the town of . . . b 14 [Sw]tḫ [n d]mj [n] S[. . . [Su]tekh [of the t]own [of] S[. . . b 15 [Swtḫ] n [. . .]i?ms [Sutekh] of [. . .]i ?ms b 16 Swtḫ n dmj n Sḫipin Sutekh of the town of Šaḫpina c 1 ʿnṯrtj n pꜢ-tꜢ n Ḫt ʿnṯrtj of the land of Ḫatti c 2 pꜢ-nṯr n Ḏitḫariy the god of Zitḫariya c 3 pꜢ-nṯr n Krḏis the god of Karziš c 4 pꜢ-nṯr n Ḫapntlys the god of Ḫapantaliyaš c 5 tꜢ-nṯrt n dmj Krḫn the goddess of the town Karaḫna c 6 tꜢ-nṯrt n Ḏir the goddess of ṣeri (IŠTAR of the field) c 7 tꜢ-nṯrt n Nnw the goddess of Ninuwa (Nineveh) c 8 tꜢ-nṯrt n Ḏin the goddess of ṣin c 9 pꜢ-nṯr Nint the god Ninatta c 10 pꜢ-nṯr [K]lt the god [Ku]litta c 11 pꜢ-nṯr n Ḫbt tꜢ-ḥmt-nswt n tꜢ-pt   the god of Ḫebat, the queen of heaven c 12 n-nṯrw nbw ʿnḫ the gods, lords of oath c 13 tꜢ-nṯrt tꜢ-ḥnwt pꜢ-jwtn the goddess, the lady the earth c 14 tꜢ-ḥnwt n ʿnḫ the lady of oath c 15 Isḫr tꜢ-ḥnwt Išḫara, the lady d 1–2 d 3 ḏww mountains, d 4 nꜢ-jtrwy n pꜢ-tꜢ n Ḫt the rivers of the land of Hatti d 5–6 nꜢ-nṯrw n pꜢ-tꜢ n Qiḏwdn the gods of the land of Kizzuwatna d 7 Jmn Amun d 8 pꜢ-Rʿ the Re d 9 Swtḫ Sutekh d 10 nꜢ-nṯrw ʿḥꜢwtj the male gods, d 11 nꜢ-nṯrw ḥmwt the female gods, d 12 nꜢ-ḏww the mountains, d 13 nꜢ-jtrwy n pꜢ-tꜢ n Kmt the rivers of the land of Egypt d 14 tꜢ-pt the sky, d 15 pꜢ-jwtn the earth, d 16 pꜢ-ym ʿꜢ the great sea, d 17 pꜢ-ṯꜢw the winds, d 18 nꜢ-šnʿw the clouds.

(1) The four main gods of the pantheon (b 1–4) correspond exactly to the cuneiform lists: the sun god Lord of Heaven, the sun goddess of Arinna, the storm god Lord of Heaven, and the storm god of Hatti. The Hittite-Egyptian divine equations—sun deity equals Re, storm god equals

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Seth/Sutekh—are straightforward except for the rather complex gender situation of the Anatolian solar deities. The ingenious method by which the Egyptian scribe(s) solved the problem of the equation of the feminine sun goddess of Arinna with the masculine Egyptian sun god is dealt with in the last paragraph of this study (together with the description of the seals attached to the silver tablet). The figures of the sun god and the storm god represent in the Hittite-Egyptian correspondence 20 the heads of the Egyptian and the Hittite pantheons, respectively. 21 (2) Out of twelve local storm gods (b 5–16), four are irreparably lost (b 12–15) and all attempts at restoring or guessing their identity are futile. This important group of local manifestations of the storm god (DU/IM), also including the storm god of the ruins (DU DU6) and the storm god of rescue (DU Á.TAḪ/ DU EN RĒṢŪTI), 22 normally consists of between 14 and 19 deities. 23 The list never attained full canonization, and the order of the storm gods varies from one treaty to the other for no apparent reason. Most place names recur in all the treaties, but a few are specific to particular treaties (for example, Ḫulašša in the Ḫuqqana treaty), probably reflecting local preferences. b 7: The flawed spelling Piirq for cuneiform Pittiyariq(a) is explained by Edel through graphical means involving hieratic script. 24 Kestemont reads here “Nerik” without providing any justification. 25 b 8: As observed by Edel, the spelling Ḫissp without a second ḫ corresponds to the cuneiform spelling Ḫiššaš(ša)pa typical of 13th-century texts, replacing the older spelling Ḫiššašḫapa. 26 For the chronological significance of this spelling, see the conclusions. b 12: A single hieroglyphic sign is left of the place name, an r (which can also be read as l) in middle position, which leaves too many possibilities for restoration (Edel provides four options). 20. E. Edel, ed., Die ägyptisch-hethitische Korrespondenz aus Boghazköi in babylonischer und hethitischer Sprache (2 vols.; Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1994). 21.  Singer, “Thousand Gods,” 99 with n. 82. 22.  The Hittite reading is probably DU šartiyaš, a deity appearing in Muwatalli’s Prayer (KUB 6.46 ii 13) among the deities of Katapa; see Singer, “Thousand Gods,” 11, 55 (cf. KBo 17.85 line 16: ŠA LUGAL DU šard [iyaš). In the list of witness gods of the Manapa-Tarḫunta treaty (KUB 19.49 iv 1–50 iv 6; Friedrich, Staatsverträge, 2:14) a flawed URU determinative is added. These references to the storm god of Rescue should be supplemented in the šardi(ya)- entries of CHD Š/2: 292–94. 23.  Kestemont, “Panthéon,” 149, 158; Yoshida, Untersuchungen, 14. 24.  Edel, Vertrag, 99. 25.  Kestemont, “Accords,” 48. 26.  Edel, Vertrag, 99; for references, see C. Kühne and H. Otten, Der ŠaušgamuwaVertrag (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1971) 49.

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b 14: Edel places the traces of an s in initial position and restores S[pinw] or S[mḫ], but in fact, according to his drawing, 27 the s is in medial position. Helck places the -śá in medial or in final position. 28 Faced with such uncertainty on the position of the only trace left from the toponym, it is better to refrain from any restoration. b 15: Edel restores the traces of a final ]i ?ms (allegedly followed by the determinative of the Seth animal) as the Hittite word [tetḫ]imaš “of thunder”, a suggestion considered by Kitchen to be “highly-ingenious.” 29 This rare manifestation of the storm god 30 never appears in the witness lists and it would be most unwarranted to grant him a debut here simply on the basis of a daring restoration. 31 If indeed the determinative is not the usual “foreign land” but rather a sitting figure, the only non-toponymic candidates would be the storm god of the ruins or the storm god of rescue (see above), though I am not sure whether the hieroglyphic traces could fit any of these. (3) The group of five tutelary deities (c 1–5) presents a special challenge for theological interpretation, perhaps the most difficult in the entire list. The basic kernel of this list usually consists of five or six deities to whom additional manifestations and deities may be added: DKAL, DKAL of Hatti, Zitḫariya, Karzi, Ḫapantaliya, and DKAL of Karaḫna. 32 The first generalized tutelary deity is sometimes dropped, and such seems to be the case here. The gender of each tutelary deity is not self-evident in the cuneiform texts 33 and in this respect the Egyptian version provides valuable information since the scribe had to make a clear choice between a male (pꜢ-nṯr) and a female (tꜢ-nṯrt) deity. This differentiation, which will be discussed further in the concluding section, should not be dismissed out of hand. It must represent a basic knowledge of the Hittite divine world, either by the Egyptian translator himself, or, more probably, by some Hittite advisor who assisted him in the translation process. c 1: The identification of the first deity in this group, ʿnṯrtj of the Land of Hatti, requires a lengthy detour into comparative Near Eastern religion, and will therefore be presented in a separate excursus at the end of the paper. 27.  Edel, Vertrag, 42. 28.  Helck, Beziehungen, 216–17; see also Kitchen, RITA II/II, 143. 29.  Kitchen, RITA II/II, 143. 30. V. Haas, Geschichte der hethitischen Religion (Leiden: Brill, 1994) 295. 31.  See also Breyer, “Redaktionsgeschichte,” 20. 32.  Kestemont, “Panthéon,” 160. 33. Contra Edel’s “männlich!”; “Neues zur Schwurgötterliste im Hethitervertrag,” in Intellectual Heritage of Egypt: Studies Presented to László Kákosy by Friends and Colleagues on the Occasion of His 60th Birthday (ed. U. Luft; Budapest: Innova, 1992) 123.

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c 2–4: These three tutelary gods—Zitḫariya, Karzi, and Ḫapantaliya— are almost universally represented in the Hittite treaties. 34 Although the three names are followed by the determinative “foreign land,” the designation pꜢ-nṯr preceding their names clearly identifies them as gods (on this supposed discrepancy see more in the concluding section). The function of the final -s in the names Krḏis and Ḫ(r)pntlys remains unclear. It could stand for the Hittite nominative, 35 but all the other names in the list, including Ḏitḫariy preceding them, lack it. In the Hittite lists personal names often appear in the nominative, whereas toponyms are in the stem case. c 5: “The goddess of the city Karaḫna” is clearly distinguished as a female deity (tꜢ-nṯrt), in contrast to the previous triad of gods. In the Hittite texts, DKAL of Karaḫna figures abundantly, 36 but in the majority of cases there is nothing to indicate the gender of the deity or its name, that is, whether the logogram refers to the goddess Inar(a) or to the god Kurunti(ya) (see further in the Excursus). There exists one text, however, that fully corroborates the Egyptian scribe’s choice of gender: KUB 2.1 i 43f. URUKaraḫnaš=a DKAL-ri (followed by DKarši and DḪabantaliya). 37 Thus, the goddess of Karaḫna was Inara and one wonders how the Egyptian scribe knew that. Once again, one is faced with the probability of a Hittite “advisor” who guided the Egyptian scribe(s) through the intricacies of the Hittite pantheon. (4) The group of IŠTAR manifestations and acolytes includes five deities (c 6–10). 38 DIŠTAR functions as a logogram in Hittite texts, representing several goddesses, notably Šaušga 39 and Anziliya. 40 Two additional logograms interchange with DIŠTAR, namely DGAŠAN and DLIŠ (the latter unknown in Mesopotamia). One cannot be sure which of these appeared in the cuneiform version, but in any case, all three acquired a general 34.  Kestemont, “Panthéon,” 160; G. McMahon, The Hittite State Cult of Tutelary Deities (Chicago: Oriental Institute, 1991) 14–21. 35.  Edel, “Neues Material zur Beurteilung der syllabischen Orthographie des Ägyptischen,” JNES 8 (1949) 44–47; idem, Vertrag, 100. 36. G. del Monte and J. Tischler, Die Orts- und Gewässernamen der hethitischen Texte (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1978) 178–79; McMahon, Hittite State Cult, 36–37. 37.  McMahon, Hittite State Cult, 96. 38.  There is no need to assume with Edel (“Neues zur Schwurgötterliste,” 122–23; Vertrag, 100) that the Egyptian scribe omitted through homoioteleuton four additional deities who should have appeared between the tutelary deities and the IŠTARs according to cuneiform parallels. This list is considerably shorter than other lists of divine witnesses (see concluding remarks). 39. I. Wegner, Gestalt und Kult der Ištar-Šawuška in Kleinasien (NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1981). 40. G. Wilhelm, “Die Keilschriftfunde der Kampagne 2001 in Kuşakli,“ Mitteilungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft zu Berlin 134 (2002) 345.

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meaning of the “goddess” or the “lady” par excellence, and the Egyptian scribe was fully justified in rendering the logogram as tꜢ-nṯrt “goddess.” c 6: The first deity, tꜢ-nṯrt n Ḏir, was identified with DIŠTAR ṢĒRI (LÍL) “IŠTAR of the field” at an early stage. 41 As pointed out by Edel, the Egyptian scribe did not understand the meaning of Akkadian ṣēru “field”; instead of translating it into Egyptian, he simply transcribed the cuneiform ṣe-ri, considering it to be a place name. 42 Although in most cuneiform lists the logogram LÍL is used, there exist a few cases with this phonetic spelling. 43 c 7: IŠTAR of Nineveh (Ninuwa) was one of the main hypostases of the goddess in Anatolia. 44 The scribe dropped here the city determinative n dmj that is attached to all other place names (for example, n dmj Krḫn two lines before). c 8: This fragmentary name poses the second difficult crux in the list (besides ʿnṯrt). What one expects here is IŠTAR of Hattarina who is the second most popular local manifestation of the goddess and who figures predominantly in the divine lists. 45 The name or epithet beginning with ḏꜢ-i-n[ must be very short. The first two signs are the same as in the Egyptian rendering of ṣēri in c 6. Beneath the -n- and above the “foreign land” determinative, there is space for one sign, possibly two. Upon repeated collations Edel saw the traces of the feet of an alef bird, also visible in the photograph in Max Müller’s early publication. 46 Restoring an additional -i, Edel read the entire group as ḏꜢ-i-n[Ꜣ-i], which supposedly represents cuneiform ṣēni “flock of sheep (and goats).” 47 Such a manifestation of IŠTAR is unknown, but Edel nevertheless suggested that she might be the goddess venerated in Ḫattarina. The suggestion of Kestemont to restore here the name of the god Šanda seems even less likely. 48 41. F. Sommer, Die Aḫḫiyawa-Urkunden (Munich: Beck, 1932) 381; A. Goetze apud J. A. Wilson, ANET, 201 n. 17; E. Edel, “Zur Schwurgötterliste des Hethitervertrags,” Zeitschrift für Ägyptische Sprache 90 (1963) 31–35. 42.  Edel, Vertrag, 100. 43.  Kestemont, “Panthéon,” 114 n. 200; del Monte, Trattato, 28 line 98′; B. H. L. van Gessel, Onomasticon of the Hittite Pantheon (Leiden: Brill, 1998) 937. 44.  For the Egyptian rendering of the place name, see Edel, “Schwurgötterliste”; idem, “Neues zur Schwurgötterliste,” 119 n. 2; idem, Vertrag 1997: 100. 45.  Kestemont, “Panthéon,” 162. 46. W. M. Müller, Der Bündnisvertrag Ramses’ II. und der Chetiterkönigs (Mitteilungen der Vorderasiatischen Gesellschaft 5; Berlin: Peiser, 1902) Taf. 12. 47.  Edel, “Friedensvertrag,“ 151 n. 29d; idem, “Neues zur Schwurgötterliste,“ 120–22; see also Kitchen, RITA II/II, 143. 48.  Kestemont, “Accords,” 50 n. 100.

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Assuming that Edel’s restoration of the hieroglyphic name is possible, the question remains: what is the meaning of the resulting cuneiform word, and how does it tally with the available information on IŠTAR in the Hittite material? Here, as in c 1, I find it difficult to follow Edel’s circuitous explanations. 49 An “IŠTAR of the sheep” (Ištar des Kleinviehs) simply does not exist in the Hittite material. 50 In support of this daring creation of a new deity, Edel cites two successive hypostases of the goddess Āla in KUB 2.1 iii 30f.: DA-a-la-aš ŠA MÁŠ.ANŠE DA-a-la-aš gi-im!-ra-aš “Āla of the Animals, Āla of the Field.” As admitted by Edel, Āla is the consort of a male tutelary god and a tutelary goddess in her own right. 51 In the divine witness list in the Bronze Tablet (iii 87) she appears on the side of other tutelary deities. 52 As already pointed out, the tutelary deities and the IŠTARs are two different divine categories in Hatti that usually do not mix; they should not be supposed to do so here on the shaky grounds of a restored non-existent hypostasis of IŠTAR. If one is inclined to retain Edel’s hieroglyphic restoration of the name, other possibilities for dealing with its Akkadian transliteration present themselves. For example, ṣīnum “help, assistance” would be a more appropriate epithet for IŠTAR, especially in the context of Ḫattušili’s extraordinary dedication to IŠTAR/Šaušga as his personal goddess. However, since such an epithet is apparently not attested in the Hittite material, 53 I would not insist on it. A good candidate to fill in this slot would be some kind of short spelling or hypostasis of IŠTAR/Šaušga of Šamuḫa or Lawazantiya, two local goddesses who rose to primacy under the royal couple Ḫattušili and Puduḫepa and their son Tutḫaliya. 54 At this stage, however, it seems better to leave the goddess in c 8 unidentified, especially since the hieroglyphic restoration is far from certain. c 9–10: For the restoration of the names of the two maids of IŠTAR/ Šaušga, Ninatta and Kulitta, see Edel. 55 As in the following case of Ḫebat, the scribe mistakenly transliterated the divine determinative to a masculine pꜢ-nṯr. 49.  Edel, “Neues zur Schwurgötterliste,” 120–22; idem, Vertrag, 100. 50.  Edel compares the obscure biblical ʿaštĕrōt ṣō(ʾ)n in Deut 7:13; 28:4, 18, which can hardly be regarded as an epithet of the goddess. 51. See McMahon, Hittite State Cult, 11–13. 52. H. Otten, Die Bronzetafel aus Boğazköy: Ein Staatvertrag Tutḫalijas IV (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1988) 24. 53.  Wegner, Ištar-Šawuška, 25–28. 54.  Ibid., 168. 55.  Edel, “Zur Schwurgötterliste,” 32–34.

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(5) c 11: From the group of Ḫebat manifestations only the main one appears here, with all other local hypostases ignored. In early cuneiform treaties, Ḫebat and her circle are usually listed after the storm gods, but later she is moved down the list to either before or after the IŠTARs. 56 As in the previous entries of Ninatta and Kulitta, the Egyptian scribe automatically transliterated the divine determinative DINGIR into masculine pꜢ-nṯr, even though her name is followed by the epithet Queen of Heaven (tꜢ-ḥmt-nswt n tꜢ-pt). Perhaps the scribe was not aware that this epithet (reproducing cuneiform SAL.LUGAL AN/ŠAMÊ) stood in apposition to Ḫebat and considered it to be a separate entry. 57 It is noteworthy that the scribe correctly spelled here the name Ḫbt with the consonant b, whereas in the name of Queen Puduḫepa in this same text the theophoric element is spelled -ḫipa. 58 (6) The group of oath gods (c 12–15) concludes this concise list of individual deities. A literal rendering of the chain of names and epithets in the hieroglyphic text runs as follows: “the gods, the lords of the oath, the goddess, the lady of the earth, the lady of the oath, Išḫara, the lady.” How this long list should be parsed into separate deities and their epithets depends on each commentator’s interpretation. Edel corrected the Egyptian scribe profusely, as shown by the many parentheses of various kinds in his transcription and translation. 59 As I will try to demonstrate, such emendations of the text are not necessary at all. c 12: The list begins with a clear nṯrw nbw ʿnḫ, which was simply rendered by Gardiner as “the gods, lords of swearing,” 60 and by Wilson as “the gods, the lords of oath.” 61 Gardiner added in a comment that “the only parallel expression in Hittite treaties is DSIN bêl mamîti “Sin (the moongod), lord of the oath.” 62 Building upon this observation, Edel 63 suggested an ingenious explanation for the alleged errors of both the ancient “Assyriologists” who translated the text and the modern ones (Meissner and Friedrich) who transliterated it: The flaw allegedly finds its source in the marked similarity between the cuneiform signs for D30, that is, SÎN, (AN + 56.  Yoshida, Untersuchungen, 27. 57.  Edel, “Zur Schwurgötterliste,” 34. 58.  Ibid.; idem, Vertrag, 82. 59.  Edel, “Zur Schwurgötterliste,” 151; idem, Vertrag, 71. 60.  Langdon and Gardiner, “Treaty of Alliance,” 194. 61.  Wilson, ANET, 201. 62.  Ibid., 196. 63.  Edel, “Zur Schwurgötterliste,” 34–35; idem, “Friedensvertrag,” 151 n. 29g; followed by Helck, Beziehungen, 218; and Kestemont, “Accords,” 50 n. 101.

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three Winkelhakens) and for DINGIRMEŠ (AN + vertical + three Winkelhakens). Indeed, the error is banal and occurs quite often in cuneiform texts, but there is no need to posit it in this particular case. What was true in 1920 when Langdon and Gardiner wrote their pioneering treatment of the treaty has been superseded by the mass of new texts. Though still quite rare, the entry “the gods of the oath” is documented in several lists of witness gods as a separate entity besides the moon god and Išḫara. 64 For example, in the Šaḫurunuwa Decree (CTH 225), a text composed by Puduḫepa and her son Tutḫaliya IV, rev. 19 reads: [(DINGIRMEŠ)] MA-ME-TI DSIN EN MA-ME-TI DIš-ḫa-ra-aš SAL.LUGAL MA-ME-TI. 65 In other words, the unmistakably plural form of the hieroglyphs probably reproduced a plural cuneiform “gods of the oath,” and thereby omitted DSÎN from the list. c 13–14: Who is the “Goddess, the lady of the earth, the lady of the oath” preceding the goddess Išḫara? Certainly not IŠTAR of the Field 66 who has already appeared in c 6. In the Bronze Tablet containing the treaty between Tutḫaliya IV and Kurunta of Tarḫuntašša, 67 the spot between the moon god and Išḫara, the oath gods par excellence, is occupied by the goddess NIN.GAL, the consort of the moon god: DXXX LUGAL MA-ME-TI DNIN.GAL SAL.LUGAL MA-ME-TI DIš-ḫa-ra-aš (iii 93f.). Probably the same deities, but in a different order, are listed in the UlmiTeššub treaty: DNIN.GAL D[Iš-ḫa-ra-a]š  DSÎN EN MA-ME-TI (obv.  56′). 68 As the consort of DSÎN, NIN.GAL would be at home among the guardians of the oath, but as shown by Imparati in her study on NIN.GAL, this moon goddess is not related to oaths in the Hittite texts. 69 More importantly, she has no reason whatsoever to be designated “the Lady of the Earth/Underground.” A better option seems to be the one already proposed by Langdon and Gardiner, 70 namely, EREŠ.KI.GAL, the well-known Mesopotamian queen 64. Van Gessel, Onomasticon, 1001. 65. KUB 26.43 rev. 19–KUB 50 rev. 10; F. Imparati, Una concessione di terre da parte di Tuthaliya IV (Paris: Klincksieck, 1974) 36. A similar case is found in the Alakšandu treaty col. iv 12: DINGIRMEŠ EN NI-EŠ DINGIR-LIM (preceded by Telipinu and followed by IŠTAR); Friedrich (Staatsverträge, 2:78–79 with n. 6) emended DINGIRMEŠ to DSÎN, but this seems unnecessary. 66. As suggested by Helck, Beziehungen, 218; and Kestemont, “Accords,” 50 n. 102. 67.  Otten, Bronzetafel, 24. 68.  T. van den Hout, Der Ulmitesub-Vertrag: Eine Prosopographische Untersuchung (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1995) 40, 70. 69. F. Imparati, “Une reine de Hatti vénère la déesse Ningal,” in Florilegium Anatolicum, Festschrift E. Laroche (Paris: Klincksieck, 1979) 169–76. 70.  Langdon and Gardiner, “Treaty of Alliance,” 196.

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of the underworld who was equated in Hatti with the “sun goddess of the earth.” 71 EREŠ.KI.GAL appears frequently in the divine witness lists, often heading the list of underworld (primeval) deities (defined in CTH 51 rev. 51 as DINGIRMEŠ ERṢETI). 72 From the graphic point of view, the Egyptian scribe could easily have interpreted the cuneiform signs even without a basic knowledge of the Hittite pantheon: 73 The cuneiform sign EREŠ/NIN (HZL 299), which looks very similar to DAM (HZL 298), was rendered as tꜢ-ḥnwt “lady”, KI was rendered as pꜢ-jwtn “earth,” and GAL was left out. This “lady of the earth” was subsequently credited with the epithet “lady of the oath” simply on account of her position between the two guardians of oath, even though in the Hittite texts she does not function in this capacity. c 15: “Išḫara, the lady” is stripped of her title “lady of the oath” just as in the Bronze Tablet cited above. There is no need to erase or add anything, as suggested by Edel, 74 and the epithet “lady of the oath” may indeed apply to both the goddesses preceding and following it. As noted by Edel, the well-known Syrian goddess Išḫara 75 is written here with the cobra determinative attached to goddesses adopted in Egypt. This concludes the very concise list of individual deities of Hatti classified by categories. There is no entry at all for Telipinu and his circle, of the war god and his circle, of the individual local deities, or of the primeval deities of the underworld (except perhaps EREŠ.KI.GAL). (7) The totality of gods (d) of the contracting party is also significantly reduced. The male gods and female gods are skipped over, leaving only the mountains and rivers and the five cosmic elements: the sky, the earth, the great sea, the winds, and the clouds. The inclusion of the gods of the Land of Kizzuwatna in the list is noteworthy because they appear only in treaties of Šuppiluliuma I, but not later (see further in the concluding remarks). d 7–9: As was already stated by Gardiner, 76 each of the three main gods representing Egypt—Amon of Thebes, Re of Heliopolis, and Sutekh of the northeastern delta—were worshipped at Pi-Ramesse. 77 71.  See G. Torri, Lelwani: Il culto di una dea ittita (Rome: Universita degli Studi di Roma, 1999) 85–88. 72.  Yoshida, Untersuchungen, 48–49. 73.  Edel, “Friedensvertrag,“ 151 n. 29h; idem, Vertrag, 100. 74.  Edel, Vertrag, 101. 75.  See D. Prechel, Die Göttin Išḫara (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1996). 76.  Langdon and Gardiner, “Treaty of Alliance,” 197. 77. For the absence of Ptah, a fourth major god of Egypt, see I. Singer, “The Thousand Gods,” 99.

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(8) The divine list is followed by curses and blessings and then by a unique description of the Hittite seals attached to the silver tablet. 78 Perhaps overwhelmed by the beauty of these seal impressions, the Egyptian scribe found it commendable to provide a lengthy description, which is sufficiently detailed to enable a modern reconstruction of the illustrations by using comparable glyptic material. 79 This description offers further insight into the scribe’s dilemma in facing the gender discrepancy between the Hittite sun goddess and the Egyptian sun god. In the following, I substitute the Egyptian translation of the inscriptions in the borderlines with the postulated cuneiform text: 80 What is on the silver tablet on its front side: a portrait with the image of the storm god (Seth) embracing the image of the Great Prince of Hatti, surrounded by a border inscription with the words: KIŠIB DU/IM LUGAL AN/ŠAMÊ NA4KIŠIB RIKILTI ŠA Ḫattušili LUGAL.GAL LUGAL KUR URUḪatti UR.SAG DUMU m Muršili LUGAL.GAL LUGAL KUR URUḪatti UR.SAG ĪPUŠŪ NA4 m

What is within that which surrounds the figures: NA4

KIŠIB DU/IM LUGAL AN/ŠAMÊ

What is on its other side: a portrait with the figure of the goddess of Hatti embracing the female image of the Princess of Hatti, surrounded by a border inscription with the words: NA4 KIŠIB DUTU URUArinna EN KUR(.KURMEŠ) NA4KIŠIB fPuduḫepa SAL.LUGAL KUR URUḪatti DUMU.SAL KUR URUKizzuwatna [NARĀM  ? DUTU] URUArinna GAŠAN KUR(.KURMEŠ) GÉME DINGIR-LIM

What is within that which surrounds the figures: KIŠIB DUTU URUArinna EN KUR(.KURMEŠ)

NA4

78. J. Friedrich, “Das Siegel des hethitischen Königs Ḫattušili III. nach der ägyptischen Fassung seines Vertrages mit Ramses II.,” Artibus Asiae 60 (1937) 177–90; Wilson, ANET, 201; Edel, “Friedensvertrag,” 152–53; idem, Vertrag, 82–83; Kitchen, RITA II/II, 85; S. Alp and S. Erkut, “The Seals of the Hittite King Hattušili III and the Queen Puduḫepa on a Silver Tablet,” Türkiye Bilimler Akademisi Arkeoloji Dergisi 5 (2002) 1–6 (in Turkish). 79.  Alp and Erkut, “The Seals,” 6. 80.  Friedrich, “Das Siegel,” 184–86.

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Contrary to previous assumptions, 81 it is now clear, in light of the discovery of the Bronze Tablet in 1986, that the divine seals of the storm god of heaven and the sun goddess of Arinna were not impressed on the obverse and reverse of the tablet, respectively, but rather on a separate bulla (or bullae) that was hung on the tablet by means of a metal chain. 82 What the seal of the storm god of heaven must have looked like is quite clear from a comparison with the so-called embracing scene (Umarmungszene) that appears on elaborate royal seals from Muwatalli II on. 83 The same scene is also portrayed on the well-known relief from Yazılıkaya on which the god Šarruma embraces Tutḫaliya IV. So far, we do not have a comparable embracing scene featuring the sun goddess of Arinna, but her unaccompanied image appears on a beautiful seal of Tutḫaliya IV from Ugarit. 84 With regard to the ring inscriptions, it would seem that the Egyptian scribe rendered separately the outer and the inner rings surrounding the central field. Friedrich 85 suggested that the short inscription is a translation of a Hieroglyphic Hittite (Luwian) caption, but I doubt whether the Egyptian scribe would have known how to read this script. Admittedly, the inner ring inscriptions are quite short, but they could have been written in a larger script. A third, less likely option could be that these short captions of the divine seals were written in cuneiform inside the central field. Only when an analogous Hittite divine seal impression is discovered will one know precisely what the seals on the Silver Treaty looked like. The main theological difficulty confronting the Egyptian translator was the discrepancy of gender between the male sun god of Egypt and the female sun goddess of Hatti (a difficulty which did not exist in the case of the storm god = Seth). As noted by Edel, the scribe used different words for a “male image” (twt) and for a “female image” (rpyt). 86 How could he overcome the difficulty of describing the sun goddess of Arinna without insulting the male prowess of Re? His solution was simple but ingenious: 81.  Still repeated by Edel, Vertrag, 103; and Kitchen, RITA II/II, 144. 82.  Otten, Bronzetafel, 1; cf. K. Watanabe, “Mit Gottessiegeln versehene hethitische Staatverträge,” Acta Sumerologica 11 (1989) 261–76; F. A. K. Breyer, “Redak tionsgeschichte und Siegelungspraxis des Ägyptisch-Hethitischen Staatsvertrages,“ Discussions in Egyptology 46 (2000) 13–22; H. Klengel, Hattuschili und Ramses, 81–82. 83. S. Herbordt, Die Prinzen- und Beamtensiegel der hethitischen Grossreichszeit auf Tonbullen aus dem Nişantepe-Archiv in Hattusa, mit Kommentaren zu den Siegelinschriften und Hieroglyphen von J. D. Hawkins (Mainz am Rhein: von Zabern, 2005) 69–71. 84.  RS 17.133; C. F. A. Schaeffer, Ugaritica III (Paris: Geuthner, 1956) fig. 23. 85.  Friedrich, “Siegel,” 188. 86.  Edel, Vertrag, 102.

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in translating the inscriptions, he simply transformed the Hittite goddess into a “Re of Arinna, lord of every land,” but in the description of her figure, which was manifestly of a woman, he merely designated her “the goddess of Hatti” (tꜢ-nṯrt n Ḫt). In this way he practically dissociated the two descriptions, thereby avoiding a theological discrepancy between the solar deities of Hatti and Egypt.

Conclusions (i) The list of Hittite divine witnesses in the Silver Treaty represents a considerably shortened version of the regular (semi-)canonical lists in other treaties. It consists of only 28 individual deities, compared to some 80 deities in the treaties of Šuppiluliuma I (Šattiwaza, Tette; but cf. Ḫuqqana with only 57) and Muršili II (Niqmepa, Duppi-Teššub, Manapa-Tarḫunta). Even the treaties of Tarḫuntašša (Ulmi-Teššub, Kurunta), which exclude the primeval gods, include some 50 deities. The closing formula referring to the totality of gods and to the natural forces is also much shorter in the Silver Treaty than is customary. How can this marked brevity be explained? Did the original Akkadian copy sent to Egypt already contain an abridged version of the divine list, or, perhaps, was the Egyptian translator responsible for this reduction? Although this second possibility seems as though it would have been rather audacious, perhaps even blasphemous towards some Hittite gods, it should not be excluded altogether. Perhaps space considerations on the inscribed surface, not to mention the difficulties inherent in transcribing the “exotic” Hittite names, could have motivated the Egyptian scribe(s) and stonecutters to make do with a shortened version of the Hittite list, especially in view of their own extremely short “list” of Egypt’s gods. (ii) The Egyptian translator’s treatment of cuneiform determinatives is remarkable. Although Egyptian uses determinatives generously, which, as in cuneiform, were not meant to be “read out” or “translated,” the scribe nevertheless provided an Egyptian translation for (almost) every place name determinative URU and divine name determinative DINGIR. The former is translated dmj in the genitive construction “Divine name of the town of Place name” (for example, Swtḫ n dmj n Sris “storm god of the city of Šarišša”). On the other hand, he wisely omitted the “town” determinative in translating the names of lands. For these he used n pꜢ-tꜢ n Ḫt / Qiḏwdn / Kmt “of the land of Hatti / Kizzuwatna / Egypt.” In Hittite cuneiform these names would usually be written as KUR URULand, rarely skipping the URU determinative. In other words, the Egyptian scribe distinguished between towns on the one hand and (the few) lands on the

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other, and he correctly ignored the URU in the latter case. It has been claimed that the Egyptian scribe could not distinguish between geographical names and divine names or epithets because he appended to both of them the “foreign land” determinative. 87 But the force of this observation should be qualified. None of the divine names or epithets in the list is preceded by the typical geographical marker n dmj “of the town.” (It is also mistakenly missing in the name Nnw, Nineveh.) It would thus seem that the determinative “foreign land” (Gardiner N 25) in this list does not necessarily define a name as a place name specifically, but rather as a foreign entity in general, a category that includes foreign gods. (iii) The case of the divine determinatives is more complex. Here the Egyptian scribe was obliged to choose between feminine and masculine names by adding the definition pꜢ-nṯr “god,” or tꜢ-nṯrt “goddess,” respectively. The Hittite script did not help him at all in this choice. Although in rare cases the cuneiform scribe established the gender of the deity by using the double determinative DINGIR.SAL (for example, KUB 6.45 ii 5: DINGIR.SALAlāš), in the majority of cases he was content with the genderneutral determinative DINGIR, trusting that the reader knew his gods. Nor does Hittite name formation help the Egyptian scribe (or us) in any way, unlike Egyptian which places an -at ending on most feminine words. 88 Despite these inherent impediments, the translator was relatively successful in distinguishing between male and female deities, in some cases even helping us to become better acquainted with the gods of the Hittites. He correctly identified the male gods and most of the female gods, including the various IŠTARs, Išḫara, ʿnṯrt, and the goddess of Karaḫna. This last identification is particularly admirable since this deity is not particularly well known, unlike the other three, who were not only famous throughout the ancient world but were also worshipped in Egypt itself. On the other hand, the translator or the scribe erred in placing pꜢ-nṯr “god” before the names of Ninatta and Kulitta, Ištar’s maids, and more importantly, before Ḫebat as well. This last flaw is all the more peculiar since, as noted above, Ḫebat’s name is followed by the epithet “Queen of Heaven.” In these cases he apparently rendered the initial divine determinative DINGIR automatically as pꜢ-nṯr “god,” ignoring the real gender of the following deities. (iv) All in all, I judge the quality of the transcription of the divine list to be quite good, taking into consideration the unusual challenge faced 87.  Edel, “Orthographie,“ 45 n. 8; idem, “Friedensvertrag,“ 150 n. 28c; Kitchen, RITA II/II, 143. 88.  A. H. Gardiner, Egyptian Grammar (London: Oxford University Press, 1957) 34 §26.

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by the Egyptian scribe(s). 89 From the ingenious identification of the gender of some deities, one may infer that some expert’s assistance was available to the Egyptian scribe(s), either from a Hittite diplomat or one of Egyptian origin in the service of the Hittites. There is no shortage of such candidates; 90 for the first possibility, consider Tili-Teššub, for the second, Riamašši (Ramose) or Netjerwymes alias Pa-rekh-an (cuneiform Pariḫnawa), whose tomb was recently discovered at Saqqara. 91 (v) The question of dating only seems simple. Of course, the treaty itself and the divine witness list were incised on the silver tablet shortly before it was sent to Egypt. But the real question is whether the list was copied down from an earlier treaty, as suggested by Edel, 92 or whether it was rather freshly compiled for the occasion of the peace treaty itself. There exist very few clues for an exact dating within the list itself. As already mentioned, these stereotyped divine lists changed little during the two centuries or so of their existence. Moreover, some indicative spelling variants might have been obscured through transcription from one writing system to the other. Still, the question is worth tackling, especially in view of Edel’s confident early dating based on a superficial similarity with the divine list in the Ḫuqqana treaty. 93 The mention of the gods of Kizzuwatna beside those of Hatti and Egypt seemingly provides a good dating argument. The gods of this land are still mentioned as a separate group in the treaties of Šuppiluliuma I (Šattiwaza, Tette, Niqmaddu), but not after Kizzuwatna was fully annexed to Hatti (Niqmepa, Duppi-Teššub, Manapa-Tarḫunta, Alakšandu, Ulmi-Teššub, Kurunta). 94 On the face of it, this could support an early dating of the original list, perhaps going back to the first Hittite-Egyptian agreement,

89. Contra Helck, Beziehungen, 219. 90.  Edel, Korrespondenz, 2:46–49. 91. A. Zivie, “Le messager royal égyptien Pirikhnawa,” British Museum Studies in Ancient Egypt and Sudan 6 (2006) 68–78. There is also a professional “interpreter” (LÚtargumanu) mentioned in one of the Ramesses letters sent to Hatti, but his name (ending in -ri) is unfortunately broken (KBo 28.23 rev. 62; see Edel, Korrespondenz, 1:108; 2:176; see also KUB 3.27 obv. 6′). For the diplomatic missions of the messengers traveling between the courts of the great kings, see recently J. de Roos, “Die Hethiter und das Ausland” in Motivation und Mechanismen des Kulturkontaktes in der Späten Bronzezeit (ed. D. Prechel; Florence: LoGisma, 2005) 41–45. 92.  Edel, “Neues zur Schwurgötterliste,“ 122 n. 5. 93.  Ibid., 122; idem, Vertrag, 98. 94.  Kestemont (“Panthéon,” 152) is misleading in his claim that Kizzuwatna reappears under Šuppiluliuma II (ABoT 65), and the same applies to his flawed claim that Kizzuwatna may be present in the Kaška treaty, KUB 23.77.

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the so-called Kuruštama treaty. 95 However, there could be another obvious explanation for the mention of Kizzuwatna in this list: the dominant personality of Puduḫepa, who is described as “the daughter of Kizzuwatna” on her seal impression. The Hittite queen was deeply involved in negotiating first the peace treaty and then the marriage of her daughter(s) to Ramesses. The crucial role she played on the side of her husband in crafting this treaty and validating it is shown by the unique double seal of the royal couple that was attached to the silver tablet. Puduḫepa’s endless devotion to her homeland may well be responsible for the inclusion of Kizzuwatna’s gods on the side of those of Hatti and Egypt. A minor spelling variant might offer some support for a late date of the composition, that is, shortly before 1259 b.c.: the place name Ḫissp (b 8) is written with a single ḫ which corresponds to the form Ḫiššaš(ša)pa rather than to the more frequent form Ḫiššašḫapa. As observed by Kühne and Otten, the form with a single ḫ is later and is typical for 13th-century texts. 96 Obviously, one should not put too much weight on this spelling, which may be simply accidental. My preference for a contemporary dating of the list rests primarily on the visible “fingerprints” of Puduḫepa and on the unlikelihood, in my view, that the list was copied from a treaty that was a century and a half old.

Excursus An Unrecognized Hittite-Egyptian Syncretism in the Silver Treaty: Inara = ʿAnat? The first deity in the group of tutelary deities (c 1) poses a difficult problem which has not been satisfactorily resolved as yet. The hieroglyphic 95.  For which see I. Singer, “The Kuruštama Treaty Revisited,” in Sarnikzel, Hethitologische Studien zum Gedenken an Emil Orgetorix Forrer (eds. D. Groddek and S. Rößle; Dresden: Technische Universität, 2004) 591–607; D. Sürenhagen, “Forerunners of the Hattusili-Ramesses treaty,” British Museum Studies in Ancient Egypt and Sudan 6 (2006) 59–67. 96.  Kühne and Otten, Šaušgamuwa-Vertrag, 49. The development from the earlier to the later form seems to have occurred during the reign of Ḫattušili III, but occasionally one still finds the older form in later texts (del Monte and Tischler, Die Orts- und Gewässernamen, 111). Both Tarḫuntašša treaties have the older form (KBo 4.10 obv. 52; Bronze Tablet iii 83), but the Šaušgamuwa treaty has the later form (KBo 8.82 + rev. 9′). The late form also occurs in KBo 27.1 I 52, which belongs to a festival for Šaušga of Šamuḫa, probably celebrated during the reign of Ḫattušili (M. Hutter, “Aspects of Luwian Religion,” in The Luwians [ed. H. Craig Melchert; Leiden: Brill, 2003] 234); KUB 5.6 iv 9, an oracle fragment probably to be dated to Tutḫaliya IV (T. van den Hout, The Purity of Kingship [Leiden: Brill, 1998] 24–25 n. 25); and ABoT 56 ii 9, a text of Šuppiluliuma II. Several other occurrences are too fragmentary or cannot be dated with certainty.

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text has a clear “ʿnṯrtj of the Land of Hatti.” 97 Max Müller’s suggestion to emend this obscure name into ʿs !trt, that is, “Astarte of Hatti,” 98 has been followed by a majority of Egyptologists. 99 On the other hand, Wilson, 100 relying on Goetze’s advice, ruled out this emendation and so did Helck. 101 The latter pointed out a series of difficulties, including the peculiar spelling which is never otherwise attested for Astarte in Egypt. Another daring interpretation for ʿnṯrtj was put forward by Sommer, who proposed that in this peculiar name there is embedded a “group-writing” spelling of Egyptian nṯrt “goddess.” 102 This suggestion also was dismissed by Helck, who pointed out not only that the spelling with an initial ʿayin remains unexplained, but a few lines later one finds the appellative “goddess” correctly spelled in regular Egyptian. Kestemont 103 tried to address the difficulty of the initial consonant, but his ʿ-nṯrt “la déesse du bras, la déesse de la protection” is also rather far-fetched. In short, as was cogently observed by Wilson and Helck, one cannot avoid the conclusion that ʿnṯrtj must somehow represent the name of the Hittite tutelary deity (DKAL) of Hatti who always appears in this third group in the Hittite divine witness lists. To the Egyptological arguments against the allegedly minor emendation of ʿnṯrtj into ʿs !trtj one must immediately add a couple of arguments from a Hittite perspective. First, the name opens the section of the tutelary deities, and the IŠTARs only appear in the next section. These are two entirely different categories in Hatti and there is no reason to switch between them. Second, and more important, an “IŠTAR of Hatti” simply does not exist in the Hittite texts. 97.  Edel, Vertrag, 42*; see also Helck, Beziehungen, 217: ʿ-n-ta2-ra-tá. 98.  Müller, Bündnisvertrag, 18 n. 4. 99.  Langdon and Gardiner, “Treaty of Alliance,” 196 n. 6; J. Leclant, “Astarté à cheval d’après les representations Égyptiennes,” Syria 37 (1960) 6 n. 2; idem, “Astarte,” in Lexikon der Ägyptologie (eds. W. Helck, E. Otto and W. Westendorf; 7 vols.; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1972–92) 1:501; but see ibid., 506 n. 40; Edel, “Friedensvertrag,” 150 n. 28b; idem, Korrespondenz, 119; Kitchen, RITA II/II, 143. 100.  Wilson, ANET, 201 with n. 16. 101.  Helck, Beziehungen, 217. 102. F. Sommer, Aḫḫiyawa-Urkunden, 21 n. 2, 380–83. 103.  Kestemont, “Accords,” 50.

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There is a very simple solution to the problem, which, surprisingly, has not been taken into consideration. 104 Before embarking on a long voyage into the stimulating world of Near Eastern warlike goddesses, perhaps I should first briefly indicate my proposed solution. The signs as they are inscribed at Karnak are very close to the conventional orthography of the name ʿAnat, with the consonantal root ʿnṯ followed by the feminine ending -tj (Gardiner M 17), which is quite common in Late Egyptian writing. 105 In fact, the only problematic sign in ʿnṯrtj is the r (D 21), which seems to be entirely out of place in a spelling of the theonym ʿAnat. Before suggesting a possible explanation for this divergence, I will first examine the question of who might be the deity filling this spot in the Hittite list of divine witnesses. As stated above, the third group of witness gods is always dedicated to the tutelary (protective) deities. Usually the first deity is a generalized tutelary deity (DKAL/LAMMA), but sometimes, as in this case, the list begins with its first local hypostasis, the tutelary deity of Hatti/Ḫattuša. Who exactly is this deity? After many years of deliberation, Hittitology has finally reached a consensus as to the names of the main Anatolian tutelary deities. Without entering into the complex evidence and history of research, it will suffice to provide here the conclusion. 106 There are (at least) two readings for DKAL/LAMMA in Anatolian texts: (1) the Luwian stag god Kurunti(ya) and (2) the Hattian goddess Inar and its Hittite folk-etymologized form In(n)ara. How these two different deities came to be indicated by the same logogram is irrelevant for the present discussion. What is essential here is that the distinction between the two is only graphically possible either when the name is spelled out phonetically or when an unambiguous phonetic complement is appended to the logogram (for example, DKAL-ya versus DKAL-ri). Fortunately, besides dozens of unspecified occurrences of DKAL URUḪatti, 107 one also finds a few phonetic spellings of URUḪattušaš DInar(a), 108 one of them appearing in 104.  In fact, I have briefly presented this solution in Singer, “Quelques remarques sur certains synchrétismes égypto-hittites,” Annuaire de l’École pratique des hautes études: Section des sciences religieuses 95 (1986–87) 221–22, and in “Thousand Gods,” 100, but apparently it did not solicit any reactions, perhaps due to the limited circulation of these journals. 105. For other exceptional spellings of the name, see A. Roccati, “Une légende Égyptienne d’Anat,” Revue d’Égyptologie 24 (1972) 158 §10. 106.  See, recently, Hawkins apud Herbordt, Prinzen- und Beamtensiegel, 290–91; M. Popko, “Zur luwischen Komponente in den Religionen Altanatoliens,“ AoF 34 (2007) 66–67. 107. Van Gessel, Onomasticon, 704–5. 108.  Ibid., 189.

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a typical Old Hittite text. 109 In other words, the important tutelary deity of Hatti/Hattuša 110 is clearly identified as the goddess Inar(a) who figures prominently in Hittite cult and mythology. The main function of the Old Anatolian goddess Inar(a) is to protect the institution of kingship. 111 She is also associated with wild animals of the steppe, such as panthers and stags. 112 Her best-known appearance is in the Illuyanka myth, which was recited during the purulli festival. 113 In the first version of the story the serpent (Illuyanka) defeats the storm god in battle, whereupon the goddess Inara, his daughter, rushes to his help. In partnership with a mortal man, she tricks the serpent and kills him. In return for his help, the mortal Ḫupašiya demands to sleep with the goddess and she consents. After the resuscitation of the storm god, Inara builds a house on a rock and settles Ḫupašiya in it. The location of this house and its control over underground water sources are considered to be symbolic of Hittite kingship. 114 After a while, however, Ḫupašiya begs the goddess to let him return home to his wife and children, whereupon the angry goddess probably kills him. This concise plot portrays Inara as a typical “libertine” Near Eastern goddess, completely devoted to a rather weakling storm god, open-minded in her choice of partners, but unrelenting in her revenge on those who betray her. In many respects, the Anatolian goddess Inar(a) bears a resemblance to other warlike Near Eastern goddesses, like the Hurro-Mesopotamian IŠTAR and the Northwest Semitic ʿAnat. 115 The latter is best known from Ugaritic mythology, where she appears as the chief ally of her brother Baʿlu. 116 Like Inara, ʿAnat also prepares a great feast, and in an act of fury she slays the enemies of Baʿlu and wades in their blood. She is insistent in obtaining the necessary permissions from her father El for the erection of 109. KBo 17.5 ii 6; H. Otten and V. Souček, Ein althethitisches Ritual für das Königspaar (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1969) 22, 105 with n. 10; see also Yoshida, Untersuchungen, 291. 110.  For whom, see McMahon, Hittite State Cult, 34–36. 111. F. Pecchioli Daddi and A.-M. Polvani, La mitologia ittita (Brescia: Paideia, 1990) 43. 112. I. Singer, The Hittite KI.LAM Festival (2 vols.; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1983–84) 1:97. 113.  H. A. Hoffner Jr., Hittite Myths (Atlanta: Scholars, 1990) 10–14; Pecchioli Daddi and Polvani, La mitologia ittita, 39–55. 114.  Ibid., 43. 115.  Ibid., 42. 116. S. Parker, Ugaritic Narrative Poetry (Atlanta: Scholars, 1997); N. Wyatt, Religious Texts from Ugarit: The Words of Ilimilku and his Colleagues (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998).

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a lavish house for Baʿlu on Mount Ṣaphon. When Baʿlu is eventually killed by his chief nemesis, Mot, a devastated ʿAnat once again takes revenge and then resuscitates her brother-lover. In another mythological fragment, Baʿlu has intercourse with ʿAnat in the form of a cow, and she gives birth to a bull. Finally, in the story of Aqhat one encounters ʿAnat in a love-hate relationship with a mortal prince whose exquisite bow she desires. When Aqhat refuses to comply and insults the goddess instead, ʿAnat brings about his death, without, however, obtaining the much-coveted bow. As Wyatt succinctly sums up, “Anat’s particular form of flesh-devouring savagery is a graphic image of war personified. Her character as a huntress . . . is to be compared with the imagery of her as a war-goddess . . . for the two activities are closely related, especially in royal ideology.”  117 In the absence of written captions on objects, all iconographic identifications are somewhat hazardous, but many scholars tend to identify as ʿAnat (or ʿAštart) the winged and horned goddess suckling two princes on the exquisite ivory panel found in the royal palace of Ugarit. 118 In contrast to Anatolia, at Ugarit the sister goddesses ʿAnat and ʿAštart became largely assimilated to each other, and this assimilation passed on to Egypt as well. With the Egyptian expansion into Asia, ʿAnat, together with other Syrian deities, was introduced into the Egyptian pantheon, where her influence peaked under the Ramesside kings. 119 In particular, Ramesses II elevated her to the position of his personal goddess, designating himself “beloved of ʿAnat” and “soldier of ʿAnat” (mhr ʿnt). He named his first daughter, whom he later married, btj ʿnt, “daughter of ʿAnat.” On several sculptures found at Tanis, but originating from Piramesse, the goddess is seen embracing or holding hands with Ramesses, and according to the captions they were considered to be mother and son. Through this symbolic parenthood, the Egyptian monarch acquired for himself the powers necessary to control the Asiatic territories that were dominated by the Syrian goddess. On another caption, she bears the epithet “ʿAnat, lady of the sky, lady of the gods of Ramesses.” In iconography, she is depicted as a typical war goddess with shield, axe, and lance. Her cult was perpetuated under Ramesses III, as shown by a private stele from Beth-Shan depicting the goddess holding a scepter and an ankh. 120 In Egyptian mythology, she is involved with Seth, 117.  Ibid., 248. 118.  W. A. Ward, “La déesse nourricière d’Ugarit,” Syria 46 (1969) 225–39. 119. R. Stadelmann, Syrisch-Palästinensische Gottheiten in Ägypten (Leiden: Brill, 1967) 91–93; C. Zivie-Coche, “Dieux autres, dieux des autres: Identité culturelle et alterité dans l’Egpte ancienne,» Israel Oriental Studies 14 (1994) 73–74. 120. A. Rowe, The Topography and History of Beth-Shan (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1930) pl. 50 no. 2.

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who becomes her lover and consort. 121 Although in Egypt, as in Ugarit, the sister goddesses ʿAnat and ʿAštart were assimilated to a large extent (and both associated with Hathor), their cults were distinct in practice. The aim of this brief overview on Inar(a) in Hatti and ʿAnat in Ugarit and Egypt is to show that they bear a close resemblance to each other as young warrior goddesses dedicated to the protection of the storm god/ Seth and the king. As such, their association and equation in the divine list of the Silver Treaty seems perfectly natural and comprehensible, especially in the reign of Ramesses II, the most devoted admirer of ʿAnat and indeed her spiritual son. 122 The close similarity between the conventional Egyptian spellings of ʿnt.it and ʿnṯrtj in the Silver Treaty (followed by the cobra determinative reserved for Egyptian goddesses) provides further impetus to the equation, leaving behind only the problem of the superfluous -r-. I would suggest that the spelling ʿnṯrtj represents some sort of faulty combination between the divine name ʿAnat and the Egyptian appellative nṯr.t, “goddess.” 123 Perhaps the redundant -r- also echoes the final consonant in the name of Inar, the Hittite goddess who was equated with ʿAnat. I am aware that a simple graphic emendation of ʿnṯrtj into ʿstrtj may appear prima facie easier than a complex cognitive fusion between the names of a Hittite and an Egyptian goddess, but this solution would completely ignore the unequivocal Hittite documentation by inventing a completely unknown “IŠTAR of Hatti” who oddly replaced “Inar (DKAL) of Hatti” in her regular spot in the list. On the other hand, if the theological equation of Inar and ʿAnat is accepted, this would add a third pillar to the rationally established matching system between the principal deities at the top of the Hittite and the Egyptian pantheons in the Ramesside Age: storm god = Seth, sun deity = Re, tutelary deity (Inar) = ʿAnat. 124 121.  Roccati, “Une légende Égyptienne d’Anat”; Zivie-Coche, “Dieux autres, dieux des autres,” 74 with n. 74. 122. Considering the close similarities between the goddesses ʿAnat and ʿAštart in Egypt, almost to the degree of full assimilation, it is not surprising that Edel (Korrespondenz, 123–24) found confirmation for his equation of the tutelary deity of Hatti with the (emended) “Astarte of Hatti” in Astarte’s iconography and epithets. But of course, this apparent similarity fails to take into consideration the Hittite evidence of these goddesses and their affiliation with different divine categories. 123. On this point, I am grateful to Thomas Schneider who suggested (written communication) “a haplology due to the fact that ʿAnat ended in a similar sound sequence as the beginning of Egyptian nṯrt, ‘goddess’.” 124.  The triad residing at the top of the Hittite pantheon is probably represented by the three exquisite rhyta in the Schimmel collection at the Metropolitan Museum: an anthropomorphic sun goddess, the storm god in the form of a bull, and the tutelary deity in the form of a stag; see K. Bittel, Die Hethiter (Munich: Beck, 1976) figs. 169, 173, 178.

How Did Šulgi and Išbi-Erra Ascend to Heaven? Piotr Steinkeller

Dumuzi lives! —A bumper sticker, sighted in the early seventies in California

I. This communication aims to review and, hopefully, shed additional light on the two documented cases of the postmortem “ascension to heaven” by a historical Babylonian ruler. The two rulers in question are Šulgi of the Third Dynasty of Ur and Išbi-Erra of the First Dynasty of Isin. Both these cases, which are of obvious importance for the history of Mesopotamian kingship and religion, were reported and commented on by a number of scholars some twenty years ago, but only in the form of short communications, brief comments, and passing footnotes. 1 Moreover, these Author’s Note: As I was writing this article, precisely forty years had passed since the day I met Peter for the first time (in January 1970, on the campus of Yale University). In honoring him and his scholarship today, I wish to salute (s i l i m-m a, bĕšālôm) our friendship as well, which has withstood the test of time during all those years. Abbreviations used here follow those of CDLI (http://cdli.ucla.edu/). 1.  For the “ascension” of Šulgi, see M. Yoshikawa’s review of P. J. Watson, NeoSumerian Texts from Drehem (= BCM 1; vol. 1 of Catalogue of Cuneiform Tablets in Birmingham City Museum; Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1986), in ASJ 9 (1987) 320– 21; C. Wilcke, “König Šulgis Himmelfahrt,” in Festschrift László Vajda = Münchner Beiträge zur Völkerkunde 1 (1988) 245–55; H. Waetzoldt, review of P. J. Watson, ed., Catalogue of Cuneiform Tablets in Birmingham City Museum, OLZ 83 (1988) 28–31, here 30; W. W. Hallo, “The Death of Kings: Traditional Historiography in Contextual Perspective,” in Ah, Assyria: . . . Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor (eds. M. Cogan and I. Ephʿal; SH 33; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1991) 158–59; W. Horowitz and P. J. Watson, “Further Notes on Birmingham Cuneiform Tablets Volume 1,” ASJ 13 (1991) 410–16. For Išbi-Erra’s “ascension,” see M. Yoshikawa, “an-šè---a (= è/e11) ‘to die’,” ASJ 11 (1989) 353; P. Steinkeller, “Išbi-Erra’s Himmelfahrt,” NABU 1992/4; idem, “Corrigendum to NABU 1992/4,” NABU 1992/56.

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discussions appeared in print almost simultaneously, with their respective conclusions having been reached independently for the most part, and without the knowledge of the other treatments. For these reasons, a new, fully comprehensive study of these two “ascensions” is called for.

II. Šulgi’s “ascension to heaven” is known thanks to an administrative tablet of uncertain provenance, 2 which dates to the eleventh month of year Šulgi 48, that is, to the last year of that ruler’s reign. This tablet is a record of 21 slave women who had been released from work for seven days at the time “when Šulgi ascended to heaven” (ud dŠul-gi an-na ba-a-e11-daa). 3 Almost certainly these women were freed from their usual daily chores 4 to participate in the rituals for the dead king, which lasted seven days, as our text makes clear. As shown by the fact that the “ascension” of Išbi-Erra was accompanied by a “great lamentation” (see below), their role in these observations was almost certainly that of wailers. The precise date of Šulgi’s death is not known. A tablet dating to the second day of the eleventh month of year Šulgi 48 records an offering for 2.  Possibly from Puzriš-Dagan. See Michalowski in this volume. 3.  20 l á 1 gém e sag-d u b 2 gém e á 2/3 u d 7- š è á- b i 142 1/3 g ém e ud 1-šè ud dŠul-gi an-n a b a-a-e11-d a-a ì-d u8- àm k i Ì-n a-n a- t a b a- z i i t i ezen me-ki-gál (BCT 1 132:1–9 – Šulgi 48/xi). The presence of a Reichskalender month-name notwithstanding, this tablet probably comes from Umma. The use of the “official” calendar is typical of the documents dealing with expenditures on behalf of central institutions. 4. This is how the verbal form ì-du8-àm was understood by Wilcke (“König Šulgis Himmelfahrt,” 250 and n. 35). On the other hand, Hallo (“Death of Kings,” 158) translated “when the divine Shulgi was taken up in(to) heaven (and served) as doorkeeper,” understanding ì-du8-àm as n i-d u8-àm. This interpretation led him to hypothesize that, since Dumuzi and Ningišzida served as doorkeepers at the heavenly gate, “the deceased Shulgi also served (temporarily) as heavenly doorkeeper, being identified with Dumuzi (or Gizzida), and most likely for a period of seven days after his death, thus opening up a whole new comparative vista with the seven-day mourning ceremonies of biblical and postbiblical Judaism” (ibid., 159). However, it is certain that the verb ì-du8-àm refers to the women in question, since the mention of these women in the text would otherwise remain unexplained. Here note that, contrary to Hallo’s assertion that “ì-du8-àm cannot mean ‘they . . . have been set free’ . . . since the form is unambiguously singular” (ibid., n. 91), this is precisely what one expects here grammatically, since a group of women or men (as in the case of é r e n) is a collective, which is of course identical with the singular (of the class of objects). An identical grammatical objection was voiced by Horowitz and Watson (“Further Notes,” 411, 414 n. 5) with a translation: “on the day Shulgi ascended to heaven and was released.” This interpretation seems even more improbable, both grammatically and logically.

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the funerary chapel (ki-a-nag) of Šulgi. 5 This datum furnishes the earliest ante quem date for his death. 6 Since the erection of this chapel, which, as the other data on the Ur III royal ki-a-nags strongly indicate, stood directly over Šulgi’s tomb, 7 must have taken at least some days (if not weeks) to complete, it is reasonable to assume that his death occurred during the tenth month, if not even earlier. 8 These facts raise the question as to whether Šulgi’s “ascension,” which, as BCT 1 132 establishes, lasted seven days, was part of the funerary observances sensu stricto. One would expect Šulgi’s funeral and burial to have taken place very shortly after Šulgi’s death, that is, sometime during the tenth month and before the erection of the funerary chapel. On the other hand, as indicated by BCT 1 132, Šulgi’s “ascension” appears to have occurred during the eleventh month. Thus at least theoretically it is possible that the funeral+burial and the “ascension” represented two separate events. As pointed out by Horowitz and Watson, 9 BCT 1 132 is not the only evidence of Šulgi’s presence in heaven. Lexical sources of Old Babylonian date—and thus not too-far removed from the time of Šulgi’s reign—record a “star of Šulgi” (mul dŠul-gi). 10 There also is a mention of “heavenly Šulgi” (dŠul-gi an-na) in the “Sumerian Temple Hymns” 11 that likely 5. P. Michalowski, “The Death of Šulgi,” Or 46 (1977) 220–25, here 225; HSM 911.10.131 line 11 (written [k]i-a-nag; collated). Šulgi’s k i - a-n a g is also mentioned in the Puzriš-Dagan tablet Nies UDT 116:6 from Š 48/xii/12, and in an Umma tablet from the same year—no month is specified (Sigrist Syracuse 355:3 – Š 48/-). 6.  Wilcke (“König Šulgis Himmelfahrt,” 252) concluded that Šulgi “wahrscheinlich zwischen dem 28.X. und dem 2.XI. gestorben ist. Šulgi’s Hinaufsteigen in den Himmel fand also gleichzeitig oder fast gleichzeitig mit seinem Tode statt.” This conclusion was based on the text PDT 1 139. However, this text dates not to Š 48/x/28 (so Michalowski [Death of Šulgi,” 222], whom Wilcke followed), but to Š 47/x/28, and thus is of no relevance for this question. 7.  See B. Jagersma, “The Calendar of the Funerary Cult in Ancient Lagaš,” BO 64 (2007) 289–307, here 294–97. Additional evidence will be offered by this author elsewhere. 8.  Michalowski, in this volume, suggests that Šulgi died on the first day of the eleventh month. However, the fact that Šulgi’s ki-a-n a g was already in place on the second day of that month (see above) argues against such a possibility. 9.  Horowitz and Watson, “Further Notes,” 413. 10.  MSL 11, 133 viii 41, 138 rev. ii 2′. 11.  TCS 3 24 line 132 (in the hymn devoted to É - h u r- s a g, Šulgi’s palace/temple at Ur). dŠul-gi-dumu-an-na “Šulgi-the-Child/Citizen-of-Heaven,” who appears in two Puzriš-Dagan tablets from the reign of Amar-Suen (MVN 18 73:10 – AS 2/ix/13 [courtesy of Audrey Pitts]; MVN 3 228:6 – AS 4/i), undoubtedly is the same astral deity. In these tablets, dŠul-gi-dumu-an-na receives offerings in the company of vari-

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alludes to his astral status as well. Thus, we can be fairly certain that the purpose of Šulgi’s “ascension” was to occupy his astral station in the sky. Since Šulgi is the only documented Mesopotamian ruler who became a star upon his death, 12 it was in all likelihood his divinity that allowed him to achieve this distinction. 13 This conclusion is confirmed by the fact that Išbi-Erra, the only other Mesopotamian king known “to ascend to heaven” (see below), was likewise deified. If so, it would be logical to assume that all of the other deified kings of Ur and Isin also “ascended” to heaven and became stars, even if as yet we lack specific information to this effect. 14 To an extent, these conclusions had already been anticipated by S. N. Kramer. In his discussion of BM 96739 (CT 36 lines 33–34), a tigi hymn to Inana celebrating the astral Dumuzi, 15 Kramer wrote (prophetically) that: “Since, as is well-known, the king of Sumer, as the husband of Inanna, was identified with Amaušumgalanna, it may be, to judge from this hymn, that there was current in Sumer, a theological tenet that the king upon his death was turned into a heavenly star situated close to the Venus-star Inanna.” 16 Kramer’s point is supported by the following discussion of the Ur III and Isin royal “ascensions,” which, as we shall later see, were closely connected with the cult of the astral Inana. A possible connection between ous deities and sacred loci of Ur (such as ki dS u en, D u6- ù r, dNan n a, D u b - l á-m ah, da g ní g-kú dNanna, and dNin-gu b laga). 12.  See C. Walker, “Episodes in the History of Babylonian Astronomy,” SMSB 5 (1983) 10–26, here 22–23. 13.  The connection between Šulgi’s “ascension” and his divine status is obvious. See also Horowitz and Watson, “Further Notes,” 411: “Thus, it is possible that Shulgi’s ascent to heaven . . . is related to the elevation of Shulgi and his fellow Ur III kings to divine status.” But, just below on the same page, these authors write that “it is not clear why Shulgi ascends to heaven after death since descent to the underworld after death was the common destiny of mankind.” As we shall see later, he did both, and without any contradiction. 14.  Among the Ur III kings, this would affect Amar-Suen and Šu-Suen, but not Ibbi-Suen, who apparently died in Elamite captivity. As for the Isin kings, this tradition may have continued down to Damiq-ilišu, the last ruler of the dynasty. 15.  For the astral form of Dumuzi, see the comprehensive discussion by D. Foxvog, “Astral Dumuzi,” in The Tablet and the Scroll: Near Eastern Studies in Honor of William W. Hallo (eds. M. Cohen, D. Snell, and D. Weisberg; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 1993) 103–8. 16. S. N. Kramer, “CT XXXVI: Corrigenda and Addenda,” Iraq 36 (1974) 98 n. 32. Note also the comments by Foxvog (“Astral Dumuzi,” 105) made in reference to Kramer’s conclusion: “This suggestion has already received confirmation at least for Shulgi of Ur, who, it is now known, was said to have ascended to heaven at his death and there, for a time at least, to have become a star or constellation.”

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Dumuzi and these “ascending” kings will be explored at the end of this communication.

III. For now, we turn to the case of Išbi-Erra. An undated tablet from Isin records an expenditure of pots for “the great lamentation, when the king ascended to heaven” ([é]r gu-la ud lugal an-šè ba-a-da).” 17 On the basis of the verbal form ba-a-e11-da-a appearing in the Šulgi example, both Yoshikawa 18 and Steinkeller 19 concluded independently that the final -da in the Išbi-Erra instance represents either a phonetic or a defective writing of -e11-da. Although such a solution is certainly admissible, there is another interpretation of this form possible, which I will consider later. The preceding four lines of the same tablet record another expenditure of pots, “on the day of the banquet of Šu-ilišu” (ud kaš-dé-a Šu-ìlí-šu). 20 The Šu-ilišu referred to here is obviously Išbi-Erra’s successor; moreover, given the fact that his name does not yet bear the mark of divinity, the banquet in question most likely was connected with his coronation. It follows that the dead king mentioned earlier must be none other than Išbi-Erra. 21 Although, as mentioned, the tablet has no year formula, its opening entry records an issue of pots during a period between the eleventh and fourth months. 22 This fact permits the conclusion that IšbiErra died sometime after the fourth month of his last regnal year. Apart from this information and the great lamentation described above that accompanied Išbi-Erra’s “ascension” to heaven, no other data bearing on his funeral and burial are available. Consequently, there is no way of telling whether the “ascension” was part of the funerary observances or a separate event. The only inference possible in this connection is that, if the sequence of the expenditures in BIN 10 190 is chronological (as seems likely), then the “ascension” was preceded by Šu-ilišu’s coronation. As argued above, Išbi-Erra’s “ascension” must have been predicated on his 17.  BIN 10 190:10–12. 18.  Yoshikawa, “an-šè---a,” 353. 19.  Steinkeller, “Išbi-Erra’s Himmelfahrt.” 20.  Lines 6–9. 21.  Yoshikawa (“an-šè---a”) and, following him, Horowitz and Watson (“Further Notes,” 412) thought that Šu-ilišu is meant here. However, since, as far as I know, k a š dé-a never designates a feast for the dead, such a possibility is most unlikely. Further, note that Šu-ilišu’s name is not preceded by a DINGIR sign, which indicates that he had not become a divine king yet. 22.  Text: i ti zíz-a-t a it i šu -n u m u n-a-šè < šu > b a- an- t i (lines 1–5).

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divine status. Although there are no records of an Išbi-Erra star, it is likely that, as in the case of Šulgi, the purpose of Išbi-Erra’s voyage into the sky was to be reincarnated there as a star.

IV. By what kind of locomotion did Šulgi and Išbi-Erra travel to heaven? The only other humans who were able to accomplish this feat according to the Babylonian tradition were Etana, a legendary king of Kiš, and the sage Adapa. Etana, as recorded in the Akkadian poem about him, was carried into the sky by an eagle. Adapa, on the other hand, is said to have traveled in the company of Anu’s envoy, by “the road of heaven” ([ḫarr]ān šamê). 23 However, since both Etana and Adapa were fully alive at the time of their respective “ascensions,” their cases are completely different and thus not comparable. To find a possible answer to this conundrum, we need to take another look at the verb of the Išbi-Erra example. An alternative way to explain this form would be to assume that the final -da represents a different verbal root. As a matter of fact, a verb da is attested in Ur III sources. Virtually all of the attestations of da involve cases where this verb describes an action by which a boat is transported from one location to another. 24 Since there are also instances in which this action was done with the help of the northern and southern winds (tumu-mer and tumu-ùlu-um respectively), 25 it becomes clear that da means “to sail.” 26 23.  See S. Izre'el, Adapa and the South Wind (MC 10; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2001) 18 line 37′. 24. For the examples, see W. Sallaberger, Der kultische Kalender der Ur III-Zeit (2 vols.; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1993) 1180–81 and n. 851; P. Steinkeller, “New Light on the Hydrology and Topography of Southern Babylonia in the Third Millennium,” ZA 91 (2001) 62 and n. 165. Add: má kar da-a šag4 Tu m-m a- a l (BPOA 7 2913:4–5); má kar da-a (Legrain TRU 114:2; courtesy of C. Woods); 6 g u r u š u d 4- š è Ú r i mkima ku6 é -ga l -l a ku4-ra ù m á d a-a . . . 6 gu r u š u d 1- š è U n u gki- a m á d a- a (Istanbul 2485:7–9, 14). 25. ud 6-šè t u m u -ù lu -u m t u m u -m er m á d a- a g á-n u n É- l u g al - t a Ni br uki-šè (Szlechter TJA pl. 61 IOS 36:15–18); u d 3- š è A d a bki t u m u -m er- d a má da-a (MVN 15 94 iii 11); ud 1-šè tumu-ùlu-d a ( m á ) d a- a (SACT 2 89:7). For tumu = IM, see the syllabic writing tu-mu-me-e r (Cros, NFT 207 obv. iii 6) / t u -mu-me r (K. Volk, CTMMA 2 4–5 no. 1 rev. 13′ and pls. 1–2). 26.  The same sense of d a probably also occurs in Gudea Cylinder A xxviii 21–22: kun a n-na ùr-šè d a-a-b i ŠIR ku r-šè igi su d íl-d am “(Eninnu’s) upper stairway ‘sailing’ toward the roof is (like) a lamp casting a long gaze toward the mountains,” where the (stone) stairway leading to the Eninnu’s very top conjures up images of a white sail and a long light cast at night by a lamp. Yet another example of d a as a verb is found in the enigmatic phrase ud dIštaran in-da- a, which occurs in a number of

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V. The hypothesis that both Išbi-Erra and Šulgi ascended to the sky by sailing a boat is, of course, difficult to verify. The difficulty is compounded by the fact that, as noted earlier, we lack any information about Šulgi’s and Išbi-Erra’s respective funerary observances, which could potentially shed light on this question. However, a rather extensive body of data does survive pertaining to Šu-Suen’s funeral and burial. 27 Given Šu-Suen’s obsession with his divine status, as reflected in his incessant propagation of his own divine cult, 28 one can be reasonably confident that Šu-Suen had taken full advantage of all his divine prerogatives, in both life and in death, Puzriš-Dagan texts in connection with expenditures of animals on behalf of prominent women. Note, for example, the following cases: (a) 19 cattle, 50 sheep, and 30 sheep: A-bí -z i -i m-ti u d dIšt aran in-d a-a šag4 Nib r uki (BIN 3 559:4–13 – ŠS 2/ ix/23); (b) 1 ox: A -bí-zi-im-ti ud dIšt aran in-d a- a š ag4! Ni b r uki (Langdon TAD 28:1–3 – ŠS 2/-); (c) 5 sheep: dŠ u l-gi-m i-šar n ar-m u n u s u d dI š t ar an i n- d a- a (PDT 1 440:1–3 – ŠS 7/xi/3); (d) 5 sheep: dam Šu-M a-m a u d - d a- t u š u d dI š t ar an i n-da-a (PDT 1 521:1–3 – ŠS 7/xi/24; courtesy of A. Pitts); 2 sheep and 3 goats: d a m Zu-hu-tum nu-bàn d a u d dIštaran in-da-a (Hirose 314:1–3 – ŠS 8/x/30). This phrase is possibly to be translated as either “when Ištaran sailed (the boat)” or “when she sailed Ištaran.” The same phrase, but naming Damu, occurs in connection with the princess Simat-Ištaran: [pisan-d ]u b -b a n íg-b a l u g al n í g - b a n i n ù m u – DU di l -di l ud Sim at- dIštaran dDa-m u in-d a-a š ag4 Tu m-m a- alki (CUSAS 3 2 1463:1–8 – ŠS 1/viii; courtesy of A. Pitts). For such a possibility, see already C. Woods, “The Sun-God Tablet of Nabû-apla-iddina Revisited,” JCS 56 (2004) 71 n. 243. It may be significant, therefore, that Ištaran and Damu are two of Ningišzida’s avatars (the others are Alla and Lugal-šude) in the myth describing that god’s boat ride to the netherworld. On which, see T. Jacobsen and B. Alster, “Ningišdiza’s Boat-Ride to Hades,” in Wisdom, Gods and Literature: Studies in Assyriology in Honour of W. G. Lambert (eds. A. R. George and I. L. Finkel; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2000) 318–25 lines 5, 6, 17, 18. In this connection, note also that Ningišzida actually owned a ceremonial barge. See ITT 5 6823:6 (Girsu/Lagaš), recording a sheep offering for the “shed of the barge of Ningišzida” (gá má-gur8-ra dNin-giš-zi-d a). 27.  Some of these data were treated by M. Sigrist, “Le deuil pour Šu-Sin,” in The Tablet and the Scroll: Near Eastern Studies in Honor of William W. Hallo (eds. M. Cohen, D. Snell, and D. Weisberg; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 1993) 499–505. A comprehensive reconstruction of Šu-Suen’s funeral and burial, using additional sources, was offered subsequently by W. Sallaberger in his unpublished paper “Death and Coronation of the King of Ur” (Rome, March 31, 2003). I am grateful to Sallaberger for his permission to cite this paper here. As he informs me, an updated and expanded version of this paper will appear in print shortly. The funerary observances of Šu-Suen were also recently discussed by D. Katz, “Sumerian Funerary Rituals in Context,” in Performing Death: Social Analyses of Funerary Traditions in the Ancient Near East and Mediterranean (ed. N. Laneri; Oriental Institute Seminars 3; Chicago: Oriental Institute, 2007) 174–80, though with considerably different conclusions. 28.  See N. Brisch, “The Priestess and the King: The Divine Kingship of Šu-Sîn of Ur,” JAOS 126 (2006) 161–76.

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and that, accordingly, he too traveled to the sky to become a star after his death. An equally likely assumption is that the rituals performed as part of his funeral and burial were very similar to those that accompanied the departures of Šulgi and Išbi-Erra, and that, accordingly, the information about Šu-Suen applies also to the latter two rulers. As W. Sallaberger was able to demonstrate, 29 Šu-Suen was buried in Ur. The burial took place from the sixteenth to nineteenth days of the ninth month of his last (ninth) regnal year. But the obsequies did not end there. As shown by the Puzriš-Dagan tablet PDT 1 563, on the twenty-first day of the tenth month—that is, over a month later (during which the coronation of the new king had taken place)—Ibbi-Suen and his wife GemeEnlila came to Uruk to participate in additional rituals for Šu-Suen. These took place within the Eanna, Inana’s temple at Uruk. Following the offerings to Inana and An, made “upon the entering of the king into Eanna,” 30 a separate group of offerings—a grain-fed sheep in each instance—were presented to the following eight divine recipients 31: N in- g iš - z i- d a

d

G eš t i n- an-na Šul-gi d Š u - dS uen k á dŠul-gi “Šu-Suen at the door of Šulgi” d Š u - dS uen k á dUtu “Šu-Suen at the door of Utu” d Ut u d Ganzer (IGI.ZA.KUR) d B e - l a- at- t i -t u -r i- im d d

Another major group of offerings made on the same day (and apparently in the same ritual context) were intended for the Urukean goddesses Nanaya and Gansura. The offerings for Gansura were more extensive than those presented to Nanaya as they involved individual presentations by the king and his wife Geme-Enlila, as well as a separate sískur offering in the palace. 32 29.  Sallaberger, “Death and Coronation,” forthcoming. 30.  [1? sheep] and 2 goats dInana; 1 sheep and 1 goat A n; š a g4 é dI n an a l u g al ku4-ra (i 1–8). 31.  i 9–ii 1, ii 13–iii 2. Geštinana’s offering is recorded separately (ii 13–iii 2), but it is certain that it belongs to the earlier listing, since in either case the requisitioner (maškim) of the sheep was the cupbearer (sagi) Šu-Suen-ipallaḫ-Enlil. 32.  1 sheep and 1 goat dNa-n a-a dS u en-a-b u -šu s ag i m aš k i m (ii 2–5); 1 sheep and 1 goat mu lugal-šè 3 sheep mu Géme- dEn-líl - l á- š è dG a- an- s u r-r a dSu ena-bu-šu sagi maškim (ii 6–12); 1 sheep dGa-an-sur-r a s í z k u r š ag4 é- g al dSu ena-bu-šu sa gi maškim (iii 6–9).

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The first group of recipients warrants special interest, since it includes several well-known denizens of the Sumerian Hades: the throne-carrier of the netherworld Ningišzida, 33 the chief scribe and field registrar of the netherworld Geštinana, 34 and even Ganzer, the personified netherworld itself. 35 Bēlat-titurrim is documented only here, but, given her name— “Lady-of-the-Crossing/Bridge”—this goddess was almost certainly another netherworld deity, who probably functioned as a kind of Sumerian Charon. Šulgi and Utu were no strangers to the netherworld either, since both passed daily through the netherworld, the former as a star and the latter as the sun. 36 This leaves out Šu-Suen, who is mentioned twice, once “at the door of Šulgi” and once “at the door of Utu.” These two placements of Šu-Suen likely describe the astral positions of the Šulgi star and the sun, with the “door” (ká) referring to their stations in the sky. Given this particular cast of divine characters and the mentions of the astral positions of Šulgi and Utu, it is not unreasonable to suggest that the ritual behind this group of offerings symbolized Šu-Suen’s journey through the netherworld to assume his own station in the sky. 37 This hypothesis 33.  See D. Katz, The Image of the Netherworld in the Sumerian Sources (Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2003) 391–95; P. Steinkeller, “Of Stars and Men: The Conceptual and Mythological Setup of Babylonian Extispicy,” in Biblical and Oriental Essays in Memory of William L. Moran (ed. A. Gianto; BibOr 48; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 2005) 21–22 and n. 24. Add the following example: š u l dU t u z a- d a n u -m e- a d G e šti n-a n-na du b -sar m ah A-ra-li-ke4 im n am- t i - l a- k a-n i m u l ú n u - u ngub -bé “without you, Youth Utu, Geštinana, the great scribe of Arali, does not write the name of the (dead) man on her Tablet of Life” (A. Cavigneaux, “Deux hymnes sumériens à Utu,” in Et il y eut un esprit dans l’Homme: Jean Bottéro et la Mésopotamie [eds. X. Faivre et al.; Paris: De Boccard, 2009] 4–5 H 180+line 33′). 34. See Katz, Image, 397–401; Steinkeller, “Stars and Men,” 21–22 and n. 24. Add the following example: šul dU tu za-d a n u -m e- a dNi n- g i š - z i - d a g u - z a- l á kur-ra-ke4 á-á g-g á u n lá-a ( = lu -a) igi-in im-ma- k am s i g - š è n u -m u - t ù m “without you, Youth Utu, Ningišzida, the throne-carrier of the netherworld, does not bring news of the teeming people of Above to (those) Below” (Cavigneaux, “Deux hymnes,” 14–16 H 180+line 34′). 35.  For Ganzer, see most recently Katz, Image, 85–90. This locus appears usually as é-gal Ganzer, its earliest attestation being Nesbit SRD 12:8 (Š 47/xi/25), cited and discussed below. See also dGànzer (IGI.KUR) in TIM 6 8:14 (AS 1/vii/21–24), cited below, n. 58. Given the equation ga-an-zé-er IGI.KUR.ZA = ba-ab er-ṣe-tim (Nippur Diri 140 = MSL 15, 18), Ganzer was imagined by the ancients to be the entrance to (or the front part of) the netherworld. For this conclusion, see also Katz, Image, 90; C. Woods, “At the Edge of the World: Cosmological Conceptions of the Eastern Horizon in Mesopotamia,” JANER 9 (2009) 192 n. 38. 36.  For the movements of Utu/Šamaš and other astral deities over the upper and nether skies, see Steinkeller, “Stars and Men,” 18–47. 37. See Sigrist, “Le deuil pour Šu-Sin,” 503–4.

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finds support in the fact that the second group of offerings named in PDT 1 563 involves the goddesses Gansura and Nanaya, both of whom appear to have been avatars of the astral Inana (= the planet Venus). The former of these two deities, Gansura—in the Old Babylonian period and later known as Kanisura 38—was a netherworld deity, since her name is to be etymologized as *Ganzer-ak > Gansura(k) “the one of Ganzer.” 39 Given her netherworld character, and her association with Uruk, 40 it is virtually certain that Gansura personified Venus’s invisibility phase, that is, Inana’s disappearance in the netherworld. In the Uruk III period, this hypostasis appears to have been called Inana kur “Inana of the netherworld.” 41 Her later manifestation, documented since the Fara period, was probably the Uruk netherworld goddess Nin-Irigalx(UNUG)/Irigal(AB×GAL) “Lady-of-the-Netherworld.” 42 As for Nanaya, 43 it is known that already in Ur III times she was a biform of the astral Inana; more specifically, the planet’s visible manifesta38.  That Gansura is an earlier form of Kanisura was first suggested by D. Charpin, “L’enterrement du roi d’Ur Šu-Sîn à Uruk,” NABU 1992/106. See also Sallaberger, Kultische Kalender 1:213 n. 1008. 39.  This point is assured by the following lexical entry: g a- a n- z é - e r IGI.KUR.ZA = ka-ni-sur-[ra], following ha-li-ib IGI.KUR = ir-kal-la, g a- a n- z é - e r IGI.KUR.ZA = da-ni-n[a], and preceding ga-an-zé-er IGI.KUR.ZA = ba-ab er-ṣe-tim (Nippur Diri 137–40 = MSL 15, 17–18). 40.  Gansura/Kanisura was also the goddess of the canal Iturungal. See P. Steinkeller, “Hydrology and Topography,” 45. This fact is another indication of her netherworld character. 41.  See K. Szarzynska, “The Sumerian Goddess INANNA-KUR,” in Papers on Asia Past and Present (eds. M. Mejor et al.; Orientalia Varsoviensia 1; Warsaw: Wydawnictwa Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego, 1987) 7–14; idem, “Offerings for the Goddess Inana in Archaic Uruk,” RA 87 (1993) 8; P. Steinkeller, “Archaic City Seals and the Question of Early Babylonian Unity,” in Riches Hidden in Secret Places: Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Memory of Thorkild Jacobsen (ed. T. Abusch; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2002) 254 n. 23. 42.  See G. Conti, “Ninirigal, mère de Kullab,” MARI 7 (1993) 343–47. 43. For a comprehensive study of this deity, see now O. Drewnowska-Rymarz, Mesopotamian Goddess Nanāja (Warsaw: Agade, 2008). As amply shown by the extant data, probably as early as the Ur III period (and certainly by Old Babylonian times) Nanaya was an avatar of Inana. That these two goddesses were considered to be alternative forms of the same divine persona is shown explicitly by the Uruk sources from the reign of Anam (ca. 1820 b.c.), in which a single offering (n i d b a) is meant jointly for An- dIna na- dNa-na-a (or An- dIn an a ù dNa-na- a) (ibid., 39). This shows that Inana and Nanaya were virtually indistinguishable by that time. In this connection, note that, throughout the third and second millennia, An and Inana were worshipped at Uruk as a single divine entity (An-Inana), with both deities sharing the same sacred spaces and partaking in the same set of offerings. In other words, there existed but a single, unified cult, that of An-Inana. As shown by the Anam examples, Nanaya was part of that cult as well.

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tion. 44 This point is demonstrated most emphatically by an Išbi-Erra hymn to Nanaya, 45 in which Nanaya is placed in the Eanna and afforded Inana’s ephitets. 46 More important still, she is explicitly identified there as munus mul-an hé-me-a “a woman who indeed is a heavenly star” (line 8) and ud-gim dalla è “the one rising brightly like the daylight” (line 1). 47 The fact that the observances alluded to in PDT 1 563 involved the netherworld (invisible) and the stellar (visible) manifestations of Venus (= Inana) adds further substance to the idea that the ritual in question symbolized the passage of Šu-Suen’s spirit (gidim) 48 through the 44.  See, in detail, W. Heimpel, “Catalogue of Near Eastern Venus Deities,” SyroMesopotamian Studies 4 (1982) 15–17. See also an earlier discussion by H. Sauren, “Les fêtes néo-sumériennes et leur périodicité,” in Actes de la XVIIe Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Université Libre de Bruxelles, 30 juin–4 juillet 1969 (ed. A. Finet; Hamsur-Heure: Comité belge de recherches en Mésopotamie, 1970) 24–25, who reaches similar conclusions. As early as the reign of Lipit-Eštar of Isin, Nanaya was thought by the ancients to be Inana’s child; see Drewnowska-Rymarz, Nanāja, 30. Interestingly, Inana’s alter ego Gansura/Kanisura was in turn believed to be a child of Nanaya; see ibid., 28, 31–32. It is tempting to consider, therefore, that these filiations are meant to describe the successive phases of Venus: Inana giving birth to Nanaya > Nanaya turning into Kanisura. 45. W. W. Hallo, “New Hymns to the Kings of Isin,” BiOr 23 (1966) 242–44 (YBC 9859); ETCSL 2.5.1.3. 46.  me -te É-an-n a (line 2), in-n in-ra tú m-ma (line 2), s ag - í l É- an < -n a> ka (line 16), di ngir d ú r m ah ki U n u gki-ga ti-la (line 11), n i n k u r- k u r-r a z i dè -e š-šè pà d-da (line 3), etc. 47.  Note also that Nanaya is Inana’s doppelgänger in the extispicy report YOS 10 2, where both of them are invoked as stars. See Steinkeller, “Stars and Men,” 40–42 and n. 64. In view of all these data, the hesitation by J. G. Westenholz (“Nanaya: Lady of Mystery,” in Sumerian Gods and Their Representations [eds. I. J. Finkel and M. J. Geller; CM 7; Groningen: Styx, 1997] 64) to accept that Nanaya was identified with the planet Venus from the very beginning is unjustified. More recently, Nanaya’s connection with Venus has been questioned also by Drewnowska-Rymarz. See, especially, her conclusion (Nanāja, 154): “The literary texts discussed here do not substantiate Nańaja’s ties with Venus.” At the same time, however, Drewnowska-Rymarz concedes that Nanaya had an astral nature, and that she is identified in literary sources as a mul-an “heavenly star” (ibid., 106, 154). Her explanation of such descriptions is that Nanaya had ties “with the phases of the moon rather than with the planet Venus.” However, such a hypothesis is most unlikely, since the only deity associated with the moon and its phases is Nanna/Suen/Dilim-babbar. 48.  The Puzriš-Dagan tablet MVN 10 172, from the tenth month of year Šu-Suen 9 (unfortunately, the day is not specified)—and thus dating after Šu-Suen’s burial— records animal sacrifices for giš-a-nag dGid im dŠ u - dS u e n “the giš-a-nag of the divine ghost of the divine Šu-Suen.” As convincingly argued by Sallaberger (“Death and Coronation”) the giš-a-nag was a temporary wooden construction, which was raised at the time of the burial, before the actual funerary chapel could be built. (For this interpretation, see already Wilcke, “König Šulgis Himmelfahrt,” 253.) It is reasonable to conclude that these were the earliest kispu offerings that were presented to Šu-Suen’s

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netherworld, on his way to the upper sky. Like Inana in the myth describing her death, descent into the netherworld, and subsequent resurrection from it, Šu-Suen’s spirit would rise from the dead to be incarnated as a heavenly star. Thus, the seeming contradiction of the dead king being in two different places at the same time is resolved: in sacred time and space, his divine soul, like that of the Egyptian pharaoh, 49 lives on simultaneously, both as a dead spirit and a holy star.

VI. A necessary question arises at this point: why was this ritual performed at Uruk, and not in Ur, where Šu-Suen had been buried? Moreover, why was its performance delayed so long after the funeral? It is difficult to think of any theological reason that would provide an adequate answer to these two questions. The Uruk locus of the ritual is particularly puzzling, since this city, unlike Gudua and Enegi, was never an acknowledged center of the cult of the dead. In my opinion, the only plausible explanation here is that Uruk was the place where Inana’s Heavenly Boat (má-an-na) 50 was situated. This boat was the focus of a special and very important festival (ezen má-an-na), 51 which was celebrated twice a year, during the seventh and eleventh months. 52 spirit in the netherworld, apparently on his arrival there. Very importantly, this evidence thus establishes that his spirit, though partaking of divine characteristics, still needed to descend to the netherworld. 49.  See below, pp. 474–76. 50. For Inana’s ownership of this boat, see the mention of s í z k u r m á- a n-n a d Inana-šè (BIN 9 387:7), and the text SET 83:11 (discussed below), which physically places Inana in the má-an-na. Here it is also significant that Inana traveled in the m áa n-na from Eridu to Uruk, in the myth describing how she acquired the divine powers (me) for her city Uruk (“Inana and Enki” I v 7 et passim). Not surprisingly, the Heavenly Boat was also closely connected with Nanaya and her cult. See, especially, OIP 115 30:1–7: 1 gud nig a 2 u d u m á- a n-n a- š è . . . 1 má š é dNa-na-a-šè ud má-an-na-ka “for the temple of Nanaya, on the day of the Heavenly Boat.” See also AnOr 7 62:1–4; TRU 275:1–5; Torino 1 189:1–7; OIP 115 62:1–5. 51.  Sallaberger, Kultische Kalender, 1:216–19; 2:123–25 Table 71. Also M. E. Cohen, The Cultic Calendars of the Ancient Near East (Bethesda, MD: CDL, 1993) 215–20. 52. It may not be by accident that the eleventh month of the Reichskalender is named after ezen-an-na. The mentions of iti-ezen-m á- a n-n a in OIP 115 65:22 and CUSAS 3 947:7 suggest that ezen-an-na is actually an abbreviation of e z e nmá-an-na. If so, we would have to conclude that the e z e n-m á- a n-n a of the eleventh month was the more important of the two festivals.

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The Festival of the Heavenly Boat was an integral part of Inana’s cult, perhaps even the most important ritual of this deity. That this festival revolved around Inana is shown best by SET 83, which records sacrificial animals expended for the ezen má-an-na performed on the twenty-second through the twenty-sixth days of the eleventh month of year Šu-Suen 9. 53 Apart from Ninsumun, who received, apparently in consideration of her elevated status at Uruk, an offering on the 25th day, Inana was the exclusive recipient of these offerings: síz k ur g u- la dI n a n a (22nd day)

I nan a š ag4 má-an-na “Inana in the Heavenly Boat” (23rd day) I n a n a (24th day) s á- d ug4 dI n ana (25th day) d Ni n- s ú mu n š ag4 ur u (25th day) (dI n a n a?) (26th day). d d

Another deity that was a focus of this festival is Nanaya, 54 who, as pointed out earlier, was an avatar of the astral Inana. This fact establishes that the festival celebrated Inana in her planetary form. Although I am unaware of any cuneiform sources that state this fact explicitly, it seems fairly certain that it was by means of the Heavenly Boat that the astral Inana traveled over the upper and lower skies. 55 Apart from all the common sense arguments speaking in its favor, 56 this conclusion is corroborated by a list of expenditures for the Heavenly Festival in year Š 47/xi/25 (Nesbit SRD 12): 1 sheep for g i -r a-n ú m dI n a n a “lamentation for Inana”

1 ox and 3 sheep for dIn an a 1 sheep for dN a-n a- a 1 sheep for é -gal dGànzer(IGI.KUR) “palace of Ganzer” 2 sheep for á má 2-a-ba-šè “rental fee for (hiring) 2 boats” 53.  And thus, incidentally, one month after the ritual of Šu-Suen alluded to in PDT 1 563. Note also that the same requisitioner (Šu-Suen-ipallah-Enlil) was involved. 54. See Sallaberger, Kultische Kalender 1:218–19. 55.  Since the m á-an-na was her usual mode of transportation, it is not surprising that Inana used má-an-na to travel from Eridu to Unug. However, there is no reason to think that the festival celebrated that particular event specifically (as speculated by Cohen, Cultic Calendars, 217). 56.  Most importantly, the fact that Inana, like other astral deities, must have possessed some form of transportation to be able to make her rounds over the upper and nether skies. Here note that the moon god Nanna/Suen, Inana’s father, himself owned a boat. Utu/Šamaš was probably propelled by a wind (Iškur/Adad). See P. Steinkeller, “Stars and Men,” 43–45. I hope to return to this problem on another occasion.

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Apart from the sacrifices for Inana and her avatar Nanaya, a “lamentation for (the absent) Inana” 57 was also performed and an offering for the “Palace of the Netherworld” 58 was presented. Accordingly, it seems very likely that the festival of the Heavenly Boat celebrated Inana’s disappearance in the netherworld and her subsequent reappearance in the upper sky. 59 Moreover, one may conclude from the inclusion of a fee to hire “two boats” among its expenses that Inana’s celestial voyage was actually enacted during the festival. In this connection, note also the earlier-cited mention of “Inana in the boat,” which suggests that a statue of Inana was actually placed in a real boat, and probably carried (or even sailed) as part of the festivities. 60 In consideration of all these facts, I suggest that it was by means of Inana’s Heavenly Boat that the divine kings of Ur were able to ascend to heaven. As the má-an-na passed through the netherworld, their spirits (gidim) hitched a ride on it. Then they “sailed” with it up to the upper sky to assume their astral positions there. I have proposed earlier that the migration of the soul of the dead king mirrored the movements of the astral Inana. But there is yet another, more direct mythological connection that should be considered here. This concerns Inana’s unfortunate lover Dumuzi, with whom the Ur III and Isin divine rulers identified in their ritual relationship with Inana. 61 I have al57. See Sallaberger, Kultische Kalender, 1:47: “Gerranum begegnet v. a. am Vorabend einer rituallen Bewirtung, kaš-dé-a, von Göttinnen. Bevor die Göttin ihren Tempel verläßt, man also ihr Kommen wünscht, werden Klagen (gerrānum) abgehalten. Níg-ki-zàḫ bedeutet dem gegenüber Gaben an den von der Gottheit verlassenen Tempel.” 58.  Ganzer is named in connection with the festival of the Heavenly Boat also in another source: offerings for ki-a-nag en-na, šízku r a- t u5- a m á- an-n a- k a, and ki -a-na g dAma r- dSuen on 21st day; offerings for dIn an a á- g i6- b a- a, s í z k u r d i ngi r-ne, dG à nz e r(IGI.KUR), An-n u -n i-tu m, and dU l -m a- š i - t u m on 22nd day; an offering for èš dInana on 23rd day; offerings for gi -r a-n ú m g i6 and k á g i6- p ar4 á-gi6-ba-a on the 24th day; šag4 U n u gki-ga (TIM 6 8:1–29 – ŠS 1/vii/21–24). Notice that the offering for Ganzer was apparently related to those for Inana and her byforms Annunitum and Ulmašitum. 59.  The inclusion of the offerings for Inana “in the garden” suggests that the festival may have had other mythical dimensions as well. See Sallaberger, Kultische Kalender, 1:218–19. 60. See Sallaberger (Kultische Kalender, 1:219) who concludes that during this festival, “findet eine Schiffprozesion statt, im Mittelpunkt steht eine Göttin, Nanaja oder Inanna.” 61. Interestingly, in a literary composition describing Dumuzi’s death (CT 58 42:46), Dumuzi is referred to as a “dead divine spirit” (dG i d i m ú š b a- [. . .]). As seen earlier (above, n. 48), the designation dGidim was also borne by the dead Šu-Suen.

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ready alluded to the fact that Dumuzi possessed an astral form, which in all probability he acquired owing to his intimate connection with Inana. It is highly probable that there existed a myth that explained the presence of Dumuzi in the sky. Such a myth may have described how the dead Dumuzi was rescued from the netherworld by Inana and subsequently transformed by her into a star. The rite of royal “ascension” may have been patterned directly after such a story, since, as Kramer had argued, the king was identified after his death with Dumuzi’s astral manifestation. 62 If this interpretation is correct, one would then expect that the transition of the king’s spirit from the netherworld to the upper sky was synchronized with the movements of the astral Inana (= Venus), in that it had to occur within the period of the planet’s disappearance from and subsequent reappearance in the sky. Accordingly, the time of the ritual’s performance would have depended on the astronomical position of Venus at the moment of the king’s death. This means that a significant time difference would usually have existed between the burial and the “ascension,” since there were only two “windows of opportunity” for this transition to take place: roughly one week during the planet’s inferior conjunction (that is, when Venus is between the earth and the sun) and approximately fifty days during the superior conjunction (the disappearance on the far side of the sun). 63 In the case of Šu-Suen, one month was sufficient for his spirit to complete the entire migration, suggesting that his death occurred comparatively close to one of the two invisibility phases. As for Šulgi and IšbiErra, not enough is known about the chronology of their departures to Note that the restoration of this line offered in CT 58, p. 19 by B. Alster and M. J. Geller carries no conviction. 62.  Kramer, “CT XXXVI: Corrigenda and Addenda”; and see also Wilcke (“König Šulgis Himmelfahrt,” 255) who, referring to the Dumuzi and Ningišzida mythology, suggests that “ein solcher Mythos könnte für die Vorstellung vom zum Himmel hinaufstiegenden Šulgi verantwortlich sein.” That the Ur III official ritual drew on the Inana-Dumuzi mythology is tantalizingly suggested by a tablet from Puzriš-Dagan (BIN 3 215:1–7). This document, dating to Šu-Suen 1/iv/29, records animal offerings, which were made in Dumuzi’s home Patibira, via the queen Abi-simti, for the following deities: two sheep for dD u m u - z i, two sheep for dInana, one sheep for dI-sar, one sheep for dM i - s a r, and one goat for d Ni n-šubur—ša g4 Pa5-t ib irki gìr A-bí-zi-im-ti. Given the inclusion in this grouping of the personified Righteousness (Išar) and Justice (M i š a r), as well as of Inana’s secretary Nin-šubur, one cannot but suspect that these offerings commemorated the judgment over Inana and Dumuzi, as famously described in the story of Inana’s descent to the Netherworld. 63.  N.B. Is it possible that the two festivals of the Heavenly Boat, taking place during the seventh and eleventh months respectively, celebrated the two conjunctions of Venus?

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be able to draw any conclusions regarding this matter. It should be noted, however, that a marked time lapse between the death and the “ascension” seems to have occurred also in Šulgi’s case. 64

VII. As irrational as the Sumerian belief about the possibility of astral reincarnation after death may seem to us, this belief was not restricted to ancient Babylonia. Some 4,000 years after Šulgi’s “ascension” to heaven, an eerily similar ritual took place in California. On March 26, 1997, as the Hale-Bopp comet was passing the earth and was at its brightest, 38 members of Heaven’s Gate, a “UFO religion” based in San Diego, committed mass suicide in the hope that, as their leader Marshall Applewhite had convinced them, their souls might board the spaceship that had been trailing the comet. Applewhite claimed that after their deaths, a UFO would carry their souls to another “level of existence above human,” which he described as being both physical and spiritual. 65 A more apt analogy for the dead king’s “ascension” to heaven—and one closer in both time and space—is provided by the Egyptian beliefs about the fate of the dead pharaoh’s soul, especially during the Old Kingdom. As vividly pictured in the Pyramid Texts, following his death the king was believed to be resurrected to assume two separate forms of immortality. By virtue of his death, he became one with Osiris, the dead king par excellence and the chief god of Duat, the Egyptian netherworld. Simultaneously, though, his dead spirit ascended to the sky to become, through a fusion with the sun god, Rʿ, an immortal star. 66 In this way, the divine dead king was able to partake of two measures of eternity: a linear infinite (as the chthonic Osiris) and a daily cyclical rebirth (as the solar Rʿ). 67 The king’s ascension to heaven could take different forms. In some of the Pyramid Texts, he boards the sun bark of Rʿ. In others, he climbs the ladder leading to the sky. Most commonly, though, he flies up into the 64.  See above, p. 461. 65.  Cited after “Heaven’s Gate (religious group)”, Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia. org/wiki/Heaven%27s_Gate_%28religious_group%29, accessed May 29, 2013. 66.  J. H. Breasted’s account in his Development of Religion and Thought in Ancient Egypt (New York: Scribner, 1912) 101–11, is still one of the best treatments of the “ascent to the sky.” See also R. O. Faulkner, “The King and the Star-Religion in the Pyramid Texts,” JNES 25 (1966) 153–61 (kindly brought to my attention by P. D. Manuelian). 67.  D. P. Silverman, “Divinity and Deities in Ancient Egypt,” in Religion of Ancient Egypt: Gods, Myths, and Personal Practice (ed. B. E. Shafer; Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1991) 72.

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sky as a bird or scarab. Once there, he is received by his brethren, the immortal stars. He then joins them in the reed floats of the sky to sail forever from the east to the west: O King, raise yourself as Min, fly up to the sky and live with them (i.e., the gods), cause your wings to grow with your feathers on your head and your feathers on your arms. Make the sky clear and shine on them as a god; may you be enduring at the head of the sky as Horus of the Netherworld (#1948). 68 The King soars as a divine falcon, the King flies heavenward like a heron, the king flies up as a goose. The King’s wing-feathers are those of a divine falcon. The bones of the embalmed King are raised up, for the king is pure (. . .) The King embarks with Rʿ in this great bark of his, he navigates in it to the horizon in order to rule the gods in it, and Horus navigates in it to the horizon with him, the King rules the gods with him in the horizon, for the King is one of them. (##2042–46). The reed-floats of the sky are set in place for Rʿ, the reed-floats of the sky are set in place for Rʿ, that he may be on high from the East to the West in company with his brethren the gods. His brother is Orion, his sister is Sothis (= Sirius). And he sits between them in this land for ever. The reed-floats of the sky are set in place for this King, the reed-floats of the sky are set in place for this King, that he may be on high from the East to the West in company with his brethren the gods. His brother is Orion, his sister is Sothis. And he sits between them in this land for ever (#2126). O King, you are this great star, the companion of Orion, who traverses the sky with Orion, who navigates the Netherworld with Osiris; you ascend from the east of the sky, being renewed at your due season and rejuvenated at your due time (#466).

Given the speculative nature of the preceding discussion, it will not do too much additional harm if I end by posing another, even more hypothetical question: is it possible that the Babylonian beliefs about the royal ascension to heaven and the king’s divinity more generally were influenced by the Egyptian example? To be sure, there is no mention of Egypt in the third-millennium written sources from Babylonia. But we can be certain that, since at least as early as the reigns of Sargon and Naram-Suen, the Babylonians were, owing to their direct contacts with Syria and the Levant, well informed of Egypt and her peculiar customs and beliefs. Since 68.  This and the following citations from the Pyramid Texts follow the translations by R. O. Faulkner, Ancient Egyptian Pyramid Texts (Oxford: Clarendon, 1969).

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the envoys from Byblos (Gubla) are known to have visited Babylonia in Ur III times, 69 it is inconceivable that the kings of Ur would have been unaware of the existence of Egypt’s divine king. But whether this information influenced them to any significant degree, we unfortunately cannot say.

Addendum Subsequent to the completion of this article, the verb da (see my discussion above, p. 464, §4) has been treated by W. Heimpel in his study “Two Unrecognized Terms in Ur III Accounts of Boat Transport,” in Garšana Studies (ed. D. I. Owen; CUSAS 6; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2011) 167–75. Having reviewed the attestations of da, Heimpel suggested that, rather than “to sail,” this verb describes the action of “idling” the boat due to windy conditions: “I propose the meaning ‘to idle’ for the verb da because stated reasons for this action were windy conditions. Strong winds would have pushed boats mostly in unwanted directions, especially northwest winds when towing boats upstream” (ibid, 164). While it cannot be ruled out completely, such an explanation is highly unlikely in my opinion. The points arguing against it are as follows: 1.  It is known that the ancient Mesopotamian boats had sails, and that they were sailed as a matter of fact, both in the Persian Gulf and on Babylonian waterways. But the Sumerian word for “to sail” is otherwise missing. Thus, unless d a is that missing verb, we would be left without any term for this everyday procedure. It would be strange indeed that Sumerian had a term for such a highly specialized (and very modern) concept as “idling” while it lacked a word for “sailing.” 2.  In the text MVN 15 94 iii 11, which describes a trip from NAGsu to Giš-ummud via Adab, the boat was “d a” to Adab on the Tigris with the northern wind for three days: u d 3- š è t u m-m e r- d a A d a bki m á d a- a. In another instance, where a boat was towed, likewise on the Tigris, from Elugal (in the Umma province) to Puzriš-Dagan via Nippur, the same operation, carried out with the aid of the southern and northern winds between Elugal and Nippur, took six days: u d 6- š è t u m u - ù l u - u m t u m u -m e r m á d a- a g á-n u n É - l u g a l - t a N i b r u k i - š è (TJAMC IOS 36:18–21; Heimpel [“Two Unrecognized Terms,” 165 n. 10] questions the integrity of - u m following t u m u - ù l u, but this writing is common 69.  See D. I. Owen, “Syrians in Sumerian Sources from the Ur III Period,” in New Horizons in the Study of Ancient Syria (eds. M. W. Chavalas and J. L. Hayes; BMes 25; Malibu: Undena, 1992) 122.

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at Puzriš-Dagan in the sheep designation l ú - ù l u - u m). The proposition that boats could be idled for periods as long as three or even six days simply because of a blowing wind is not very realistic. This makes no sense from a meteorological perspective (it is unlikely that a wind should blow continuously for six days), neither is it plausible from a purely practical point of view (the administration would not allow workers to sit around unoccupied for such long periods of time). Note also the following example: 1 s i l a4 m á dN a n n a m á á- k i - t i - t a ⸢ d a⸣ - b i š a g4 á- k i - t i “1 lamb for the boat of Nanna, when the boat was sailed away from the Akitu festival; in the Akitu house/festival” (BPOA 7 2856 ii 14–16), following 1 m á š m á k a r- d a r u - g ú - d a- b i š a g4 G a- e š k i “1 goat for the boat (of Nanna), when (the boat) was moored at the quay; in Gaʾeš” (ibid. i 14–15). The use of the ablative - t a in this example makes it certain that a translation “to idle” of d a is impossible here. 3.  It is characteristic that, in the instances where “wind” (t u m u) is specifically mentioned (as in MVN 15 94 cited above and in SACT 2 89:7), t u m u is usually followed by the commitative postposition - d a “with.” While this grammatical usage fits the meaning “to sail” perfectly (“to sail with the wind”), it remains unexplained in the case of the (hypothetical) translation “to idle.” 4.  Heimpel’s claim that boats could not be towed against wind is simply untenable. Comparative historical and ethnographic data on boattowing unequivocally show that boats can be towed upstream even in the presence of a strong headwind. As a matter of fact, it is precisely when the headwind becomes a factor that one resorts to towing. My main authority here is Iraq and the Persian Gulf, Geographical Handbook Series (B.R. 524, [British] Naval Intelligence Division, September 1944, p.  558), which, in its description of the modern mahaila and safina boats, reads as follows: “Mahailas and safinas are native sailing craft much used from Fao to Baghdad. Their length varies from 30 to 80 feet, their beam from 10 to 25 feet, their draught averages 3 or 4 feet, and their capacity 50 tons. They have one mast provided with a lateen and a stay-sail, and a high sheer forward and aft. Safinas built at Baghdad are often coated with bitumen. A very similar vessel, rather smaller but with shallower draught, is used on the lower Euphrates, particularly on the Hammar lake, where it is known as a bellum. It is a long, narrow, double-ended, flat-bottomed craft, with an average draught of less than 1 ft. 6 in. and an average capacity of 5 to 10 tons. Both types are ancient and are admirable for the waters in which they work. They are towed upstream, if unable to sail against wind [emphasis added] and current, by a long rope led from the stern through a block at the masthead to the crew on the bank.”

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The accompanying photograph (ibid., fig. 215 next to p. 558) shows a gang of workers towing a mahaila boat. Its caption reads: “A mahaila being towed upstream against wind and current.”

“War Crimes” in Amos’s Oracles against the Nations (Amos 1:3–2:3) Nili Wazana

Introduction Biblical Israel was no stranger to the phenomenon of war. Israelite forces were at times attackers and at other times victims, and they took part in both random and planned raids. The sight of armies passing through the land or waging war in it was common throughout the biblical period. War indeed plays an important role in the different genres of biblical literature—historiography, law, prophecy, poetry and more. 1 In this paper, I would like to reexamine the concepts of war and appropriate conduct towards the enemy during war, as these appear in the series of oracles against the nations found at the beginning of the book of Amos (1:3–2:3). My starting point is a rather obvious one—that the concepts of war and the ideology connected to its conduct reflected in biblical literature are embedded in the time and place of its formation. Although this is an obvious, perhaps even superfluous observation, it seems that because of the ubiquity of war in human existence, Amos’s oracles against the nations have often been treated anachronistically. Thus, for example, scholars dealing with the oracles took for granted that the cruel deeds mentioned by Amos were conceived of as “crimes” in the eyes of his audience. 2 Amos’s innovation was seen not only in his daring “groupAuthor’s note: It is a great pleasure to dedicate this paper to Prof. Peter Machinist, whose treatments of biblical and Mesopotamian texts, which show the utmost detailed analysis combined with a view of the big picture, are an inspiration to all of us in the field. This paper, written for this Festschrift, also appeared in a Hebrew version in BeerSheva 19 (2010) 93–115. 1.  The noun milḥāmâ in its various forms appears 316 times in the Bible, the verb from the root lḥm in this meaning 171 times. 2.  See, for example, the following observation: “The atrocities condemned would have been sufficiently contrary to customary law that the prophet’s references would have convinced his audience of the nation’s guilt” (J. H. Hayes, Amos, the Eighth-Century Prophet [Nashville: Abingdon, 1988] 61).

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ing of Israel together with other nations undermining the concept of the election of Israel,” 3 but even more in his comparison of terrible deeds such as “ripping open pregnant women” (Amos 1:13), which constituted “obvious crimes” in the oracles against the nations, to the moral, social crimes (ostensibly of lesser gravity) with which he blames Israel (Amos 2:6–8). 4 Therefore, the relationship between Amos’s oracles against the nations and his prophecy against Israel at the end of the literary unit was often conceived of as a comparison and syllogism, a rhetorical strategy. After having captured his audience’s attention by predicting calamities for their enemies, he directed their attention toward moral crimes the Israelites had committed against each other—his real aim all along. The commentators thus presented the crimes of the nations as crude violations of accepted behavioral norms in comparison to Israel’s social injustices. 5 The logic of Amos’s rhetorical move is stated by Hayes: “If Amos had satisfactorily convinced his audience that known moral laws hold other nations accountable and infringements bring divine reprisal, then the same conditions would pertain to Israel as well.” 6 Yet the shock treatment that the Israelite addressees of the prophet were supposed to receive according to this understanding is rather unconvincing. It seems to me that Amos’s audience would have been dismissive of his accusations had they felt that their blame was much less in comparison to the grosser sins of the nations. A better strategy would have been to use the measure of qal vaḥomer, that is, to make them agree with a divine verdict meted out to perpetrators of lesser offences, and then to realize and accept their heavier blame (compare the case of the lamb of the poor man in Nathan’s rebuke, 2 Sam 12:1–7). Moreover, in Amos’s phraseology there is no distinction, explicit or otherwise, between different grades of the crimes of the nations in comparison with Israel’s social crimes. Both are designated pĕšaʿîm. It is only commentators, influenced by modern conceptions of 3.  H. W. Wolff, Amos the Prophet (trans. F. R. McCurley; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1973) 55. This undermining fits well with other outrageous comparisons such as Amos 9:7, or his notion that the election of Israel will not protect her (Amos 3:1). 4. See, for example, John Barton’s rhetorical question: “Is it a literary device, designed to throw the urbane and comfortable sins of Israel into high relief by seeing them against the background of the apparently grosser outrages perpetrated by barbarian nations, whom the prophet’s complacent hearers would be only too ready to condemn, not noticing until too late that in condemning them they were condemning themselves?” (Amos’s Oracles against the Nations [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980] 1). 5. In Barton’s words, they are “much crasser and more ‘obvious’ crimes” (ibid., 6). 6.  Hayes, Amos, the Eighth-Century Prophet, 61.

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war, who grade them according to an assumed scale of gravity. I suggest that the common understanding of the series of war crimes of the nations as a logical trap, aimed at forcing the listeners to admit and accept their own guilt, is based on anachronistic assumptions. These stem from a contemporary view of war crimes projected upon the words of Amos. The following paper is aimed at offering a different understanding of the war crimes in Amos’s oracles against the nations, and a different relationship between the war crimes of the nations and Israel’s social crimes, based on the conception of war in ancient societies.

The Conception of War in the Ancient Near East War in the ancient Near East was often regarded as an advanced stage in an unsettled dispute. As a paraphrase on the famous adage of Carl von Clausewitz, the founder of modern combat doctrine, we may say that war was seen as a continuation of the policy of gods by other means. 7 War was like a test expressing the verdict of gods in disputes between kingdoms, an “ordeal by battle.” 8 Expressions of this conception are explicit in self-justification of aggressive acts of kings. Thus, for instance, Murshili II, king of Hatti (ca. 1300 b.c.), reports that he had sent a letter to Uḫḫa-zitti, the ringleader of the rebellious Arzawa lands, after the latter had refused to deliver a group of Hittite refugees who had fled to his land, saying: “Let us fight, may the storm god settle our lawsuit (DI-NA).” 9 A similar viewpoint is reflected in the Bible. The king of the Ammonites reclaimed land that Israel had seized when coming up from Egypt (Judg 11:13). Jephtah rejected his claim, challenging him: “May the Lord, who judges, decide today between the Israelites and the Ammonites!” (Judg 11:27). 10 Ordeal by battle is probably also why writers describing wars and, one may assume, participants in the battles themselves, paid a lot of attention to seemingly unnatural phenomena occurring during the battle, such as collapse of walls, stones falling from heaven, or extreme weather conditions. These were viewed 7.  The original phrase states “der Krieg nichts ist, als die fortgesetzte Staatspolitik mit andern Mitteln” (war is but the continuation of state policy by other means) (C. von Clausewitz, Vom Kriege, [4th ed. Berlin: Dümmler, 1880] vii). 8.  This definition was coined by V. Korošec, “Warfare of the Hittites: from the Legal Point of View,” Iraq 25 (1963) 164. 9. The ten years annals of Murshili, in: A. Goetze, Die Annalen des Mursilis (MVAG 38; Leipzig: Hinrich, 1933; repr. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1967) 46–47: 14. 10.  English translations follow the NJPS unless otherwise noted.

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as evidence of divine intervention, revealing divine will and resolution of the conflict. 11 Murshili II continues his report saying that after he had challenged the rebellious Uḫḫa-zitti, the storm god had shown his power by firing from heaven a thunderbolt (or a meteor?), which had hit Uḫḫazitti’s town. This was seen by both the attacking Hittite army and the citizens of the land of Arzawa, and it had caused the rebel king to become ill, run away and eventually die in exile. 12 The battle of Joshua at Gibeon also comes to mind, when God intervened and hurled huge stones from the sky upon the fleeing enemy forces (Josh 10:11). The song of Deborah emphasized the role of nature in the battle against Sisera, indicating divine intervention, even deifying the natural phenomena: “The stars fought from heaven, from their courses they fought against Sisera. The torrent Kishon swept them away, the raging torrent, the torrent Kishon” (Judg 5:20–21). 13 The success of the attack was proof enough of the victorious side’s righteousness, and accordingly, the losers explained their defeat by assuming divine anger. Mesha, king of Moab, explains the long Moabite subjugation to Israel by divine wrath: “Omri was king of Israel, and he oppressed Moab for many days because Kemosh was angry with his country” (Mesha inscription, lines 4–6). 14 He thanks Kemosh for delivering him from all his enemies, yet there is nothing in the inscription to indicate that Omri was blamed for violating any rules or codes of behavior. The same worldview is well known from biblical sources as well, such as in the 11.  See A. Goetze, “Warfare in Asia Minor,” Iraq 25 (1963) 127. God appeared also in much less dramatic natural phenomena, such as David’s sign in his battle against the Philistines at the valley of Rephaim: “And when you hear the sound of marching in the tops of the baca trees, then go into action, for the Lord will be going in front of you to attack the Philistine forces” (2 Sam 5:24); see F. Schwally, Der heilige Krieg im alten Israel (Leipzig: Dieterich, 1901) 6–7. 12.  Goetze, Die Annalen des Mursilis, 46–49: 17–20. For this event and the phenomenon called GIŠkalmišana, which the storm god threw from the sky, see G. Steiner, “Ein bolid in Anatolien als Manifestation einer Gottheit,” in Die Rolle der Astronomie in den Kulturen Mesopotamiens (ed. H. D. Galter; Grazer Morgenländische Studien 3; Graz: GrazKult, 1993) 211–30; and the bibliography listed in H. Klengel, Geschichte des Hethitischen Reiches (HdO; Leiden: Brill, 1999) 189 n. 225. 13. Moshe Weinfeld collected many examples of God intervening in battle in the Bible and in the ancient Near East and its expression through natural phenomena, yet he did not define the role of theophany in battle for purposes of legal adjudication of the parties. See M. Weinfeld, “Divine Intervention in War,” in History, Historiography, and Interpretation: Studies in Biblical and Cuneiform Literatures (eds. H. Tadmor and M. Weinfeld; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1986) 121–47. 14.  Translation follows S. Aḥituv, Echoes from the Past: Hebrew and Cognate Inscriptions from the Biblical Period (Jerusalem: Carta, 2008) 394.

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Deuteronomistic description of the Aramean oppression during the days of Hazael and his son Ben-hadad, which highlights the wrath of God: “The Lord was angry with Israel and he repeatedly delivered them into the hands of king Hazael of Aram and into the hands of Ben-hadad son of Hazael” (2 Kgs 13:3). A typical and more developed expression of this concept, which further connects divine wrath with the people’s behavior, is found in prophecies depicting enemies as tools in God’s toolbox to punish his people for their sins. 15 What, if any, was the role of “war laws” in a world which deemed the results of armed confrontations as an indication of divine justice? It appears that there was a distinction between rules that addressed the issue of initiating war and its justification (jus ad bellum) and those that related to behavior during armed conflict, regardless of who was the initiating side (jus in bello). This distinction, suggested by Hugo von Grotius, the 17th-century theologian and legalist who is considered the father of international law, serves to shed light on the cases under study. 16 Ancient Near Eastern texts often deal with the question of justification for inaugurating war, as we have seen in the examples above, but treatment of issues of behavior during war are much more rare. 17 In a world that deemed the enemies a tool for executing divine anger, there could hardly be a place for a concept of human “war crimes,” that is, violation of explicit or implicit rules of behavior during battles. The cruelest acts could find justification in divine will, God’s arbitrary or justified anger toward his people, and punishment of their sins. At most, biblical prophets could blame the “tools” for the crime of hubris, taking credit for what was really decreed divinely (see the well-known verses of Isa 10:12–15), but few ancient Near Eastern and biblical texts deal with correct behavior towards the enemy during war. In the light of this, the words of the eighth-century-b.c. prophet from Teqoa, Amos, stand out. He addresses Israel’s neighbors (while probably 15.  Prominent examples are Isa 9:10–11; 10:5; 36:10. 16. H. Grotius, De jure belli ac pacis (Aalen: Scientia, 1993). 17.  See, for example, Amnon Altman’s review of the element of justification in the historical prologues to Hittite vassal treaties. He deals mostly with justifications of the right of the Hittites to rule other people in view of Hittite border conceptions, but the historical prologues also explicitly justify Hittite aggressiveness, usually by the claim of retaliation to an earlier act of offense (The Historical Prologue of the Hittite Vassal Treaties: An Inquiry into the Concepts of Hittite Interstate Law [Ramat-Gan: BarIlan University Press, 2004] 183–91, 270–88). For justification of war in Assyria, see B. Oded, War, Peace, and Empire: Justifications for War in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1992).

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aiming at an Israelite audience) with a list of sins which many commentators characterize as “war crimes” (Amos 1:3–2:3). Given the conception of war in the ancient Near East discussed above, Amos’s list is not of “obvious crimes” based on ethics common to ancient societies. If indeed Amos demanded a restrained and more considerate behavior toward enemy population during war, he is conspicuously deviating from common ancient conceptions of war. The alleged uniqueness of this worldview in the context of ancient ideology and political propaganda begs for a renewed analysis of his words. This analysis will investigate the literary mold in which the prophet presented his message, the graded numerical pattern, as well as the content of the crimes and their relationship to the crimes of Israel, which form the climax of the unit (Amos 2:6–16).

The Graded Numerical Pattern in Amos’s Oracles against the Nations Amos’s exhortations to Israel’s neighbors begin with the repeated phrase: “Thus said the Lord: For three transgressions of Damascus (/Gaza / Tyre / Edom / Ammonites / Moab) and for four I will not revoke it.” He then relates one crime for each nation followed by a threat of punishment (Amos 1:3–2:3). Scholars debate the relationship of the repeated graded numerical pattern “for three transgressions . . . and for four” to the one specified crime. As a rule, graded numerical expressions “X, X+1” that are not followed by an explicit enumeration express an approximate, indefinite numerical value, sometimes insignificant (see, for example, Isa 17:6), sometimes considerable (Mic 5:4). 18 When there is a specified list of items following the graded numerical heading, their number corresponds with the second definite number of the sequence (“X+1”; for example, Prov 30:15b–17, 18–19, each enumerating four phenomena). 19 While Amos does specify a sin and cannot therefore mean an approximate or indefinite value, he specifies one sin only, and not four. His use of the graded numerical sequence is thus irregular, and its meaning cannot be discerned 18.  GKC §134s. 19.  For this distinction, see M. Haran, “The Graded Numerical Sequence and the Phenomenon of ‘Automatism’ in Biblical Poetry,” VTSup 22 (1972) 238–67. Haran refers also to a class of expressions listing components according to the lower number, X, yet even he admits that examples are few, and not certain (p. 253). The texts he mentions, Job 33:14 and Ps 62:12, are equivocal; see M. H. Segal, “On Certain Forms of Biblical Poetry,” Tarbiz 18 (1947) 143 (Hebrew). For extrabiblical examples, see the material collected in W. M. W. Roth, “The Numerical Sequence x/x + 1 in the Old Testament,” VT 12 (1962) 300–311.

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in the light of stylistic parallels. Scholars regarded the specified crime as a representative sample, 20 possibly the most severe, 21 or the one that overdid it in the eyes of God. 22 According to the latter interpretation, while God may have been willing to forgive two crimes, for three, and even more so for four He will not forgive and will inflict severe punishment on the sinning people. 23 Thus all acts referred to are “crimes” and are not measured according to their level of severity. The punishment is enacted because of their sinister accumulation rather than their actual perpetration. The implication of this observation is that Amos does not distinguish categorically between less and more heinous deeds but refers to the repetitive character of the crime. I also claim that it was not only the accumulation of sins that overdid it in the eyes of God, but also their essence that was deemed excessive; however, unlike the common view noted above, they are condemned not because they are regarded as categorically wrong, but due to their lack of proportionality, their extremity. The rebuke of Amos should be explained as dealing in varying shades of grey, rather than in black and white. 20.  Segal, “Certain Forms,” 143–44. 21. This idea is common to scholars who may disagree on the meaning of the graded numerical expression itself, such as Cassuto (“Biblical and Canaanite Literature,” in Biblical and Oriental Studies [2 vols.; trans. I. Abrahams; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1975] 2:24). Weiss, who interpreted the numerical sequence in Amos as referring to the number seven, claimed that in the case of the foreign nations the prophet is “recalling one of their sins which is considered the complete and greatest one” (“The Pattern of Numerical Sequence in Amos 1 and 2: A Reexamination,” JBL 86 [1967] 416–23). Haran calls the explicated crime “the most serious sin” and claims that “if all the sins were fully listed it is still possible that the first three would be considered as a mere preparation for the fourth . . . which is the main one” (“The Graded Numerical Sequence,” 261, 266). 22.  “The one which has provoked the action of Yahweh . . . [has] finally broken the patience of Yahweh” (J. L. Mays, Amos [Old Testament Library; London: SCM, 1969) 23–24). 23.  Seeligmann suggested that Amos’s series of visions (Amos 7:1–9; 8:1–3), in which the Lord forgives after the intervention of the prophet in the first two instances but does not in the latter two, was the experience that influenced the wording in the titles of the oracles to the nations (I. L. Seeligmann, “The Problems of Prophecy in Israel, Its Development and Characteristics,” ErIsr 3 [1959] 129 [Hebrew; English summary, vii]). The comparison to the visions is illuminating. There is no change in the behavior of the people that can explain the difference in the divine verdict. The only element is the accumulation of the violations: God is willing to forgive once and twice, but in the third occurrence He changes His attitude, and after the fourth time He activates the punishment. The basket of figs (qāyiṣ, probably pronounced qēṣ in the northern dialect) in the fourth vision represents the end (qēṣ): “the end has come for my people Israel; I will not pardon them again” (Amos 8:2).

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Amos’s Oracles against the Nations in the Context of War All the crimes in Amos’s oracles against the nations are concerned with conduct of war towards the enemy, and are often dubbed “war crimes” in scholarly treatments. 24 This follows from the assumption that the genre of oracles against the nations developed from older oracles before battles, promising Israel victory and success over its enemies. 25 Yet the focus of the oracles against the nations is not Israel’s victory, but the crimes of the nations and their subsequent punishment. In the words of Yair Hoffman: the calamity comes “because” (of the crimes) and not “for” (Israel’s victory). 26 An early expression of oracles of this kind is found in a letter from Mari giving the words of the prophet (āpilum) of Dagan of Tuttul, who addressed the Babylonian enemy in the second person, blaming Babylon and threatening punishment, and finally also promising victory to Zimri-lim, king of Mari: “O Babylon, why do you keep doing (it)? I will gather you to the net and to the lance. The houses of the seven confederates and all their possessions I shall place in Zimri-lim’s hand.” 27 This example shows that the calamity can be construed both “because” of what Babylon had done and “for” delivering the enemy to Zimri-lim’s hand. The origins of the genre itself dictate that the nations are reproached for their military behavior and not for civilian acts of the sort that also typify prophetic admonitions against Israel, such as the one addressed to Israel at the climax of the series of oracles against the nations (Amos 2:6–8). 24.  The eighth prophecy directed against Judah (Amos 2:4) is the exception to the rule since Judah’s crime is religious, and many commentators view it as a late addition. In any case, it is irrelevant to the evaluation of the crimes of other nations, and so it will be excluded from the current discussion. Many scholars cast doubt on the originality of other oracles in the series, but I accept that stylistic and literary considerations argue that they are original, and the discussion below further substantiates this claim. For the entire matter see S. M. Paul, Amos (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991) 11–27, and references there. 25. Already noted in the first part of the article of J. H. Hayes, “The Usage of Oracles against Foreign Nations in Ancient Israel,” JBL 87 (1968) 81–87. The connection to the genre of oracles before battle was explored extensively by Yair Hoffman, The Prophecies against Foreign Nations in the Bible (Tel Aviv: Chaim Rosenberg School for Jewish Studies, 1977) 267–88 (Hebrew; English summary, i–iv); idem, “From Oracle to Prophecy: The Growth, Crystallization and Disintegration of a Biblical Gattung,” JNSL 10 (1982) 75–81. 26.  Hoffman, Prophecies against Foreign Nations, 285. 27.  ARM 26 23. See Hayes, “The Usage of Oracles Against Foreign Nations,” 85; H. M. Barstad, “Mari Prophetic Texts and the Hebrew Bible,” in Essays on Ancient Israel in Its Near Eastern Context: A Tribute to Nadav Naʾaman (eds. Y. Amit et al.; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006) 30.

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Yet in contrast to the victory oracles, the oracles against the nations in Amos do not deal with Israel’s international relationships and do not represent a parochial worldview. Many scholars have noted that each rebuke is focused not on the victims of those crimes but on the crimes themselves. Admittedly, the nations addressed were Israel’s enemies at one time or another and the prophet is predicting (presumably to an Israelite audience that approved of this message) a devastating fate for them. But the crimes were not necessarily enacted against Israel. The name Israel is not even mentioned in the oracles. Indeed, Amos blames the Arameans and Ammonites for hurting Gilead: “Because they threshed Gilead with threshing boards of iron” (Amos 1:3b); “Because they ripped open the pregnant women of Gilead” (1:13b). But Amos does not explicitly define the nationality of the Gileadites. The unusual syntax of the accusation against Aram, where the indirect object and the instrumental phrase “because they threshed with threshing boards of iron” precede the direct object “Gilead,” further highlights the act itself rather than the identity of its victims. 28 The use of the infinitive construct also indicates the emphasis of the act over its perpetrators or victims. 29 In fact, some of the crimes, such as that of the Philistines and of Tyre—exiling, or handing over an entire population to Edom (Amos 1:6, 9)—are not necessarily crimes committed against the people of Israel or Judah, since the identity of the victims is not mentioned at all. 30 Even if some of the crimes were committed against Israel, the phrasing indicates that this was not the main issue. The only victim explicitly mentioned in the series of oracles is from a different nationality: Moab is blamed for desecrating the body of the king of Edom. 31 That an Israelite prophet should be thus concerned with the fate of a foreigner so impressed Rudolf Kittel that in 1925 he called it: “the first trace of international law in history.” 32 It is clearly the acts themselves, 28.  See M. Weiss, The Book of Amos (Volume 1; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1992) 1:28. 29.  See the following quote from GKC §45a regarding the use of the infinitive: “it emphasizes the abstract verbal idea, without regard to the subject or object of the action”; see also GKC §113a. 30.  As noted by R. S. Cripps, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Amos (London: S.P.C.K., 1955) 124. 31.  See the comment of Norman K. Gottwald: “. . . the exact nation wronged is immaterial for it is the cruelty and barbarity of nation against nation which Yahweh condemns. It is enough to know who has sinned. But in the instance of the one victim named there is also a purpose. Here the nation is named because it is not an Israelite state” (All the Kingdoms of the Earth [New York: Harper & Row, 1964] 109–10). 32. “[E]ven Israel’s enemies were to participate in the benefits of the universal moral order. Moab was ripe for judgment because it had used lawless violence against Edom which was as much Israel’s enemy as Moab. This is the first trace of international

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perpetrated in the context of military hostilities, that are condemned in Amos’s oracles against the nations.

Pešaʿ in Amos Amos defines the acts of the nations by the noun pešaʿ, in plural and in the construct state: “transgressions (pišʿê) of Damascus / Gaza / Tyre / Edom / Ammonites / Moab.” The noun appears altogether ten times in the book of Amos, always in the plural. It has been called “a central term in the vocabulary of Amos” in comparison to other possible terms designating sin, such as ḥēṭʾ and its derivatives, found three times in the book (5:12; 9:8, 10), and ʿāwōn, found once (3:2). 33 This is especially noticeable according to Meir Weiss because of the different distribution of the terms in the entire Bible, where the alternative terms, ḥēṭʾ and ʿāwōn, are much more common. 34 Yet it is noteworthy that eight of the ten appearances of the noun pešaʿ belong to the opening unit—the oracles against the nations, and its climax, the rebuke against Israel (1:3, 6, 9, 11, 13; 2:4, 6). The two remaining cases deal with the “crimes of Israel,” once accompanied with the explicit nomen regens “Israel” (3:14) and once with the suffixed pronoun “your crimes” (5:12). These verses use pešaʿ similarly to its meaning in the prophecy against Israel in 2:6–8, and the latter case (5:12) is actually a parallel formulation of 2:6–8. In another verse the root pšʿ appears twice as a verb: “come to Bethel and transgress, to Gilgal and transgress even more” (4:4a), yet the nature of the crime is not explicit. 35 It appears, therefore, that pešaʿ was not indicative of the usual vocabulary of Amos but is characteristic of the oracles against the nations in particular, and its meaning must be determined based on the words of the prophet in this unit separately. law in history” (R. Kittel, The Religion of the People of Israel [trans. R. C. Micklem; New York: Macmillan, 1925] 138). 33.  Paul, Amos, 45. 34.  Weiss, Book of Amos, 1:25. 35.  Although Amos expressed his admonition by the double imperative “come . . . and transgress,” it is unlikely that he is creating a relationship of condition and result between the two, in the sense of “come to Bethel and thus transgress,” as suggested by Weiss (Book of Amos, 1:107). While Amos is of Judean origin, there is nothing in the book to suggest that his admonition of Israelite transgressions in royal shrines is in any way indicative of his supposed Judean cultic animus against the northern kingdom cultic infractions. The usual interpretation is preferable, that Amos is criticizing what he sees as the hypocritical combination of moral and social injustice together with religious piousness, expressed also by Isaiah: “I cannot abide assemblies with iniquity” (1:13). See, for example, L. Markett, Struktur und Bezeichnung des Scheltworts (BZAW 40; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1977) 118.

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The basic meaning of this noun has to do with transgressions between men, causing corporal or property damages, in the context of punishable crimes. The only appearance of pešaʿ in the biblical legal corpus is found in the Book of the Covenant, where the law pertaining to stolen goods defines misappropriation of goods or animals as ‫( כל דבר פשע‬Exod 22:8). 36 By typifying them as pĕšaʿîm, Amos borrows the term from the civilian sphere, where it denotes infractions of property and personal rights, and for the international, political sphere, where it denotes corporal or property damages committed against another people during war.  37 In this context, we should also mention the Deuteronomistic use of the verb pšʿ alone (2 Kgs 8:22) or with the preposition bĕ: pšʿ b- (1 Kgs 12:19 = 2 Chr 10:19) in the sense of rebellion. 38 Breaking off the yoke brings an acute and justified military reaction of the sovereign. Thus, when Jeroboam son of Nebat revolts against the house of David, Rehoboam summons warriors, intending to restore his rule by force (1 Kgs 12:21), but the war is avoided by a special divine declaration (v.  24). This interference highlights the common conception that it is an undisputed right of the overlord to fight a vassal who rebelled against him and transgressed a sworn allegiance. Another famous biblical case is when Mesha, king of Moab, stopped paying tribute to Israel, that is, he rebelled (2 Kgs 1:1; 3:5). Immediately Jehoram, king of Israel, sent a message to Jehoshaphat, king of Judah saying: “The king of Moab has rebelled against me; will you come with me to make war on Moab?” (2 Kgs 3:7). 39 36. R. Knierim, “pešaʿ crime,” TLOT, 2:1035. 37.  Wolff defined them as “infractions of property and personal rights” (Joel and Amos [Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1977] 152). See also HALOT, 981: “offence concerning property.” A similar sense appears in narrative, when Jacob asks Laban, who is looking for his stolen idols: “what is my crime (pišʿî), what is my guilt that you should pursue me?” (Gen 31:36), and in the wisdom literature (Prov 28:24). 38.  See also the metaphorical phrase: “to break from under the hand” in the same sense, such as in the description of the rebellion of Edom against Judah (2 Kgs 8:20), again with the immediate reaction being an attack of the offended overlord (2 Kgs 8:21). 39. For Hittite reactions to rebellions, see Altman, Historical Prologue, 139–44. When no prior relationship existed, imperial propaganda found other means of justifying acts of military aggression, such as portraying it as initiated and practically invited by a local power, thus converting the act to a salvation campaign. Thus in the introduction to the treaty between Hatti and Ugarit, Shuppiluliuma recalls: “Niqmaddu, king of the land of Ugarit, turned to Shuppiluliuma, Great King, writing: ‘May Your Majesty, Great King, my lord, save me from the hand of my enemy! I am the subject of Your Majesty, Great King, my lord. To my lord’s enemy I am hostile, [and] with my lord’s friend I am at peace. The kings are oppressing(?) me.’ The Great King heard those words of Niqmaddu, and Shuppiluliuma, Great King, dispatched princes and noblemen with

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In biblical and ancient Near Eastern thought, crimes of rebellion involving a breach of sworn covenant justified severe punishment and reprisal by the gods, who played the role of witnesses and guarantors to the covenant. The bitter fate of the violators was conceived as the activation and fulfillment of the threats and curses appended to the treaty. Is this the background to Amos’s accusations? 40 Some of the crimes enumerated by Amos are connected to breaches of covenants. Amos blames Tyre for not “remembering,” that means keeping the covenant of brotherhood (1:9). 41 Edom’s crime is that it pursued “its brother,” presumably Israel, with the sword (1:11), alluding to the eponyms Esau and Jacob, but also to the covenantal terminology of brotherhood. Divine punishments of violation of treaty stipulations were understood and accepted by the ancient audiences. If Amos’s oracles against the nations would have consisted only of this type of violation, as Michael Fishbane suggests, they would have been well justified in his day and world. 42 Yet violations of treaty stipulations are not the major theme in Amos’s oracles either. The indictment against Tyre regards violation of covenant brotherhood, but this is defined specifically as delivering an entire population to Edom (1:9). The verbal noun designating the crime in this case is based on the root sgr in the hiphil, denoting deliverance of a weak party to the hands of its enemy in the context of war, that is, slave traffic. The Philistines are faced with an almost identical charge. They are charged with having raided areas for the purpose of slave traffic, this infantry [and chariotry] to the land of Ugarit. And they chased the enemy troops [out of] the land of Ugarit” (G. Beckman, Hittite Diplomatic Texts [SBLWAW 7; Atlanta: Scholars, 1999] 34–35, §2). See A. Altman, “The ‘Deliverance Motif ’ in the Historical Prologues of Shupiluliuma I’s Vassal Treaties,” in Confrontation and Co-existence (ed. P. Artzi; Bar-Ilan Studies in History 2; Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1984) 41–76; and Altman, Historical Prologue, 237–50. 40.  The notion of religious rebellion was derived from the political context, in the light of the special relationship of God with Israel that was depicted analogically as a political treaty of an overlord with his vassal, already in Amos, and then in other texts (such as Isa 1:2). 41.  For the term, see J. Priest, “The Covenant of Brothers,” JBL 84 (1965) 400– 406. Although the verb pšʿ in a political sense in the Bible refers to a breach of treaty between unequal sides, it could obviously also describe a betrayal of an equal partner, a “brother,” since in that case a sworn covenant was breached too, causing reprisal of the witnessing gods. Such was the breach of covenant between Hatti and Egypt, which was a covenant of brothers. See the confession of Murshili II in I. Singer, Hittite Prayers (SBLWAW 11; Atlanta: Scholars, 2002) 58, §§4–5. 42. M. Fishbane, “The Treaty Background of Amos 1:11 and Related Matters,” JBL 89 (1970) 313–18.

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time without mentioning a violation of covenantal relationships. 43 The violation of covenant is therefore not the major crime, although it was no doubt considered a grave transgression, but the actions by which the nations violated the covenant: merciless and relentless attacks, exiling entire populations, and selling them as slaves. These acts were severe enough in the eyes of Amos, even without constituting a violation of covenant. The term pešaʿ is thus connected to its double original sense denoting corporal or property damages and to violations of treaties, but this is not the full picture. To decipher the worldview of this literary unit it is necessary to check the actions defined as transgressions in Amos’s oracles in the light of their place in contemporary ideology, as reflected in biblical and ancient Near Eastern texts.

Amos’s Indictments in the Context of the Bible and the Ancient Near East What does Amos blame the nations for? Does he depict cruelty, exile or defilement of bodies during war as categorically contradictory to God’s moral laws? 44 The deeds that Amos vehemently condemns were common acts mentioned in other sources, biblical and extrabiblical, with no reservation! On the contrary, acts of great cruelty during war were considered legitimate and were even celebrated, as they depicted military greatness and thus God’s will. 45 Amos blames Aram for having threshed (‫)ּדּוׁשם‬ ָ Gilead with threshing boards of iron. The same image of oppression is used for the acts of Hazael, king of Aram, and his son Ben-Hadad in the language of the Duteronomistic historiographer: “For the king of Aram had decimated them and trampled them like the dust” (using the infinitive ‫; ָלדֻׁש‬ 43.  For this difference between the verbs sgr in the hiphil in the case of Tyre and glh in the hiphil in the case of the Philistines, see Cripps, Critical and Exegetical Commentary, 124, 127. 44.  Cripps sees in them “transgressions against the moral laws of the God of righteousness” (Critical and Exegetical Commentary, 118). John Barton views Amos’s admonitions as relying on “customary law or convention . . . commonsense morality” (Amos’s Oracles, 5). Yet these observations stem from a circular argument. They presume that because Amos is making those accusations, his audience must have shared the same moral standards. Furthermore, seeing Amos’s view as reflecting “common ethics” is based on anachronistic moral grounds. Amos’s charges must be viewed in the light of their contemporary custom and praxis. 45.  Contrary to Paul, who presents parallels as “similar figurative usages depicting extremely harsh cruelty in warfare” (Amos, 47).

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2 Kgs 13:7). This threshing of the Israelite army depicts the superiority of the Aramean force, without criticism. As Volkmar Fritz noted, this and other texts utilize agricultural metaphors in contexts of war, as an image for strength and not forbidden and extreme cruelty. 46 The prophet Micah promises that Israel will thresh her enemies “. . . for He has gathered them like cut grain to the threshing floor. Up and thresh, fair Zion! For I will give you horns of iron and provide you with hoofs of bronze, and you will crush the many peoples” (with the imperative forms: ‫ָדֹוׁשי‬ ִ ‫;קּומי ו‬ ִ Mic 4:12–13). Deutro-Isaiah similarly declares: “I will make of you a new threshing board with double-edged spikes; You shall thresh mountains to dust and make hills like chaff” (Isa 41:15). Habakkuk uses this metaphor to describe God’s assault on the nations: “You tread the earth in rage, you thresh nations in fury” (translating ‫ ָּתדּוׁש‬here “thresh” rather than the NJPS “trample”; Hab 3:12; see also Isa 25:10). The threshing of Gilead with threshing boards of iron brings to mind David’s treatment of the Ammonites. The description mentions agricultural and civilian instruments, perhaps as means of torture inflicted by David, as understood by the KJV: “And he brought forth the people that were therein, and put them under saws, and under harrows of iron, and under axes of iron, and made them pass through the brick-kiln: and thus did he unto all the cities of the children of Ammon” (2 Sam 12:31). The NJPS translation reflects a different, non-literal understanding: “set them to work with . . . or assigned them to brickmaking.” Either way, the tenor is obviously positive, flaunting David’s wonderful achievements, setting them beside the spoils taken from the conquered city (v. 30), with no reservation or criticism. Amos addresses elsewhere the Israelites celebrating their victories east of the Jordan, using the metaphor of horns for military superiority found also in Micah 4:13, in juxtaposition to the threshing image: “Those who are so happy about Lo-dabar, who exult: ‘By our might we have captured Karnaim’” (Amos 6:13; Karnaim, a name of a town east of the Jordan, also means “horns,” a symbol of military strength). 47 Amos here is angry with Israel’s hubris, her inability to recognize the true force behind her territorial gains, but he has no issue with the use of force in capturing territories and populations, nor is he averse to the use of the literary images of military strength and cruelty. This is also true of extrabiblical descriptions, as for example in the Neo-Assyrian royal inscriptions. An oft-mentioned example is the remark of Tiglath-pileser III, who brags of having threshed 46. V. Fritz, “Die Fremdvölkersprüche des Amos, ” VT 37 (1987) 29–30. 47.  Compare the iron horns of Zedekiah son of Chenaanah, 1 Kgs 22:11.

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the country of Bit-Amukkani as with a threshing sledge (Bīt Amukkani kīma dayašti adīš).  48 The Ammonites, bordering Gilead on the south, are blamed with having ripped open the pregnant women of Gilead to enlarge their own territory (Amos 1:13). What strikes modern readers as extreme cruelty against civilians was in fact a common motif in descriptions of war, again signifying military control and superiority. The Deuteronomistic historiographer reports that the king of Israel, Menahem, “subdued Tiphsah (LXX: Tappuah) and all who were in it, and its territory, (from Tirzah), for it did not surrender, he massacred [its people] and ripped open all its pregnant women” (2 Kgs 15:16). 49 Hosea utilizes this motif when describing Samaria’s imminent bitter fate: “They shall fall by the sword, their infants shall be dashed to death, and their women with child ripped open” (Hos 14:1b). The prophet Elisha crowns Hazael, king of Aram, and he weeps while predicting that Hazael will set Israel’s fortresses on fire, “put their young men to the sword, dash their little ones in pieces, and rip open their pregnant women” (2 Kgs 8:12). Hazael’s modest answer to this prediction, usual in prophetic enthronement stories, is chilling: “Can your servant, who is a mere dog, perform such a mighty deed?” (2 Kgs 8:13). None of the characters involved, or the storyteller, sees these acts as anything other than mighty; they are definitely not violations of the will of God or reprehensible crimes. 50 Certainly there is deep sorrow for the future Israelite victims of Hazael, and the dedicated prophet indeed 48. H. Tadmor, The Inscriptions of Tiglath-Pileser III King of Assyria (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1994) 122 line 11. See the examples assembled by Fritz, suggested to him by Machinist (“Die Fremdvölkersprüche,” 29 n. 11). For the description of threshing the flesh of the enemy’s captives with thorns, see Judg 8:7, 16. 49.  This translation varies slightly from that of the NJPS, which transfers the words “from Tirzah” to the beginning of the verse. The opening word ‫“ אז‬at that time” may indicate an archival source, as suggested by Montgomery (J. A. Montgomery, “Archival Data in the Book of Kings,” JBL 53 [1934] 49). In opposition to Mordechai Cogan, I do not find a negative or condemning tone toward the acts of Menahem in the story itself (see M. Cogan, “Ripping Open Pregnant Women in Light of an Assyrian Analogue,” JAOS 103 [1983] 757). 50.  Jacob Wright sees a negative assessment of these predicted acts in the words of Hazael, and translates accordingly “only a reprobate (lit. ‘dog’) would do such a thing” (J. L. Wright, “Warfare and Wanton Destruction: A Reexamination of Deuteronomy 20:19–20 in Relation to Ancient Siegecraft,” JBL 127 [2008] 455). Yet his interpretation does not take into consideration that the idiom “your servant, the dog,” is characteristic of ancient Near Eastern epistolary style as attested in el-Amarna, letters from Lachish, and Neo-Assyrian texts, and it is therefore untenable. See D. W. Thomas, “Kelebh, ‘Dog’: Its Origin and Some Usages of It in the Old Testament,” VT

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weeps as he is predicting them, but in themselves there is nothing wrong or reprehensible about those acts. On the contrary, the story portrays the enthronement of Hazael and his future acts as fulfilling God’s will. The same motif appears in a hymn glorifying Tiglath-pileser I (1114–1076): he ripped open pregnant women (ušarriṭi), blinded babies, slit the throats of their heroes. 51 Amos blames the Philistines “because they exiled an entire population which they delivered to Edom” (Amos 1:6b), and similarly the Phoenicians are blamed “because they handed over an entire population to Edom, violating the covenant of brotherhood” (1:9b). Slave trafficking, a common by-product of warfare and raids, is not treated as a despicable war crime in other texts. The prophet Joel also blames Tyre, Sidon, and Philistia for selling the Judeans to the Ionians as slaves (Joel 4:6). Unlike Amos, he is not bothered by the act itself, but by the national aspect of it, the impact on Israel. In the future, predicts Joel, the tables will turn, and Judeans will be the ones selling the children of their enemies into slavery: “Behold: I will rouse them to leave the place you have sold them to, and I will pay you back: I will deliver your sons and daughters into the hands of the people of Judah and they will sell them into captivity to a distant nation” (Joel 4:7–8). Selling captive sons and daughters is not considered a crime, and is not prohibited as such. It is one of the many harsh consequences of war, like the carrying off of loot described in the preceding verse (Joel 4:5). Last, Amos blames Moab for having “burned the bones of the king of Edom to lime” (Amos 2:1b). This crime refers to desecration of bodies in general, and of the enemy king in particular. Proper burial was extremely important in the ancient Near East, all the more so for a king, a public representative figure. 52 Biblical and extrabiblical narratives indicate that public desecration of the enemy king’s body was a routine matter. After 10 (1960) 414–15; M. Cogan and H. Tadmor, II Kings (AB; New York: Doubleday, 1988) 91. 51. E. Ebeling, “Ein Heldenlied auf Tiglatpileser I,” Or 18 (1949) 35 rev. 3–4. According to Hayim Tawil, the Akkadian verb šarāṭu in the D-stem, semantically parallel to Hebrew bqʿ, is etymologically and through metathesis connected to the verb rṭš, appearing in the Bible in the act parallel to ripping pregnant women, dashing infants; see H. Tawil, “Two Biblical and Akkadian Comparative Lexical Notes,” JSS 47 (2002) 209–11; CAD Š/2: 59 s.v. šarāṭu 2. For a survey of this motif, see Cogan, “Ripping Open Pregnant Women,” 755–57. In this case, too, I agree with the opinion of Fritz (“Fremdvölkersprüche,” 31) that no special cruelty is indicated but a complaint about the usual horrors accompanying warfare. 52.  For sources and discussion of the motif of desecrated bodies, see N. Wazana, “‘For An Impaled Body Is a Curse of God’ (Deut 21:23): Impaled Bodies in Biblical Law and Conquest Narratives,” in Law and Narrative in the Bible and in Neighbouring

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the Philistines found the bodies of Saul and his sons in the battlefield at Gilboa, they cut off his head and impaled his body on the wall of Bethshean (1 Sam 31:9–10). 53 Exposure and desecration of bones and bodies are among the oft-mentioned horrors of war, in curses or prophecies, such as in Jeremiah’s predictions that the enemy shall exhume and expose the bodies of the kings of Judah as well as of her ministers, priests, prophets, and the rest of the inhabitants of Jerusalem: “they shall not be gathered for reburial, they shall become dung upon the face of the earth” (Jer 8:1–2). This motif is part of royal bragging in Assyrian inscriptions. Assurbanipal claims, “The graves of their (Elam’s) kings first and last . . . I uprooted, destroyed and exposed to the sun, their bones I took to Assyria and left their names restless.” 54 Burning the bones of the king of Edom to lime should be compared to the act of desecration of the high places in Josiah’s religious reform. The king took bones out of their graves and burned them on the altars (2 Kgs 23:16, 20). 55 This extreme act demonstrated how far Josiah was willing to go in his reform, but it did not diminish from the enthusiastic praise of the Deuteronomistic narrator for Josiah (v. 25). On the contrary, in this case it appears that the story uses the vile act in order to call attention to the reform; praise of the king proves that defiling the high places was such an important cause that it justified even the most extreme and unthinkable measures. There was a certain code of treatment of bodies, even (perhaps especially) of the body of a sinning, or enemy, king. Queen Jezebel was killed by being thrown out of a window. Jehu, who ordered her death, eats and drinks, but then charges, “Attend to that cursed woman and bury her for she was a king’s daughter” (2 Kgs 9:34). The fact that by then her body was already dispersed, and his people could only find her head, feet and Ancient Cultures (eds. K.-P. Adam, F. Avemarie, and N. Wazana; FAT/2 54; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012) 87–92. 53.  Compare the famous relief from the palace of Assurbanipal depicting the king feasting with his wife in a garden scene, while the head of Teuman, his Arabian enemy, hangs on a nearby tree; see ANEP, 155 no. 451. 54. M. Streck, Assurbanipal und die letzten assyrischen Könige bis zum Untergange Niniveh’s (VAB 7; 3 vols.; Leipzig: Hinrich, 1916) 2:54–57 vi 70–75. The common motif is exposure of bodies to wild beasts rather than burning the bodies (see M. Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1972] 131–32). 55. Menahem Haran emphasized that Isaiah did not offer human sacrifices, but “sacrificed the priests of the high-places by means of burning human bones . . . on those altars” (M. Haran, Temples and Temple-Service in Ancient Israel [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978] 138–39 n. 8).

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hands is explained as the fulfillment of Elijah’s prophecy: “and the carcass of Jezebel shall be like dung on the ground . . . so that none will be able to say: ‘this was Jezebel’” (v. 37). Joshua orders removal of the corpse of the king of Ai from the tree by evening and subsequent burial beneath a great heap of stones (Josh 8:29). He also orders removal of the hanging bodies of the five southern kings and their burial in the cave in which they had hidden (Josh 10:26–27). This act was interpreted as corresponding to the law in Deuteronomy, requiring the removal from the tree of the body of a convicted villain: “for an impaled body is a curse of God; you shall not defile the land that the Lord your God is giving you to possess” (Deut 21:23). 56 It is not surprising, therefore, that of all of Amos’s transgressions, the one act explicitly identifying the victim as a foreign king is the burning of his bones to lime, which is the irreversible desecration of his body, the one act which is considered problematic according to other biblical sources besides Amos. Overall, the dominant view in the Bible and in ancient Near Eastern sources is that the acts that Amos denounces as pĕšaʿîm are “great deeds,” testifying to the king’s might and favor in the eyes of gods. These are accomplishments to be proud of, justified means of control over other people. Moreover, some of these acts are enumerated in covenant curses, such as the so-called vassal treaties of Esarhaddon. 57 A king implementing cruel measures against his enemies often felt he was enacting divine will, particularly in the context of a breach of sworn treaties. In Cogan’s words, “. . . when Assyrian kings brutally enforced their rule, they were often effecting quite literally the materialization of the divine imprecations inscribed in the treaties between Assyria and her subjects.” 58

Transgressions of the Nations in Amos In the light of the general conception of war and of these acts in particular, how are we to understand Amos’s accusations in his oracles against the nations? By denouncing these acts as transgressions in front of God— 56.  Translation deviating from NJPS “an affront to God.” For the relationship of the Deuteronomic law and the narrative in the book of Joshua, see Wazana, “Impaled Body,” 69–98. 57.  For example, the plowing of enemy towns and districts with an iron plow is listed in the vassal treaties of Esarhaddon (S. Parpola and K. Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths [SAA 2; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1988] 51 §68 lines 545–46; mentioned by Fishbane, “Treaty Background of Amos 1:11,” 318). 58.  Cogan, “Ripping Open Pregnant Women,” 756. The motif of ripping open pregnant women is actually missing from curse formulae, but it was a well-established and formulaic motif, as can be deduced from its use in the Bible.

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“war crimes” in modern terminology—is Amos categorically condemning them? It is possible that Amos is unique; that he alone of his world and generation delegitimizes acts that were common, and often extolled, in his era. By labeling them “crimes,” that is, “military atrocities,” perhaps he is setting a new standard of behavior during war. 59 Yet a closer look at the text, as the present analysis argues, suggests another interpretation. Amos is not categorically against the actions themselves, but is referring to these measures as unjustified when taken to the extreme. Their extremity may result from their longevity, their degree, or their totality. According to this interpretation, the problem is not the acts themselves but the lack of proportionality when enacting them in unjustified contexts. Thus, the Arameans are blamed for having sorely pressed Gilead, a border territory between Israel and Aram, frequently and constantly. 60 The exact historical background of the Aramean pressure in Amos’s oracles is irrelevant, for Amos is probably not pinpointing a specific historical event but describing a prolonged and repeated oppression of the territory of Gilead and its inhabitants over generations, its devastating nature emanating from its accumulated effect. 61 The guilt of exiling or trafficking humans is of a total nature. Amos twice uses the unique formulation gālūt šĕlēmâ. 62 This unique idiom indicates that Amos does not deem the act of exiling a crime per se, rather, he is condemning the results of the incursions of the seaside dwellers, the Philistines and Tyrians, in their extremity. Note also the perpetual anger attributed to the Edomites: “his anger raged unceasing (lāʿad), and he kept his wrath forever (neṣaḥ)” (1:11), emphasizing the duration of animosity leading to a violation of the covenant of brotherhood by an act defined as šiḥēt raḥămâw, which may hint at the act of ripping (pregnant) women. 63 59. Thus Paul, Amos, 45. Wolff claims the nations are guilty like Israel before God “because they have mistreated weaker human beings” (Joel and Amos, 106). 60.  As noted by Weiss, the “regularity of abuse” is the issue here (Book of Amos, 28). 61.  Scholars have debated whether Amos is speaking about events that happened two generations before his days (for example, M. Noth, The History of Israel [2nd ed.; trans. P. R. Ackroyd; New York: Harper & Row, 1960] 249); about the beginning of Jeroboam’s rule, preceding his victories and territorial gains (Haran, “The Graded Numerical Sequence,” 260); or about renewed Aramean pressure during the second half of Jeroboam’s rule (Wolff, Joel and Amos, 151). The very fact that there is no mention of a concrete historical event that we can identify suggests that the issue is prolonged military and civilian pressure, and that the text does not speak of “a specific military campaign in the reproach (v. 3)” (Mays, Amos, 30). 62.  Jer 13:19 is close: “Judah is exiled completely, all of it exiled” (hoglāt šĕlômîm). 63. Yair Hoffmann makes a similar claim: “the words ‫ לעד‬and ‫ נצח‬indicate that while a certain Edomite resentment towards his ‘brother’ may have been understandable, this perpetual animosity is unbearable and deplorable” (Prophecies against Foreign

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In the oracle against the Ammonites, there is a glaring disproportion between the cruel act of ripping open the pregnant women of Gilead, and its goal, to enlarge their own territory. To trespass a neighbor’s territory was often considered contrary to God’s division of lands in ancient times (Deut 32:8). Thus, when the people of Israel pass on their way to Canaan in the territories of the kingdoms east of the Jordan they are warned by God, “Do not harass the Moabites, or provoke them to war. For I will not give you any of their land as a possession; I have assigned Ar as a possession to the descendants of Lot” (Deut 2:9; the same is true for Edom, v. 5, and Ammon, v. 19). 64 Once again, it is not the act alone that is reckoned wrong. When a party violated a treaty, ripping open its pregnant women may have seemed cruel yet justifiable, as in the case of Menahem at Tiphsah/Tappuah (2 Kgs 15:16), but the same act done in order to enlarge a given territory is an altogether different matter, defiance of God’s decreed territories. To enlarge one’s own territory was therefore often envisioned as an act against divine will in itself, and ripping open pregnant women in the course of doing it was unacceptable. It seems that the force of the two acts together is what tipped the scale and made it a sin. The last crime deals not only with brutal desecration of the body of the enemy king, the only act which was deemed problematic in itself even in other biblical texts, as we saw, but doing it in a total and irreversible way: burning the bones of the king of Edom to lime means his people will never be able to collect his remains for proper burial (as the men of Jabesh Gilead had done for Saul and his sons, 1 Sam 31:13). Common to all of the “crimes” in Amos’s enumeration is that they are accepted norms of behavior during war, recognized even by the prophet. However, even if he is not categorically outlawing or proscribing these actions, still he does not see them as marks of esteem or as “great deeds” either, and he inveighs against overdoing them. This interpretation fits well with Amos’s irregular use of the graded numerical pattern “for three and for four” as noted above. Nations, 168). Michael Fishbane thinks that the “spoiling of his mercy” should be explained in relation to covenant violation terminology (“Treaty Background of Amos 1:11,” 313–18). Similarly, although based on a different etymology of the root rḥm, there is R. B. Coote, “Amos 1:11: RḤMYW,” JBL 90 (1971) 206–8. Contrary to Fishbane’s view, I do not see that all crimes are necessarily connected to the context of covenant (compare the next oracle, against the Ammonites, v. 13b), and anyhow this is not what the oracles emphasize. 64.  This conception has expressions in extrabiblical texts too; see N. Wazana, All the Boundaries of the Land (trans. Liat Qeren; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2013), 22–26.

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Between the Crimes of the Nations and the Crimes of Israel The series of oracles against the nations culminates with the oracle against Israel referring to social inner-Israelite transgressions (2:6–17). Hans W. Wolff sees the analogy in that “for Amos, they, like Israel, are guilty before Yahweh because they have mistreated weaker human beings.” 65 This may be true, but it does not exhaust the point. The transgressions enumerated in the admonitions of Israel (Amos 2:6–8) are also not acts prohibited as such. There is no sweeping prohibition in biblical law to sell people into slavery for a debt or to confiscate clothes or wine from debtors, nor is Amos trying to establish new rules in these matters. Yet he is frustrated and angry at the use of these harsh measures by the powerful. He directs attention to the lack of proportion between the small amount of the debt (“sandals” 66) and the enactment of severe judgment against the poor debtors: “because they have sold for (or: on account of) silver those whose cause was just, and the needy for a pair of sandals” (2:6b). He likewise criticizes their cynical use of the confiscated garments and wine in the cult (2:8). Here, too, the actions create exaggerated injury, disproportional according to Amos’s norms of fairness. It is not only exaggerated but also consistent and ill justified, and therefore provokes God’s anger, dubbed as profanation of His holy name (2:7). 67 Amos’s oracles use the infinitive construct with either plural pronominal suffixes (vv. 1:3, 6, 9, 13) or singular ones (1:11; 2:1); the infinitives accentuate the act itself, as claimed above, often followed by a verb in the form wĕ-qātal expressing a durative aspect: “because he (Edom) pursued (rodpô) his brother with the sword, and spoiled (wĕšiḥēt, again and again) his mercy (or his brother’s women)” (1:11). 68 65.  Wolff, Joel and Amos, 106. 66.  The dependent clause can be interpreted in other ways too, but the context tips the scales in my opinion towards a more general understanding according to which the prophet is addressing the Israelite elite in general, rather than corrupt judges. 67.  The phrase “and thereby profane My holy name” relates to all previously enumerated crimes, as correctly seen by Paul (Amos, 83). For the meaning of the phrase, see J. Milgrom, “The Desecration of YHWH’s Name: Its Parameters and Significance,” in Birkat Shalom: Studies in the Bible, Ancient Near Eastern Literature, and Postbiblical Judaism Presented to Shalom M. Paul on the Occasion of His Seventieth Birthday (eds. C. Cohen et al.; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2008) 69–81. 68.  GKC §114r. I therefore disagree with Paul’s distinction that “The accusations, unlike the oracles against the foreign nations that enumerate only past transgressions, are in the present and reflect the social situation current at the time of the prophet himself ” (Amos, 79).

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The accusations against Israel begin with the same repeated formulation of the oracles against the nations, with the preposition ‫ על‬followed by an infinitive construct with pronominal suffix: “because they have sold” ʿal mikrām (2:6). The following form is the active participle haššōʾăpîm (v. 7), indicative of ongoing states. 69 Both forms highlight the repeated injustice that is the norm. In the Israel oracle, the following accusation is directed at “a man and his father” who “go to the girl” (2:7). 70 As with the phrase “they as well as their fathers” (Jer 9:15; Ezek 2:3) or, in second person: “you and your fathers” (Jer 16:13; 44:3, 21) this indictment marks generational continuity of exploitation of the weaker elements of society, when a man follows his father’s bad behavior. 71 As in the oracles against the nations, none of these deeds are categorically prohibited, yet when they become the norm rather than the exception, divine patience runs out. Social situations, too, demand proportionality.

Conclusion Amos’s oracles against the nations are directed against nations that went too far. In the ancient societies the means and measures dubbed “crimes” by Amos were considered legally and conceptually legitimate. What provoked God’s anger is the accumulation of those actions (“for three transgressions . . . and for four”), their extreme character (“complete exile”), their perpetuation over generations (“unceasing,” “forever”), and their use for illegitimate causes (enlarging national territory, and certainly violating a brotherhood covenant). Amos’s analogy between the crimes of the nations and those of Israel is not therefore one of gradualism (along the lines of qal vaḥomer or ḥomer veqal), but an analogy of the principle of proportionality. In both cases, the prophet opposes abuse of power, exaggerated and prolonged use of measures which are nonetheless considered legitimate. He is redefining the limits of power. The plural pĕšaʿîm, although Amos enumerates only one crime per nation, also reflects both the intensification of the acts, their number and 69.  GKC §116a. Participial forms typify other prophetic addresses of Amos, in particular “woe cries” (1:4; 5:7, 18; 6:1, 3–6, 13; 8:4, 14; 9:10); see Wolff, Joel and Amos, 141. This form, too, strengthens our view that Amos indicts regular situations, and not one-time actions. 70.  NJPS has “father and son go to the same girl,” losing, in my opinion, the generational continuity hinted at here. According to my understanding, the definite article in “the girl” does not mean that a father and a son sleep with the same girl. The point of Amos’s rebuke here is to target ongoing, almost hereditary actions of repression of the weaker elements of society. 71.  Weiss, Book of Amos, 54.

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repeated regularity. This interpretation places Amos’s message in its historical setting. Amos is not proscribing the acts themselves categorically and is not setting out to change rules of behavior during war, whether between “brothers” or not. Terrible they might be, but these acts can be legitimate in the right circumstances. Amos does not contest the common theology that they reflect divine anger or punishment of a sinning people. These valid military measures provoke God’s anger and revenge when used in excess. We may compare this message to Isaiah’s words concerning Assyria. Assyria is the “rod” of God’s anger, sent to punish a sinful people (Isa 10:5–6), yet its success leads it to hubris, for which Assyria was to be punished by the coming judgment “for he thought ‘by the might of my hand have I wrought it’” (Isa 10:13). 72 In this case, too, Assyria’s brutal acts were worthy acts in accordance with the divine plan. Their sin is not their actual deed, but their theological and historical misunderstanding. The king of Assyria was blind to the real master of history. The prophet asks: “does an ax boast over him who hews with it, or a saw magnify itself above him who wields it?” (Isa 10:15). Neither Amos nor Isaiah is (re)defining war crimes. Isaiah is not trying to change the rules of behavior at all, just to put them in proper historical and theological perspective. Amos does raise the level of awareness required during international conflicts. The nations should match their actions to the circumstances, and not enact excess and total cruelty, or do so intensively and over an extended period of time. Excess cruelty is against God’s will, altogether apart from the question of who won the battle, and will provoke God’s anger and revenge. Although Amos is not changing the rules of the game entirely and he must not be seen as the first initiator of categorical “war laws,” his ideology limits war and presents an irregular position in his world and time, redefining the limits of power towards an enemy even during war. “You have gone too far!” cries Amos, the prophet of moderation. 72.  For the sin of hubris as one of the major rhetorical purposes of biblical oracles against nations, see P. R. Raabe, “Why Prophetic Oracles Against the Nations?,” in Fortunate the Eyes That See: Essays in Honor of David Noel Freedman in Celebration of His Seventieth Birthday (eds. A. B. Beck, A. H. Bartlett, P. R. Raabe, and C. A. Franke; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1995) 241.

Grammar and Context Enki & Ninhursag ll. 1–3 and a Rare Sumerian Construction Christopher Woods

Introduction Students of Sumerian literature are accustomed to encountering grammatical and lexical difficulties of various kinds, but rarely must these be confronted—without the benefit of context or established structure—in the opening lines of a composition. Yet this unfortunate circumstance is precisely what we must contend with in the case of Enki & Ninhursag, one of the most important myths for understanding Sumerian conceptions of the origins of civilization. 1 The first three lines of the myth introduce the celebrated passage depicting the primordial state of Tilmun—a period of dormancy before the essential elements of life and civilization were actuated and, inseparable from this, before the island of Bahrain was granted its renowned freshwater springs. Few scholars today would embrace the contention—first put forth by Langdon and famously maintained by Kramer—that the myth describes a Sumerian conception of paradise, with Tilmun being an antecedent for biblical Eden. 2 Nevertheless, the meaning Author’s note:  The abbreviations used are those of The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago and/or The Sumerian Dictionary of the University of Pennsylvania Museum. Citations of Sumerian sources often follow the Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature (ETCSL): http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/. I would like to thank Jennie Myers, Monica Phillips, Abigail Hoskins, and the editors of this volume for their insights, corrections, and assistance. 1.  In agreement with T. Jacobsen (The Harps That Once . . . Sumerian Poetry in Translation [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987] 181–85) and D. Katz (“Enki and Ninhursaĝa, Part One: The Story of Dilmun,” BiOr 64 [2007] 568), I assume that the myth likely represents the amalgamation of two independent stories. The first, Enki & Ninsikila, the Tilmun story, is concerned with water as the basis of civilization, and the second, Enki and Ninḫursaĝa, with water as the basis of fertility. 2. S. Langdon, The Sumerian Epic of Paradise, The Flood and the Fall of Man (PBS 10/1; Philadelphia: University Museum, 1915) 8–14; S. N. Kramer, Enki and

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of the myth, the prologue in particular, remains a popular topic for reanalysis and reinterpretation, as recent contributions attest. 3 In these pages, I lengthen the already long list of treatments and offer an alternative grammatical solution for the first three critical but puzzling lines, rooting this analysis in the broader literary context of the myth. I dedicate this modest contribution to Peter Machinist, who has contributed so much to the understanding of Near Eastern creation motifs, and who taught me, years ago in his intermediate Akkadian class, to approach Mesopotamian myths with a combination of grammatical and philological rigor and close literary analysis.

1.  Previous Interpretations If there is no consensus as to the correct analysis of the beginning of Enki & Ninhursag—specifically the verbal form in the first and third lines—it is not for lack of effort. One would be challenged to find a passage from the Sumerian literary corpus that has been subjected to more grammatical dissection. The difficulties have always centered on providing a convincing grammatical analysis, one that meshes with the context and the broader themes of the prologue. (1) ur uki kug-kug-ga-am3 e-ne ba(-am3)-me-en-ze2-en kur Tilmunki kug-ga-am3 Ki-en-gi kug-ga e-ne ba(-am3)-me-en-ze2-en (Enki & Ninhursag 1–3) When Kramer provided the first modern edition of the text in 1945, he opted not to translate the verb, leaving an ellipsis. 4 Jacobsen, in his review of Kramer’s Sumerian Mythology, parsed the end of the line as e-ne-baam3 me-en-ze2-en, translating “When you were dividing the virgin earth Ninhursag: A Sumerian “Paradise” Myth (BASORSup 1; New Haven: American Schools of Oriental Research, 1945) 8–9. 3. For example, K. Dickson, “Enki and Ninhursag: The Trickster in Paradise,” JNES 66 (2007) 4–7; Katz, “Enki and Ninhursaĝa,” 568–84; M. P. Streck, “Die Prologe der sumerischen Epen,” Or. 71 (2002) 204–8. 4.  Kramer, “Paradise” Myth, 11; see also idem, Sumerian Mythology: A Study of Spiritual and Literary Achievement in the Third Millennium b.c. (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1944) 55; idem, “Sumerian Myths and Epic Tales,” in ANET, 38; as well as J. Bottéro and S. N. Kramer, Lorsque les dieux faisaient l’homme: mythologie mésopotamienne (Paris: Gallimard, 1989) 152. Earlier, obsolete analyses include M. Jastrow, Jr., “Sumerian Myths of Beginnings,” AJSL 33 (1917) 102 n. 2; Langdon, Sumerian Epic of Paradise, 69 n. 1, 70 n. 1.

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(with your fellow gods), you!”, 5 and deriving the verb—as have nearly all modern commentators—from the root ba ‘to divide, allot, distribute’. As Jacobsen’s understanding of -ne- as a marker of the 2nd-pers. pl. agent could not stand, he later emended his translation of the first three lines to: “Pure is the city—and you are the ones to whom it is allotted! Pure is Dilmun land! Pure is Sumer—and you are the ones to whom it is allotted!” 6 Jacobsen envisioned the composition as being performed at the Ur royal court for the entertainment of visitors from Tilmun. Consequently, he understood l. 1 as an address to Tilmun dignitaries and ll. 2–3 as an address to the court. 7 Jacobsen did not provide a grammatical analysis in support of his translation, but it presumably owed something to Witzel and Falkenstein, who were the first to interpret the verbal form passively. The latter analyzed these lines: “e-ne-ba-(àm-)me-en-zé-en < i-ene-eba-a ‘es ist: es wurde ihnen zugeteilt’ + (i-)menzen ‘ihr seid’, also ‘ihr seid diejenigen, denen zugeteilt worden ist’.” 8 Subsequent commentators have often adopted this interpretation in meaning if not in form. Thus, ETCSL gives: “Pure are the cities—and you are the ones to whom they are allotted.” 9 Similarly, Katz, in her recent study of the text, translated “Pure is the city, You are the ones who share it.” Katz’s rendering is predicated on taking the verb as a participle, specifically, ba.a.menzen = verb + /a/ + 2nd-pers. enclitic copula. 10 Following Attinger (discussed below), the problematic element e-ne was understood as the 3rd-pers. sg. pronoun with distributive function. More tentatively, and without further elaboration, Alster speculated that the verb ba means ‘to praise’ in this context, with the second-person referent being the audience. 11 Displaying similar caution, Rosengarten 5. T. Jacobsen, “Sumerian Mythology: A Review Article,” JNES 5 (1946) 131 and n. 7. 6.  Jacobsen, Harps, 185. Note also Jacobsen’s earlier paraphrase: “This island was allotted to Enki and Ninhursaga when the world was divided among the gods” (idem, The Intellectual Adventure of Ancient Man [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1946] 157). 7.  Jacobsen, Harps, 181, 185 nn. 11–12. 8. A. Falkenstein, Review of C. J. Gadd and S. N. Kramer, Ur Excavations Texts VI, Literary and Religious Texts: First Part (London, 1963), BiOr 22 (1965) 279; M. Witzel, “Ninchursag und Enki (Ein Dilmun-Mythus),” Or. 15 (1946) 247. 9.  ETCSL 1.1.1. 10.  Katz, “Enki and Ninhursaĝa,” 572 n. 21. I understand this particular form, with “passive” participle, to mean ‘you are the allotted ones’, rather than ‘you are the ones who share (it)’. 11. B. Alster, “Enki and Ninhursag: The Creation of the First Woman,” UF 10 (1978) 16 n. 6.

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accepted the sense of Jastrow’s translation—“Holy is the place where you are”—but rejected his outdated analysis, instead provisionally parsing the phrase in question as e-ne-ba-am3 (< a-na-ba-am3) with the meaning “« dans son quoi », c’est-à-dire : « dans lequel ».” 12 Alongside the passive interpretation, accepted by Falkenstein, Jacobsen, Katz, and ETCSL, the dominant analysis in recent years has been the imperative one put forth by Attinger in his 1984 edition of the text and accepted by Römer and Streck. 13 Attinger took the verb as the 2nd-pers. pl. imperative of ba ‘to divide, allot, distribute’, and translated, “Les villes sont étincelantes, distribuez-les leur. Le pays de Dilmun est étincelant. Sumer est étincelante, distribuez-la leur.” 14 This interpretation was based on understanding the problematic element e-ne as the 3rd-sg. pronoun functioning distributively in lieu of expected dative e-ne-er/ra. Similar to previous translations, the passage is claimed to represent the poet’s address to an audience, describing the “distribution des roles.” 15 A very different analysis was offered by Civil, who translated, ‘It is a clean town, and how you (like to often(?)) say it!’ The element e-ne, or e-ne-ba, Civil suggested, is an exclamation “‘how!’ or the like.” 16 The verb is thus understood to be the 2nd-pers. marû root of dug4 ‘to say’, with the conjugation prefix being ba- or more problematically amma- (see ex. 18).

2.  e-ne ba(-am3)-me-en-ze2-en ‘How you have come to be!’ I suggest that the verb of lines 1–3 is to be analyzed, quite straightforwardly, as a second-person intransitive finite verbal form of the root me ‘to be’, with ba- being, naturally, the conjugation prefix, that is, ba.me.enzen. 17 12. Y. Rosengarten, Trois aspects de la pensée religieuse sumérienne (Paris: de Boccard, 1971) 13 and n. 2. Jastrow (“Sumerian Myths,” 102 n. 2) understood the phrase as e-ne-ba-am me-en-ze2-en, where e-ne-ba-am consists of e-ne ‘they or you’ and ba-am ‘to be’, with the combination having the meaning ‘where are’, followed by me-en-ze2-en ‘you’. 13. P. Attinger, “Enki et Ninḫursaĝa,” ZA 74 (1984) 31–52, esp.  32 (additionally, see now idem, “Notes de lecture: Enki et Ninḫursaĝa,” NABU 2008/4 no. 71); W. H. P. Römer, Mythen und Epen in sumerischer Sprache (Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments 3: Weisheitstexte, Mythen und Epen 1; Gütersloher: Gerd Mohn, 1993) 365; Streck, “Die Prologe,” 204. 14.  Attinger, “Enki et Ninḫursaĝa,” 7. 15.  Ibid., 32. 16. M. Civil, “Modal Prefixes,” ASJ 22 (2000) 40; see Attinger, “Notes de lecture,” sub Ll. 1 ± // 3. 17.  Note that the Nippur recension adds a superfluous resuming syllable (ba-am3me-en-ze2-en) in ll. 1 and 3 vis-à-vis the Ur version (ba-me-en-ze2-en)—compare, similarly, l. 7: u3-bi2-in-nu2 [Nippur] versus u3-bi2-nu2 [Ur] (see also Streck, “Die Prologe,”

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As Civil does, I take e-ne as an interrogative, which, given the context, is most likely to be understood as functioning as an exclamative, as English ‘what?’ (‘what!’) and ‘how?’ (‘how!’) and their equivalents in many languages do. Accordingly, I interpret the first line as a rhetorical secondperson plural address to the “cities,” 18 the hubs of human activity and civilization (ex. 2). To be singled out here, no doubt, are the cult centers of the principal protagonists of the first story, 19 namely, Eridug of Enki and Tilmun of Ninsikila. Likewise, lines 2 and 3 form a unit, with the 2nd-pers. pl. verb referring to the broader regions to which those cities belong—Tilmun and Sumer. Needless to say, in Sumerian literature inanimate temples, cities, and even regions are commonly addressed in the second person for literary effect, with either a second-person pronoun or an unmarked vocative. Further, it is not uncommon for the setting of the story—the city—to be established as an early protagonist in the prologues of literary texts; in fact, in several instances the formulation includes the copula. 20 204 n. 53). M. Lambert and R. Tournay (“« Enki et Ninhursag  »: À propos d’un ouvrage récent,” RA 43 [1949] 106) considered the possibility of the analysis ba+me, understanding me to bear a spatial meaning: “Le préfixe en ce cas serait ba qui donnerait au verbe me « être » un sens spatial d’abaissement: « être à bas sur le sol, y être étendu »: le vers se traduirait: La terre est pure, vous vous y êtes penchés.” 18. Contra Katz (“Enki and Ninhursaĝa,” 572 n. 20, 573), there is no grammatical basis for insisting that uru kug-kug-ga-am3 necessarily means ‘pure is the city [sg.!]’. The singular copula is frequently found with plural NPs of the non-persons class (for example, E. Sollberger, Le système verbal dans les inscriptions ‹‹ royales » présargoniques de Lagaš [Geneva: Droz, 1952] 215 n. 7), while the reduplicated adjectives typically express plurality and not the superlative (for example, D. O. Edzard, Sumerian Grammar [Leiden: Brill, 2003] 32–33)—a case in point being Enki & Ninḫursaĝa 49E and 40O where we encounter the phrase ma2 gal-gal, which most certainly means ‘large ships’ and not ‘largest ships’ in this context. 19.  See n. 1. 20.  For example, note the following opening lines: u r uki n a-n am u r uki n a-n am na-a n-dur2-r u-ne-en-d e3-en Nib r uki u r uki n a-n am n a- an- d u r2-r u -n e- en- d e3e n D ur- gišgi šni mb arki u r uki n a-n am n a-an-d u r2-r u -n e- d e3- e n . . . ‘There is a city, there is a city—and we live in it! There is the city of Nippur—and we live in it! There is the city of Dur-gišnimbar—and we live in it! . . .’ (Enlil & Ninlil 1–3); u r uki na-na m ur uki na-n am m e-b i n a-pad3-d e3 ‘There is a city, there is a city, and its me is manifest!’ (Nanše Hymn 1); sig4 ⸢ku r⸣ [šu b a-ta e3] - a (var. m u š3 z a- g i n3- ⸢t a⸣ [ e3-a ]) Kul -a ba4ki u r uki an ki-d a m u2-a U n u gki-g a m u - b i t i r- an-n a- g i m anne2 us2-sa-bi si -m u š3 gu n3-am 3 an-n a gu b -b a- b i u d - s ak ar 2 g i b i l n a-n am ‘Brickwork, which rises up from among the bright mountains (var. rising up from the shining plain)—Kulaba, city that joins heaven with earth; Uruk, whose fame like the rainbow touches the sky, a multicolored radiance set in the heavens, it is the new moon’ (Enmerkar & Ensuhgirana 1–5); ur uki gu d h u š an u r aš n i2 g al g u r u3ru [ K u l ] ⸢ aba ⸣ ki . . . , etc. ‘City, fearsome bull of heaven and earth shrouded in awe-inspiring splendor, Kulaba . . . , etc.’ (Enmerkar & the Lord of Aratta 1).

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The opening lines introduce the themes of creation and subsequent maturation, which characterize the prologue and the first story, Enki & Ninsikila, more broadly. They are a speculative reflection of awe and wonder at how the world has achieved its current form—at how the world has come to be. This understanding of lines 1–3 obviates many of the difficulties that have plagued previous interpretations, such as the grammatical and contextual issues associated with taking e-ne as a pronoun with ‘distributive’ function or with the otherwise puzzling scenario that the text begins with pronouns (-en-ze2-en ‘you [pl.]’ and e-ne ‘he, it’) with unspecified and unresolved antecedents. As we shall see, the analysis proposed here is unproblematic from a grammatical perspective and is very much in agreement with the semantic range of the prefix ba-. Indeed, the verbal form exemplifies the little-known Sumerian grammatical construction: e-ne ba+verb. (2) ur uki kug-kug-ga-am3 e-ne ba-am3-me-en-ze2-en O pure cities—how you have come to be! 21 kur Tilmunki kug-ga-am3 O pure Tilmun, Ki-en-gi kug-ga e-ne ba-am3-me-en-ze2-en O pure Sumer—how you have come to be! (Enki & Ninhursag 1–3) 2.1  ba+me ‘to become’ As a medio-passive marker, 22 the prefix ba- correlates closely with events in which the subject is highly affected by the action or state predicated by the verb, events in which the subject, often belonging to the non-persons class, exercises little control or volition. The prefix represents an end-point perspective on an event, focusing on the completion of the event and its results. Consequently, ba- is attached to dynamic events that are inchoative and perfective. These are events that have intrinsic end points in which the action terminates with the subject undergoing a change of state. Characteristic in this regard are spontaneous events, those actions or states that are conceived as unfolding independently of the intervention of an external cause. With such events, an explicit or salient agent either cannot be identified, as for example, in physical processes such as develop, 21.  Lit. ‘(O) cities that are pure/pure are the cities—how you have come to be!’. 22. C. Woods, The Grammar of Perspective: The Sumerian Conjugation Prefixes as a System of Voice (CM 32; Leiden: Brill, 2008) 221–301, and passim.

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die, grow, or, for pragmatic reasons, it is completely de-emphasized, for example, open, be born, boil. 23 Spontaneous events commonly expressed with ba- include ba+su ‘sink’, u2-gu/gu3—ba+de2 ‘become lost, disappear’, ba+mu2 ‘grow, sprout’, ba+šub ‘fall’, gu2/3-la—ba+dag ‘stop, cease’, and, most prototypically, ba+uš2 ‘die’. More conspicuous, however, is the prefix’s affinity for dynamic, changeof-state events when it is coupled with verbs that are intrinsically stative and that describe situations that are unchanging in time. 24 In these instances, ba- adds an end-point perspective, bringing into focus the dynamic and inceptive phase of the event that initiates the state predicated by the verb. Thus, whereas zu, for instance, has the basic meaning ‘to know’, ba+zu typically expresses ‘to get to know, recognize, learn’—the former denotes an unchanging state, the latter a dynamic process or accomplishment. Other examples include ba+dugud ‘to become heavy, weighty’ (dugud ‘to be heavy, weighty’), ba+kal ‘to become scarce, rare’ (kal ‘to be scarce, rare’), ba+tur ‘to become small’ (tur ‘to be small’), and ba+du7 ‘to become suitable’ (du7 ‘to be suitable’), etc. In each case, the prefix focuses on the change-of-state end point that represents the completion of a dynamic process. But of particular interest for our case is the combination ba+gal2, which often carries the meaning ‘to appear, come into existence’ (compare with gal2 ‘to be present, exist’): (3) ninda hul ba-gal2-la gu2-zu la-ba-ši-šub You don’t scorn bread which has turned bad.

(SP 1.21)

(4) nig2 ud-bi-ta la-ba-gal2-la ki-siki l tur ur2 dam-mana-ka še10 nu-ub -dur2-r e A thing which has not come to pass since time immemorial—a young girl has not broken wind in her husband’s lap. (SP 1.12) (5) a-gar3-ta a um-ta-kud-a-ta ki-dur u5 kin-ga2 ba-gal2-la-ta After the water had been cut off from the arable tracts, and the work on the damp earth had begun. (Debate between Hoe & Plow 80–81) 23.  See S. Kemmer, The Middle Voice (Typological Studies in Language 23; Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 1993) 142–44; Woods, Grammar of Perspective, 247f. 24.  Ibid., 290–95.

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(6) dEzina2-gim šag4-gar kalam-ma-še3 ba-gal2-le-en a2tah-ni ga2-e-me-en Just like Ezina, I appear to (satisfy) the hunger of the land— I am her helper. (Debate between Bird & Fish 97) (7) ur u2-mu du-lum gig ba-gal2-la-k e4-eš mušen anna-gim a2 dub2 he2-em-ši-ak me-e ur u2-mu-še3 he2-em-ši-dal-dal-en Because bitter misery appeared in my city, I beat my wings like a bird of the heavens and flew to my city. (Ur Lament 104–6; similarly, 101, 109) Much like the spontaneous events discussed above, ba+gal2 in exx. 3–7 signifies a state that results from an autonomous, punctual process. In terms of semantics, the combination bears a meaning that overlaps with the one proposed here for ba+me, namely, ‘to become’. Indeed, become dovetails nicely with the subordinate, although rarely attested, meaning of me ‘to exist’, 25 a meaning that is, in fact, more commonly expressed by gal2. Theory predicts that a combination of the prefix ba- with the verb me ‘to be’ should be counted among the stative and spontaneous events of the type discussed above, rendering a meaning along the lines of ‘to become’. Become falls within the semantic field of ‘to be’, but focuses—in accord with the prefix’s end-point perspective on events—on a resultant change of state that represents the end of a dynamic, telic action. It must be pointed out, however, that the verb me ‘to be’ occurs very rarely as a finite verb, and when it does, it is overwhelmingly paired with the neutral prefix i- (true also of its negative counterpart nu) and more rarely with stative al- or the modal prefixes. In fact, Streck rejected the possibility that is a prefix in our passage based on Gragg’s observation that the prefix does not appear with the copula in his particular corpus 26—although Gragg himself cautioned that widening the corpus would undoubtedly increase the number of prefixes that can appear with 25.  Interestingly, the copula apparently only bears this connotation when appearing as a finite verb—see P. Attinger, Eléments de linguistique sumérienne: La construction de du/e/di «dire» (Fribourg: Editions Universitaires/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993) 313; G. Gragg, “The Syntax of the Copula in Sumerian,” in The Verb ‘Be’ and Its Synonyms, Philosophical and Grammatical Studies 3 (Foundations of Language Supplementary Series 8; ed. J. W. M. Verhaar; Dordrecht: Reidel, 1968) 100f. 26.  Note that there are only 78 attestations of finite forms of the verb in Gragg’s (“Syntax of the Copula,” 103) corpus of approximately 1000 attestations.

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the copula. 27 Acceptance of ba+me in our text would represent one of the few attestations of the combination of the copula with a conjugation prefix other than i- or al-. But this, naturally, in itself does not negate the possibility. Rather, it speaks more directly to the rarity of finite forms of the copula and, more particularly, to the intrinsic semantics of the copula, which better lends itself to expression with the neutral prefix i- or stative al- than with the prefixes that bear a grammatical voice or locative function. Nevertheless, there was apparently no prohibition against combining the copula with these prefixes in Old Babylonian Sumerian, as attested by rare combinations such as mu+me (ša-mu-un-me [Warad-Sin 20: 33]), bi2+me (ši-bi2-in-ga-me-en-nam [Išme-Dagan Q 10]), and, most notably, ba+me (ba-an-me-eš [Public Announcement of the Loss of a Seal 6A]), imma+me (he2-em-ma-da-me-eš-am3, im-ma-an-da-an-me-eš-am3 [Inana & Bilulu 103, 114]), and ba+nu (ba-nu [SP 1.106]). These last three forms are of particular importance for our case. The first, ba-an-me-eš, appearing as a textual variant, 28 provides the combination in question, ba+me. But the meaning is obscure, clouded by a critical break at the end of the line. 29 We are on firmer ground with imma+me, which appears twice in Inana & Bilulu: (8)  dumu-ni Gir2-gir2-r e-e-ne-bi-da dUdug edinna dLamma edin-na he2-em-ma-da-meeš-am3 . . . ⸢dumu⸣-ni [Gir₂-g]ir₂-r e-⸢e-nebi⸣-[da] [d]Udug eden-na dLamma eden-na im-ma- an-da-an-me-eš-⸢am3⸣ May (Bilulu) along with her son Girgire together become the protective god and goddess of the desert . . . (Bilulu) along with her son Girgire together became the protective god and goddess of the desert. (Inana & Bilulu 102–3, 113–14) The passage has relevance for ba+me because, as I have stressed elsewhere, there is a close relationship between the prefixes ba- and imma-. 30 As a 27.  Gragg, “Syntax of the Copula,” 103; Streck, “Die Prologe,” 204 n. 52. 28.  That is, NBC 7800; see W. W. Hallo, “Seals Lost and Found,” in Seals and Sealing in the Ancient Near East (eds. M. Gibson and R. D. Biggs; BiMes 6; Malibu: Undena, 1977) 56. 29. (PN1, PN2, PN3) KA-KA-ne-ne? b a-an-m e-e š k i š i b - b a-n e-n e i n- [ x ] - eš, provisionally, ‘PN1, PN2, and PN3 appeared (to give) testimony and they (pressed/presented?) their seals’ (Public Announcement of the Loss of a Seal 6A). 30.  Woods, Grammar of Perspective, 161–63, 221–25, and passim.

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middle marker that functions much along the lines of ba-, expresses meanings that are very similar to ba-, and shares with ba- an end-point perspective on events, imma- may be regarded as the stressed or emphatic counterpart to ba-. Indeed, there is reason to believe that ba- is the morphological lynchpin of imma-; certainly, the ancients understood this to be the case. 31 Where the two prefixes differ, for a given verb, is that immatypically expresses events that are more intense or complex, with greater internal structure, than those expressed with ba-. As is the case in ex. 8, often this complexity takes the form of events that are plural or collective. In short, if the copula can occur with imma-, we have good reason to assume that it may also occur with ba-, and that the combinations imma+me and ba+me convey the same basic meaning. As the context makes clear, the joining of the prefix imma- with the copula in ex. 8 connotes become. The final cited form, ba+nu, bears upon our question insofar as it demonstrates the compatibility of the prefix with the negative counterpart of the copula, nu. 32 Like the copula, nu prefers the neutral prefix i- (that is, in-nu-(u3)). But also like the copula, nu may occasionally occur with other prefixes, as the evidence makes clear: (9) a-gar3-e a ba-lah(UD) šu-ku6-da-bi ba-nu The water dried up from the inundated land and with it the fishing ceased. (SP 1.106) As the semantic converse of ba+me ‘become’, ba+nu connotes ‘cease to exist’ in the sense of ‘disappear, vanish’. This is precisely the meaning suggested by the context of ex. 9. 2.2  The Interrogative/Exclamative e-ne As I touched upon above, the traditional understanding of the element e-ne as a 3rd-sg. pronoun in our passage raises several contextual and grammatical difficulties: first, appearing in the first line, the pronoun is obscure, as it has no established antecedent; second, it must be assumed that the pronoun serves as the direct or indirect object of the verb; and, third, a “distributive” function of the pronoun must be invoked in order to harmonize the singular form with what must be a plural meaning. Understanding e-ne as an interrogative obviates these issues. This identifica31.  Ibid., 177. 32. See Attinger, Eléments de linguistique sumérienne, 312; A. Falkenstein, “Ibbīsîn—Išbiʾerra,” ZA 49 (1950) 66; compare i3-m e - en- z e2- en-n am = attunūma ‘it is you’, ⸢me -e n⸣ -ze2-en in-n u = ul attunu ‘it is not you’ (OBGT I 396, 422).

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tion is supported by the appearance of this element immediately before the verb, the regular syntactic slot for interrogatives. Furthermore, as Civil has already observed, the interrogative e-ne exhibits a marked preference for the prefix ba-. 33 In fact, there is sufficient evidence to posit the existence of a regular, albeit rare, Sumerian construction e-ne ba+verb. Although not acknowledged as such in the grammars, e-ne is to be counted among the language’s stock of basic interrogative pronouns and phrases. But it is unlikely that e-ne is simply a phonetic variant of a-na ‘what?’. 34 In e-ne ba+verb constructions a-na does not appear as a variant, or in lieu of e-ne. Further, e-ne has a broader range than a-na, appearing in contexts where it must variously mean ‘why?’, ‘what?’, ‘how?’, ‘where?,’ and finding equations with Akkadian mīnum ‘what?’, miššum ‘why?’, and ēkīam ‘where?’ in bilingual texts. 35 On the other hand, connecting the element with the personal pronoun e-ne (< a-ne), and so deriving it ultimately from demonstrative ne, is problematic on typological grounds. Cross-linguistically, demonstratives and interrogatives are historically unrelated. 36 The correlation between the interrogative e-ne and the prefix ba- is a function of verbal semantics. That is, e-ne tends to occur with middlevoice events that typically are expressed with this particular prefix. The most common verb occurring in e-ne ba+verb constructions is šeš2 ‘weep’, an event of emotion in which the subject is highly affected but exercises little or no control or volition. 37 This idiom and others involving the construction often appear in conjunction with a synonymous clause that includes the interrogative a-na-aš/še3 ‘why?’, underscoring the fact that e-ne 33.  Civil, “Modal Prefixes,” 40. Note that, apparently, only in the corrupt grammar of first-millennium texts does the interrogative occur with other prefixes and in clause-initial position, for example, e-ne nam-kug-zu n u - š e - b i - d a h [ u l . . .] e -n e mu-l u ur u3-ur u3 n u -u n-ze2-er [x . . .] = ēkīam enqu lā išēṭ gullult[u] ēkīam ša ittaḫruma lā i[ḫḫelḫi] ‘Where is the wise man who has not committed a sin? Where is the man who, although extremely cautious, did not slip?’ (BA 5, 640: 15–18; see J. Krecher, Sumerische Kultlyrik [Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1966] 101 n. 272). 34. P. Attinger, “Les ‘verbes composés’ en sumérien,” NABU 2004/3 no. 79 s.v. e-ne; Krecher, Sumerische Kultlyrik, 100. The evidence from the grammatical texts is more ambiguous; note: [a]-na-am3 = mi-nu-um, [e ] -n e- am3 = mi-iš-šum (OBGT Ib obv. i 2′–3′); ta-am3 = a-n a-am3 = m[i-nu], te-am3 = e-n e- am3 = MIN (Emesal III 153–54); nam-[mu], a, e, e-ne-am3, t a-e-am3 = ‹mi›-nu (NBGT I 426–30); na m-mu, ta, ta-am3, a-n a, e-n e-am3 = mi-nu (NBGT III 16–20). e-ne is equated with ēkīam ‘where?’, ‘whither?’ in BA 5, 640: 15–18. 35.  Krecher, Sumerische Kultlyrik, 100–101. 36. H. Diessel, “The Relationship Between Demonstratives and Interrogatives,” Studies in Language 27 (2003) 636. 37.  Woods, Grammar of Perspective, 193–200, 237–41.

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is to be understood in these instances as an interrogative. Presumably, the use of two apparently synonymous interrogatives in parallel clauses served as a stylistic device. (10) lugal-mu er₂ e-ne ba-šeš2-šeš2 (var. ba-šeš2-en) šag4-zu a-na-aš hul ba-gig (var. šag4 hul a-na-aš mu-e-dim₂) My king, why are you weeping? (or: My king, how you weep!) For what reason are you distraught? (Gilgamesh, Enkidu & the Netherworld 177) (11) kug dInana-ke₄ er2 e-ne ba-šeš4-šeš4 ‘How holy Inana cried!’ (GEN 46//89, 133) 38 The idiom also occurs in eme-sal: 39 (12) ki-sikil ud zu ni2 me-lam2-ma-na er2 te ba-šeš2-šeš2 ama dEzina2- dKug-su3 ni2 me-lam2-ma-na er2 te bašeš2-šeš2 nam-tar mu-šub -ba ni₂ me-lam2-ma-na er2 te ba-šeš2-šeš2 ‘The pure place knows daylight, yet amid her awe-inspiring splendor, how she weeps! Amid her awe-inspiring splendor, how mother Ezina-Kusu weeps! Fate and fortune! Amid her awe-inspiring splendor, how she weeps!’ (Nisaba B 31–33) Contextually, there are two possible interpretations for e-ne ba+verb clauses. Specifically, they may represent straightforward questions (ex. 10), or, alternatively, exclamatives (exx. 11–12). The two are not always easily distinguished, and a given passage may allow for either interpretation. Yet the phenomenon is a familiar one. In a wide range of unrelated languages, interrogatives meaning ‘what?’ and ‘how?’ also serve as exclamatives, 40 38.  Compare the Akkadian rendering in Gilg. XII 7: bēlī minâ tabki ‘My lord, why do you weep?’. Note also [. . . er2 e]- ⸢ne⸣ ba- šeš2- š eš2 ‘How he weeps!’ (Death of Gilgamesh G6). 39. See Attinger, “Les ‘verbes composés’,” n. 17; compare with M. E. Cohen, “The Incantation-Hymn: Incantation or Hymn?,” JAOS 95 (1975) 603 and comm. 604, for a different interpretation. 40.  D. E. Elliot (“Toward a Grammar of Exclamations,” Foundations of Language 11 [1974] 244–45) points out that in addition to English, questions and exclamatives

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which encode the speaker’s heightened emotional state, signaling excitement, enthusiasm, unexpectedness, surprise, or the like. 41 And, as in our case, the pragmatic context may be such that there is a significant degree of ambiguity as to which interpretation the speaker intends. 42 As discussed above, most verbs that occur in the e-ne ba+verb construction denote one-participant events in which the action undertaken affects the subject or his interests. These are middle-voice events that are commonly expressed with the prefix ba-. Although not always rendered as such in the primary text editions (for example, nn. 42–43, 45), these clauses are to be understood as denoting questions or exclamatives, as supported by the surrounding context, which may consist of a longer string of rhetorical questions or represent some remarkable fact to which the speaker reacts with surprise. (13) i-lu gig-ga-a a-na-še3 ud mi-ni-ib2-zal balag-di sig4-ba e-ne ba-dur2-r u-ne-eš Why were they whiling away the day in bitter lamenting? Why were lamenters sitting on its brickwork? (Nippur Lament 39–40) (14) e-ne ba-ug5-ge-na How is it (possible) that you have died? (or: How is it that you have died!) (TMHNF 3, 26 rev. 9ff.) 43 share morphologically identical forms in (modern) Hebrew, French, Romanian, German, Russian, Turkish, Chinese (Mandarin), and Japanese. 41. R. Zanuttini and P. Portner, “Exclamative Clauses: At the Syntax-Semantics Interface,” Language 79 (2003) 40, 47. For the semantics of exclamatives and the basis of their structural similarities to interrogatives, see also P. Collins, “Exclamative Clauses: A Corpus-Based Account,” in Proceedings of the 2004 Conference of the Australian Linguistic Society (ed. I. Mushin; Sydney: University of Sydney, 2005) 1–12; Elliot, “Toward a Grammar of Exclamations,” 231–46; L. A. Michaelis and K. Lambrecht, “The Exclamative Sentence Type in English,” in Conceptual Structure, Discourse and Language (ed. A. E. Goldberg; Stanford: CSLI, 1996) 375–89; P. Portner and R. Zanuttini, “The Semantics of Nominal Exclamatives,” in Ellipsis and Nonsentential Speech (eds. R. Elugardo and R. J. Stainton; Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic, 2004) 57–67. 42.  Collins, “Exclamative Clauses,” 4. For the ambiguity in English between exclamative and interrogative how and what, see R. Huddleston and G. K. Pullum, The Cambridge Grammar of the English Language (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002) 918–23. 43.  Note also: e-ne ba- a- ug5- g e-en-na (CT 36 50 iv 2, 3; ed. Gratz College Vol., p. 170).

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(15) e-ne ba-ab-te sahar-ra e-ne ba-an-⸢tuš?⸣ gir3 a-na-aš ba-da-ze2-er dim2-ma-bi šu bal a-ba-a bi2in-ak umuš-bi a-⸢ ba⸣-[a bi2-in]-⸢kur2⸣ Why did it draw near? Why did it settle on the ground? Why should it withdraw? Who was it who confused Uruk’s counsel? Who distorted its senses? (Uruk Lament A21–22) 44 Although unfortunately broken, the interrogative likely also appears in exclamative usage in an earlier passage from the Uruk Lament (cf. ex. 15): (16) ⸢An⸣ dEn-lil2-bi ba-an-u3-tud-uš-[a . . .]-gim e-ne ba-si3 dNin-lil2-le muš3-me mi-ni-in-⸢sum⸣-ma [x x] e-ne ba-ab-tum3 dA-r u-r u dSuen dEn-ki-bi medim2-bi ba-an-ak-eš-a e-ne ba-he2-ši gi6 en-nu-ug3 sa9-a-gim . .  . am gal-gim gu3 mah im-mi-ib -dug4 šeg11-bi e-ne ba-e-si When together An and Enlil had created it, how it resembled . . . ! When Ninlil had given it features, how it was fit for . . . ! When together Aruru, Suen, and Enki had fashioned its limbs, how pitch black like midnight (lit. middle of the night watch) it became! . . . Like a great wild bull that bellows mightily, how it filled (the world) with its roar! (Uruk Lament A9–14) 45 Further, there are those candidates for the construction that include highly transitive or agentive verbs in which ba- is otherwise unexpected. In these rare instances, presumably representing a secondary development, 44.  Compare M. W. Green, “The Uruk Lament,” JAOS 104 (1984) 266: ‘That One drew nearer. That One settled upon the ground. Why should it withdraw? Who was it who distorted its (Uruk’s) good sense? Who was it who deranged its good counsel?’ (similarly ETCSL 2.2.5). Observe, however, that the passage is an excerpt from a longer sequence of rhetorical questions, suggesting the interrogative in this context rather than the (animate!) independent third-person pronoun. The coupling of e-ne with (near) synonymous a-na-aš/še3 also occurs in exx. 10 and 13. 45. See Green, “The Uruk Lament,” 265–66: ‘When together An and Enlil had created it, That One resembled . . . When Ninlil had given it features, That One was fit for . . . When together Aruru, Suen, and Enki had fashioned its limbs, That One turned pitch black; as at night, half-way through the night watch, . . . Like a great wild bull which bellows mightily, That One filled (the world) with its roar’ (similarly A. Gadotti, “Gilgameš, Gudam, and the Singer in Sumerian Literature,” in Approaches to Sumerian Literature: Studies in Honor of Stip (H. L. J. Vanstiphout) [CM 35; eds. P. Michalowski and N. Veldhuis; Leiden: Brill, 2006] 74 and n. 28; ETCSL 2.2.5).

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the use of the prefix may possibly be elicited by the speaker’s heightened emotional involvement in the utterance (rather than by the affectedness of the grammatical subject). The reporting of the event, in accord with the semantics of exclamatives, represents an experience, a reflection of the speaker’s affective attitude to some remarkable or noteworthy fact. The phenomenon would find a loose parallel in an experiential event denoted by igi immi+du8 ‘to eye-witness’, which is used idiomatically in rhetorical questions that presume a significant degree of subject affectedness. 46 (17) giš-gid2-da-mu ud-ne ba-an-de6 (var. ba-de6) kuš gur21ur3-mu ud-ne e-ne ba-an-zur-zur-re (var. ab -zur-zur-r e) On that day she may take away my spear, but how could she shatter my shield? (Lugalbanda & Anzu 319–20//385–86) 47 (18) e2-zu ak-a pa5-zu ak-a giš⸢dubsig?⸣ a-na-bi-me-en 48 [a]-gar3 gal-gal-e a im-gar-gar [gi] šapin-zu dal-la e-ne ba-an-gi4 ⸢x⸣ NIG2 šudun-zu e-ne ba-an-KUKU [šag4-g]ud-zu DU-bi e-ne ba-am3-ma-an-lah4-e [x] engar-zu ur uki-a e2-bi gal2-la e-ne ba-am3-nigin (var. ba-ab -nigin) You have made levees and ditches—but what are you (compared to) a basket? (When) the arable land is submerged under water (i.e., irrigated), how is it that your plow hangs from its hook (lit. returned to its support beam)? How is it that your crosspiece lies unused? How is it that your 46.  Woods, Grammar of Perspective, 191. 47. According to my understanding of this passage, the thrust of Lugalbanda’s complaint is that it is one thing to be left without the means of making aggressive war (viz. the spear), but quite another to be abandoned without the means of defending oneself (viz. the shield). Note that these lines represent the culmination of a longer passage (ll. 311f.) of rhetorical questions, which conclude Lugalbanda’s speech. Compare Wilcke Lugalbanda 119–21: ‘Meine Lanze wird an jenem Tage beiseite gestellt. Meinen Schild wird sie an jenem Tage zerbrechen!’ (similarly ETCSL 1.8.2.2; Römer, Mythen und Epen, 532; and H. Vanstiphout, Epics of Sumerian Kings: The Matter of Aratta [Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003] 153). Another uncertain, and likely corrupt, attestation of e-ne ba+verb occurs in the Me-Turan version of Gilgamesh and the Bull of Heaven: d⸢En-k i⸣ -d [u dGIŠ.BI]L2?-ga-m es-ra u r5- g i m h u -m u - u n-n a- ab - e2a k-ke4 d[GIL.BIL2-ga-m es h a-zi]-⸢in? 7 gu2?-u n?⸣-a m3 u g u - b i e-ne ba-a n-s a g3 ‘When Enkidu had spoken to Gilgameš in this way, how(?) Gilgameš smote (the bull’s) skull with an axe weighing seven talents!’ (D45–46). 48.  Compare SP UET 6/2 385.

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3. Context What remains to be discussed is how the grammatical analysis of the opening lines of Enki & Ninhursag offered here harmonizes with the central themes of the prologue (ex. 19) and the broader story. The prologue, as I have maintained, opens with an address to the cities—in particular the cult centers of Enki and Ninsikila—and the broader regions which those cities constitute, that is, Tilmun and Sumer, praising all as pristine and virginal (ll. 1–6). In this way, Tilmun is immediately established as an early protagonist and the central theme of the first story, Enki & Ninsikila. The prologue continues with a repeated mention of Enki’s status, first as bachelor and subsequently as spouse (ll. 7–12); the reference to Enki’s early history thereby situates the narrative in the primordial past. The balance of the passage is devoted to a description of Tilmun through a series of negations that portray, vividly and tangibly, facets of life and existence on the island (ll. 13–30). (19) ur uki kug-kug-ga-am3 e-ne ba-am3-me-en-ze2-en 50 O pure cities—how you have come to be! kur Tilmunki kug-ga-am3 O pure Tilmun, Ki-en-gi kug-ga e-ne ba-am3-me-en-ze2-en O pure Sumer—how you have come to be! kur Tilmunki kug-ga-am3 Pure is Tilmun! l. 5 kur Tilmunki kug-ga-am3 kur Tilmun sikil-am3 Pure is the land of Tilmun! Pristine is the land of Tilmun! kur Tilmun sikil-am3 kur Tilmun dadag-ga-am3 Pristine is the land Tilmun! Untouched is the land of Tilmun! 49.  I thank Miguel Civil for pointing out this reference to me and for providing me with his transliteration of this section; the translation provided here is provisional. 50.  The primary text is PBS 10/1 1 (Nippur); variants are given after UET 6 1 (Ur).

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dili-ni-NE Tilmunki-a u3-bi2-in-nu2 In Tilmun, where he had once slept by himself, ki dEn-ki dam-a-ni-da ba-an-da-nu2-a-ba in that place he then slept with his wife— 51 ki-bi sikil-am3 ki-bi dadag-ga-am3 that place is pristine, that place is untouched! l. 10 dili-ni-NE Tilmunki-a u3-bi2-in-nu2 In Tilmun, where he had once slept by himself, ki dEn-ki dNin-sikil-la ba-an-da-nu2-a-ba in that place he then slept with Ninsikila— ki-bi sikil-am3 ki-bi dadag-ga-am3 that place is pristine, that place is untouched! Tilmunki-a ugamušen gu3 ka nu-mu-ni-be2 In Tilmun, no raven (i.e., the uga-bird) cawed (lit. cried ‘ka’), 52 darmušen-e gu3 dar-dar (var. darmušen-r e) nu-mu-ni ib -be2 no francolin (i.e., the dar-bird) cackled (lit. cried ‘dar-dar’), 53 l. 15 ur-gu-la sag giš nu-ub -ra-ra no lion attacked, ur-bar-ra-ke4 sila4 nu-ub -kar-r e no wolf carried off lambs. ur-gir15 maš2 GAM.GAM nu-ub -zu No dog knew how to watch over goats, šah2 še ku2-ku2-e nu-ub -zu no pig knew the eating of grain. 51.  The translation of ll. 7–8 and 10–11 attempts to capture the force of the proclitic u3- as a mark of temporal subordination, specifically anteriority, with the two clauses so connected expressing a series of sequential events, that is, clause1 and then clause2, or, after clause1, clause2 (see M. Civil, “A Sumerian Connective Particle and Its Possible Semitic Counterparts,” AuOr 26 [2008] 7–15). 52.  The bird names and their calls in this and the following line are presented as sharing an onomatopoeic relationship. 53.  Var. ‘No francolin cried out to (another) francolin’.

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l. 20 mušen-e an-na munu4-bi na-an-ku2-e no bird ate the malt above, tumušen-e sag nu-mu-un-da-r u-e no pigeon pecked in her presence. igi-gig-e igi-gig-me-en (var. igi gig-gig igi gig mu) nu-mu-ni-be2 No one afflicted with eye-disease said, “I am afflicted with eye-disease!” (var. “My eyes are afflicted!”), sag-gig-ge sag-gig-me-en nu-mu-ni-be2 no one afflicted with head-disease said, “I am afflicted with head-disease!” um-ma-bi 54 um-ma-me-en nu-mu-ni-be2 No old woman (of Tilmun) said, “I am an old woman!”, l. 25 ab -ba-bi ab -ba-me-en nu-mu-ni-be2 no old man (of Tilmun) said, “I am an old man!” ki-sikil a nu-tu5-a-ni ur u-a nu-mu-ni-ib -si3-ge No maiden became “impure” in the city. 55 lu2 id2-da bala-e dugud!(MI) 56-de3 nu-mu-ni-be2 54.  The possessive pronoun presumably refers to Tilmun. 55.  Provisional translation, understanding si3 with the meaning ‘become, turn into’ (for example, šu-ni šu maš-da3 u3-m u -n i-in-si3 g i r i3-n i g i r i3 m aš - d a3 u3-m u ni -i n-si3 ‘(Utu) turned his hands into gazelle hands, he changed his feet into gazelle feet’ [Dumuzi’s Dream 201–2]). Possibly, the line refers to menstruation (see Streck, “Die Prologe,” 205 n. 56), and as such, and in accord with the theme of the passage, it describes a distinctive quality of women that has yet to come into being. In particular, the reference may be to a woman’s first menstrual cycle as a transformational point—a “coming of age”—the text once again emphasizing the preconscious stasis that defined the primordial world. 56. Following Jacobsen, most commentators have read MI as gi6, and so as a reference to the absence of night (‘No man dredging the river said there: “It is getting dark!”’; Harps, 186)—see B. Alster, “Dilmun, Bahrain, and the Alleged Paradise in Sumerian Myth and Literature,” in Dilmun: New Studies in the Archaeology and Early History of Bahrain (ed. D. T. Potts; BBVO 2; Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1983) 63; ETCSL 1.1.1; Katz, “Enki and Ninhursaĝa,” 576; Streck, “Die Prologe,” 206 (compare Attinger, “Enki et Ninḫursaĝa,” 9; Bottéro and Kramer, Lorsque les dieux faisaient l’homme, 153, and Römer, Mythen und Epen, 367, who understand MI.NE as an interjection). This interpretation, however, encounters a number of difficulties. First, and

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No man dredging the canals said, “It (i.e., the work) is too heavy!” nimgir- e zag-ga-na nu-um-NIGIN2.NIGIN2 No herald made the rounds of his district. nar-e e-lu-lam nu-mu-ni-be2 No singer sang joyous songs (lit. cried ‘elulam’), l. 30 zag ur u-ka i-lu nu-mu-ni-be2 nor did he sing dirges (lit. cried ‘ilu’) on the outskirts of the city (i.e., in the cemetery). (Enki & Ninhursag 1–30) Despite the detail with which Tilmun is described, there can be little doubt that what is portrayed here is not a real, physical world, but, on the contrary, a potential one. 57 Negation and concrete imagery serve together as a rhetorical device for describing what exists in conception only—it is a device by which the absence of some quality can be vividly imagined. 58 most seriously, it supposes an otherwise unattested verbal root in gi6. Second, the text is not concerned with cosmology, and therefore neither with the origins of day and night. Rather, this clause forms a unit with the following line, and should therefore describe some intrinsic characteristic of man, who has yet to take identifiable form. In the Mesopotamian conception, heavy labor certainly fills that condition. In myth, man was created to work in place of the gods, canal dredging being a proverbially burdensome chore and a primary duty that was once the responsibility of the gods (e.g., Enki & Ninmah 10–11, 22). Needless to say, the signs MI and DUGUD are easily conflated. 57. See Dickson, “Enki and Ninhursag,” 5; Katz, “Enki and Ninhursaĝa,” 578; and already Lambert and Tournay, “« Enki et Ninhursag »,” 122–23. 58. For the use of negation as a literary device in Mesopotamian literature, see P.  Michalowski, “Negation as Description: The Metaphor of Everyday Life in Early Mesopotamian Literature,” AuOr 9 (1991) 131–36. Much has been made of the prologue’s particular focus on the absence of adversity and the negative aspects of life, specifically, no predation, disease, death, or old age. Indeed, this description was central to the early understanding of Tilmun as a Sumerian paradise. However, the choice of these particular images likely represents the borrowing of a topos from the tradition that informed the more literal descriptions of the primordial world encountered elsewhere (see C. Woods, “At the Edge of the World: Cosmological Conceptions of the Eastern Horizon in Mesopotamia,” JANER 9 [2009] 205–6). The “Spell of Nindimmud” recounted in Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta, for instance, describes a primeval time, which will once again be, “on that day when there is no snake, when there is no scorpion, when there is no hyena, when there is no lion, when there is neither dog nor wolf, when there is no fear nor trembling and mankind has no rival” (ll. 136–40). And the notion that the earliest men lived lives of Methuselahan lengths, and were therefore free of the normal mortal bonds of old age, is found in the Sumerian King List, The Early

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This is a world full of promise yet unrealized, a virtual world existing in a state of suspended animation, where “everything was still in the bud,” to use Jacobsen’s felicitous turn of phrase. 59 To be sure, what is conveyed here is not an image of absolute nothingness, for there was the design of the entities that would occupy the world, and these were eagerly anticipated. This is made clear by the word choice, for in her complant to Enki, Ninsikila repeatedly states that he has given—not barren land or country (compare kur Tilmun(ki) of ll. 2, 4–6)—but a city: ‘You have given a city! You have given a city! But what does your giving avail me? You have given a city, Tilmun! You have given a city! But what does your giving avail me? You have given . . . ! You have given a city! But what does your giving avail me?’ (ll. 32–36). 60 But the city, like the elements of everyday life described in the preceding lines, is merely a conceit prior to Enki’s intervention. This was still an unfinished world in which the basic building blocks were yet to take definite shape. As aptly summed up by Lambert and Tournay, “le texte donne moins l’impression d’un paradis que celle d’un monde endormi dans une non-vie: toutes les forces et tous les êtres y sont en puissance et déjà en place, mais aucune, mais aucun n’existe vraiment”—it was yet “une vaste machine toute montée, mais qui ne tourne pas.” 61 It is in this context that we are to understand the first lines of the story. The opening sextet represents an exclamation, an expression of wonder at how the world has achieved its present form, specifically, how the city as an entity has come to be. As a whole, the prologue revolves around the city as the hub of human activity and civilization, portraying facets of everyday life in a series of increasingly urban-centric images. Organized by theme, 62 the passage first focuses on wild animals (ll. 14–16), but even here the city is quickly approaching, for the section ends with the wolf, which is described as deriving its livelihood parasitically from the city. The followRulers of Lagaš (ll. 14–16), and Lugalbanda in the Mountain Cave (l. A15); and, of course, life without natural limit was the prerogative of antediluvian man in Atraḫasis. 59.  Jacobsen, Harps, 181; see also Katz, “Enki and Ninhursaĝa,” 579. 60. Compare [ku r] ⸢Tilm u n ⸣ ki-n a m u -u n-sik i l m u - u n- d ad ag [d]⸢Ni n ⸣s ikil-la zag-ba nam-mi-in-gub ‘(Enki) made the land of Tilmun virginal and purified it, and placed Ninsikila in charge of it’ (Enki & The World Order 238–39). Clearly, this passage and the description of Tilmun found in the prologue of Enki & Ninhursag are related, deriving from the same tradition (note the common use of the adjectives dadag and sikil to describe Tilmun). In fact, nowhere in Enki & Ninhursag is it explicitly stated that Enki has given Tilmun to Ninsikila, and so a knowledge of this fact as preserved in Enki & The World Order is necessary for properly understanding Ninsikila’s speech. 61.  Lambert and Tournay, “« Enki et Ninhursag »,” 123. 62.  As conveniently diagrammed by Attinger, “Enki et Ninḫursaĝa,” 34.

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ing section, which includes domestic animals and birds that cleave to humanity (ll. 17–21), begins fittingly enough with the dog, which protects the flocks, the interest of humans. The remainder of the prologue focuses upon humanity itself, first from the point of view of nature (ll. 22–26), and secondly from the point of view of culture (ll. 27–30), concluding with images that represent essential elements of urban existence. But as the opening lines make clear, and as Ninsikila’s grievance reaffirms, the city did not always exist, but emerged. Enki and Ninsikila (ll. 1–62) is an etiology for Bahrain’s renowned natural springs. This unique characteristic of the island, in turn, was the basis of its association with Enki’s cult and, moreover, was the critical topographical feature accounting for Tilmun’s success as a major trade entrepôt—the two facts that the story ultimately seeks to explain. The central focus of Enki & Ninsikila is not water as the essential element of life, but the role that water plays in establishing Tilmun’s urban credentials as a major trade emporium. In fact, Ninsikila begins her enumeration of Tilmun’s inadequacies with the complaint that the island lacks a river harbor. And that commerce is paramount to the island’s identity is made clear from Enki’s final blessing after granting Ninsikila’s wish—“May your city become an emporium on the quay for the country; may Tilmun become an emporium on the quay for the country” (ll. 48–49)—as well as from the insertion from the Ur version, which rhapsodizes Tilmun’s far-flung trade. It is only with Enki’s gift of freshwater springs that Tilmun springs to life as a bustling port city, alive with the traffic of ships laden with exotic cargo from faraway places. Before this point, this defining characteristic of urban Tilmun was an idea only, a mere blueprint. A yet-to-be realized world is a world conceived as dormant, aslumber, an image that is made explicit in the lines immediately following the opening stanza: “In Tilmun, where he had once slept by himself, in that place he then slept with his wife—that place is pristine, that place untouched! In Tilmun, where he had once slept by himself, in that place he then slept with Ninsikila” (ll. 7–12). Here is the suggestion of the transformation and maturation that are the central theme of the story, for the passage alludes to Enki’s early existence in Tilmun first as a young bachelor and then as a husband. It is a theme that is embedded in the very formulation and language of the prologue. The clauses, individually and collectively, describe a static situation, a non-time at the beginning. Yet construed as negatives—a stylistic inversion of reality that focuses on the absence of some basic quality of life or civilization—each anticipates the dynamic action that will transform the world and bring these qualities into fruition. And this sense of

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imminent motion and metamorphosis is implied by the theme of flowing water, which is Enki’s transforming gift at the root of the story. The awakening of Tilmun finds broad thematic parallels elsewhere in the literature, specifically in those descriptions of an embryonic world whose essential characteristics were yet to come into being. The Debate between Sheep & Grain portrays an inchoate world in which neither sheep, nor goats, nor grain, nor kingship existed, in which the gods Uttu and Nigirsi were not yet born, and Šakkan had not yet taken up his role as the patron god of the animals of the steppe. The period following the Flood is described in The Rulers of Lagaš, in which An and Enlil established rulership, but “kingship—the crown of the city—had not yet come down from heaven” (ll. 9–10), and Ningirsu had not yet given mankind the essential implements for agriculture. But most intriguing for our purposes is the description of primeval times that opens The Marriage of Martu and provides the temporal point of reference for the story: (20) I3-na-abki i3-me-a Kiri8-tab nu-me-⸢a⸣ When there was the city of Inab, but not yet the city of Kiritab, men kug i3-me-a aga kug nu-me-[a] when there was the holy crown, but not yet the holy tiara, šim kug i3-me-a gišerin kug nu-me-[a] when there was the holy herb, but not yet the holy cedar, mun ku g i3-me-a ⸢naga⸣ kug nu-⸢me⸣-a when there was the holy salt, but not yet the holy alkali, l. 5 giš dug4-dug4-⸢ga⸣ [ne su-ub -ba] i3-me-a when there was intercourse and kissing, šag4-tum2-šag4-tum2-ma ⸢tud⸣-[da] i3-me-a and there was giving birth in the fields. (Marriage of Martu 1–6) A world unfinished is figuratively described, in this instance, with a series of images in which one entity—relating to the realia and institutions of culture and civilization—has been created, but its counterpart had not yet come into existence. 63 The rhetorical device is markedly different from 63.  Compare kur Tilmunki [(. . .)] x in-nu E2-a n-n a U n u gki- e K u l - ab a4ki- aka ki us2-sa-a gi6-par4 ku g dIn an a-ke4 sig4 K u l- ab a4ki- k e4 k u g k i - i n- d ar-r a-

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the one encountered in Enki & Ninhursag, yet the ends are the same. In both prologues the imagery advances the belief that the recognizable world has not always been as it is now, but has come to be through some process. And in both the city is given pride of place. Not to be overlooked, however, amidst this lofty literary analysis is the more prosaic issue of language. For in both texts the existential notion ‘to be’—specifically, with the connotation ‘to come into being’—is expressed by the rarely attested finite formation of the verb me. gi m pa e3 a k-a m3 ‘Before the land of Dilmun existed, the Eana of Uruk-Kulaba was already well founded, and the holy Gipar of Inana in brick-built Kulaba shone forth like silver in the lode’ (Enmerkar & the Lord of Aratta 12–15).

Towards a Biography of Kish Notes on Urbanism and Comparison Norman Yoffee

Inroduction No one other than Peter Machinist could have written “The Road Not Taken: Wellhausen and Assyriology.” 1 Its themes are dauntingly large: How does one study the religion, culture, and history of ancient Israel in the context of “the region from which the Bible emerged, that is, the region of the ancient Near East?” 2 How did the “quest for European roots and, simultaneously, for evidence against which to assert European progress and achievement” 3 constitute also a struggle to find what was distinctive in ancient Israel over against the older cultures of the region, especially in Mesopotamia? This latter theme Peter has explored in a number of his essays, 4 in particular meditating on Benno Landsberger’s discussion of Eigenbegrifflichkeit (translated as “conceptual autonomy”). 5 1.  P. B. Machinist, “The Road Not Taken: Wellhausen and Assyriology,” in Homeland and Exile: Biblical and Ancient Near Eastern Studies in Honour of Bustenay Oded (eds. G. Galil, M. Geller, and A. Millard; VTSup 130; Leiden: Brill, 2009) 469–531. This chapter was submitted to the editors in Feb., 2010, and only a few references after that date could be incorporated. 2.  Ibid., 469. 3.  Ibid., 470. 4.  P. B. Machinist, “On Self-Consciousness in Mesopotamia,” in The Origins and Diversity of Axial Age Civilizations (ed. S. N. Eisenstadt; Albany: SUNY Press, 1986) 183–202; idem, “The Question of Distinctiveness in Ancient Israel: An Essay,” in Ah, Assyria: . . . Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor (eds. M. Cogan and I. Ephʾal; SH 33; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1991) 196–212; idem, “Outsiders or Insiders: The Biblical View of Emergent Israel and Its Contexts,” in The Other in Jewish Thought and History: Constructions of Jewish History and Identity (eds. L. J. Silberstein and R. L. Cohn; New York: New York University Press, 1994) 35–60. 5. B. Landsberger, The Conceptual Autonomy of the Babylonian World (trans. T. Jacobsen, B. Foster, and H. von Siebenthal; Monographs on the Ancient Near East 1/4; Malibu: Undena, 1976).

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In this long, yet typically graceful, recent essay, Peter finds a point of entry into these issues by studying the works of Julius Wellhausen. These include 25 of Wellhausen’s publications, from 1870–1913, and almost as many articles and books directly appraising Wellhausen’s work. He also addresses a great many studies of seemingly every important commentator on the specific questions under consideration. In short, the piece amounts to nothing less than a history and vade mecum of early episodes in the engagement of biblical studies with the fledgling field of Assyriology (Mesopotamian studies). Wellhausen, according to Peter—and against certain views of Wellhausen’s work—became well acquainted with advances in the study of Mesopotamian languages, Mesopotamian texts, and “the relevance of Assyrian texts to Biblical history.” 6 However, Wellhausen did not follow this “road” towards the elucidation of biblical literature and culture; instead he increasingly “turn(ed) away to Arabic and Arab history” 7—the word “away” appearing to signal Peter’s criticism of Wellhausen’s choice: it was “the road not taken.” Why, then, did Wellhausen “turn away”? Peter argues, convincingly, that Wellhausen adhered to the analysis of “master texts” and “source-critical history” 8 because only these, he believed, could lead to an understanding of the distinctiveness of biblical culture. Now this was, as Peter delicately alludes, something of a false front, 9 since Wellhausen, after all, was concurrently invested in the study of early Arab culture. This, it seemed to many contemporaries, influenced his biblical studies, 10 which Wellhausen himself seemed to admit, if obliquely. Whereas Peter explores Wellhausen’s position in relation to the scholarly debates of his day, notably his insistence on moving “from within to without” and his suspicion that comparison can not properly lead to the distinctiveness, the Eigenbegrifflichkeit, of a culture, his conclusion on these matters remains open-ended. For Peter, one need not commit to the either-or mindset apparent in Wellhausen’s perceived options; rather, both “internal analysis of the source on its own terms and external, comparative examination, of the source in its wider context are essential.” 11 Indeed, 6.  Machinist, “Road Not Taken,” 492. 7. Ibid., 496. 8.  Ibid., 501. 9.  This is especially apparent to us moderns concerned with double hermeneutics and the recursive relation between our world and the world we research. 10. As Peter notes; see especially “Road Not Taken,” 510, quoting Arnaldo Momigliano. 11.  Machinist, “Road Not Taken,” 524.

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Peter’s entire career oscillates between those two poles, that is, in the paying of close attention to both biblical sources and Mesopotamian context, and especially in the manner by which Mesopotamian civilization was experienced by ancient Israel. But it remains to be asked: what are the comparanda that can be productively posited between cultures, those points that can then lead to understanding of similarity and difference? How does one “do” comparison beyond that of historical contact? Since Peter and I have discussed and debated such issues from the time we first met, and doubtlessly shall continue to do so (inshallah), “a full study of this problem is beyond the scope of the present paper.” 12 Instead, I offer a comment about comparing Near Eastern cultures from the perspective of a project that I am still forming: how to write a “history” of the Mesopotamian city of Kish. After a short essay on that subject, I attempt to imagine why Wellhausen did not take the road Peter recommends, and then offer an argument that, while certainly not Wellhausen’s, might be construed as a kind of defense of the road Wellhausen did not take.

Writing the History of Kish In 2500 b.c., the Mesopotamian city of Kish was the greatest city in the world. 13 A mere 500 years earlier it had been a modest village (or probably two neighboring villages; see below). Two hundred years after its apogee in splendor, population, size, and political might, Kish became a province of the state of Akkade, whose first king, Sargon, had once served the king of Kish. 14 Sargon built his capital at the site of Akkade, and this served to symbolize the creation of a new kind of political system in Mesopotamia, not just the hegemony of one of the old city-states. As a provincial center, however, Kish was famous for representing power, and for centuries rival Mesopotamian kings and princes strived to rule Kish. In the Old Babylonian period (ca. 2000–1600 b.c.), Kish was eclipsed by its neighbor, Babylon, only 15 km to the west, after which Kish held no pretense to political power. Remarkably, however, even kings who lived nearly two millennia after the mid-third-millennium glory of Kish erected or refurbished temples to the gods of Kish. In the first millennium c.e., a Persian nobleman built an ornate mansion at Kish, probably having only a dim idea of the great city that was crumbling nearby. Today, Kish looms 12.  Ibid., 470. 13.  See N. Yoffee, Myths of the Archaic State: Evolution of the Earliest Cities, States, and Civilizations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). 14. S. Dalley, “Kish and Hursagkalama: An Assessment of the Cities’ History and Cults in Light of the Information from Cuneiform Texts,” MS.

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as desolate hills of rubble, starkly visible on the bare plains of central Iraq. As I write these words, on the summit of one hill there is an American bivouac from which soldiers reconnoiter. Whereas some scholars have written excellent studies of aspects of various Mesopotamian cities in delimited periods of time, 15 no one has written the history of any Mesopotamian city that flourished as long as Kish did. Indeed, most studies of Mesopotamian cities are not historical narratives at all, but inventories of data with more or less extensive commentaries on the difficult parts. One distinguished scholar, much cited by our honoree, asserted that it is not only impossible to write a history of a Mesopotamian city, but also that Mesopotamian history itself is a quixotic enterprise. When Arnaldo Momigliano was appointed to the Chair of Ancient History in the University of London in 1951—whose duties included the supervision of Greek, Roman, and Oriental (mainly Mesopotamian) history—he claimed that Greek history presented the most difficulties. In fact, he went on, “Oriental history is still in that happy stage in which the almost vertiginous increase in evidence lends plausibility to the convention that thinking is a work of supererogation for the historian.” 16 Although much new data and many studies of persons, events, and institutions in Mesopotamia have been published in the half-century since Momigliano advised that Mesopotamianists should be content with their honest métier, philology, his skepticism about whether one can write Mesopotamian history still retains a measure of validity. Momigliano was certainly right that the huge number of texts from Mesopotamia is matched 15.  The venerable studies by R. Harris, Ancient Sippar: A Demographic Study of an Old-Babylonian City (1894–1595 b.c.) (Uitgaven van het Nederlands Historisch-Archeologisch Institut te Istanbul 36; Leiden: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut te Istanbul, 1975); and M. T. Larsen, The Old Assyrian City-State and Its Colonies (Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag, 1976) are classics. Two newer studies of cities from the archaeological perspective, but including historical material, are R. Brusasco, The Archaeology of Verbal and Nonverbal Meaning: Mesopotamian Domestic Architecture and Its Textual Dimension (Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, 2007); K. Keith, Cities, Neighborhoods, and Houses: Urban Spatial Organization in Old Babylonian Mesopotamia (Ph.D. diss., University of Michigan, 1998); and idem, “The Spatial Patterns of Everyday Life in Old Babylonian Neighborhoods,” in The Social Construction of Ancient Cities (ed. M. L. Smith; Washington, DC: Smithsonian, 2003) 56–80. Valuable as well is M. van de Mieroop, The Ancient Mesopotamian City (Oxford: Clarendon, 1997), as a synthetic treatment of the subject. 16.  A. D. Momigliano, “George Grote and the Study of Greek History,” in Studies in Historiography (Inaugural Lecture at University College London on 19 February 1952; repr., New York: Harper & Row, 1966) 57 (my emphasis).

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only by the dismal certainty that the data, even in the best of circumstances, are only the scattered and obviously biased fragments of a once living society. Is the project of writing Mesopotamian history, let alone the history of one city, doomed by the unevenness of the evidence and the limits of epistemology? M. I. Finley, in discussing cities that were not nearly as distant from modern times and sensibilities as Kish, was dubious about the potential contributions of archaeology to “catch the ‘feel’ of an ancient city. What we see is either a ruin or a shadow overlain by centuries of subsequent habitation. . . . Nothing can be deadlier than the reconstruction of ancient buildings and districts. . . . They mislead badly in recreating the reality within a living community.” 17 Indeed, the archaeology of Kish presents as dreary a scene as Finley might have expected. 18 Kish was excavated by a French team in 1911–12 and by an Anglo-American team from 1923–33. The story of this work has been admirably told by McGuire Gibson (1972) and by Roger Moorey (1978). 19 New projects by teams headed by Karen Wilson in Chicago and Nicolò Marchetti in Bologna 20 continue studies of the material culture of Kish. In the following brief notes, pace Finley, it is clear that the history of Kish can only be told with regard to the “spatiality of social life” 21 because urban space “produces and reproduces structures and behaviors and constrains agents.” 22 Without an appreciation of what an ancient city looks like, we cannot possibly understand it. About 3000 b.c., Kish consisted of two small adjacent villages, East Kish (Arabic: Ingharra), properly named Hursagkalama (“the mountain of Sumer”), and West Kish (Arabic: ʿUhaimir), Kish proper, which gave its name to the entire city-state. By this time, cities were already established 17.  M. I. Finley, “The City,” Opus 6–8 (1987–89) 303–15, esp. 309. 18. N. Yoffee, “Making Early Cities Plausible,” Reviews in Anthropology 38 (2009) 264–89. 19. M. Gibson, The City and Area of Kish (Miami: Field Research Projects, 1972); P. R. S. Moorey, Excavations at Kish 1923–33 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1978). 20. N. Marchetti, La statuaria regale nella Mesopotamia protodinastica (Memorie IX/XXI/I; Rome: Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, 2006); idem, Royal Statuary of Early Dynastic Mesopotamia (Mesopotamian Civilizations 14; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2010) esp. §1.1.9. 21. E. Soja, Postmodern Geographies: The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory (New York: Verso, 1988) 10–11; idem, Postmetropolis: Critical Studies of Cities and Regions (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000). 22. A. Smith, The Political Landscape: Constellations of Authority in Early Complex Polities (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003) 15.

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both to Kish’s north (for example, Tell Brak) 23 and in south Mesopotamia. The first city in the south about which we know much is Uruk, the wellknown site of a massive temple complex of about nine hectares in size and the birthplace (or so we think) of remarkable art, cylinder seals, and writing. 24 Piotr Steinkeller has recently traced the evolution of the sign KISH in early texts; it represents an aurochs (wild bull), perhaps a “totemic” representation of a leading lineage or otherwise representing a god or king or even the concept of power. 25 There is, however, little known about Kish before 3000 b.c., although McGuire Gibson has told me about scattered sherds dating to the late-fifth and fourth millennia, the late Ubaid and Uruk periods. Although there were important prehistoric sites near Kish, there are no sherds that date to the fourth millennium that have found their way to the museums in Oxford and Chicago (those to which material from excavations was transported). The pottery in Istanbul (and Baghdad) has not been studied thoroughly enough to merit speculation about these periods. In the late-fourth/early-third millennium, the site of Jamdat Nasr, about 25 km northeast of Kish, which was the location of a large building (about 100 m long) with tablets in Uruk 3 script, was presumably the major center in the region. 26 Piotr Steinkeller informs me of the existence of a stone tablet that may date to the following Early Dynastic I period (ca. 2800 b.c.). This text, which would represent the first historical inscription in Mesopotamia, according to Steinkeller describes thousands of war captives under the control of the king of Kish and also lists many towns under his domination. In the Early Dynastic I or early in the Early Dynastic II periods (roughly 2700–2500 b.c.), archaeological evidence from Kish increases, and in late ED II and in early ED III, Kish grew explosively to its maximum extent of about 5.5 km2. The population of Kish at 2500 b.c. would not have been less than several tens of thousands. In Hursagkalama/East Kish/Ingharra, excavations have revealed major edifices (as well as cemeteries with cart burials), from south to north, a 23. G. Emberling, “Urban Social Transformations and the Problem of the ‘First City’: New Research from Mesopotamia,” in The Social Construction of Ancient Cities (ed. M. Smith; Washington, DC: Smithsonian, 2003) 254–68. 24. See M. Liverani, Uruk, The First City (trans. M. van de Mieroop and Z. Bahrani; London: Equinox, 2006). 25. P. Steinkeller, “Studies in Third Millennium Paleography, 4: Sign KIŠ,” ZA 94 (2004) 175–85. 26. R. Englund and J.-P. Grégoire, The Proto-Cuneiform Texts from Jemdet Nasr (Berlin: Mann, 1991); R. Matthews, Secrets of the Dark Mound: Jemdet Nasr 1926–28 (Warminster: British School of Archaeology in Iraq, 2002).

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palace, perhaps the first such building in Mesopotamia (Palace A), twin ziggurats, and the “plano-convex” building. The latter has been interpreted by Roger Moorey as an “armory” since it has a fortified entrance, massive walls, and storerooms, as well as a central court, offering stations, and domestic quarters. Perhaps a processional way, some 1000 m in length and not quite straight, connected these enormous buildings. Even without any textual evidence from these early periods, we would be able to conclude that Kish was the most powerful city of its time. But we have many texts, which I only summarize here, and these confirm the increasingly powerful position of Kish and its rulers. The great majority of these texts referring to Kish, however, which are well known to Mesopotamian historians, 27 do not come from Kish itself. In the “Sumerian King List” (SKL), first written in the late 21st century b.c., but purporting to describe history from the time when “kingship descended from heaven,” Kish was the home of the first dynasty to rule after the “flood.” Its 23 kings, the longest dynasty in the SKL, include many kings with animal names, some in Akkadian, perhaps clan names and/or names of constellations, 28 rather than names of kings. One king (Mebaragesi) left a contemporary inscription, and one (Aka) fought the legendary Gilgamesh, the ruler of Uruk, in a Sumerian poem written considerably after the purported conflict. A much-later legend refers to the super-heroic exploits of Etana, another king of the first dynasty of Kish in SKL (and later an official in the Netherworld). Hymns from another city refer to a visiting king of Kish, whose visit is commemorated in the poem. More impressive to many scholars are those references to kings (from roughly 2500–2400 b.c.) who came from Der, Lagash, Uruk, and Ur, and not Kish, but who nonetheless added to their own royal titles the phrase, “King of Kish.” 29 The latter has long been interpreted as indicating the prestige of the title rather than a statement of actual political control over Kish. The central role and modern fame of Kish have grown over the last 35 years, following the reconstruction of a “Kish civilization” by I. J. Gelb and Piotr Steinkeller. 30 For Gelb and Steinkeller, this label denotes a region that was politically, linguistically, and ethnically different from 27.  For example, M. van de Mieroop, A History of the Ancient Near East: ca. 3000– 3323 bc (2nd ed.; Oxford: Blackwell, 2007). 28.  D. R. Frayne, The Pre-Sargonic Period (2700–2350 bc) (RIME 1; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008). 29. T. Maeda, “King of Kish in Pre-Dynastic Sumer,” Orient 17 (1981) 1–17. 30. I. J. Gelb, “Ebla and the Kish Civilization,” in La Lingua di Ebla: Atti del Convegno Internazionale (ed. L. Cagni; Naples: Istituto Universitario Orientale, 1981) 9–73; idem, “Mari and the Kish Civilization,” in Mari in Retrospect (ed. G. Young; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1992) 121–202; and P. Steinkeller, “Early Political

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Sumerian civilization to the south. Texts from Ebla, in Syria, dating to the Akkade period in Mesopotamia, refer to interactions between Ebla and Kish, 31 unless another Kish, nearer to Ebla, is intended. 32 There are poems that refer to the accession of Sargon of Akkade from his role as an official to the king of Kish, but Sargon, in his own inscriptions, then reports that he “destroyed” Kish, after which he honored it. 33 Texts found at Kish show that the city had become a humble provincial seat of the new kings of Akkade, 34 about 2350–2000 b.c. However, a literary text discusses rebellions of a king of Kish against Naram-Sin, grandson of Sargon. 35 At about 2100 b.c., a king of Ur established control over Kish, making it a vassal of Ur III kings until the fall of the dynasty, around 2000 b .c.

Kish in the Old Babylonian Period, History and Historiography Before telling a brief story about Kish in the Old Babylonian period, which is the period I have studied over the years, I wish to present a brief history of research on Kish. I do not intend to review here the copious data and philological studies, but rather to consider the relation between data and their interpretation, in particular by identifying how fashions in history writing have led to various and changing apprehensions of the Mesopotamian past. I focus on four main themes: (1) the contest for political control of Kish after the fall of the Ur III state, that is, in the 20th century b.c.; (2) the role of nomads and/or ethnic groups as agents of change; (3) the relative importance of Sumulaʾel, the second ruler of the “Hammurabi dynasty,” over against Hammurabi himself, his fourth successor; (4) and the fall of that dynasty. Intermittently, I advert to the kinds of sources that historians have selected to write about these themes. Development in Mesopotamia,” in Akkad: The First World Empire: Structure, Ideology, Traditions (ed. M. Liverani; Padua: S.A.R.G.O.N., 1993) 107–29. 31.  See A. Archi, “Kish nei testi di Ebla,” Studia Eblaitica 4 (1981) 77–78; idem, “More on Ebla and Kish,” Eblaitica 1 (1987) 125–40; idem, “Les titres de en et lugal a Ebla et des cadeaux pour le roi de Kish,” MARI 5 (1987) 37–72; and A. Archi and M. G. Biga, “A Victory over Mari and the Fall of Ebla,” JCS 55 (2003) 1–44. 32. So P. Michalowski, “Third Millennium Contacts: Observations on the Relationships between Mari and Ebla,” JAOS 105 (1985) 293–302. 33.  For the poems, see J. G. Westenholz, Legends of the Kings of Akkade (Mesopotamian Civilizations 7; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997); for Sargon’s inscription, see D. R. Frayne, Sargonic and Gutian Periods (RIME 2; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1993). 34.  I. J. Gelb, Sargonic Texts in the Ashmolean Museum (MAD 5; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1970). 35. T. Jacobsen, “Iphur-Kishi and His Times,” AfO 26 (1979) 1–14.

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L. W. King wrote his history at a time when British troops were occupying southern Mesopotamia, and his account is enriched by empirical observations of the countryside of Iraq. King depicted the Old Babylonian period as “the final triumph of the Semite over the Sumerian.” 36 By “Semite,” King is describing here the Amorites, who, like all other Semites, came from a once-fertile Arabia and were nomadic shepherds organized in “patriarchal” families. Amorite tribes descended en masse into Mesopotamia, causing the fall of the Ur III state and continuing with “fresh incursions of West Semitic tribes.” The fall of the Hammurabi dynasty in Babylon, which was weakened by Kassites from Iran and Sealanders from marshy southernmost Iraq, came at the hand of a Hittite expeditionary force from Anatolia. King regarded Kish as “perhaps the most interesting example of Babylon’s early system of government.” 37 Although he mistook the order of kings, he admirably reviewed the reigns of Ashduni-yarim, Manana, Yawium, and Halium, who ruled Kish for short periods before Sumulaʾel, “the real founder of Babylon’s greatness” before Hammurabi, likewise described as “the real founder of Babylon’s greatness. 38 For King, Hammurabi’s “law-code” represented the centerpiece of his accomplishments, since it “preserved the essential elements of Sumerian culture” before its “racial purity had been diluted” by West Semitic nomads. If King’s descriptions of “races” now seems embarrassing, his history is in other ways quite modern: he devotes a section to Babylonian women, and he describes contemporary Iraqi plows, irrigation techniques, and even boats, which he compares with depictions in ancient art and texts. Anton Moortgat’s 1950 history is distinguished by his art historian’s concern with many images and descriptions of material culture, classes of data nowadays given short shrift by otherwise more modern historians. 39 However, Moortgat’s history is no less than King’s a story of Semites triumphing over Sumerians, a racist view appalling to read, especially given the time in which he was writing. The excellent histories of C. J. Gadd in 1964 and D. O. Edzard in 1965 promoted new ideas about Old Babylonian history. Gadd was perhaps the first historian to demote Hammurabi from his status as a hero of the Old Babylonian period. For Gadd, Hammurabi’s “combination of ability and fortune made only a fleeting impression upon the unstable conditions of 36.  L. W. King, A History of Babylon (London: Chatto and Windus, 1915) 119. 37.  Ibid., 143. 38. Ibid., 148, 160. 39. A. Scharff and A. Moortgat, Ägypten und Vorderasien im Altertum (Munich: Bruckmann, 1950).

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the age, and his creation crumbled in his son’s grasp even more quickly than it had sprung up under his father’s hand.” 40 Likewise, Edzard, following the work of J.-R. Kupper, downsized the image of the nomads’ movement into Mesopotamia from “oceanic waves” to river currents; all the same, in terms of its effect Edzard deemed the arrival of the Amorites in Mesopotamia as responsible for “national disasters.” 41 Gadd briefly referred to Ashduni-yarim of Kish, unknown except for a royal inscription that survives in three copies, each in a different museum, as one who “sort[s] ludicrously with the pompous language in which his achievements are set forth.” He noted further that the Hittites ended the Babylonian dynasty “with a speed and from a distance as of lightning.” His metaphor rings through other British historians’ descriptions of this event; compare, for instance, J. N. Postgate’s reference to the Hittites appearing like “a bolt from the blue”; 42 or that of J. Oates, for whom the Hittites entry into Babylon is “like a bolt out of the blue.” 43 These useful histories of the 1960s and 1970s echo most of King’s cast of heroes and villains. In comparison with King’s history, however, and in spite of a half-century of sustained research, they contain much less data than King’s. Sumulaʾel, for example, is hardly mentioned by either Gadd or Edzard. And no explanation for social and political change is given by either author aside from the entry of nomads who upset presumably stable regimes. Paul Garelli’s thoughtful history likewise deems that “nomads and great migratory forces gave birth to new worlds out of the suffering wrought by their invasions.” 44 His sparseness of detail in comparison with King or Gadd resembles W. W. Hallo’s rapid outline of Old Babylonian history. 45 Whereas both books are up-to-date in the data they cite, neither Ashduni-yarim nor Yawium, both rulers of Kish, enter their narratives, nor is Sumulaʾel even mentioned. Garelli has Hammurabi “astonishingly prefiguring Louis IX” of France, while Hallo ascribes Hammurabi’s success to 40.  C. J. Gadd, “Babylonia, c. 2120–1800 b.c.,” in CAH 1/2 (1964) 595–643. 41.  D. O. Edzard, “Die altbabylonische Zeit,” in Die altorientalischen Reiche I (eds. E. Cassin, J. Bottéro, and J. Vercoutter; Fischer Weltgeschichte 2; Frankfurt: Fischer, 1965) 165–209. 42.  J. N. Postgate, The First Empires (Oxford: Elsevier Phaidon, 1977) 100. 43. J. Oates, Babylon (London: Thames and Hudson, 1979) 84. 44. P. Garelli, Le proche-orient asiatique (Paris: Presses Universitaire de France, 1969). 45.  W. W. Hallo and W. K. Simpson, The Ancient Near East: A History (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1971).

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his membership in “an unbroken succession of rulers from a single family and his personal genius.” 46 These histories, which I have characterized only briefly, seem to share a view of the origin and stability of social relations along with a common explanation of social change. At the risk of oversimplification, let me offer a metaphor from biology to describe how many Mesopotamianists appear to understand history: social behavior for them amounts to the “phenotypic” expression, in social, economic, and political forms, of an ethnic “genotype.” Admittedly, this sort of explanation is not entirely unfounded in Mesopotamian literature, which itself promotes the idea that otherwise stable regimes were toppled by barbarians who were usually sent by the gods as their agents to punish impious kings (or for their own incomprehensible reasons). What I mean by my metaphor is that social and political organizations have often been reduced to putative “genetic” characteristics. Accordingly, Sumerians were understood as organized in city-states, each with a tutelary patron deity, with their kings directing economies, especially the ownership of land, which they controlled through a network of temples. By contrast, Akkadians were conceived of as Semites with universal deities and organized in territorial states whose economies were dominated by mercantile interests. In these Semitic states there were, notably, many sales of land. Change on a broader scale occurred as a process of external impingements on otherwise effective political systems, mainly as a result of ethnic invasions. Heroes of the Old Babylonian period (and other periods, too) were thus the “Great Men” who conquered their neighbors and whose scribal academies ensured their fame.

A Story of Kish in the Old Babylonian Period I contrast this traditional history of Kish in the Old Babylonian period with an outline of my own interpretation. I do not justify the differences with references to economic, administrative, and legal documents that are the core of my research on social and political organization and change in the period; that will have to await another publication. At the turn of the 20th century b.c., the Ur III dynasty tottered and fell. Subjugated leaders of various southern and central Mesopotamian city-states, who had been administered and taxed under the watchful eye of generals from Ur, were finally able to establish their local autonomy. 46.  Garelli, Le proche-orient, 128; Hallo and Simpson, Ancient Near East, 96.

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Nevertheless, the collapse of the Ur III state, which had ruled for less than a century, had lasting effects on both the political scene of the subsequent Old Babylonian period as well as on the literature that was composed, copied, and transmitted in Mesopotamian schools for centuries after the fall of the dynasty. After 2000, in the twin struggles for hegemony and independence that were the legacy of Ur, rival Amorite princes fought mainly with one another for power within and among city-states. Long resident in Mesopotamia, the leaders of Amorite groups were adept in employing bonds of ethnic solidarity, which extended beyond the borders of any particular city-state. Amorite princes with their military cadres forged alliances with their kinsmen, both in other cities and in the countryside. They gained, thus, selective advantage over other leaders in city-states who were unable to mobilize such widespread support. Although Dominique Charpin (2004) has written an authoritative essay on Old Babylonian political history, calling the period “l’époque Amorrite,” because the names of most of the rulers in this time are in the Amorite language, he says little about how Amorite leaders came to power. 47 For Charpin, as for others before him, a demographic change resulted in a political one: Amorites, who migrated from Syria into Iraq, settled down from their nomadic ways and seized power in Sumero-Akkadian cities. We are left to imagine whether Amorites came in hordes as oceanic tidal waves or migrated with their sheep as if in gentle river currents, to use the metaphors earlier historians had suggested; perhaps to use a modern term, they were trickle-down heroes who took over economies and thrones. Charpin notes, of course, that there is not a single document in the Amorite language, but he does not explain why the Amorites, having achieved power, did not write in their own language. Amorites of all ranks and statuses apparently chose to be Mesopotamian rather than to assert an “Amorite” identity. In other words, Amorites apparently could maintain their primary allegiances to their kin groups in addition to becoming members of city-states, and Amorites could and did honor the patron deities of Mesopotamian cities while also continuing to worship their own gods. What is more, in the manner by which political 47. D. Charpin, “Histoire politique du proche-orient Amorrite (2002–1595),” in Mesopotamien: Die altbabylonische Zeit (eds. P. Attinger, W. Sallaberger, and M. Wäfler; OBO, Annäherungen 160/4; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht/Fribourg: Academic Press, 2004) 24–480. Compare P. Michalowski (The Correspondence of the Kings of Ur: An Epistolary History of an Ancient Mesopotamian Kingdom [Mesopotamian Civilizations 15; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011]), who reviews the data and scholarship on Amorites in the Ur III period and in the early Old Babylonian period.

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takeovers are legitimized in other pre-industrial societies, 48 Amorite leaders constructed genealogies that linked them and their social groups with non-Amorite kings and groups who had preceded them in power. 49 Although Mesopotamianists have attempted sporadically to delineate “Amorite” behaviors and customs, they have not been conspicuously successful in doing so. If we begin with the data that depict Amorites as military cadres, first and foremost, and not “nomads,” we arrive at quite a different picture of the dynamics of social change in the Old Babylonian period. Much of the struggle among Amorite leaders in the early Old Babylonian period can be told from the vantage point of Kish. 50 In quotidian legal and economic documents from this and neighboring cities, we can trace the careers of a series of petty kings who left their names in yeardates and oaths sworn to them and to the gods of their cities. These kings sought and intermittently gained control over Kish. From letters 51 we follow the political intrigue, spying, and agents provocateurs that were part of the deadly political games played out for the domination of Kish. Kish was significant, not for exercising power, but for representing that age-old glory that still resonated in the ancient title “king of Kish.” Control over Kish allowed a king to claim much more power than he actually had. Out of this many-sided struggle, one leader, Sumulaʾel, of the previously unimportant town of Babylon, was able not only to subdue all rivals in central Mesopotamia, Kish included, but also to integrate the once-rival city-states into a functioning regional unit in central Mesopotamia, with its capital at Babylon. Texts from Kish dating to the reign of Sin-muballit, great-grandson of Sumulaʾel and father of Hammurabi, inform us to a limited degree how the state created by Sumulaʾel functioned, with citizens being recruited and paid to work in construction projects for the Babylonian crown. 52 The great-great-grandson of Sumulaʾel was Hammurabi. In his later years, this brilliant military tactician was able to expand his predecessor’s 48. See J. Vansina, Oral Tradition as History (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985); D. Henige, The Chronology of Oral Tradition (Oxford: Clarendon, 1974); and R. Wilson, Genealogy and History in the Biblical World (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982). 49. As seen, for example, in the “Assyrian King List” and the “Genealogy of Hammurabi.” 50. A. Goddeeris, Economy and Society in Northern Babylonia in the Early Babylonian Period (ca. 2000–1800 bc) (Leuven: Peeters, 2002). 51.  See especially K. al-Adami, “Old Babylonian Letters from ed-Der,” Sumer 23 (1967) 151–65, pls. 1–17. 52. V. Donbaz and N. Yoffee, Old Babylonian Texts from Kish Conserved in the Istanbul Archaeological Museums (Bibliotheca Mesopotamica 17; Malibu: Undena, 1986).

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stable and geographically small core in central Mesopotamia by conquering neighboring regions to the east and west and then overwhelming the entirety of southern Mesopotamia. Hammurabi centralized the administration of this empire by installing puppet rulers, bypassing local forms of governance and decision-making, abrogating traditional practices of land tenure, and requiring taxes for the enrichment of his capital. Although Hammurabi was careful to follow certain patterns that legitimized any Mesopotamian ruler, something evinced especially in his famous law code, which portrayed his power as quintessentially just and favored by the gods of all the cities that he had ruthlessly subjected, Hammurabi’s empire lasted only for about the last five years of his own reign and the first ten years of Samsu-iluna, his son and successor. Early in the reign of Samsu-iluna, the south rebelled against the Babylonian overlords. 53 The rebellious south was led not by urban elites, who were apparently co-opted by the puppet administration from the north, but rather by “kings of the Sealand,” 54 rural princes from the southern marshes. The Sealanders chafed against northern rule, fighting against Babylonian kings, and, apparently, against the urban elites in southern cities. One result of this struggle was the abandonment of most of the southern cities in the 1600s, as we know from the archaeological record 55 and also from a remarkable archive of texts from Kish. These texts, all dating to the last kings of the dynasty of Hammurabi, 56 which still ruled over the core territory in central Mesopotamia that was assembled by Sumulaʾel, are mainly lists of debts of local elite women— that is, women who lived in or near Kish—who sponsored ceremonies as part of the rituals for the goddess Ishtar of Uruk. Via these celebrants’ financial records, we learn that women performers, all from a lower class, along with priests, officials, and other divinities of the temple retinue of Ishtar of Uruk, had moved from Uruk to Kish. Uruk, which was largely abandoned in the late Old Babylonian period, if perhaps not for very long, had long been a center for the worship of Ishtar, goddess of human sexu53.  See A. Seri, House of the Prisoners: Slavery and State in Uruk during the Revolts against Samsu-iluna (Berlin: de Gruyter, forthcoming). 54.  See S. M. P. Dalley, Babylonian Tablets from the First Sealand Dynasty in the Schøyen Collection (Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2009). 55.  M. van Ess, “Keramik: Akkad bis der altbabylonischen Zeit,” in Uruk, Kampagne 35–37, 1982–1984: Die archaeologische Oberflächenuntersuchung (Survey) (ed. U. Finkbeiner; Ausgrabungen in Uruk-Warka Endberichte 4; Mainz: von Zabern, 1991) 91. 56. N. Yoffee, “The Economics of Ritual in Old Babylonian Kish,” JESHO 41 (1998) 312–43.

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ality. It was logical, if perhaps arduous, for the personnel of Uruk’s Ishtar temple to transfer to Kish, which was home to the second most famous shrine of Ishtar at this time. The women performers have been called “cult prostitutes,” but this description is inadequate and prurient, especially for those who know Herodotus’s stories of Babylonian prostitution (or perhaps Gore Vidal’s retelling of Herodotus in his novel, Creation). The women were rather participants in rituals that included sexual performances, a common enough activity in many religions of the premodern world, and one that was derided by shocked Greek and biblical writers, partly to emphasize the difference to their own belief systems. The history of the last days of the Old Babylonian period, ca. 1600 b.c., has been told by several historians, the latest being Seth Richardson. 57 The palace had become a credit institution, community leaders now wielded enough power to permit workers to labor on crown estates, 58 and military encampments in the land had become mini-governments, hardly subject to the king in Babylon. Taking advantage of this decrepit state, a marauding Hittite expeditionary force launched a successful raid into Babylon, and a chaotic political situation was, after years, resolved by the leaders of a new group, the Kassites, who again played on their ethnic relations in central Mesopotamia, and by Sealand kings in the south, who filled the vacuum of power in the early sixteenth century b .c.

Roads Taken and Not Taken Is it possible to write a history of Kish? The city existed for more than 3,000 years, but is known from texts referring to it more than texts actually deriving from it, and from a material culture that has been recovered in less than optimal circumstances and representing probably less than 1% of the site for any level comprising the archaeological palimpsest that is its tell. Perhaps, given all these limitations, it would be wise to proceed in the footsteps of A. L. Oppenheim, who insisted that his book on ancient Mesopotamia was only a “portrait,” 59 a personal interpretation, artistically rendered. Another attractive possibility could present the Kish story as biography, following, somewhat hubristically, the path of C. Hibbert 57. S. Richardson, The Collapse of a Complex State: A Reappraisal of the End of the First Dynasty of Babylon, 1683–1597 (Ph.D. diss., Columbia University, 2002). 58. A. Seri, Local Power in Old Babylonian Mesopotamia (London: Equinox, 2005). 59.  A. L. Oppenheim, Ancient Mesopotamia: Portrait of a Dead Civilization (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1964).

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or C. Jones, 60 whose histories on Rome and Paris, respectively, adhere to Alan Riding’s stricture that “urban history is about artisans, criminals, conspirators, prostitutes, immigrants, students, and intellectuals no less than emperors, kings, and presidents.” 61 After all, I can delineate most of these categories of people (excluding presidents) in the case of Kish. In this essay, I have explored topics and modes of explanation of various historians, and in so doing I have tried to remain conscious of my own interests in resistance and rebellion against foreign tyranny. Surely my story is cut for our own times, intended to fit the rhythms of modern scholarship. Walter Benjamin famously wrote in his Illuminations that “there is no document of civilization that is not at the same time a document of barbarism. They are cultural treasures, but one cannot contemplate them without horror.” The task in writing a history of Kish cannot avoid scenes of terror, suffering, and warfare wrought by Mesopotamians on each other as well as by invaders to the land. One can only attempt to write such an urban biography, or any kind of ancient history, through a glass, sideways. That is, I have imagined a grand processional way linking the palaces and ceremonial precincts in Kish in the mid-third millennium b.c., on the model of the “Street of the Dead” in the great city of Teotihuacan, in southern Mexico. Teotihuacan flourished in the mid-first millennium c.e. in southern Mexico, a city of 20 km2 and of ca. 100,000 people. 62 This city, at least in its dimensions, population, nature of stratification, and administration is similar to Kish, although differences in the two cities are obviously significant. In order to imagine what cities were like in Mesopotamia, I assert that a comparative, cross-cultural perspective must be explicit and unapologetic. No one knows Mesopotamia who knows Mesopotamia only. With these brief considerations of comparative history, I return, in a few words, to the question of those roads taken and passed over by Wellhausen, which Peter has so elegantly studied. Should Wellhausen have understood the early periods of ancient Israel, the patriarchal period and the formation of the united monarchy and the Israelite state (and the nature of social organization in ancient Israel), by comparison with the earlier civilization of ancient Mesopotamia? In not yielding entirely to the sirens of supererogation, whose spokesman, Momigliano, Peter introduced me 60. C. Hibbert, Rome: The Biography of a City (New York: W. W. Norton, 1985); C. Jones, Paris: The Biography of a City (London: Allen Lane, 2004). 61. A. Riding, “Review of Paris: The Secret History,” New York Times December 21, 2006. 62.  For pictures, see E. M. Moctezuma, Teotihuacan, City of the Gods (New York: Rizzoli, 1990).

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to four decades ago, I am content to address this question with two observations that I derive from the work on Kish. The first has to do with scale. Let us consider the evolving dimensions of Jerusalem from four different dates in the biblical period. In the 10th century b.c., the city figured to be approximately 30 dunams (3000 m2, 3 hectares) in size, which, assuming 20 persons per dunam, can be “equated” with 600 people. 63 At around 700 b.c., it was about 300 dunams (30 hectares) in size, with approximately 6,000 inhabitants. 64 By around 600 b.c., estimates have it at 600 dunams (60 hectares) and 12,000 people. Finally, at 500 b.c., Jerusalem figures again no more than 30 dunams and 600 people. 65 By comparison, Kish, at 2500 b.c., was about 5.5 km2 (550 hectares, 5,500 dunams) in size and inhabited by several tens of thousands of people (although it is unclear just how much of Kish was in fact occupied, whether at 2500 b.c. or at any other time in its history). 66 Thus, Jerusalem at the time of the united monarchy (whose reality and date I do not presume to debate) was .05× the size of Kish at the time of Kish’s maximum power in Mesopotamia—approximately 1,500 years before Jerusalem purportedly became the capital of Israel. Now Kish was only one of at least a dozen contemporaneous cities of approximately the same size. What is more, each of these was in fact the center of a citystate. For example, the city Lagash (ca. 2500–2000 b.c.) was also a state, consisting of around 3,000 km2 and including several cities, main towns, villages, and hamlets with perhaps 120,000 people. 67 Thus, if, as is indisputable, Jerusalem was a city, and Israel a state, then these were of a very different order of cities and states than those known in Mesopotamia. Mesopotamian cities like the Old Babylonian Kish I have described 68 consisted of ethnic and kin groups, residential sections, temples and 63. J. Cahil, “Jerusalem at the Time of the United Monarchy: The Archaeological Evidence,” in Jerusalem in Bible and Archaeology: The First Temple Period (eds. A. G. Vaughn and A. E. Killebrew; SBLSymS 18; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003) 13–80. 64. R. Reich and E. Shukron, “The Urban Development of Jerusalem in the Late Eighth Century bce,” in Vaughn and Killebrew, Jerusalem in Bible, 209–18. 65. I. Finkelstein, “Jerusalem in the Persian (and Early Hellenistic) Period and the Wall of Nehemiah,” JSOT 32 (2008) 501–20. 66.  I am grateful to Alexander Joffe who provided me with the references to Jerusalem. My calculation of the size of Kish is based on M. Gibson’s plan of the city in City and Area (n. 19 above), 265. 67. S. Beld, The Queen of Lagash (Ph.D. diss., University of Michigan, 2002); R. de Maaijer, “Land Tenure in Ur III Lagash,” in Landless and Hungry: Access to Land in Early and Traditional Societies (eds. B. Haring and R. de Maaijer; Leiden: Research School CNWS, 1998) 50–73. 68.  See also van de Mieroop, Ancient Mesopotamian City.

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palaces, and they included forms of local governance in addition to that of the king and his court. Citizens, as such, were defined by their residence in a city, not to a “nation”; indeed, there was no such thing as “Mesopotamia” as a political entity. Admittedly, the matter is somewhat different in the case of “Assyria,” especially in the latter stages of its history, which did represent such a territorial state, with a chief god and a king. Even so, the city was conceived of as the heart of religion and culture in Mesopotamia, the gathering place of people of various local identities, and the focus of business agreements and disputations. What did not exist, or was little developed in Mesopotamia, was a “semi-autonomous elite” of intellectuals, those who were the carriers of “new kinds of ideologies—indeed, one may say, the first real ideologies— which strive to present a comprehensive view of the world, not merely of any particular group, and argue that the main task is to remake present reality, corrupt and imperfect as it is, in accordance with the dictates of a higher moral order.” 69 The evolution of this kind of social group took place not in the heartland of cities that was Mesopotamia, but rather in a small land utterly peripheral to the Mesopotamian landscape: Israel. And here I must stop for I am way outside any pretense of expertise. Peter’s work and his friendship have inspired me for my entire career. If, in this essay, I adumbrate an argument that Wellhausen might have chosen, namely that one should not model an understanding of ancient Israel on the society and culture of Mesopotamia, I also insist that the comparative method is not limited to the exploration of similarities. Indeed, it is only by seeing the differences between the societies and cultures of Mesopotamia and Israel and by understanding the nature of the impact of Mesopotamia on ancient Israel and the reactions of Israelites to the world in which they were embedded, that one can begin to perceive how and why Israel created a new kind of thinking about the world and about themselves. 70 69.  Machinist, “Self-Consciousness,” 183. 70.  I delivered a lecture at Harvard in February 2007, in which I presented some ideas about Kish. Obviously, the Wellhausen part has been written for this essay. I have discussed aspects of Kish in various publications over the years and refer to only a few of them here. There will doubtlessly be some similarities between some ideas articulated here and others written by me elsewhere. I can only plead that memory is not serving as well as it used to and ask for the indulgence of any reader who may be better versed in my work than I am. I can think of two, both with the initials PM, off the bat.

Index of Authors Aberbach, M.  161 Adalı, S. F.  53, 62 Ahituv, S.  188, 195, 482 al-Adami, K.  539 Albright, W. F.  155, 177 Allen, J. P.  215 Allen, M.  57 Allred, L.  306, 310 Alp, S.  447 Al-Rawi, F. N. H.  5, 13, 18, 25, 26, 289 Alster, B.  465, 473, 505, 520 Altman, A.  325, 483, 489, 490 Andrewes, A.  379 Annus, A.  14, 19, 264, 266, 334, 336, 337 Archi, A.  94, 534 Aristotle  194, 195 Arnaud, D.  86, 131 Arneth, M.  200, 201 Arnold, B. T.  100 Assmann, J.  161, 357 Athanassakis, A.  363 Attinger, P.  505, 506, 510, 512, 513, 514, 520, 521, 522 Attridge, H.  374 Avishur, Y.  143, 187, 189, 191, 200 Bachvarova, M.  375 Bagg, A. M.  55, 58 Bailey, C.  151 Baines, J.  212, 213 Baltzer, K.  175 Barbieri, G.  201 Barjamovic, G.  71, 72, 73 Barmash, P.  401 Barnett, R. D.  43, 393 Barstad, H. M.  486 Barta, H.  359 Bartelmus, A.  229

Barth, F.  48 Barth, J.  52 Bartlett, J. R.  407 Barton, G. A.  139 Barton, J.  480, 491 Basson, A.  197 Bauer, T.  14 Bauks, M.  100, 103, 113, 114, 115 Baumann, G.  197 Baumgarten, A. J.  374 Baumgarten, E.  419 Beal, R. H.  333 Beard, M.  333 Beaulieu, P.-A.  117, 132, 142 Beckerath, J. von  213 Becking, B.  79, 80 Beckman, G. M.  332, 369, 434, 490 Begg, C. T.  78 Beld, S.  543 Benjamin, W.  542 Benveniste, É.  11, 12 Ben-Yehuda  138, 139 Berlejung, A.  110 Bidmead, J.  337 Bieberstein, K.  83 Biga, M. G.  534 Biggs, R. D.  121 Birot, M.  126 Bittel, K.  457 Black, J. A.  5, 13, 18, 20, 25, 26, 130, 351, 352 Blanton, R.  369 Blenkinsopp, J.  322, 384 Blok, J.  379 Boadt, L.  219 Böck, B.  24, 130 Boese, J.  299, 300, 315 Boissier, A.  124 Boling, R.  411 Bollweg, J.  304

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546

Index of Authors

Bonner, R. J.  360 Borger, R.  98, 103, 117, 135, 141, 223, 225, 239, 246, 253, 254, 255, 261 Börker-Klähn, J.  191 Bottéro, J.  4, 106, 107, 120, 370, 504, 520 Bowden, J.  334 Breasted, J. H.  474 Bremmer, J. N.  103, 115 Brenner, O.  297 Brettler, M. Z.  209 Brewer, J. A.  384 Breyer, F. A. K.  435, 440, 448 Briant, P.  357 Brinkman, J. A.  49, 54, 229 Brisch, N.  465 Broekhuis, J.  209, 213 Brooke, A. E.  30 Brown, D.  23, 24, 25 Brown, F.  339 Brown, J.  130, 131 Brusasco, R.  530 Buccellati, G.  11 Budde, K.  322 Burkert, W.  334, 356 Butler, S. A. L.  234 Byrne, R.  185 Cagni, L.  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 12, 14, 16, 17, 18, 19, 22, 24, 26, 139 Cahil, J.  543 Calame, C.  129 Calvignac, S.  305 Campbell, A. F.  322, 323 Campbell, D. A.  377 Cancik-Kirschbaum, E.  331 Cannadine, D.  205 Carrol, R. P.  143, 147, 148 Carter, C. W.  88 Cartledge, T.  410, 411 Caspari, W.  321 Cassuto  485 Cavigneaux, A.  128, 193, 467 Chamaza, G. W. V.  67 Chambon, A.  36, 37, 38, 44, 45

Chapman, C. R.  199 Charpin, D.  41, 286, 368, 468, 538 Chavalas, M.  421 Chiari, I.  270 Childs, B. S.  79, 384 Cifarelli, M.  190 Civil, M.  121, 297, 298, 303, 400, 506, 507, 513, 519 Clausewitz, C. von  481 Clements, R. E.  143, 383 Cochavi-Rainey, Z.  434, 435, 436 Cogan, M.  31, 39, 40, 43, 138, 170, 219, 225, 229, 235, 493, 494, 496 Cohen, H. R.  350 Cohen, M. E.  7, 87, 89, 263, 313, 470, 471, 514 Cohen, Y.  131, 434 Coldstream, J. N.  377 Cole, S. W.  54, 63, 64, 68, 72, 73 Collins, B. J.  332 Collins, P.  515 Collon, D.  124, 256 Conti, G.  468 Cooley, J. L.  167 Cooper, J.  114, 250, 289, 407 Cooper, M.  292 Coote, R. B.  498 Cortelazzo, M.  270, 274 Cowley, A. E.  324 Crawford, C. D.  81 Cripps, R. S.  487, 491 Cross, F. M.  85, 168, 169, 189 Dahl, J. L.  288, 293 Dalley, S.  4, 14, 59, 60, 62, 63, 67, 174, 190, 257, 353, 529, 540 Dam, C. van  158 Damrosch, D.  98 Da Riva, R.  226 Davies, G. H.  77 Davis, N. Z.  285 Davison, J.  305 Day, J.  78, 186, 420 Day, P.  413, 417 Delitzsch, F.  99, 399

Index of Authors Deller, K.  52 Depuydt, L.  292 Derks, T.  49, 50 Der Manuelian, P.  219 Derrida, J.  135, 136 Detienne, M.  359 Dhorme, E.  305 Dick, M.  124 Dickson, K.  504, 521 Diessel, H.  513 Dietrich, M.  132, 133, 155 Dijk, J. J. A. van  110, 111 Dion, P.-E.  179 Dobbs-Allsopp, F. W.  188, 189 Donbaz, V.  539 Drewnowska-Rymarz, O.  468, 469 Driel, G. van  49 Driver, G. R.  402 Driver, S. R.  321 Dubovský, P.  43 Duhm, B.  144, 146, 147, 383 Dumont, J. H.  211 Duplouy, A.  132 Durand, J.-M.  126, 332, 408 Durham, J. I.  209 Easterling, P.  362 Ebeling, E.  124, 125, 134, 350, 351, 494 Eco, U.  269 Edel, E.  434, 435, 437, 439, 440, 441, 442, 443, 444, 446, 447, 448, 450, 451, 453, 457 Eder, W.  366, 372 Edgerton, W. F.  218 Edzard, D. O.  11, 14, 54, 507, 535, 536 Ehrenberg, V.  360 Eichler, B.  399 Eilat, M.  140 Elat, M.  57, 185 Elliot, D. E.  514, 515 Ellis, M. de J.  397 Emberling, G.  49, 532 Englund, R. K.  121, 532 Engnell, I.  90

547

Enmarch, R.  214, 215 Ephʿal, I.  19, 54, 202, 230, 239, 240, 268 Erbse, H.  365 Erkut, S.  447 Erler, M.  358 Ess, M. van  540 Ewald, H.  420 Eynikel, E.  83, 322 Fabietti, U.  48 Fadinger, V.  359 Fales, F. M.  51, 52, 56, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 69, 71, 72, 140, 185, 224, 228, 239, 266, 269, 332 Falkenstein, A.  7, 505, 506, 512 Faraone, C. A.  359 Farber, W.  19, 21 Farenga, V.  362, 379 Faulkner, R. O.  474, 475 Finkel, I. L.  117, 118 Finkelstein, I.  543 Finkelstein, J. J.  397, 398, 399, 401 Finley, M. I.  378, 531 Fishbane, M.  490, 496, 498 Fitzmyer, J. A.  324 Fleming, D. E.  85, 86, 87, 88, 90, 94, 369 Flower, M. A.  334 Fohrer, G.  213, 216 Fokkelman, J. P.  200 Foster, B. R.  4, 7, 8, 14, 15, 23, 89, 98, 104, 105, 106, 107, 374 Fox, M. V.  145 Fox, N. S.  324 Foxvog, D.  462 Frahm, E.  101, 106, 109, 114, 124, 128, 287, 311 Frame, G.  54, 193, 218, 229, 391 Frankena, R.  2 Frayne, D. R.  217, 289, 294, 297, 429, 533, 534 Fretheim, T. E.  85, 210, 221 Friedrich, J.  435, 439, 444, 445, 447, 448 Fritz, V.  492, 493, 494

548

Index of Authors

Frolov, S.  143 Fuchs, A.  72, 73, 140, 391 Gadd, C. J.  505, 535, 536 Gadotti, A.  516 Gagarin, M.  360, 362, 363, 365, 369, 371 Gall, A. F. von  321 Gaon, S.  349 Gardiner, A. H.  434, 444, 445, 446, 450, 453, 454 Garelli, P.  536, 537 Gasche, P.  153 Geertz, C.  53 Gehman, H. S.  31 Gehrke, H.-J.  370 Gelb, I. J.  533, 534 Gelio, R.  229 Geller, M. J.  160, 473 Geoghegan, J. C.  79 George, A. R.  5, 18, 19, 22, 26, 256, 352 Gerardi, P.  224, 227, 229, 230 Gerstenberger, E.  200 Gertz, J. C.  102, 341, 344 Gesche, P.  101, 103 Gessel, B. H. L. van  442, 445, 454 Gibson, M.  191, 531, 532, 543 Giere, S. D.  116 Gigante, M.  372 Gilboa, R.  80, 495 Ginsberg, H. L.  187, 188, 192 Gitin, S.  58, 59, 170, 201 Glassner, J.-J.  117, 119, 127, 131, 135 Goddeeris, A.  539 Goedicke  215 Goetze, A.  442, 453, 481, 482 Goldstein, R.  144 Gomi, T.  289, 301, 312, 425 Goodnick-Westenholz, J.  121 Gordis, R.  350 Gössmann, P. F.  2, 3, 5 Gottwald, N. K.  487 Graf, F.  369 Gragg, G.  510, 511 Graham, M. P.  195

Grant, J. A.  196 Gray, G. B.  384 Gray, J.  31, 41, 138, 143 Grayson, A. K.  10, 218, 224, 225, 226, 239, 330 Green, A.  351 Green, M. W.  516 Greenberg, M.  210, 213, 220 Greenfield, J. C.  242 Greenspahn, F. E.  350 Greenstein, E.  407 Grégoire, J.-P.  532 Greif, A.  180 Greifenhagen, F. V.  210, 220 Griffin, J.  362 Grintz, Y. M.  145 Groneberg, B.  6 Grotius, H. von  483 Grummond, N. T. de  333 Gschnitzer, F.  361 Gunkel, H.  98, 99, 100, 104, 189, 196 Gunn, D. M.  406, 418 Gurney, O. R.  122 Gutgesell, M.  434 Gutleb, B.  305 Haas, V.  440 Haase, R.  400 Hagedorn, A.  360 Haider, P. W.  377 Hainsworth, J. B.  362 Hallo, W. W.  99, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, 158, 159, 162, 163, 423, 427, 459, 460, 469, 511, 536, 537 Halpern, B.  166, 167, 168, 173, 175, 178, 179, 180 Hamilton, M. W.  191 Hammerton, D.  211 Hänni, C.  305 Hansen, M. H.  366, 372 Haran, M.  32, 418, 484, 485, 495, 497 Harper, E. T.  3 Harris, R.  417, 530 Hartenstein, F.  198

Index of Authors Harvey, P.  175 Hassan, F. A.  214 Hattori, A.  428 Hauser, G.  204 Havelock, E. A.  358, 362 Hawkins, J. D.  192, 454 Hayes, J. H.  384, 479, 480, 486 Hecker, K.  11 Heeßel, N. P.  350 Hehn, J.  114 Heidel, A.  104 Heidorn, L.  63 Heimpel, W.  12, 13, 286, 291, 300, 313, 469 Helck, W.  212, 435, 440, 444, 445, 451, 453 Held, M.  349 Heltzer, M.  143 Hendel, R. S.  80, 99 Henige, D.  539 Herbert, A. S.  384 Herbordt, S.  448, 454 Herles, M.  20 Herrmann, S.  38 Herrmann, V. R.  192 Hertzberg, H. W.  321 Hesiod  357, 358, 359, 361, 362, 363, 364, 365, 366, 368, 373, 374, 376 Heubeck, A.  362 Hibbert, C.  541, 542 Hillers, D. R.  221 Hjelde, S.  344 Hobbes, T.  118 Hobbs, T. R.  39, 41 Hodder, I.  275 Hoff, U.  208 Hoffman, Y.  486, 497 Hoffmeier, J. K.  212, 215 Hoffner, H. A., Jr.  333, 336, 455 Hölkeskamp, K.-J.  359, 365, 371, 372 Holladay, J. S.  179 Holloway, S. W.  252 Holtz, S. E.  203 Homer  357, 358, 359, 360, 361, 362, 363, 365, 369, 378

549

Hommel, H. H.  350 Hornung, E.  219 Horowitz, W.  22, 158, 290, 291, 459, 460, 461, 462, 463 Hort, G.  207, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 214, 215, 216, 217, 220 Hossfeld, F.-L.  200, 201 House, P. R.  39 Houtman, C.  87, 92, 209, 216, 217, 321, 322 Hout, T. van den  333, 445, 452 Hoyte, H. M. D.  215, 216 Hruška  15, 19 Huber, F.  424 Huddleston, R.  515 Huddlestun, J. R.  213, 221 Huehnergard, J.  11 Hughes, D.  413 Hughes, S.  305 Hulin, P.  122 Humphreys, C. J.  208, 215 Hunger, H.  133, 135, 258 Hurowitz, V.  81, 154, 158, 227, 232, 246, 266, 268 Hutter, M.  452 Hyatt, J. P.  210 Ibn Ezra  349 Imparati, F.  445 Irani, K. D.  357, 359, 379 Irvine, S. A.  384 Ishida, T.  44, 324 Ismail, B.  193 Ivantchik, A. I.  62 Izre’el, S.  464 Jackson, B.  400 Jacobs, J.  98, 106, 177 Jacobsen, T.  308, 352, 368, 374, 425, 426, 427, 429, 465, 503, 504, 505, 506, 520, 522, 534 Jagersma, B.  461 Jakob, S.  49 Jannot, J.-R.  333 Jastrow, M., Jr.  504, 506 Jensen, J.  384 Jeremias, A.  214

550

Index of Authors

Jimenez-Sanchez, E.  107, 114 Joannès, F.  126 Joffe, A. H.  198 Johnston, S. I.  333 Jones, C.  542 Jones, S.  47, 48 Joukowsky, M. S.  160 Joüon  142 Junna, W.  308 Jursa, M.  148 Kadri, S.  397 Kaiser, O.  383 Kalvelagen, R.  47 Kämmerer, T. R.  98 Kamp, K. A.  49 Kaplan, J.  195 Käppel, L.  363 Karavites, P.  358 Kataja, L.  70, 192 Katz, D.  352, 465, 467, 503, 504, 505, 506, 507, 520, 521, 522 Kaufmann, E. P.  48 Kearns, E.  369 Keetman, J.  287 Keil, C. F.  33, 38, 39 Keiser, C.  299 Keith, K.  530 Kemmer, S.  509 Kennedy, G.  363 Kenny, A.  270 Kern, P. B.  42 Kestemont, G.  434, 435, 437, 439, 440, 441, 442, 444, 445, 451, 453 Killebrew, A. E.  58, 543 Kimchi  350, 405 King, L. W.  115, 535, 536 Kinnier Wilson, J. V.  66 Kitchen, K. A.  212, 213, 214, 215, 220, 434, 435, 440, 442, 447, 448, 450, 453 Kittel, R.  35, 487, 488 Kitz, A. M.  217 Klein, J.  6, 7, 8, 163, 297, 312 Klengel, H.  435, 482 Klingbeil, G. A.  86

Klinkott, H.  186 Knierim, R.  489 Knippschild, S.  358 Koch, C.  342, 346 Koch, K.  341 Koch, U.  117, 122, 126, 336 Köcher, F.  127, 351 Koch-Westenholz, U.  109, 128 Köhler, L.  138 Koppen, F. van  417 Korošec, V.  481 Kouremenos, T.  129 Kramer, S. N.  4, 7, 120, 352, 368, 462, 473, 503, 504, 505, 520 Kraus, H.-J.  200 Krebernik, M.  104, 105, 106, 109, 110 Krecher, J.  513 Kreutz, N.  377 Kubisch, S.  186 Kühne, C.  439, 452 Kühne, H.  69 Kupper, J. R.  536 Kwasman, T.  332 Laato, A.  84 Labat, R.  128, 350, 351 Lacambre, D.  417 Lafont, B.  301 Lambert, M.  507, 521, 522 Lambert, W. G.  4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 17, 18, 21, 23, 24, 25, 98, 104, 105, 106, 119, 124, 133, 137, 257, 351, 352 Lambrecht, K.  515 Lamprichs, R.  229 Landsberger, B.  308, 527 Lanfranchi, G.  54, 60, 61, 62, 63, 269, 332 Lang, M.  358, 368 Langdon, S.  120, 434, 444, 445, 446, 453, 503, 504 Lardinois, A.  379 Laroche, E.  435, 437 Larsen, M. T.  97, 530 Latacz, J.  377 La Torre, M.  270, 273, 274, 275

Index of Authors Latte, K.  360 Lauinger, J.  343 Lawson, J. N.  125 Leclant, J.  453 Lehmann, R. G.  99 Leichty, E.  24, 68, 351 Leitch, V. B.  162 Lemaire, A.  324 Lemmelijn, B.  210 Lenci, A.  270, 273, 275 Lenzi, A.  117, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 131, 134, 135 Lesky, A.  360, 365, 374, 375 Leuchter, M.  322 Levenson, J. D.  166 Levine, B. A.  157 Levine, L. D.  63 Levinson, B.  401 Lévy, E.  370 Levy, T. E.  179 Lieberman, S.  128, 134, 142, 304 Linssen, M. J. H.  127, 132 Lipiński, E.  51, 54, 59 Liss, H.  80 Litke, R. L.  17, 19, 308 Liverani, M.  29, 70, 269, 532 Livingstone, A.  24, 26, 89, 124, 127, 256 Lloyd-Jones, H.  369 Loewenstamm, S. E.  209 Longman, T., III  159 Lozachmeur, H.  324 Luckenbill, D. D.  59, 174, 223, 260 Lumby, R.  38, 39, 43 Luraghi, N.  48 Luukko, M.  72, 136, 332 Lyons, H. G.  211 Maaijer, R. de  543 Macadam, M. F. L.  213 Machinist, P.  2, 12, 14, 18, 54, 55, 63, 64, 68, 104, 199, 221, 227, 231, 264, 269, 271, 355, 433, 493, 527, 528, 544 Maeda, T.  533 Maekawa, K.  300, 310 Magdalene, F. R.  398

551

Maier, J.  368 Malkin, I.  377 Mallory, C. D.  215 Malul, M.  266, 398, 399, 400 Mankowski, P. V.  202 Mann, M.  198, 199, 205 Manor, D. W.  36 Marchetti, N.  531 Marcus, D.  263, 407, 408, 412, 413, 415, 416, 418 Marcus, M. I.  228 Markett, L.  488 Marr, J. S.  215 Marti, D. K.  383 Masetti-Rouault, M. G.  67 Matthews, R.  532 Matthiae, P.  202 Mattila, R.  311 Maul, S. M.  127 Mauss, M.  141, 142 Mayer, W. R.  139 May, N. N.  264 Mayr, R. H.  297 Mays, J. L.  485, 497 Mazar, A.  193 McCarter, P. K., Jr.  90, 91, 92, 93, 322 McClain, E. G.  179, 180 McGeough, K.  186 McKane, W.  144, 146, 147, 148 McLean, N. M. A.  30 McMahon, G.  441, 443, 455 Meier, C.  351, 361, 363, 365, 370, 371, 372 Menzel, B.  67, 256 Mettinger, T. N. D.  80 Metzler, K. A.  98 Michaelis, L. A.  515 Michalowski, P.  98, 107, 108, 109, 151, 260, 286, 288, 289, 293, 297, 302, 303, 316, 374, 422, 423, 424, 426, 427, 428, 430, 460, 461, 521, 534, 538 Michel, C.  304, 417 Mieroop, M. van de  370, 530, 533, 543 Miles, J.  402

552

Index of Authors

Milgrom, J.  324, 499 Millard, A.  223 Miller, B.  418 Miller, P. D.  82, 187, 188, 197 Millett, P.  361 Milstein, S. J.  75, 82 Moctezuma, E. M.  542 Molina, M.  293 Möller, A.  377 Molleson, T.  304 Momigliano, A. D.  528, 530, 531, 542 Mondi, R.  374 Monte, G. del  435, 441, 442, 452 Montemagni, S.  270, 275 Montet, P.  220 Montgomery, J. A.  31, 40, 138, 143, 146, 493 Moore, G. F.  326, 405, 411 Moorey, P. R. S.  531, 533 Moortgat, A.  535 Moran, W. L.  102 Morgan, C.  360 Morrow, W. S.  346 Morschauser, S. N.  357 Mowinckel, S.  94, 344 Mulder, M. J.  39 Muller, C.  270, 273, 274, 275 Müller, G. G. W.  4 Müller, M.  434 Müller, W. M.  442, 453 Müller-Wollermann, R.  186 Muraoka  142 Murphy, R. E.  145 Murray, O.  379 Nagel, W.  304 Nagy, G.  360 Nashef, K.  68 Nasrabadi, B. M.  310 Naveh, J.  202 Naʾaman, N.  59, 63, 193, 268 Nentel, J.  83 Niehr, H.  80 Niemann, H. M.  45 Nissen, H. J.  121

Nissinen, M.  238, 257, 329, 331, 335, 337 North, J.  333 Noth, M.  216, 497 Nötscher, F.  220 Novotny, J. R.  336 Nuccetelli, S.  52 Oakes, M. P.  270 Oates, J.  304, 536 Ober, J.  379 O’Connor, M.  191 Oded, B.  44, 256, 267, 483 Oden, R. A.  374 Oelsner, J.  98 Olbrechts-Tyteca, L.  192, 203, 204 Olmo Lete, G. del  351 Onasch, H.  229 Oppenheim, A. L.  139, 140, 143, 191, 232, 234, 235, 541, 223, 541 Orton, C.  275 Oshima, T.  15, 22 Ostwald, M.  363, 369 Oswalt, J. N.  383, 384 Otten, H.  439, 443, 445, 448, 452, 455 Otto, E.  187, 339, 340, 343, 344, 345, 347, 368, 400, 403 Owen, D. I.  285, 297, 300, 302, 304, 312, 476 Pakkala, J.  342 Panitz, N.  193 Paoletti, P.  298, 299 Pardee, D.  192 Parker, S. B.  187, 191, 455 Parkinson, R. B.  214 Parpola, S.  52, 55, 57, 59, 60, 61, 62, 65, 66, 67, 69, 70, 72, 73, 114, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 145, 146, 218, 232, 238, 239, 240, 241, 244, 250, 255, 257, 329, 330, 331, 332, 334, 336, 337, 344, 353, 496 Patton, C.  84

Index of Authors Patzek, B.  377 Paul, S. M.  141, 352, 353, 486, 488, 491, 497, 499 Pecchioli Daddi, F.  455 Pedersén, O.  101 Peet, T. E.  220 Penglase, C.  356 Perelman, C.  192, 203, 204 Petersen, C.  197 Philo  374 Pirrelli, V.  270, 275 Pisano, S.  321 Pitard, W. T.  219 Pittman, H.  305 Podany, A. H.  199 Polvani, A.-M.  455 Pomponio, F.  316 Ponchia, S.  229 Pongratz-Leisten, B.  89, 117, 337 Poo, M.-C.  219 Popko, M.  454 Porada, E.  109 Porter, B. N.  256, 257 Portner, P.  515 Postgate, J. N.  58, 59, 60, 62, 63, 65, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 140, 185, 252, 311, 332, 536 Potts, D. T.  229 Pounder, R.  358 Prechel, D.  446 Price, S.  333 Priest, J.  490 Propp, W. H. C.  209, 210, 217, 220 Puech, É.  188 Pullum, G. K.  515 Qviller, B.  361 Raabe, P. R.  501 Raaflaub, K. A.  355, 356, 357, 359, 361, 363, 365, 368, 371, 372, 373, 374, 375, 376, 377, 379 Radner, K.  62, 63, 224, 331, 332, 335 Rainey, A.  434, 435, 436 Ramban  419

553

Rashi  405 Reade, J. E.  65, 67, 223 Reculeau, H.  408 Redford, D. B.  216 Redmount, C. A.  216 Reich, R.  543 Reiner, E.  5, 7, 8, 9, 16, 135, 224, 246, 254, 255, 257, 262 Reis, P.  417 Rendu Loisel, A.-C.  108 Renger, J.  225 Rezetko, R.  321, 323, 327 Richardson, S.  71, 218, 375, 541 Ridderbos, N. H.  353 Riding, A.  542 Ritner, R. K.  212, 213, 220, 329 Roaf, M.  48 Roberts, J. J. M.  82, 188, 237, 385, 389, 390, 392, 393 Robin, R.  269 Robson, E.  153 Roccati, A.  454, 457 Rochberg-Halton, F.  135 Rogers, J. S.  386 Röllig, W.  7 Rollinger, R.  358 Römer, T.  413 Römer, W. H. P.  7, 8, 506, 517, 520 Roos, J. de  451 Rosenberger, V.  377 Rosengarten, Y.  505, 506 Rost, L.  82, 322, 327 Roth, M. T.  400, 402 Roth, W. M. W.  484 Rouault, O.  67 Rowe, A.  456 Roymans, N.  49, 50 Rubio, G.  287 Russell, J. M.  190, 202 Ruzé, F.  363 Ryan, R.  417 Rzóska, J.  211 Sachs, A. J.  122, 160 Sack, R. A.  147 Saggs, H. W. F.  14, 58

554

Index of Authors

Sallaberger, W.  290, 292, 296, 299, 300, 313, 314, 315, 316, 317, 319, 320, , 425, 464, 465, 466, 468, 469, 470, 471, 472 Sanmartín, J.  351 Sarna, N. M.  213 Sassmannshausen, L.  49 Sasson, J. M.  100, 101, 409, 410 Sauren, H.  469 Saur, M.  84, 85 Schaeffer, C. F. A.  448 Scharff, A.  535 Schaudig, H.  135, 336 Scheil, V.  307, 340 Schemeil, Y.  369 Schloen, J. D.  407 Schmandt-Besserat, D.  151 Schmidt, H.  148 Schmidt, L.  209 Schmitt, R.  202 Schmitz, P.  170, 171 Schmitz, W.  358, 367 Schneider, T.  457 Schnepel, B.  287 Schorn, U.  78 Schulman, A. R.  434 Schulz, A.  322 Schüngel-Straumann, H.  112, 113 Schwabl, H.  374 Schwally, F.  482 Schwartz, G. M.  304 Schwemer, D.  436, 437 Schwiderski, D.  202, 242 Schwienhorst-Schönberger, L.  400, 403 Scully, S.  363, 374 Seeligmann, I. L.  485 Sefati, Y.  303 Segal, M. H.  484, 485 Seidl, U.  110 Seitz, C. R.  384 Selms, A. van  400 Seow, C. L.  85, 93, 188, 329 Seri, A.  540, 541 Seux, M.-J.  191, 249 Seybold, K.  199, 359 Shaffer, A.  242

Shaw, J. W.  376 Shehata, D.  108, 110 Shifra, S.  4 Shipley, G.  377 Shukron, E.  543 Shupak, N.  154 Sigrist, M.  308, 319, 465, 467 Silver, M.  357, 359, 379 Silverman, D. P.  474 Simpson, W. K.  158, 219, 220, 427, 536, 537 Singer, I.  333, 433, 435, 439, 446, 452, 454, 455, 490 Sivertsen, B. J.  208, 216 Sjöberg, Å. W.  303, 424 Sladek, W. R.  352 Slanski, K.  109 Smelik, W.  416, 418 Smith, A.  531 Smith, G.  98, 360 Smith, H. P.  321 Smith, M. S.  81, 155, 219 Soden, W. von  7, 52, 104, 141 Soggin, J. A.  324, 325 Soja, E.  531 Soldt, W. van  47 Sollberger, E.  288, 313, 317, 426, 507 Solon  358, 359, 360, 361, 365, 366, 367, 371, 373, 375, 378, 379 Sołtysiak, A.  304 Sommer, F.  442, 453 Sophocles  334 Souček, V.  455 Spalinger, A.  228, 434, 436 Sparks, K. L.  99, 100, 116 Speiser, E. A.  99, 100 Spek, R. J. van der  49 Stadelmann, R.  456 Stahl, M.  379 Steiner, G.  374, 482 Steinkeller, P.  13, 17, 289, 290, 291, 301, 305, 311, 312, 313, 314, 426, 427, 428, 463, 464, 467, 468, 469, 471, 472, 532, 533 Stępień, M.  300 Steymans, H.-U.  343

Index of Authors Stone, B. J.  59 Strauss, L.  125 Streck, M. P.  7, 11, 17, 20, 21, 22, 24, 105, 371, 495, 223, 504, 506, 510, 511, 520 Strobel, K.  62 Strommenger, E.  304 Struble, E.  192 Stuart, D. K.  209 Such-Gutierrez, M.  297 Sürenhagen, D.  452 Sweeney, M. A.  32, 39 Szarzynska, K.  468 Sznycer, M.  324 Tadmor, H.  31, 40, 138, 218, 219, 225, 226, 227, 229, 231, 235, 244, 246, 264, 493, 494 Talling, J. F.  211 Tallqvist, K.  256, 258, 260 Talmon, S.  143 Talon, P.  20, 22, 98, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 110, 111, 112, 166 Tawil, H.  494 Tebes, J. M.  326 Teeter, E.  359 Terrien, S.  200 Testen, D.  122 Thackeray, H. J.  30 Thomas, D. W.  493 Thomas, R.  371 Thomason, A. K.  65 Thompson, R. C.  124, 351 Thompson, S.  413 Thureau-Dangin, F.  62, 123, 131, 352 Thür, G.  357, 358, 362, 375 Tinney, S.  153 Tischler, J.  441, 452 Tohru, O.  301, 302 Tomes, R.  187, 189 Toorn, K. van der  87, 88, 189, 321, 322 Torri, G.  446 Tournay, R.  507, 521, 522 Toy, C. H.  138 Trevisanato, S. I.  208, 215

555

Trible, P.  414 Tsumura, D. T.  100 Tubb, J. N.  188 Tushingham, A. D.  195 Tuzzi, A.  270, 273, 274, 275 Uehlinger, C.  80, 100, 101 Ulf, C.  358, 375, 376, 377 Unger, E.  114 Ungern-Sternberg, J. von  359 Vacin, L.  287, 290, 293, 294, 312 Van Buylaere, G.  72, 136, 332 Vanderhooft, D. S.  179, 185, 203 Van Seters, J.  81, 217, 323 Vansina, J.  539 Vanstiphout, H. L. J.  20, 102, 517 Vaughn, A. G.  543 Vaux, R. de  36, 80 Veijola, T.  322 Veldhuis, N.  153, 154 Verkinderen, P.  303, 304 Vermeylen, J.  383 Vernant, J.-P.  355, 359, 370 Virolleaud, C.  135 Volk, K.  7, 9, 298, 320, 464 Vriend, J.  39 Waetzoldt, H.  459 Walcot, P.  356, 374 Walker, C.  124, 462 Wallace, R. W.  365, 369, 372, 379 Walter, U.  379 Ward, W. A.  160, 456 Wasserman, N.  5, 6, 7, 13, 18 Watanabe, K.  69, 186, 239, 240, 241, 244, 343, 448, 496 Waters, M. W.  229 Watson, P. J.  290, 291, 459, 460, 461, 462, 463 Watts, J. D. W.  384 Watts, J. W.  157 Wazana, N.  494, 496, 498 Webb, R.  203, 204 Weber, J. E.  304, 305 Weber, M.  344 Wees, H. van  361, 365, 379

556

Index of Authors

Wegner, I.  441, 443 Weidner, E.  22, 101, 143, 435 Weiershäuser, F.  294, 296, 301, 312 Weiher, E. von  21, 260 Weinfeld, M.  243, 357, 359, 379, 482, 495 Weippert, M.  230 Weiss, M.  485, 487, 488, 497, 500 Wellhausen, J.  321, 528, 529, 542, 544 Wells, B.  341, 370, 371, 398, 399, 402 Welwei, K.-W.  379 Wendel, A.  411 Westbrook, R.  340, 341, 359, 370, 371, 372, 375, 398, 400, 401, 402, 403 Westenholz, A.  286 Westenholz, J.  23, 86, 109, 217, 251, 469, 534 West, M. L.  5, 356, 358, 374 West, S.  362 Whitaker, R. E.  188 Whiting, R.  70, 192, 297 Whitley, J.  371 Whitney, K. W., Jr.  104 Widell, M.  289 Wiener, M. H.  215 Wiggermann, F. A. M.  2, 13, 17, 18, 20, 21, 24, 109, 110 Wilcke, C.  7, 102, 156, 291, 308, 319, 373, 424, 459, 460, 461, 469, 473 Wildberger, H.  384 Wilhelm, G.  441 Wilson, G. H.  196 Wilson, I.  215 Wilson, J. A.  218, 435, 442, 444, 445, 453 Wilson, K.  531 Wilson, R.  539 Winitzer, A.  99, 422

Winter, I. J.  228 Wiseman, D. J.  263 Witzel, M.  505 Wolf, E.  360 Wolff, C. U.  324 Wolff, H. W.  480, 489, 497, 499, 500 Woods, C.  19, 303, 465, 467, 508, 509, 511, 513, 517, 521 Wright, D. P.  341, 398, 399 Wright, J. L.  493 Würthwein, E.  324 Wyatt, N.  455, 456 Xenophon  38, 144, 146 Yadin, Y.  393 Yamada, S.  57, 58, 218 Yamauchi, E. M.  359 Yaron, R.  400, 401, 402 Yates, F. A.  121 Yoffee, N.  49, 529, 531, 539, 540 Yoshida, D.  436, 439, 444, 446, 455 Yoshikawa, M.  459, 463 Younger, K. L.  152 Yuhong, W.  292, 303, 308 Zaccagnini, C.  434 Zadok, R.  51, 55, 67, 227 Zakovitch  420 Zandee, J.  197 Zanuttini, R.  515 Zenger, E.  200, 201 Zevit, Z.  210 Ziaie, H.  305 Ziegler, N.  108 Zimansky, P.  267 Zimhoni, O.  177 Ziolkowski, T.  413 Zivie, A.  451 Zivie-Coche, C.  456, 457

Index of Scripture

Hebrew Bible Genesis 1  99, 100, 102, 113, 114, 116, 341 1–11  100 1:1–2  103, 113, 115, 116 1:1–3  103 1:1–5  116 1:1–2:3  115 1:1–11:9  97 1:2  97, 112, 113, 114 1:3  113 1:14  102 3:19  139 6:3  162 6:5–8:22  98 7:11  256 8:1  113 8:2  256 11:1–9  99 15:18  347 22  416 22:1  414 22:23  414 24  412, 414 28:19–22  410 28:20–22  410 28:21  411 31:36  489 31:43–55  408 31:54  139 32:17  147 37:25  139 43:31–32  139 43:34  137, 144 44:5  158 44:15  158 45:23  139 45:25  34 49:6  137

Exodus 2:20  139 3–4  167 3:11  351 7:17–18  214 7:19  210 7:21  210, 214 7:24  210 7:28  34 8:5  214 10:19  209 10:22  210 12:12  220 18  172 20:5–6  179 20:22–23:19  399 20:23–23:19  341 20:23–23:25  172 21–23  340 21:2–11  171 21:22–25  43 21:28–36  398, 403 22:8  489 22:19  171 22:27  170 22:30  171 23  85, 94 23:10–19  171 24:4–9  176 25  75 25:18–20  75 29:26  139 32–34  198 34  85, 94 34:7  179 34:11–26  171 38:8  418 Leviticus 7:33  139

557

Leviticus (cont.) 19:32  170 23  85, 94 23:24–25  85 24:10–16  170 27:1–8  416 27:29  419 Numbers 11  176 13:22  34 14:43–45  412 21:3  412 21:4  406 23:23  158 28–29  85, 94 29:1–6  85 33:4  220 Deuteronomy 1:7  347 1:22  34, 35 1:24  34 2:9  498 4:2  183 5:9–10  179 7:13  443 9:14  417 13  342, 343, 344, 345, 346 13:1  183 13:2–10  343 15:21  172 16  85, 94 16:18  171 16:21  172 17:1  172 17:3  172 17:8  172 17:14–20  173, 181

558 Deuteronomy (cont.) 17:18  172 18:1–8  173 18:9–12  158 18:9–14  172 18:9–21  173 18:18–21  180 20:11  40 21:23  496 28  342, 343, 344, 345, 346 28:4  443 28:15  244 28:18  443 28:20–44  343 28:45  244 28:52–57  240, 241 29:19  241 29:21–26  243 29:26  241 31:9–10  172 32:8  498 33  172 Joshua 1–6  83 2:19  412 3:3  84 3–4  77 3–6  83 3:6  84 3:8  84 4:20  78 6  80 6:6  84 6:8  84 6:26  412 7:7  415 8:11  35 8:29  496 10:11  482 10:21  411 10:26–27  496 12:24  36 15:2  350 15:9–10  91, 322 15:60  91, 322 18:14  91, 322 24  325 Judges 2:11–18  166

Index of Scripture Judges (cont.) 2:11–19  181 4  165 5:11  418 5:20–21  482 6–8  166 6:15  167 7:6  167 8:7  493 8:9  411 8:16  493 8:20  167 8:22–27  167 9  166, 325 9:15  167 9:16–20  325 9:41  142 9:50–55  325 9:51  325 9:57  325 10:1–2  406 10:3–5  406 10:13–14  406 10:14  408 10:16  406 10:18  407, 408 11:1–12:7  166 11:6  407 11:7  408 11:8  408 11:9  408 11:11  408 11:12  409 11:13  411, 481 11:16  35 11:27  409, 481 11:30–31  410 11:31  411 11:34 414 11:35  415 11:36  416 11:37 417 11:39  418 12:8–10  406 12:13–15  406 16:16  406 19:2  321 19:22  325 20:5  325 20:26  34, 35 20:27  77

1 Samuel 1:2–8  145 1:4–5  139 1:11  412 2:22  418 3:3  78 4  75, 80, 83 4–6  82, 92, 95 4:1–7:1  77, 82, 90, 92, 322 4:3  75 4:3–5  94 4:13  94 4:17–19  94 4:21–22  94 5  327 5:5  418 5:7–8  94 5:10–11  94 6:3  94 6:5  94 6:16  323 6:21  92, 323 7  323 7:1–2  323 7:1  82, 84, 90, 91, 92, 322, 323 8  168, 181 8:8–19  181 9–10:16  408 9:1–10:13  167 9:16  408 9:21  167 9:23  139, 140 10:17–27  408 10:17–12:25  168, 181 10:22  167 10:25  181 11  408 12:11  419 13:2–14:52  167 14  416 14:8–12  158 15:33  412 16:1–13  169 16:15  112 17:12  321 18:6–7  414 19:9  112 20:35–39  158

Index of Scripture 1 Samuel (cont.) 23:1–13  325 26:19  170 31:9–10  495 31:11  325 31:13  498 2 Samuel 2:4  169 2:5–7  169 3:2–5  414 3:19  169 5  95 5:1–3  169 5:8  418 5:23  35 5:24  482 6  76, 77, 78, 79, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 321, 327 6:1  323, 327 6:1–20  322 6:2  91, 321, 323, 326, 327 6:2–3  82 6:2–4  90 6:3  82, 90, 92, 323 6:8  326 8  36 8:3  39 11:3  414 12  170 12:1–7  480 12:31  492 13:20  418 14  170 15:2–6  170 15:8  410 20:1  414 20:26  167 21:1–14  325 21:12  325 23:38  167 24:13  237 24:16–25  93 1 Kings 2:26  78 4–5  36, 39 5:2–3  139 5:3  137

1 Kings (cont.) 5:4  39 6–7  81 6:19  78 6:23–30  83 6:32  81 7:17–20  146 7:29  81 7:36  81 8  76, 77, 78, 79, 82, 83, 85, 89, 90 8:1  84 8:1–6  91, 93 8:1–9  83 8:2  85 8:6  84 8:7–8  83 8:8  79 9:8–9  243 10:26–29  202 10:28  63 12:19  489 12:21  489 14:17  36 15:15  36 15:21  36 15:23  36 15:27–28  34 15:33  36 16  36 16:6  36 16:8  36 16:9  36 16:9–10  34 16:10  34 16:16–18  36 16:30  388 16:34  412 21:20–26  388 22  176 22:10  92 22:11  492 22:19–23  113 2 Kings 1:1  489 1:13  35 3:5  489 3:7  489 3:10  415 3:22–23  219 6:24–7:19  255

559 2 Kings (cont.) 7:19–20  255 8:11–12  42, 43 8:12  493 8:13  493 8:18  388 8:20  489 8:21  489 8:22  489 8:27  388 9–10  34 9:7–9  388 9:34  495 10:10–11  388 12:21  34 12:21–22  34 12:22  34 13:3  483 13:7  492 14:19  34 15  34, 35 15:10  34 15:14  29, 30, 31, 34, 35, 38, 39 15:14–16  29, 42 15:16  29, 30, 31, 32, 35, 38, 40, 41, 43, 493, 498 15:17  38 15:23  385 15:25  34, 38, 385 15:27  385 15:30  34 15:33  387 15:37  386 16:1–2  385 16:2  386, 387 16:2–4  388 16:5  386 16:6  389 16:7–10  389 16:20  385 17  180 17:1  386 17:24–28  180 17:30  26 18:1  385 18:2  387 18:8  394 18:9–10  385 18:13  385, 387 18:17  35

560 2 Kings (cont.) 21:2  387 21:3  388 21:23  34 23:16  495 23:20  495 23:36  142 24:10  35 25  138 25:13–17  146 25:17  146 25:27  143 25:27–30  143 25:29–30  137 25:30  137, 142, 143, 146 Isaiah 1:2  490 1:3  137 1:13  488 3:4  387 3:12  387 5:29  394 6:2  392 7:1–9  389 7:4  387 7:9  387 7:11  388 7:13  388 8:23–9:6  392 9:10–11  389, 483 9:20  389 10:5  483 10:5–6  501 10:5–11  199 10:12–15  483 10:13  394, 501 10:15  501 10:27–34  389 14:24–27  199 14:28–32  381, 383, 388 14:29  392 14:31  395 14:32  392 15:9  219 17:6  484 18  391, 392, 394 18:5–6  395 20  391, 392, 394 20:4  395

Index of Scripture Isaiah (cont.) 25:10  492 26:12  351 28:15  352 28:18  352 30:6  392 30:23  382 34:3  219 35:6  351 36:10  483 38  156 38:9  188 38:10  352 38:18  352 41:15  492 53:7  351 60–62  200 Jeremiah 2:10  171 3:16–17  79 3:24  169 8:1–2  495 9:15  500 13:11  350 13:19  497 14:12  237 16:13  500 19:1  349 19:10–11  349 21:7  237 21:9  237 22:8–9  243 22:28  349 24:10  237 26:2  183 27:8  237 27:13  237 28:8  237 28:9  176 29:17–18  237 31:29–30  179 32:24  237 32:36  237 34:17  237 36  183 38:2  237 40  138 40:1–6  137, 143 40:5  137, 146 42:17  237 42:22  237

Jeremiah (cont.) 44:3  500 44:13  237 44:21  500 46:7–8  221 52:17–23  148 52:22–23  146 52:23  146 52:34  137, 142, 143 Ezekiel 2:3  500 3:26  349, 350, 351 8:14  160, 418 12:16  237 14:9  176 18  179 21:21  158 22:5  144 29:4  350 29–32  219 32:6  219 37  113 37:1–14  112 38:9  35 38:11  35 38:22  219 Hosea 10:5  390 13:10–11  168 14:1  42, 43, 44, 493 Joel 1:15  415 4:5  494 4:6  494 4:7–8  494 Amos 1:3  487, 488, 499 1:3–2:3  479, 484 1:4  500 1:6  487, 488, 494, 499 1:9  487, 488, 490, 494, 499 1:11  488, 490, 497, 498, 499 1:13  42, 480, 487, 488, 493, 499 1:13–15  43

Index of Scripture Amos (cont.) 2:1  494, 499 2:4  486, 488 2:6  191, 488, 499, 500 2:6–8  480, 486, 488, 499 2:6–16  186, 484 2:6–17  499 2:7  499, 500 2:8  499 3:1  480 3:2  488 3:7  158 3:9  144 3:14  488 4:4  78, 488 4:6–12  186 5:5  78 5:7  500 5:12  488 5:18  500 6:1  500 6:3–6  500 6:13  492, 500 7:1–9  485 8:1–3  485 8:2  485 8:4  500 8:14  500 9:7  480 9:8  488 9:10  488, 500 Micah 3:5  334 4:12–13  492 4:13  492 5:4  484 7:3  349 Nahum 3:8–9  221 Habakkuk 3:12  492 Zechariah 11:8  406 Malachi 3:10  256

Psalms 2  196, 197, 203 2:2  196 2:6  196 2:10  196 5:3  196, 197 5:10  349 6:6  352 6:9  190 8  188 9–10  197 9:14  352 10:16  196, 197 16:1  188 18  196, 197 18:51  196 20–21  196, 197 20:10  196 21:2  196 21:8  196 22  349 22:16  349 24:7–10  80, 196, 197 29:10  196, 197 30:6  190 31:19  351 33:16  196 38:13  349 39:3  351 39:10  351 44:5  196 45  196, 197 45:2  196 45:6  196 45:10  196 45:12  196 45:14–16  196 47:3  80, 196, 197 47:7  197 47:7–8  196 47:9  197 48:3  196, 197 48:5  196, 197 56:1  188 57:1  188 58:1  188 58:11  219 59:1  188 60:1  188 61:7  196 61:7–8  198 62:12  484

561 Psalms (cont.) 63:12  196, 198 68:13  196 68:15  196 68:24  219 68:25  80, 196 68:30  196 72  196, 198, 199, 204 72:1  196 72:1–17  198 72:8–11  202 72:10–11  196 74  197 74:12  196, 197 76:13  196, 197 78  209 80  188 83  203 83:9  199 84:4  196 84:9  197 84:10  198 89  196, 197 89:19  196 89:28  196 90:10  163 93:1  197 95:3  196, 197 96:4  198 96:10  198 97  198 98:6  196 99  198 99:1  80 99:4  196, 198 99:5  80 101  196, 197 102:12  197 102:16  196 104  113 104:30  113 105  209 105:14  196 105:20  196 105:30  196 106  188 107:18  352 110  196, 197 110:5  196 118:19  40 119:46  196

562 Psalms (cont.) 132  76, 77, 79, 84, 85, 90, 196, 197 132:6–9  84 132:7–8  80 135:10  197 135:10–11  196 136:17–18  197 136:17–20  196 137:6  350 138:4  196 144  196, 197, 203 144:10  196 145:1  196 145:12–13  198 148:11  196 149:2  196 149:8  196 Job 6:30  349 17:16  353 19:20  350 21:13  353 29:10  350 33:2  350 33:14  484 38:17  352 39:9  137 Proverbs 2:18  352 8  114, 115 8:22–24  114 14:4  137

Index of Scripture Proverbs (cont.) 15:16  144 15:16–17  145 15:17  137, 138, 144, 145, 146 16:8–9  145 17:1  144, 145 22:17–23  145 22:20  159 22–24  159 25:1  178 26:28  350 28:24  489 30:6  183 30:15–17  484 Ruth 1:1–2  321 Song of Songs 6:4  36 Ecclesiastes (Qoheleth) 2:9 139 4:12  159, 162 Lamentations 4:4  350 Esther 2:18  144 4:14  139 Daniel 1:4  101 2:2  160

New Testament Galatians 6:7  405

Hebrews 11:32  420

Daniel (cont.) 10:15  351 11:37  418 Ezra 46:12  40 Nehemiah 12:44  139 12:47  139 13:19  40 1 Chronicles 3:5  414 11:40  167 13:5  91 13:6  321, 322 14:14  35 15:18  93 15:21  93 15:24  93 16:5  93 26:4–8  93 28:3  80 2 Chronicles 10:19  489 11:23  139 20:9  237 24:23  35 28:1–4  389 28:5–15  389 28:18  384, 389 28:20–21  389 31:19  139 35:3  79