Not Only History: Proceedings of the Conference in Honor of Mario Liverani Held in Sapienza–Università di Roma, Dipartimento di Scienze dell’Antichità, 20–21 April 2009 [Illustrated] 1575064561, 9781575064567

Citation preview

Not Only History

Not Only History Proceedings of the Conference in Honor of Mario Liverani Held in Sapienza–Università di Roma, Dipartimento di Scienze dell’Antichità, 20–21 April 2009

edited by

Gilda Bartoloni and Maria Giovanna Biga in collaboration with Armando Bramanti

Winona Lake, Indiana Eisenbrauns 2016

© 2016 by Eisenbrauns Inc. All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America www.eisenbrauns.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Conference in Honor of Mario Liverani (2009 : Universitá degli studi di Roma “La Sapienza.” Dipartimento di scienze dell’antichitáa) | Bartoloni, Gilda, editor. | Biga, Maria Giovanna, editor. | Bramanti, Armando, editor. | Liverani, Mario, honouree. Title: Not only history : proceedings of the Conference in Honor of Mario Liverani held in Sapienza–Università di Roma, Dipartimento di scienze dell’antichita, 20–21 April 2009 / edited by Gilda Bartoloni and Maria Giovanna Biga in collaboration with Armando Bramanti. Description: Winona Lake, Indiana : Eisenbrauns, 2016. | Includes bibliographical references. Identifiers: LCCN 2016015039 (print) | LCCN 2016022724 (ebook) | ISBN 9781575064567 (hardback : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781575064574 (pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Middle East—History—To 622—Congresses. Classification: LCC DS62.23 .C66 2009 (print) | LCC DS62.23 (ebook) | DDC 939.4—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016015039

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48–1984. ♾ ™

Contents Preface/Presentazione . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   vii Curriculum vitae . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   x Bibliography of Mario Liverani . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .   xii Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxxv Sull’armonia tra la storia e l’archeologia del Vicino Oriente: L’opera di Mario Liverani nella vita di un archeologo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

1

Joaquín María Córdoba Weber—Polanyi—Sraffa: A Consideration of Modes of Production . . . . . . . .  

15

Johannes Renger The Court Banquets of Sargon II of Assyria: Commensality as a Positive Affirmation of the (Successful) Hunt and Battle . . . . . . . . . . . . .  

35

Irene J. Winter Was Uruk the First Sumerian City? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  

53

J. S. Cooper City and Countryside in Ancient Mesopotamia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  

57

Marc Van De Mieroop Mesopotamian Cities in Comparative Perspective, Briefly: An Appreciation . . .  

67

Norman Yoffee Du texte à l’histoire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  

77

Jean-Marie Durand State and Society: Flight in the Near East during the Old Babylonian Period (20th–17th Centuries BCE) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  

91

Dominique Charpin The Ur III Literary Footprint and the Historian . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

105

Piotr Michalowski On Egyptian Elite and Royal Attitudes to Other Cultures, Primarily in the Late Bronze Age . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . John Baines v

127

vi

Contents

The Garamantes and After: The Biography of a Central Saharan Oasis 400 BC–AD 1900 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147 David Mattingly The “Kenite Hypothesis” in the Light of the Excavations at Ḥorvat ʿUza . . . . .

171

Nadav Naʾaman “Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited . . . . . . .

183

Peter Machinist Measuring Middle Assyrian Grain (and Sesame) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J. N. Postgate

219

Preface/Presentazione In 2009, Mario Liverani turned 70 years old and retired from teaching at the Sapienza, although his book Antico Oriente: Storia, società, economia remains in wide use and is still foundational for all students preparing to take the History of the Ancient Near East exam. The Dipartimento di Scienze Storiche, Archeologiche e Antropologiche dell’Antichità, where Mario Liverani has been a leading specialist since its inception, decided to celebrate Liverani’s milestone birthday and retirement with a conference held in his honor, and this book publishes the papers that were read at this conference. Maria Giovanna Biga, who is an instructor in the same academic department (L/Or 01, History of the Ancient Near East), was given the task of verifying the availability of Professor Liverani for a convention in his honor. Having achieved this (an accomplishment that was not at all to be presupposed, considering the scholar’s natural reserve!), she prepared, with the professor’s help and advice, a list of potential speakers to invite. It was difficult to compose this list since, obviously, many Italian colleagues who are professors of either the history of the ancient Near East or related disciplines should have attended, given the multiple interests of Mario Liverani, his archaeological activity in Syria, Turkey, and Libya, and his frequent interaction with colleagues from other disciplines—not only history. It should have been a conference held for at least a week, but it still would have omitted far too many Italian colleagues!

Nel 2009 Mario Liverani compiva settant’anni e cessava così il suo insegnamento attivo alla Sapienza, anche se i suoi volumi e in primo luogo il suo libro Antico Oriente. Storia, società economia restavano manuali in uso e tutt’ora fondamentali per tutti gli studenti che devono sostenere l’esame di Storia del Vicino Oriente antico. Il Dipartimento di Scienze Storiche, Archeologiche e Antropologiche dell’Antichità, di cui Mario Liverani sin dalla fondazione ha costituito una delle eccellenze, ha pensato di celebrarlo con un incontro di studio. E’ stato dato incarico a Maria Giovanna Biga, docente dello stesso settore scientifico-disciplinare (L/Or 01 Storia del Vicino Oriente antico), di sondare la disponibilità del prof. Mario Liverani ad un convegno in suo onore. Avuta la sua disponibilità (per nulla ovvia e scontata, data la riservatezza dello studioso!) insieme a lui si è preparata la lista dei possibili relatori da invitare a tenere un intervento. Era difficile proporre gli eventuali interventi dato che ovviamente molti colleghi italiani, sia professori di Storia del Vicino Oriente antico sia di discipline affini, avrebbero dovuto intervenire dati i molteplici interessi di Mario Liverani e le sue attività archeologiche in Siria, Turchia, Libia e la sua interazione frequente con colleghi di altre discipline storiche e non. Si sarebbe dovuto prevedere un convegno di almeno una settimana, lasciando comunque fuori molti, troppi colleghi italiani!

vii

viii Therefore, in agreement with him, we decided to invite only foreign colleagues and to choose a single representative of each of his areas of interest. The following fields were then identified: History of Studies, History and Economy, History and Visual Arts, History of the City, History and Texts, History and Literature, History and Egyptology, History and Libya, History and Bible. Choosing the foreign guests was also not easy because there are many foreign colleagues who have admired his work, have always been in contact with Mario Liverani, and have been untiring in dialoguing with him and his students. In sum, many more foreign colleagues could have been invited. Finally, the two days of presentations in honor of Mario Liverani were arranged, and we welcomed to Rome a small group of foreign colleagues who represent his and his Roman/Italian colleagues’ interests. The title chosen for the meetings and this book was “Not Only History / Non solo storia,” which alludes to Mario Liverani’s multiple interests and forays into the field of the ancient Near East and Egypt. The two days of the conference developed into a profitable occasion for exchanges and discussions among scholars on the highest levels, and numerous colleagues and students participated. The proceedings of the conference are being published after considerable delay, for which we apologize profusely both to Mario and the authors who sent in their contributions quickly; a few extremely busy colleagues delayed sending their contributions, and obviously we preferred to wait for these contributions, which were essential to illustrate the activity of Mario Liverani in specific fields. We are especially grateful to Nicholas Postgate, who was unable to at-

Preface/Presentazione Allora, in accordo con il festeggiato, si è scelto di invitare solo colleghi stranieri e di scegliere tra questi un solo rappresentante di ogni area di interesse del festeggiato: così si sono isolate: Storia degli Studi, Storia ed Economia, Storia ed Arti Visive, La Città nella Storia, La Storia e i Testi, Storia e Letteratura, Storia ed Egittologia, Storia e Libia, Storia e Bibbia. Anche la scelta degli invitati stranieri non è stata facile dal momento che molti sono i colleghi stranieri che sono sempre stati in contatto con Mario Liverani e ne hanno ammirato l’opera e sono stati suoi (e dei colleghi suoi allievi) assidui interlocutori. Ben più numerosi colleghi stranieri si sarebbero voluti invitare. Così sono nati i due giorni di interventi in onore di Liverani che hanno visto l’arrivo a Roma di un gruppetto di colleghi stranieri rappresentativi degli interessi di Mario Liverani e della sua scuola romana/ italiana di storici del Vicino Oriente antico. Il titolo del convegno è stato stabilito in “Not only history/Non solo storia”, dato che molteplici sono stati gli interessi e gli interventi di Mario Liverani nel campo del Vicino Oriente antico e Egitto. I due giorni del convegno sono stati occasione proficua di scambi e discussioni tra studiosi di altissimo livello, e colleghi e studenti hanno partecipato numerosissimi. Gli atti del convegno vengono pubblicati con considerevole ritardo e ce ne scusiamo tanto sia con il festeggiato sia con gli autori che hanno inviato presto il loro contributo; alcuni dei colleghi, pressati da troppe iniziative, hanno tardato ad inviare il loro contributo e si è ovviamente scelto di attenderli dal momento che i loro contributi erano fondamentali per illustrare l’attività di Mario Liverani in un campo specifico. Nicholas Postgate, che era stato invitato ma non aveva potuto partecipare al

Preface/Presentazione

ix

tend the conference, for his important contribution. This volume would not have been produced without the assiduous, patient, and important work of Armando Bramanti, a Ph.D. candidate in Assyriology at Sapienza, University of Rome, and Friedrich-Schiller-Universität Jena. Because he had already contributed to the publication at Eisenbrauns of the proceedings of the 57th RAI held in Rome, he was able to help the editors of this volume considerably by adapting all of the essays to the style requested by the publisher. The editors would like to express their gratitude to all speakers for their important contributions, to Armando Bramanti for his great work, and to Jim Eisenbraun, who accepted the volume for publication. We would also like to thank our colleague Alberto Cazzella, coordinator of the Sezione di Preistoria e Protostoria of the Dipartimento di Scienze dell’Antichità, in agreement with its other members, for their generous financial support toward the publication of this volume. We also thank the undergraduate and postgraduate students who contributed to the success of the conference.

convegno, ha inviato il suo importante contributo e gliene siamo grate. Il volume non avrebbe visto la luce senza il lavoro assiduo, paziente e importante di Armando Bramanti, dottorando in assiriologia presso Sapienza – Università di Roma e Friedrich-Schiller-Universität Jena, che avendo già contribuito in modo fondamentale alla pubblicazione presso Eisenbrauns degli atti della 57esima RAI tenutasi a Roma, ha aiutato moltissimo le curatrici del volume, adeguando tutti gli articoli allo stile richiesto dall’editore. Le curatrici ringraziano moltissimo tutti i relatori per il loro importante contributo, Armando Bramanti per il grande lavoro svolto, l’editore Eisenbraun che ha accettato di pubblicare il volume degli Atti presso la sua casa editrice. Ringraziano anche moltissimo il collega Alberto Cazzella, coordinatore della Sezione di Preistoria e Protostoria del Dipartimento di Scienze dell’Antichità che ha fornito, in accordo con i membri della sezione, un cospicuo contributo finanziario per la pubblicazione del volume. Si ringraziano anche gli studenti e i dottorandi che hanno contribuito alla riuscita del convegno.

—Gilda Bartoloni and Maria Giovanna Biga Rome, September 2015

—Gilda Bartoloni e Maria Giovanna Biga Roma, settembre 2015

Curriculum vitae 1. Born in Rome (Italy) on January 10, 1939. Married, two daughters. Italian citizenship. 2. Graduated from Sapienza–University of Rome, in July 1961, with a dissertation on the History of the Ancient Near East. Assistant Professor of Semitic Philology at Sapienza–University of Rome, from November 1, 1961 to June 30, 1968. Associate Professor of History of the Ancient Near East at Sapienza–University of Rome from November 1, 1963 to October 31, 1973. 3. Full Professor of History of the Ancient Near East at Sapienza–University of Rome from November 1, 1970 to October 31, 2010; at present, Professor Emeritus. 4. Co-director, then Director, of the Centro per le Antichità e la Storia dell’Arte del Vicino Oriente in Rome in the period 1967–77; editor of the journal Oriens Antiquus in the same period. 5. Director of the Istituto di Studi del Vicino Oriente at Sapienza–University of Rome in the period 1976–79; editor of the journal Vicino Oriente in the same period. 6. Director of the Centro Interuniversitario di Ricerca per le civiltà e l’ambiente del Sahara antico at Sapienza–University of Rome in the period 1997–2006. Director of the Archaeological Mission in the Libyan Sahara in the period 1997–2004. 7. Director of the Dipartimento di Scienze dell’Antichità at Sapienza–University of Rome in the period November 1, 1998 to October 30, 2000. 8. Visiting Professor at the University of Chicago (Oriental Institute) in 1984; Regents’ Lecturer at the University of California, Berkeley, in 1994; also Visiting Professor at the University of Aleppo in 1978, at Humboldt University (Berlin) in 1989, and in the CEPOA of the University of Geneva in 1991; Visiting Scholar at the Getty Center (Santa Monica, CA) in 1991; Professor at the Scuola Superiore di Studi Storici (San Marino) in 1989, at the Istituto di Studi Storici (Naples) in 1998 and 2001, at the École Pratique des Hautes Études (Paris) in 2001, at the Scuola Superiore (Pavia) in 2002, at the CEDANT (Pavia) in 2006, at the Collège de France (Paris) in 2005, and at the Scuola Normale Superiore (Pisa) in 2014. Lectures at various universities in Europe (Arhus, Berlin, Copenhagen, Leicester, Lisbon, London, Madrid, Paris, Sheffield, Warsaw, etc.), North America (Berkeley, Columbia, Harvard, Johns Hopkins , Montreal, New York University, Philadelphia, San Diego, Toronto, Tucson, UCLA, Yale, etc.) and the Middle East (Ankara, Beirut, and Damascus). 9. Doctor honoris causa at the University of Copenhagen and at the Universidad Autonoma of Madrid; Member of the Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei; Member of the Academia Europaea (Oxford); Member of the Academy of Sciences (Turin); Member of the Academia Pontaniana (Naples); Honorary Member of the American Oriental Society. x

Curriculum vitae

xi

10. Editor of the collections Arid Zone Archaeology: Monographs, Quaderni di geografia storica (del Vicino Oriente antico), and Atlante storico del Vicino Oriente (University of Rome). Member of the advisory boards of the journals Origini (Rome), Vicino Oriente (Rome), Studi Storici (Rome). Consultant of the Wenner-Gren Foundation and of the Rockefeller Foundation. 11. Convener of scholarly conferences on Syria in the Late Bronze Age (1968), Bilingualism and Translations in the Ancient Near East (1980), Akkad: The First World Empire (1990), Neo-Assyrian Geography (1993), Holy War and Just War in Antiquity (2001), Arid Lands in Roman Times (2001), Recent Trends in Reconstructing the Ancient History of Israel (2003), Cuneiform Law (2007). 12. Member of the following archaeological missions: University of Rome at Tell Mardikh/Ebla (Syria), 1964–70; UCLA/International Institute for Mesopotamian Area Studies, Los Angeles, at Tell Ashara/Terqa (Syria), 1980–83; Oriental Institute, Chicago, at Kurban Hüyük (Turkey) in 1981; University of Rome at Arslantepe/ Malatya (Turkey), 1982–96, 2008–9, and 2014; International Institute for Mesopotamian Area Studies, Los Angeles, at Tell Mozan (Syria), 1986–90; L’Istituto italiano per il Medio ed Estremo Oriente, Rome, at Baraqish (North Yemen) in 1990; University of Rome in the Acacus (Libya), 1997–2004.

Bibliography of Mario Liverani 1960 Karkemiš nei testi di Ugarit. RSO 35: 135–47.

1961 Bar-Guš e Bar-Rakib. RSO 36: 185–87.

1962 Storia di Ugarit nell’età degli archivi politici. Studi Semitici 6. Rome: Centro di Studi Semitici. Antecedenti dell’onomastica aramaica antica. RSO 37: 65–76. Hurri e Mitanni. OrAnt 1: 253–57. Ugarit: Una città siriana dell’età del bronzo. Levante 9: 7–17. Review of New Horizons in Old Testament Literature, by Cyrus H. Gordon. RSO 37: 137. Review of Kulturgeschichte des alten Orient, by Harmut Schmökel. OrAnt 1: 283–84. Review of Achaeans and Hittites, by George Leonard Huxley. OrAnt 1: 284–86.

1963 Introduzione alla storia dell’Asia anteriore antica. Sussidi didattici 2. Rome: Centro di Studi Semitici. Antecedenti del diptotismo arabo nei testi accadici di Ugarit. RSO 38: 131–60. Review of Catalogo dei manoscritti orientali della Biblioteca Estense, by Carlo Bernheimer. RSO 38: 170–72. Review of Foreign Trade in the Old Babylonian Period, by W. F. Leemans. OrAnt 2: 165–68. Review of Sumerische und akkadische Keilschriftdenkmäler, by Karl Oberhuber. OrAnt 2: 168–69. Review of The Cities of Babylonia, by Cyril John Gadd. OrAnt 2: 307–8. Review of Anatolia c. 1750–1600, by Oliver Robert Gurney. OrAnt 2: 309. Review of Northern Mesopotamia and Syria, by Jean Robert Kupper. OrAnt 2: 309–10.

1964 L’estradizione dei rifugiati in AT 2. RSO 39: 111–15. Un tipo di espressione indefinita in accadico e in ugaritico. RSO 39: 199–202. Elementi innovativi nell’ugaritico non letterario. Rendiconti dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei 19: 173–91. (with Paolo Matthiae) Bibliographie sémitique, 9. Or n.s. 33: 79–123. Review of Some Aspects of the Hiring of Workers, by Mogens Weitmeyer. RSO 39: 73–75. Review of Wörterbuch der ugaritischen Sprache, by Joseph Aistleitner. RSO 39: 158–63.

xii

Bibliography of Mario Liverani

xiii

Review of An Introduction to the Comparative Grammar of the Semitic Language, by Sabatino Moscati. RSO 39: 320–24. Review of Grammatica della lingua accadica, by Angelo Lancellotti. OrAnt 3: 154–56.

1965 Implicazioni sociali nella politica di Abdi-Ashirta di Amurru. RSO 40: 267–77. Il fuoruscitismo in Siria nella tarda età del bronzo. Rivista Storica Italiana 77: 315–36. (with Paolo Matthiae) La ceramica di superficie. Pp. 22–23 in Missione archeologica italiana in Siria: Rapporto preliminare sulla campagna 1964 [Tel Mardikh]. Rome: Centro di studi semitici, Istituto di studi del Vicino Oriente. I tell pre-classici. Pp. 107–33 in Missione archeologica italiana in Siria: Rapporto preliminare sulla campagna 1964 [Tel Mardikh]. Rome: Centro di studi semitici, Istituto di studi del Vicino Oriente. Review of Corpus des tablettes en cunéiformes alphabétique, by Andrée Herdner. RSO 40: 171–73.

1966 Sargon di Akkad. I Protagonisti della storia universale 57. Milan: Nuova CEI. (with Marta Sordi) L’età antica e greca. Storia Universale 1. Novara: Istituto Geografico de Agostini. Problemi e indirizzi degli studi storici sul Vicino Oriente antico. Cultura e Scuola 5/20: 72–79. Il settore B. Pp. 31–58 in Missione archeologica italiana in Siria: Rapporto preliminare sulla campagna 1965 [Tel Mardikh]. Rome: Centro di studi semitici, Istituto di studi del Vicino Oriente. Review of When the Judges Ruled, by Jan Alberto Soggin. RSO 41: 81. Review of Ancient Mesopotamia, by A. Leo Oppenheim. OrAnt 5: 129–32. Review of Die Kaškäer, by Einar von Schuler. OrAnt 5: 132–34. Review of Geschichte Syriens I, by Horst Klengel. Or n.s. 35: 318–22.

1967 Contrasti e confluenze di concezioni politiche nell’età di el-Amarna. RA 61: 1–18. La preistoria dell’epiteto “Yahweh sebaʾot.” AIUON 17: 331–34. Il settore B. Pp. 31–61 in Missione archeologica italiana in Siria: Rapporto preliminare della campagna 1966 [Tel Mardikh]. Rome: Centro di studi semitici, Istituto di studi del Vicino Oriente. ‘Ma nel settimo anno . . .’. Pp. 49–53 in Studi sull’Oriente e la Bibbia offerti al P. Giovanni Rinaldi nel 60 compleanno da allievi, colleghi, amici. Edited by Henry Cazelles. Genoa: Studio e Vita. Review of The Land of the Bible, by Yohanan Aharoni. RSO 42: 459–61.

1968 Quattro sigilli con iscrizione cuneiforme. AIUON 18: 67–70. Variazioni climatiche e fluttuazioni demografiche nella storia siriana. OrAnt 7: 77–89. Giorgio Levi Della Vida e il suo contributo agli studi africanisti. Africa 23: 222–24.

xiv

Bibliography of Mario Liverani Review of The Hyksos, by John Van Seters. OrAnt 7: 153–55. Review of Ugaritic Textbook, by Cyrus H. Gordon. OrAnt 7: 155–57. Review of The Amorites of the Ur III Period, by Giorgio Buccellati. RSO 43: 119–22. Review of Nairi e Ur(u)atri, by Mirjo Salvini. OrAnt 7: 288–90. Review of Die Personennamen der Texte aus Ugarit, by Frauke Gröndahl. OrAnt 7: 290–92.

1969 (ed.) La Siria nel Tardo Bronzo. Orientis Antiqui Collectio 9. Rome: Centro per le antichità e le storia dell’arte del Vicino Oriente. Introduzione. Pp. 3–14 in La Siria nel Tardo Bronzo. Problems and Trends of Studies in the History of the Ancient Near East. Vestnik Drevnej Istorii 1969/4: 60–67. Il corpo di guardia del palazzo di Ugarit. RSO 44: 191–98. Due documenti ugaritici con garanzia di presenza. Pp.  375–78 in Ugaritica, vol. 6: La XXXe campagne de fouilles à Ras Shamra. Edited by Claude F. A. Schaeffer. BAH 81. MRS 17. Paris: Geuthner. Review of Studies on the Arts and Crafts of the Late Cypriote Bronze Age, by Lena Åström. OrAnt 8: 259–61. Review of Ugaritica, vol. 5: Nouveaux textes accadiens, hourrites et ugaritiques des archives et bibliothèques privées d’Ugarit, by Jean Nougayrol et al. OrAnt 8: 338–40. Review of The Cypriote Bronze Age Pottery Found in Egypt, by Robert S. Merrillees. OrAnt 8: 340–43.

1970 KBD nei testi amministrativi ugaritici. UF 2: 89–108. Per una considerazione storica del problema amorreo. OrAnt 9: 5–27. L’epica ugaritica nel suo contesto storico e letterario. Pp.  859–69 in Atti del convegno internazionale sul tema: La poesia epica e la sua formazione. Roma, 28 marzo–3 aprile 1969. Problemi Attuali di Scienza e di Cultura 367, quaderno 139. Rome: Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei. Review of Geschichte Syriens II, by Horst Klengel. Or n.s. 39: 450–54. Review of Über Lebensraum und Lebensformen der Frühsemiten, by Joseph Henninger. OrAnt 9: 362–64. Review of A Political History of Post-Kassite Babylonia, by John A. Brinkman. OrAnt 9: 364–66.

1971 Le lettere del Faraone a Rib-Adda. OrAnt 10: 253–68. Zannanza. SMEA 14: 161–62. Gli studi di storia orientale antica. Pp.  1–9 in Gli studi sul Vicino Oriente in Italia dal 1921 al 1970, vol. 1: L’oriente pre-islamico. Pubblicazioni dell’Istituto per l’Oriente 63. Rome: Istituto per l’Oriente. Sydyk e Misor. Pp. 55–74 in Studi in onore di Edoardo Volterra, vol. 6. Pubblicazioni della facolta di giurisprudenza dell’università di Roma 45. Milan: Giuffré. Review of Studies in the Ancient History of Northern Iraq, by David Oates. OrAnt 10: 155–59.

Bibliography of Mario Liverani

xv

1972 Il talento di Ashdod. OrAnt 11: 63–72. Elementi ‘irrazionali’ nel commercio amarniano. OrAnt 11: 297–317. Partire sul carro, per il deserto. AIUON 22: 403–15. Review of Ancient Mesopotamia, by Igor M. Diakonoff. OrAnt 11: 226–29. Review of Les lois assyriennes, by Giorgio Cardascia. OrAnt 11: 230–32. Review of The Ancient Near East: Supplementary Texts and Pictures, by James B. Pritchard. OrAnt 11: 319–21.

1973 Memorandum on the Approach to Historiographic Texts. Or n.s. 42: 178–94. Storiografia politica hittita–I. Šunaššura, ovvero: Della reciprocità. OrAnt 12: 267–97. The Amorites. Pp. 100–133 in Peoples of Old Testament Times. Edited by Donald J. Wiseman. Oxford: Clarendon. Review of The Domestication and Exploitation of Plants and Animals, by Peter Ucko and Geoffrey Dimbleby. OrAnt 12: 319–21. Review of Beiträge zur sozialen Struktur des alten Vorderasien, by Horst Klengel. OrAnt 12: 321–24.

1974 Proposte sul secondo incantesimo di Arslan Tash. RSF 2: 35–38. La royauté syrienne de l’âge du bronze récent. Pp. 329–56 in Le palais et la royauté: Archéologie et Civilisation. CRRAI 19. Edited by Paul Garelli. Paris: Geuthner. The kumānu Measure as ¼ of 1 ikū. Assur 1/1: 11. Rib-Adda, giusto sofferente. AoF 1: 175–205. L’histoire de Joas. Vetus Testamentum 24: 438–53. Review of La guerre antique de Sumer à Rome, by Jacques Harmand. Rivista Storica Italiana 86: 750–54.

1975 Ciocca di capelli o focaccia di ginepro? RSF 3: 37–41. Communautés de village et palais royal dans la Syrie du IIème millénaire. JESHO 18: 146–64. Review of The Mycenaeans in the Eastern Mediterranean, by Vassos Karageorghis et al. OrAnt 14: 371–72.

1976 La struttura politica. Pp.  275–414 in L’alba della civiltà 1. Edited by S. Moscati. Turin: UTET. Il modo di produzione. Pp. 1–126 in L’alba della civiltà 2. Edited by S. Moscati. Turin: UTET. La concezione dell’universo. Pp. 437–521 in L’alba della civiltà 3. Edited by S. Moscati. Turin: UTET.

xvi

Bibliography of Mario Liverani Comments on ‘I canali della propaganda’. Pp. 22–26 in I canali della propaganda nel mondo antico. Edited by Marta Sordi. Contributi dell’Istituto di storia antica dell’Università cattolica del Sacro Cuore 4. Milan: Vita e pensiero. Review of The Myth of the State, by Haralds Biezais. OrAnt 15: 67–68. Review of Zwischen Zelt und Palast, by Horst Klengel. OrAnt 15: 68–73. Review of Histoire ancienne d’Israël, by Roland de Vaux. OrAnt 15: 145–59.

1977 Le chêne de Sherdanu. Vetus Testamentum 27: 212–16. Segni arcaici di individuazione personale: A proposito del motivo del riconoscimento nei tragici greci. Rivista di Filologia 105: 106–18. Storiografia politica hittita–II. Telipinu, ovvero: Della solidarietà. OrAnt 16: 105–31. Review of La voix de l’opposition en Mésopotamie, by André Finet. OrAnt 16: 72–75. Review of Diplomatique et droit international en Asie Occidentale (1600–1200 av. J.-C.), by Guy Kestemont. OrAnt 16: 251–55.

1978 Le tradizioni orali delle fonti scritte nell’antico Oriente. Pp. 395–406 in Fonti orali: Antropologia e storia. Edited by Bernardo Bernardi, Carlo Poni, and Alessandro Triulzi. Milan: Franco Angeli. Non-Slave Labour in Syria (Bronze Age). Pp. 191–98 in Proceedings of the Seventh International Economic History Congress, Edinburgh 1978: (Pre-Prints) Reports. Edited by Michael Walter Flinn. Edinburgh: University of Edinburgh Press, 1978. Sulle tracce delle comunità rurali: In margine ai lavori della Société J. Bodin. OrAnt 17: 63–72. L’élément hourrite dans la Syrie du nord (c. 1350–1200). RHA 36: 149–56. Review of Ägyptische Ärtze und ägyptische Medizin, by Elmar Edel. RSO 51: 283–86. Review of Old Testament and Oriental Studies, by Jan Alberto Soggin. RSO 51: 356–57.

1979 Three Amarna Essays. MANE 1/5. Malibu, CA: Undena. Pharaoh’s Letters to Rib-Adda. Pp. 3–13 in Three Amarna Essays. Social Implications in the Politics of Abdi-Ashirta of Amurru. Pp. 14–20 in Three Amarna Essays. Irrational Elements in the Amarna Trade. Pp. 21–33 inThree Amarna Essays. Un’ipotesi sul nome di Abramo. Henoch 1: 9–18. Farsi Habiru. VicOr 2: 65–77. Economia delle fattorie palatine ugaritiche. Dialoghi di archeologia n.s. 1/2: 57–72. Messaggi, donne, ospitalità: Comunicazione intertribale in Giud. 19–21. Studi StoricoReligiosi 3: 303–41. La dotazione dei mercanti di Ugarit. UF 11: 495–503. The Ideology of the Assyrian Empire. Pp. 297–317 in Power and Propaganda: A Symposium on Ancient Empires. Edited by Mogens Trolle Larsen. Copenhagen Studies in Assyriology 7. Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag.

Bibliography of Mario Liverani

xvii

Ras Shamra. II: Histoire. Pp. 1295–1348 in Supplément au Dictionnaire de la Bible 9. Edited by Henri Cazelles. Paris: Letouzey & Ané.

1980 (ed.) Bilinguismo e traduzione nell’antico Oriente: Atti del Seminario di Studi su Bilinguismo e Traduzione nell’antico Oriente, Roma, 20–22 marzo 1980. VicOr 3. Rome: Istituto di Studi del Vicino Oriente. Stereotipi della lingua ‘altra’ nell’Asia anteriore antica. VicOr 3: 15–31. Le origini d’Israele: Progetto irrealizzabile di ricerca etnogenetica. Rivista Biblica 28: 9–31. Dono, tributo, commercio: Ideologia dello scambio nella tarda età del bronzo. Annali dell’Istituto Italiano di Numismatica: 9–28, 123–37. Ricordo di Franco Pintore. OrAnt 19: 227. El nacimiento de los imperios: Las bases formativas de los imperios. Pp. 111–13 in Historia Universal, vol. 26. Edited by Paul-Albert Février et al. 30 vols. Barcelona: Salvat. El mundo mesopotamico. Pp. 114–41 Historia Universal, vol. 26. Edited by Paul-Albert Février et al. 30 vols. Barcelona: Salvat.

1981 Critique of Variants and the Titulary of Sennacherib. Pp. 225–57 in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: New Horizons in Literary, Ideological and Historical Analysis. Edited by Frederick M. Fales. Orientis Antiqui Collectio 17. Rome: Istituto per l’Oriente, Centro per la antichità e la storia dell’arte del vicino oriente. Nel pieno rispetto del Trivio, e fermo restando il Quadrivio. Dialoghi di archeologia 2: 122–24. Review of Studia Mediterranea P. Meriggi dicata, by Onofrio Carruba. Athenaeum 49: 502–3.

1982 Kitru, kataru. Mesopotamia 17: 43–66. (with Enrico Badalì et al.) Studies on the Annals of Assurnasirpal II. 1: Morphological Analysis. VicOr 5: 13–73. Ville et campagne dans le royaume d’Ugarit: Essai d’analyse économique. Pp. 250–58 in Societies and Languages of the Ancient Near East: Studies in Honour of Igor M. Diakonoff. Edited by Muhammad A. Dandamaev et al. Warminster: Aris & Phillips. Adapa ospite degli dèi. Pp. 293–319 in Religioni e civiltà: Scritti in memoria di Angelo Brelich promossi dall’Istituto di Studi storico-religiosi dell’Universita degli studi di Roma. Edited by Vittorio Lanternari, Marcello Massenzio, and Dario Sabbatucci. Bari: Dedalo. Annotazioni di un lettore ‘impertinente’. Review of Ancient Slavery and Modern Ideology, by Moses Finley. Opus: Rivista internazionale per la storia economica e sociale dell’antichità 1: 3–9.

1983 (with Onofrio Carruba and Carlo Zaccagnini, eds.) Studi orientalistici in ricordo di Franco Pintore. Studia Mediterranea 4. Pavia: GJES. Aziru, servitore di due padroni. Pp.  93–121 in Studi Orientalistici in ricordo di Franco Pintore.

xviii

Bibliography of Mario Liverani Dall’acculturazione alla deculturazione: Considerazioni sul ruolo dei contatti politici e commerciali nella storia siro-palestinese pre-ellenistica. Pp.  503–20 in Forme di contatto e processi di trasformazione delle società antiche: Atti del convegno di Cortona, 24–30 maggio 1981. Collection de l’École française de Rome 67. Rome: École française de Rome. Communautés rurales dans la Syrie du II millénaire a.C. Pp. 147–85 in Les Communautés rurales. II: Antiquité. Recueils de la Société J. Bodin 41. Paris: Dessain et Tolra. Political Lexicon and Political Ideologies in the Amarna Letters. Berytus 31: 41–56. A proposito di ‘Nascita della scrittura’. Scrittura e Civiltà 7: 261–64. Review of Studies in Honor of T. B Jones, edited by Marvin A. Powell and Ronald Herbert Sack. OrAnt 22: 149–50.

1984 Land Tenure and Inheritance in the Ancient Near East: The Interaction between ‘Palace’ and ‘Family’ Sectors. Pp. 33–44 in Land Tenure and Social Transformation in the Middle East. Edited by Tarif Khalidi. Beirut: American University of Beirut. The Relationship between Bible, Oriental Studies, and Archaeology from the Perspective of an Orientalist. Pp.  16–23 in A Symposium on the Relationship between Bible, Oriental Studies, and Archaeology. Edited by Lawrence T. Geraty. Occasional Papers of the Horn Archaeological Museum 3. Berrien Springs, MI: Andrews University Press. The Growth of the Assyrian Empire on the Habur / Middle Euphrates Area: A New Paradigm. AAASyr 34: 107–15. Review of État et pasteurs au Moyen-Orient ancient, by Pierre Briant. OrAnt 23: 123–25. Review of La littérature historique sous l’ancien empire égyptien, by Alessando Roccati. OrAnt 23: 125–26. Review of Heartland of Cities, by Robert McC. Adams. Origini 11: 507–14.

1985 (with Alba Palmieri and Renato Peroni, eds.) Studi di Paletnologia in onore di Salvatore M. Puglisi. Rome: Università di Roma “La Sapienza.” Verso una storiografia non antropomorfica. Pp. 37–39 in Studi di Paletnologia in onore di Salvatore M. Puglisi. Naram-Sin e i presagi ‘difficili’. Pp. 31–45 in Soprannaturale e potere nel mondo antico e nelle società tradizionali. Edited by Frederick M. Fales and Cristiano Grottanelli. Milan: Franco Angeli. La Siria antica: Dall’età del Bronzo al periodo persiano. Pp. 27–33 in Da Ebla a Damasco. Edited by Giovanni Garroni and Eleonora Parcu. Milan: Electa. Gli archivi di Ugarit. Pp. 84–87 in Da Ebla a Damasco. Edited by Giovanni Garroni and Eleonora Parcu. Milan: Electa. Trent’anni di ricerca umanistica: Modelli e realtà. Università Progetto 7: 12–22. Review of Das davidische und salomonische Königreich, by Abraham Malamat. OrAnt 24: 145–46. Review of La justice sociale dans le Proche-Orient ancien, by Leòn Epzstein. OrAnt 24: 146. Review of In Search of History, by John Van Seters. OrAnt 24: 307–10.

Bibliography of Mario Liverani

xix

Review of History, Historiography and Interpretation, by Hayim Tadmor and Moshe Weinfeld. BASOR 260: 84–85.

1986 L’origine delle città: Le prime comunità urbane del Vicino Oriente. Libri di base 99. Rome: Riuniti. La ceramica e i testi: Commercio miceneo e politica orientale. Pp. 405–12 in Traffici micenei nel Mediterraneo: Atti del Convegno di Palermo 1984. Edited by M. Marazzi, S. Tusa, and L. Vagnetti. Taranto: Istituto Magna Grecia. Phoenicia. Pp. 853–62 in vol. 3 of The International Standard Bible Encyclopedia. Edited by Geoffrey W. Bromiley. 5 vols. Grand Rapids, MI: Eedmans. Insegnare e giudicare, ma come? Rinascita 43/20: 10–11.

1987 (with Andrea Giardina and Biancamaria Scarcia, eds.) La Palestina: Storia di una terra. L’età antica e cristiana. L’Islam: Le questioni attuali. Rome: Riuniti. Dalla preistoria all’impero persiano. Pp. 7–70 in La Palestina: Storia di una terra. La città vicino-orientale antica. Pp. 57–85 in Modelli di città: Strutture e funzioni politiche. Edited by Pietro Rossi. Turin: Einaudi. The Collapse of the Near Eastern Regional System at the End of the Bronze Age: The Case of Syria. Pp. 66–73 in Centre and Periphery in the Ancient World. Edited by Michael Rowlands, Mogens Larsen, and K. Kristiansen. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Autonomia amministrativa e autarchia scientifica. Università Progetto 24: 41–43. Review of Storia d’Israele, by Jan Alberto Soggin. OrAnt 26: 146–50. Review of Ecology and Empire, by Paul E. Zimansky. OrAnt 26: 150–52.

1988 Antico Oriente: Storia, società, economia. Manuali Laterza 17. Rome-Bari: Laterza. The Growth of the Assyrian Empire on the Habur / Middle Euphrates Area: a New Paradigm. SAAB 2: 81–98. Il primo piano degli archivi di Ugarit. SEL 5: 121–42. Fragments of Possible Counting and Recording Devices. Origini 12: 511–21. Uomini, forse. VicOr 7: 253–55. The Fire of Hahhum. OrAnt 27: 165–72. Confine e frontiera nel Vicino Oriente del Tardo Bronzo: Spunti di discussione e riflessione. Scienze dell’Antichità 2: 79–99. Ras Shamrah. Pp. 46–48 in vol. 4 of The International Standard Bible Encyclopedia. Edited by Geoffrey W. Bromiley. 5 vols. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Semites. Pp. 388–92 in vol. 4 of The International Standard Bible Encyclopedia. Edited by Geoffrey W. Bromiley. 5 vols. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Sidon. Pp. 500–502 in vol. 4 of The International Standard Bible Encyclopedia. Edited by Geoffrey W. Bromiley. 5 vols. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Tyre. Pp. 932–34 in vol. 4 of The International Standard Bible Encyclopedia. Edited by Geoffrey W. Bromiley. 5 vols. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

xx

Bibliography of Mario Liverani Ugarit, Ugaritic. Pp.  937–41 in vol. 4 of The International Standard Bible Encyclopedia. Edited by Geoffrey W. Bromiley. 5 vols. Grand Rapids, MI: Eedmans. Review of Who Were the Israelites? by Gösta W. Ahlström. RSO 61: 212–14. Review of Highlands of Canaan: Agricultural Life in the Early Iron Age, by David C. Hopkins. OrAnt 27: 145–47. Review of The Formation of the State in Ancient Israel, by Frank S. Frick. OrAnt 27: 148–50. Review of Saga, Legend, Tale, Novelle, Fable: Narrative Forms in Old Testament Literature, by George W. Coats. OrAnt 27: 150–53. Review of Anthropology and the Old Testament, by John W. Rogerson. OrAnt 27: 153–54. Review of Storia e ideologia nell’Israele antico, by Giovanni Garbini. OrAnt 27: 303–9.

1989 La forma dei campi neo-sumerici. Origini 14: 289–327. Economy of Ugaritic Royal Farms. Pp. 127–68 in Production and Consumption in the Ancient Near East. Edited by Carlo Zaccagnini. Budapest: University of Budapest. L’Oriente antico. Pp. 3–34 in La storiografia italiana degli ultimi vent’anni. I: Antichità e Medioevo. Edited by Luigi de Rosa. Rome-Bari: Laterza. Contatti linguistici e incomprensioni ideologiche nelle lettere di el-Amarna. Pp. 31–43 in Commercia linguae: La conoscenza delle lingue nel mondo antico. Incontri del Dipartimento con i docenti delle scuole secondarie 2, 16 marzo 1989. Dipartimento di Scienze dell’Antichità dell’Università di Pavia. Como: New Press. Review of Ancient Damascus, by Wayne Pitard. JAOS 109: 503–4. Review of The Road to Kadesh: A Historical Interpretation of the Battle Reliefs of King Sety I at Karnak, by William Murnane. JAOS 109: 504–5. Review of Les lettres d’el-Amarna, by William L. Moran. RSO 63: 168–71.

1990 Prestige and Interest: International Relations in the Near East, ca. 1600–1100 B.C. Padua: Sargon. (with Hans J. Nissen, eds.) Protostoria del Vicino Oriente. Rome-Bari: Laterza. (with Luciano Canfora and Carlo Zaccagnini, eds.) I trattati nel mondo antico: Forma, ideologia, funzione. Atti del Convegno, Roma, 14 febbraio–15 marzo 1986. Rome: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider. Prefazione. Pp. 7–11 in I trattati nel mondo antico: Forma, ideologia, funzione. Terminologia e ideologia del patto nelle iscrizioni reali assire. Pp. 113–47 in I trattati nel mondo antico: Forma, ideologia, funzione. (with Andrea Giardina and Biancamaria Scarcia Amoretti) La Palestine: Histoire d’une terre. Paris: L’Harmattan. De la préhistoire à l’empire perse. Pp. 9–79 in La Palestine: Histoire d’une terre. Hattushili alle prese con la propaganda ramesside. Or n.s. 59: 207–17. The Shape of the Neo-Sumerian Fields. BSA 5: 147–86. Scambi umani e scambi divini. Scienze dell’Antichità 3–4: 99–101. A Seasonal Pattern for the Amarna Letters. Pp. 337–48 in Lingering over Words: Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Literature in Honor of William L. Moran. Edited by Tzvi Abusch. HSM 37. Atlanta: Scholars Press.

Bibliography of Mario Liverani

xxi

Presentazione. Pp. vii–xvii in Hans J. Nissen, Protostoria del Vicino Oriente. Edited by Mario Liverani. Rome-Bari: Laterza. Review of Mari and the Early Israelite Experience, by Abraham Malamat. Or n.s. 59: 550–52.

1991 Recenti ricerche sull’agricoltura sumerica. Studi Storici 32/1: 221–26. The Trade Network of Tyre according to Ezek. 27. Pp. 65–79 in Ah, Assyria . . . : Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor. Edited by Mordechai Cogan and Israel Ephʾal. Scripta Hierosolymitana 33. Jerusalem: Magnes. Kilamuwa 7–8 e II Re 7. Pp. 177–83 in Storia e tradizioni di Israele: Scritti in onore di J. A. Soggin. Edited by D. Garrone and F. Israel. Brescia: Paideia. The Archaeological Context. Pp.  10–14 in Mozan 2: The Epigraphic Finds of the Sixth Season. Edited by Lucio Milano et al. Syro-Mesopotamian Studies 5/1. Malibu, CA: Undena. Il rendimento dei cereali durante la III dinastia di Ur: Contributo ad un approccio rea­ listico. Origini 15: 359–68. Akkad: The First World Empire; Structures, Ideology, Traditions (Conference Report). The Canadian Society for Mesopotamian Studies, Bulletin 21: 4. Review of Bar-Ilan Studies in Assyriology Dedicated to Prof. Pinhas Artzi, by Jacob Klein. Or n.s. 60. Review of Kulturgeschichte des alten Vorderasien, by Horst Klengel. OLZ 86: 503–11.

1992 Studies on the Annals of Ashurnasirpal II. 2: Topographical Analysis. Quaderni di geografia storica 4. Rome: Università di Roma “La Sapienza,” Dipartimento di Scienze storiche, archeologiche e antropologiche dell’antichità. Early Caravan Trade between South-Arabia and Mesopotamia. Yemen 1: 111–15. Rasappu and Hatallu. SAAB 6: 35–40. Nationality and Political Identity. Pp. 1031–37 in vol. 4 of The Anchor Bible Dictionary. Edited by David Noel Freedman et al. 6 vols. New York: Doubleday. Propaganda. Pp. 474–77 in vol. 5 of The Anchor Bible Dictionary. Edited by David Noel Freedman et al. 6 vols. New York: Doubleday. Review of The Proto-Elamite Texts from Tepe Yahya, by Peter Damerow and Robert K. Englund. Or n.s. 61: 10–11 Review of Arabian Gulf in Antiquity, by D. T. Potts. Or n.s. 61: 157–61. Review of The General’s Letter from Ugarit: A Linguistic and Historical Reevaluation of RS 20.33, by Shlomo Izre'el and Itamar Singer. RSO 66: 221–22. Review of Egypt and Canaan in the New Kingdom, by Donald B. Redford. RSO 66: 22.

1993 (with Marcella Frangipane, Harald Hauptmann, Paolo Matthiae, and Machteld Mellink, eds.) Between the Rivers and over the Mountains: Alba Palmieri Dedicata. Rome: Università di Roma “La Sapienza.” (ed.) Akkad: The First World Empire. Structure, Ideology, Traditions. HANES 5. Padua: Sargon.

xxii

Bibliography of Mario Liverani Akkad: An Introduction. Pp.  1–10 in Akkad: The First World Empire. Structure, Ideology, Traditions. Model and Actualization: The Kings of Akkad in the Historical Tradition. Pp. 41–67 in Akkad: The First World Empire. Structure, Ideology, Traditions. Nelle pieghe del despotismo: Organismi rappresentativi nell’antico Oriente. Studi Storici 34: 7–33.

1994 Guerra e diplomazia nell’antico Oriente (1600–1100 a.C.). Rome-Bari: Laterza. (with Augusto Fraschetti and Rinaldo Comba, eds.) Dal villaggio all’impero: Per il biennio dei Licei. 2 vols. Turin: Loescher. (with Augusto Fraschetti and Rinaldo Comba, eds.) Mondi del passato: Per il biennio degli Istituti Tecnici. 2 vols. Turin: Loescher. La ceramica e i testi: Commercio miceneo e politica orientale. Pp. 313–22 in La società micenea. Edited by Massimiliano Marazzi. Rome: Bagatto Libri. ‘Voyage en Orient’: The Origins of Archaeological Surveying in the Near East. Pp. 1–16 in The East and the Meaning of History: International Conference, Università di Roma “La Sapienza,” 23–27 November, 1992. Edited by Biancamaria Scarcia Amoretti. Studi Orientali 13. Rome: Bardi. La storia si scrive e si riscrive. La Ricerca ( January 1994): 10–12. Comments to T. J. Wilkinson, ‘Structure of Dry-Farming States’. Current Anthropology 35: 508–9. Final Remarks. Pp. 413–16 in Archives before Writing: Proceedings of the International Colloquium, Oriolo Romano, October 23–25, 1991. Edited by Piera Ferioli et al. Rome: Centro internazionale di ricerche archeologiche, anthropologiche e storiche. History as a War Game: Review of The End of the Bronze Age, by Robert Drews. Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 7: 241–48. Review of Textes ougaritiques II, by Andre Caquot, Jean-Marie de Tarragon, and JesusLuis Cunchillos. Orientis Antiqui Miscellanea 1: 123–26.

1995 El antiguo Oriente: Historia, sociedad y economia. Translated by J. Vivanco. Barcelona: Critica. (ed.) Neo-Assyrian Geography: Papers Presented at the International Conference on NeoAssyrian Geography Held at the University of Rome “La Sapienza”, Nov.  10–12, 1993. Quaderni di Geografia Storica 5. Rome: Università di Roma, Dipartimento di scienze storiche, archeologiche e antropologiche dell’Antichità. Introduction to the Conference. Pp. ix–x in Neo-Assyrian Geography. The Uruk Origins of Mesopotamian Administrative Conventions. ASJ 17: 127–34. The Medes at Esarhaddon’s Court. JCS 47: 57–62. La ‘rivoluzione’ neolitica e la fine delle ideologie. Studi Storici 36: 901–21. Ideologia delle nuove fondazioni urbane in età neo-assira. Pp.  375–83 in Nuove fondazioni nel Vicino Oriente antico: Realtà e ideologia. Atti del colloquio 4–6 dicembre 1991. Dipartimento di Scienze storiche del mondo antico, Sezione di egittologia e scienze storiche del Vicino Oriente, Università degli studi di Pisa. Edited by Stefania Mazzoni. Pisa: Giardini.

Bibliography of Mario Liverani

xxiii

The Deeds of Ancient Mesopotamian Kings. Pp.  2352–66 in CANE, vol. 4. Edited by Jack M. Sasson. 4 vols. New York: Scribner’s. Le royaume d’Ougarit. Pp. 47–54 in Le pays d’Ougarit autour de 1200 av. J.-C. Actes du colloque international Paris, 28 Juin–1er Juillet 1993. Edited by Marguerite Yon, Maurice Sznycer, and Pierre Bordreuil. Ras Shamra–Ougarit 11. Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations. La fin d’Ougarit: Quand? pourquoi? comment? Pp. 113–17 in Le pays d’Ougarit autour de 1200 av. J.-C. Actes du colloque international Paris, 28 Juin-1er Juillet 1993. Edited by Marguerite Yon, Maurice Sznycer, and Pierre Bordreuil. Ras Shamra–Ougarit 11. Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations.

1996 Reconstructing the Rural Landscape of the Ancient Near East. JESHO 39: 1–41. The Bathwater and the Baby. Pp.  421–27 in Black Athena Revisited. Edited by Mary R. Lefkowitz and Guy MacLean Rogers. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Agricoltura e irrigazione nell’antico Oriente. Pp. 43–59 in Storia dell’economia mondiale, vol. 1. Edited by Valerio Castronuovo. Rome-Bari: Laterza. 2084: Ancient Propaganda and Historical Criticism. Pp. 283–89 in The Study of the Ancient Near East in the Twenty-First Century: The William Foxwell Albright Centennial Conference Held at Johns Hopkins University, 1991. Edited by Jerrold S. Cooper and Glenn M. Schwartz. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Dal ‘piccolo regno’ alla ‘città-stato’. Pp. 249–59 in Alle soglie della classicità: Il Mediterraneo tra tradizione e innovazione. Studi in onore di Sabatino Moscati. Edited by Enrico Acquaro. Ghezzano: Istituti editoriali e poligrafici internazionali. Prefazione. Pp. vii–xi in La nascita dello Stato nel Vicino Oriente: Dai lignaggi alla burocrazia nella Grande Mesopotamia. Edited by Marcella Frangipane. Quadrante Laterza 85. Rome-Bari: Laterza. Economic and Socio-Political Developments. Pp. 30–36 in History of Humanity: Scientific and Cultural Development, vol. 2: From the Third Millennium to the Seventh Century B.C. Edited by Ahmad Hasan Dani and Jean-Pierre Mohen. 7 vols. London: Routledge and UNESCO. Neolitica, rivoluzione. Pp.  223–24 in vol. 6 of Enciclopedia delle Scienze Sociali. 9 vols. Rome: Istituto della enciclopedia Italiana Treccani. Review of The Ancient Near East, by Amélie Kuhrt. Mesopotamia 31: 208–10.

1997 Lower Mesopotamian Fields: South vs. North. Pp. 219–27 in Ana šadî Labnāni lū allik. Beiträge zu altorientalischen und mittelmeerischen Kulturen: Festschrift für Wolfgang Röllig. Edited by Beate Pongratz-Leisten, Hartmut Kühne, and Paolo Xella. AOAT 247. Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker / Neukirchen-Vluyn : Neukirchener Verlag. ‘Half-Nomads’ on the Middle Euphrates and the Concept of Dimorphic Society. AoF 24: 44–48. The Ancient Near Eastern City and Modern Ideologies. Pp. 85–107 in Die orientalische Stadt—Kontinuität, Wandel, Bruch: 1. Internationales Colloquium der Deutschen OrientGesellschaft 9.–10. Mai 1996 in Halle. Edited by Gernot Wilhelm. CDOG 1. Berlin: Harrassowitz.

xxiv

Bibliography of Mario Liverani Beyond Deserts, Beyond Oceans. Pp. 557–64 in Profumi d’Arabia. Edited by Alessandra Avanzini. Saggi di storia antica 11. Rome: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider. Ramesside Egypt in a Changing World: An Institutional Approach. Pp. 101–15 in L’impero ramesside: Convegno internazionale in onore di Sergio Donadoni. Vicino Oriente Quaderno 1. Rome: Università degli Studi di Roma “La Sapienza.” A Canaanite Indefinite Idiom in the Amarna Letters. N.A.B.U. 1997/127: 119–20. Rib-Adda’s Alleged Political Suicide. N.A.B.U. 1997/128: 120–21. The Father of Labʾaya. N.A.B.U. 1997/129: 121. The Wife of Milki-Ilu and Other Pledges. N.A.B.U. 1997/130: 121–22. Bronze Production in Byblos. N.A.B.U. 1997/131: 122–23. The Shirma-People Are Back. N.A.B.U. 1997/132: 123. Le origini della città nel Vicino Oriente. Pp. 261–78 in L’Europa dei popoli, vol. 1. Edited by Francesco Sabatini and Antonio Golini. 5 vols. Rome: Istituto Poligrafico e Zecca dello Stato-Editalia. Comments on J. McCorriston, ‘The Fiber Revolution’. Current Anthropology 38: 536–37. Review of Mesopotamia and the East: An Archaeological and Historical Study of Foreign Relations 3400–2000 BC, by Timothy F. Potts. Or n.s. 66: 106–8. Review of Die Rolle des Königs und seiner Familie nach den Texten von Ugarit, by Jehad Aboud. JAOS 117: 211. Review of Origins: The Ancient Near Eastern Background of Some Modern Western Institutions, by William W. Hallo. Mesopotamia 32: 341–44. Review of Privatization in the Ancient Near East and Classical World, by Michael Hudson and Baruch A. Levine. Mesopotamia 32: 344–46. Review of The Old Assyrian Copper Trade in Anatolia, by Jan Gerrit Dercksen. Mesopotamia 32: 347–48. Review of Nippur in Late Assyrian Times, by Steven W. Cole. Mesopotamia 32: 348–49.

1998 Uruk: La prima città. Rome-Bari: Laterza. Le lettere di el-Amarna: Le lettere dei ‘Piccoli Re’. Testi del Vicino Oriente antico 3/1. Brescia: Paideia. (with Domenico Parisi) Assiri ‘virtuali’: Un laboratorio didattico. Iter 1: 27–38. L’immagine dei Fenici nella storiografia occidentale. Studi Storici 39: 6–22. How to Kill Abdi-Ashirta: EA 101, Once Again. Israel Oriental Studies 18: 387–94. Amarna Mikmate–Biblical Michmethath. Zeitschrift des Deutschen Palästina-Vereins 114: 137–38. Uruk: Dalla rivoluzione urbana alla teoria dei sistemi. Isimu: Revista sobre Oriente Próximo y Egipto en la antigüedad 1: 95–102. Italo-Libyan Joint Mission for Prehistoric Research in the Sahara (Tadrart Acacus and Messak): A Preliminary Report on the 1997 Field Season. Libya Antiqua 4: 250–53. 43 entries in the Diccionario de Arqueologìa. Edited by Jose Alcina Franch. Madrid: Alianza. Review of Politik und Kriegskunst der Assyrer, by Walter Mayer. JAOS 118: 445–46.

1999 Le lettere di el-Amarna: Le lettere dei ‘Grandi Re’. Testi del Vicino Oriente antico 3/2. Brescia: Paideia.

Bibliography of Mario Liverani

xxv

Nuovi sviluppi nello studio della storia dell’Israele biblico. Biblica 8: 488–505. Ancient Near Eastern History: From Eurocentrism to an ‘OpenWorld’. Isimu: Revista sobre Oriente Próximo y Egipto en la antigüedad 2: 3–9. The Role of the Village in Shaping the Ancient Near Eastern Rural Landscape. Pp. 37–47 in Landscapes, Territories, Frontiers and Horizons in the Ancient Near East: Papers Presented to the XLIV Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale Venezia, 7–11 July, 1997. Edited by Lucio Milano, Stefano de Martino, Frederick M. Fales, and Giovanni B. Lanfranchi. HANEM 3/1–3. Padua: Sargon. History and Archaeology in the Ancient Near East: 150 Years of a Difficult Relationship. Pp. 1–11 in Fluchtpunkt Uruk: Archäologische Einheit aus methodischer Vielfalt. Schriften für Hans Jörg Nissen. Edited by Hartmut Kühne, Reinhard Bernbeck, and Karin Bartl. Internationale Archäologie: Studia honoraria 6. Rahden/Westfalen: Marie Leidorf. Review of Les Araméens de l’âge du fer, by Paul Eugène Dion. OLZ 94: 55–56. Review of Die mittelassyrischen Briefe aus Tall Šēḫ Ḥamad, by Eva Christiane CancikKirschbaum. JAOS 119: 140–41. Review of The Amarna Age: Western Asia, by Federick J. Giles. OLZ 94: 332–33. Review of Prix et formation des prix dans les économies antiques, by Jean Andreau, Pierre Briant, and Raymond Descat. Or n.s. 69: 179. Review of People, Water and Grain, by Barbara E. Barich. Africa 54: 614–16. Amarna Letters. Pp. 133–35 in Encyclopedia of the Archaeology of Ancient Egypt. Edited by Kathryn A. Bard and Steven Blake Shubert. London: Routledge.

2000 La scoperta del mattone: Muri e archivi nell’archeologia mesopotamica. VicOr 12: 1–17. The Tribunal of History: Judicial Origins of Ancient Near Eastern Historiography. Cadmo 10: 243–54. El papel de la aldea en la formacion del paisaje rural en el proximo Oriente antiguo. Eridu 5: 2–12. The Libyan Caravan Road in Herodotus IV. 181–185. JESHO 43: 496–520. The Garamantes: A Fresh Approach. Libyan Studies 31: 17–28. Looking for the Southern Frontier of the Garamantes. Sahara 12: 31–44. (with Mauro Cremaschi and Savino Di Lernia) The ‘Archaeological Park’ of the Tadrart Acacus and Messak Settafet (South-western Fezzan, Libya). Sahara 12: 121–40. (with Mauro Cremaschi and Savino Di Lernia) The CIRSA and the Recent Research in Central Sahara: Palaeoenvironmental Investigations, Prehistoric Studies, and Historical Analyses. Paleo-Express 6: 3–5. The Great Powers’ Club. Pp. 15–27 in Amarna Diplomacy: The Beginnings of International Relations. Edited by Raymond Cohen and Raymond Westbrook. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Potere e regalità nei regni del Vicino Oriente. Pp. 3–13 in Principi etruschi tra Mediterraneo ed Europa. Catalogue of an October 2000 exhibition at the Museo civico archeologico of Bologna curated by Cristiana Morigi Govi. Venezia: Marsilio. 2 Kings 5: 5–6 in the Light of the Amarna Letters. Pp. 1709–17 in Studi sul Vicino Oriente antico dedicati alla memoria di Luigi Cagni. Edited by Simonetta Graziani. Studi asiatici: Series minor 61. Naples: Istituto universitario orientale, Dipartimento di studi asiatici. Once again on MLK KTK in the Sefire Stelas. N.A.B.U. 2000/53: 60.

xxvi

Bibliography of Mario Liverani Archeologia e storia (Antico Oriente). Pp. 292–96 in Dizionario di Archeologia. Edited by Riccardo Francovich and Daniele Manacorda. Rome-Bari: Laterza. Review of Der Vertrag zwischen Ramses II. und Hattusili III, by Elmar Edel. AfO 46–47: 341–42. Review of Cuneiform Texts and the Writing of History, by Elmar Edel. Or n.s. 69: 330–32.

2001 International Relations in the Ancient Near East, 1600–1100 BC: Studies in Diplomacy. New York: Palgrave. The Sargon Geography and the Late Assyrian Mensuration of the Earth. SAAB 12: 57–85. I Garamanti: Ricerche in corso e nuove prospettive. Studi Storici 42: 769–83. Le parc archéologique de l’Acacus (Sahara libyen) et les travaux de l’Université de Rome “La Sapienza.” La Nouvelle Revue Anthropologique: 36–40. The Fall of the Assyrian Empire: Ancient and Modern Interpretations. Pp. 374–91, 444 in Empires: Perspectives from Archaeology and History. Edited by Susan E. Alcock, Terence N. D’Altroy, Kathleen D. Morrison, and Carla M. Sinopoli. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mesopotamian Historiography and the Amarna Letters. Pp. 303–11 in Historiography in the Cuneiform World: Proceedings of the 45th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Part 1. Edited by Tzvi Abusch et al. Bethesda, MD: CDL. Formule di auto-umiliazione nelle lettere di el-Amarna: Ovvero il farone aveva i piedi sporchi. Pp. 17–29 in Linguaggio e terminologia diplomatica dall’antico Oriente all’impero bizantino. Edited by M. G. Angeli Bertinelli and Luigi Piccirilli. Serta antiqua et medievali 4. Rome: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider. Introduzione. Pp. 195–211 in Storia della Scienza: Il Vicino Oriente antico, vol. 1/3. Edited by Sandro Petruccioli. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana Treccani. Storiografia: Mesopotamia. Pp.  290–304 in Storia della Scienza: Il Vicino Oriente antico, vol. 1/3. Edited by Sandro Petruccioli. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana Treccani. Le conoscenze geografiche. Pp.  434–47 in Storia della Scienza: Il Vicino Oriente antico, vol. 1/3. Edited by Sandro Petruccioli. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana Treccani. Agricoltura e irrigazione. Pp. 447–56 in Storia della Scienza: Il Vicino Oriente antico, vol. 1/3. Edited by Sandro Petruccioli. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana Treccani. Illustrations. Pp. 257, 288, 289, 337, 372, 383–84, 487, 488, 489, 496, 506, 509 in Storia della Scienza: Il Vicino Oriente antico, vol. 1/3. Edited by Sandro Petruccioli. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana Treccani.

2002 (ed.) Guerra santa e guerra giusta dal mondo antico alla prima età moderna. Studi Storici 43/3. Rome: Fondazione Istituto Gramsci. (with Maria Giulia Amadasi Guzzo and Paolo Matthiae, eds.) Da Pyrgi a Mozia: Studi sull’archeologia del Mediterraneo in memoria di Antonia Ciasca. 2 vols. VicOr 3/1–2. Rome: Università degli studi di Roma Sapienza. The Cautious Advisers of the Amarna Pharaoh. Pp.  289–94 in Da Pyrgi a Mozia: Studi sull’archeologia del Mediterraneo in memoria di Antonia Ciasca. Environment, Archaeology, and Oil: The Messak Settafet Rescue Operation (Libyan Sahara). African Archaeological Review 19: 67–73.

Bibliography of Mario Liverani

xxvii

Introduzione. Studi Storici 43: 633–37. Guerra santa e guerra giusta nel Vicino Oriente antico. Studi Storici 43: 639–59. La battaglia di Qadesh. Pp. 17–20 in La battaglia di Qadesh: Ramesse II contro gli Ittiti per la conquista della Siria. Edited by Maria Cristina Guidotti and Franca Pecchioli Daddi. Catalogo della mostra Livorno, Bottega d’arte, marzo-giugno 2002. Livorno: Sillabe. Il ‘corriere rapido’ nelle lettere di el-Amarna. Pp. 491–96 in Anatolia antica: Studi in memoria di Fiorella Imparati. Edited by Franca Pecchioli Daddi and Stefano di Martino. Eothen 11. Florence: LoGisma. Response to Gebhard Selz. Pp. 151–59 in Material Culture and Mental Spheres: Rezeption Archäologischer Denkrichtungen in der Vorderasiatischen Altertumskunde Internationales Symposium für Hans J. Nissen, Berlin, 23.–24. Juni 2000. Edited by Hans Jorg Nissen et al. Berlin: Ugarit-Verlag. Stati etnici e città-stato: Una tipologia storica per la prima età del ferro. Pp. 33–47 in Primi popoli d’Europa: Proposte e riflessioni sulle origini della civiltà nell’Europa mediterranea. Atti dei Convegni di Studio, Palermo, 14–16 ottobre 1994. Baeza (Jaén), 18–20 dicembre 1995. Edited by Manuel Molinos and Andrea Zifferero. Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio. Missione archeologica nel Tadrart Acacus e nel Messak. Pp.  54–57 in Il dialogo interculturale nel Mediterraneo: la collaborazione italo-libica in campo archeologico. Rome: Ministero Affari Esteri. An Additional Suggestion on EA 101. N.A.B.U. 2002/10: 11. An Additional Suggestion on EA 112. N.A.B.U. 2002/11: 11–12. Review of A Comparative Study of Thirty City-State Cultures, by Mogens Herman Hansen. JESHO 45: 136–38. Review of Mesopotamien: Akkade-Zeit und Ur III-Zeit, by Walther Sallaberger and Aage Westenholz. AfO 48–49: 180–81.

2003 Oltre la Bibbia: Storia antica di Israele. Rome-Bari: Laterza. Relacione internacionales en el Proximo Oriente antiguo, 1600–1100 a.C. Barcelona: Bellaterra. (ed.) Arid Lands in Roman Times: Papers from the International Conference (Rome, July 9th– 10th, 2001). Arid Zone Archaeology Monographs 4. Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio. Introduction. Pp. xv–xvi in Arid Lands in Roman Times. Aghram Nadharif and the Southern Border of the Garamantian Kingdom. Pp. 23–36 in Arid Lands in Roman Times. Alle origini del sistema carovaniero trans-sahariano. Quaderni. Accademia delle Scienze di Torino 11: 117–134. The Influence of Political Institutions on Trade in the Ancient Near East (Late Bronze to Early Iron Age). Pp. 119–37 in Mercanti e politica nel mondo antico. Edited by Carlo Zaccagnini. Saggi di storia antica 21. Rome: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider. The Rise and Fall of Media. Pp. 1–12 in Continuity of Empire (?). Assyria, Media, Persia: Papers Delivered at the International Meeting held in Padua, April 26–28, 2001. Edited by Giovanni B. Lanfranchi, Michael Roaff, and Robert Rollinger. HANEM 5. Pa­­dua: Sargon. The Disgraced Commissioner: The Turnover in Amarna Officialdom. Pp. 350–54 in Semitic and Assyriological Studies Presented to Pelio Fronzaroli by Pupils and Colleagues. Edited by Paola Marrassini. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz.

xxviii

Bibliography of Mario Liverani

La storia orientale antica nei nuovi programmi scolastici. Pp. 157–66 in La storia tra ricerca e didattica. Edited by Beatrice de Gerloni. Milan: Franco Angeli. Review of Herrschaftswissen in Mesopotamien, by Beate Pongratz-Leisten. WO 33 (2003) 195–96.

2004 Myth and Politics in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography. Edited and with a foreword by Zainab Bahrani and Marc Van De Mieroop. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press / London: Equinox. Adapa: Guest of the Gods. Pp.  3–23 in Myth and Politics in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography. Telipinu, or: On Solidarity. Pp.  27–52 in Myth and Politics in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography. Shunashura, or: On Reciprocity. Pp. 53–81 in Myth and Politics in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography. Leaving by Chariot for the Desert. Pp. 85–96 in Myth and Politics in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography. Rib-Adda: Righteous Sufferer. Pp.  97–124 in Myth and Politics in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography. Aziru: Servant of Two Masters. Pp. 125–44 in Myth and Politics in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography. The Story of Joash. Pp. 147–59 in Myth and Politics in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography. Messages, Women, and Hospitality: Inter-tribal Communication in Judges 19–21. Pp. 160–92 in Myth and Politics in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography. (with Alessandro Bianchi, eds.) La rivoluzione urbana. Translation of The Urban Revolution by Vere Gordon Childe. Soveria Manelli: Rubettino. ‘La Rivoluzione urbana’ dopo cinquant’anni. Pp. 49–59 in La rivoluzione urbana. Bibliografia essenziale di Vere Gordon Childe. Pp. 61–66 in La rivoluzione urbana. Studi sull’opera di Vere Gordon Childe. Pp. 67–70 in La rivoluzione urbana. Rediscovering the Garamantes: Archaeology and History. Libyan Studies 35: 191–200. The Fate of Ashur-uballit’s Messengers in EA 16. Pp.  117–20 in Von Sumer nach Ebla und zurück: Festschrift für Giovanni Pettinato zum 27. September 1999 gewidmet von Freunden, Kollegen und Schülern. Edited by Hartmut Waetzoldt. HSAO 9. Heidelberg: Heidelberger Orientverlag. Assyria in the Ninth Century: Continuity or Change? Pp. 213–24 in From the Upper Sea to the Lower Sea: Studies on the History of Assyria and Babylonia in Honour of A. K. Grayson. Edited by Grant Frame and Linda S. Wilding. Publications de l’Institut historique-archeologique neerlandais de Stamboul 101. Leuven: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten. Gli Ittiti sulle rive dell’Eufrate. Pp. 161–65 in Alle origini del potere: Arslantepe, la collina dei leoni. Catalogo della mostra, Roma, 13 ottobre 2004–9 gennaio 2005. Edited by Marcella Frangpane. Milan: Electa. Elogio al Levante. Pp. 9–17 in Supplementa ad Isimu: Estudios Interdisciplinares sobre Oriente Antiguo y Egipto. IV Series: Colloquia 2. Madrid: Universidad Autónoma de Madrid.

Bibliography of Mario Liverani

xxix

2005 Más allá de la Biblia: Historia antigua de Israel. Translated by T. de Lozoya. Barcelona: Critica. Israel’s History and the History of Israel. Translated by C. Peri and P. R. Davies. London: Equinox. (ed.) Recenti tendenze nella ricostruzione della storia antica d’Israele. Convegno internazionale: Roma, 6–7 marzo 2003. Contributi del Centro linceo interdisciplinare Beniamino Segre 110. Accademia nazionale dei Lincei 402. Rome: Accademia nazionale dei Lincei. Introduzione al convegno. Pp.  5–7 in In Recenti tendenze nella ricostruzione della storia antica d’Israele. Experimental Historiography: How to Write a Solomonic Royal Inscription. Pp. 87–101 in Recenti tendenze nella ricostruzione della storia antica d’Israele. Elogio del Levante. Scienze Umanistiche 1: 43–49. (with Roberto Castelli, Mauro Cremaschi, Maria Carmela Gatto, and Lucia Mori) A Preliminary Report of Excavations in Fewet, Libyan Sahara. Journal of African Archaeology 3: 69–102. Historical Overview. Pp. 2–19 in A Companion to the Ancient Near East. Edited by Daniel C. Snell. Oxford: Blackwell. Imperialism. Pp. 223–43 in Archaeologies of the Middle East: Critical Perspectives. Edited by Susan Pollock and Reinherd Bernbeck. Oxford: Blackwell. The Near East: The Bronze Age. Pp. 47–57 in The Ancient Economy: Evidence and Models. Joseph G. Manning and Ian Morris. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Il palazzo di Ugarit e l’economia siriana del Tardo Bronzo. Pp. 121–40 in L’economia palaziale e la nascita della moneta: Dalla Mesopotamia all’Egeo / Convegno internazionale (Roma, 12–13 febbraio 2002) in collaborazione con la Banca d’Italia. Edited by Mario Arcelli et al. Contributi del Centro linceo interdisciplinare Beniamino Segre 111. Rome: Accademia nazionale dei Lincei. Review of Who Were the Israelites and Where Did They Come From? by William G. Dever. Biblica 86: 578–82. Review of A History of the Ancient Near East, by Marc Van De Mieroop. Or n.s. 74: 171–73. Review of Immagini urbane, by Daria Pezzoli-Olgiati. Mesopotamia 40: 181–82.

2006 Uruk: The First City. Translated by Z. Bahrani and M. Van De Mieroop. London: Equinox. Uruk: La primera ciudad. Translated by J. Vivanco. Barcelona: Bellaterra. (ed.) Aghram Nadharif: The Barkat Oasis (ShaʿAbiya of Ghat, Libyan Sahara) in Garamantian Times. The Archaeology of Libyan Sahara 2. Arid Zone Archaeology Monographs 5. Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio. Introduction. Pp. 1–12 in Aghram Nadharif: The Barkat Oasis (ShaʿAbiya of Ghat, Libyan Sahara) in Garamantian Times. The Excavation of the Residential Unit AN1–2-3. Pp. 51–72 in Aghram Nadharif: The Barkat Oasis (ShaʿAbiya of Ghat, Libyan Sahara) in Garamantian Times. The Excavation of the Residential Unit AN9–13. Pp.  121–34 in Aghram Nadharif: The Barkat Oasis (ShaʿAbiya of Ghat, Libyan Sahara) in Garamantian Times.

xxx

Bibliography of Mario Liverani The Excavation of the Residential Unit AN11–12. Pp. 167–84 in Aghram Nadharif: The Barkat Oasis (ShaʿAbiya of Ghat, Libyan Sahara) in Garamantian Times. Dating Evidence. Pp. 267–378 in Aghram Nadharif: The Barkat Oasis (ShaʿAbiya of Ghat, Libyan Sahara) in Garamantian Times. History of the Site. Pp. 379–84 in Aghram Nadharif: The Barkat Oasis (ShaʿAbiya of Ghat, Libyan Sahara) in Garamantian Times. Economy and Technology. Pp. 385–98 in Aghram Nadharif: The Barkat Oasis (ShaʿAbiya of Ghat, Libyan Sahara) in Garamantian Times. The Household Level Analysis. Pp.  399–414 in Aghram Nadharif: The Barkat Oasis (ShaʿAbiya of Ghat, Libyan Sahara) in Garamantian Times. The Community Level Analysis. Pp.  415–26 in Aghram Nadharif: The Barkat Oasis (ShaʿAbiya of Ghat, Libyan Sahara) in Garamantian Times. Demography. Pp. 427–32 in Aghram Nadharif: The Barkat Oasis (ShaʿAbiya of Ghat, Libyan Sahara) in Garamantian Times. The Garamantian Kingdom and Its Southern Border. Pp. 435–48 in Aghram Nadharif: The Barkat Oasis (ShaʿAbiya of Ghat, Libyan Sahara) in Garamantian Times. The Trans-Saharan Caravan Trade. Pp.  449–60 in Aghram Nadharif: The Barkat Oasis (ShaʿAbiya of Ghat, Libyan Sahara) in Garamantian Times. Overview of the Garamantian History in the Wadi Tanezzuft. Pp.  461–82 in Aghram Nadharif: The Barkat Oasis (ShaʿAbiya of Ghat, Libyan Sahara) in Garamantian Times. New Discoveries in the Land of the Garamantes: On the Archaeology of the Libyan Sahara. Palamedes 1: 15–31. Imperialismo, colonizzazione e progresso tecnico: Il caso del Sahara libico in età romana. Studi Storici 47: 1003–1057. Giorgio Levi Della Vida e la questione delle origini semitiche. Scienze Umanistiche 2: 157–65. Il potere politico nel Vicino Oriente antico: Bisogno e rifiuto. Pp. 43–52 in Il potere politico: Bisogno e rifiuto dell‟autorità. XXXVIII Settimana Biblica Nazionale, Roma 6–10 settembre 2004. Edited by Ermenegildo Manicardi and Luca Mazzinghi. Ricerche Storico Bibliche 18. Bologna: Dehoniane. Review of Herrschaftsform und Stadtbaukunst, by Mirko Novák. AfO 51: 368–71. Review of Egypt and the Near East, by David A. Warburton. AfO 51: 371–73. Review of The Construction of the Assyrian Empire, by Shigeo Yamada. AfO 51: 373–74. Review of Dating the Fall of Babylon: A Reappraisal of Second Millennium Chronology, by Hermann Gasche et al. JNES 64: 214–15.

2007 La struttura sociale dei Garamanti in base alle recenti scoperte archeologiche. Rendiconti dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, Classe di scienze morali, storiche e filologiche 18: 155–203. Cronologia e periodizzazione dei Garamanti: Acquisizioni e prospettive. Athenaeum 95: 633–62. The Middle Euphrates Valley in Pre-classical Times as an Area of Complex Socio-political Interactions. Mediterraneo Antico 10: 37–48.

Bibliography of Mario Liverani

xxxi

Nuove scoperte nella terra dei Garamanti. Pp. 155–73 in Archeologia italiana in Libia: Atti dell’incontro di studio, Macerata-Fermo, 28–30 marzo 2003. Edited by Enzo Catani and Antonino Di Vita. Macerata: Ceum. Ideologia della regalità in Assiria e Israele. Pp. 35–47 in Regalità e forme di potere nel Mediterraneo antico: Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi Padova, 6–7 febbraio 2004. Edited by Paolo Scarpi and Michela Zago. Padua: Sargon. Il progetto scientifico e la strategia accademica di Salvatore M. Puglisi. Pp. 19–22 in Salvatore M. Puglisi nella paletnologia italiana: Un ricordo a 20 anni dalla sua scomparsa. Edited by Alessandra Manfredini et al. Rome: Quasar.

2008 La Bible et l’invention de l’histoire: Histoire ancienne d’Israël. Translated by V. Dutaut. Paris: Bayard. Para além da Biblia: História antigua de Israel. Translated by O. Soares Moreira. São Paulo: Loyola/Paulus. (with Clelia Mora, eds.) I diritti del mondo cuneiforme (Mesopotamia e regioni adiacenti, ca. 2500–500 a.C.). Pubblicazioni del CEDANT 4. Pavia: IUSS. I diritti ‘cuneiformi’: Lineamenti per una storia degli studi. Pp.  11–39 in I diritti del mondo cuneiforme (Mesopotamia e regioni adiacenti, ca. 2500–500 a.C.). A che serve la storia. Mundus: 48–52. La madre di tutte le catastrofi. Studi Storici 49: 277–92. Un futuro possibile: Reale o virtuale. Pp. 363–67 in La memoria dell’arte: Le pitture rupestri dell’Acacus tra passato e futuro. Edited by Savino Di Lernia and Daniela Zampetti. Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio. Shamshi-ilu, Ruler of Hatti and Guti, and the Sefire and Bukan Steles. Pp.  751–62 in Scritti in onore di Biancamaria Scarcia Amoretti. Edited by Daniela Bredi et al. Rome: Quasar. The Late Bronze Age: Materials and Mechanisms of Trade and Cultural Exchange. Pp.  161–68 in Beyond Babylon: Art, Trade, and Diplomacy in the Second Millennium B.C. Edited by Joan Aruz, Kim Benzel, and Jean Evans. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art. Préparez le chemin du seigneur. Pp.  291–94 in D’Ougarit à Jérusalem: Recueil d’études épigraphiques et archéologiques offert à P. Bordreuil. Edited by Carole Roche. Orient et Méditerranée 2. Paris: de Boccard. Il Vicino Oriente antico. Pp. 38–45 in La storia è di tutti. Edited by Antonio Brusa and Luigi Cajani. Rome: Carocci. Review of The Archaeology of Fazzān, vol. 2, by David J. Mattingly. AJA 112: 778–79. Review of Die libysche Kulturdrift I, by Martin Vogel. Athenaeum 96: 916.

2009 The King in the Palace. Or n.s. 78: 81–91. Exploring Collapse. Scienze dell’Antichità 15: 15–22. Il salone a pilastri della Melid neo-hittita. Scienze dell’Antichità 15: 649–75. La riscoperta dei diritti cuneiformi. Bullettino dell’Istituto di Diritto Romano ‘Vittorio Scialoja’ 42–43: 770–81.

xxxii

Bibliography of Mario Liverani

The First City. Pp. 77–92 in Urban Civilization from Yesterday to the Next Day. Edited by Davide Diamantini and Guido Martinetti. Naples: ScriptaWeb. Review of The Eastern Mediterranean in the Age of Ramesses II, by M. Van De Mieroop. Or n.s. 78: 214–16. Review of Les Pharaons du Nouvel Empire, by P. Grandet. Or n.s. 78: 216–17.

2010 (with Maria Giovanna Biga, eds.) Ana turri gimilli: Studi dedicati al Padre Werner R. Mayer, S.J. da amici e allievi. Vicino Oriente–Quaderno 5. Rome: Università degli Studi di Roma “La Sapienza.” The Pharaoh’s Body in the Amarna Letters. Pp. 147–76 in Ana turri gimilli: Studi dedicati al Padre Werner R. Mayer, S.J. da amici e allievi. Nie tylko Biblia: Historia starożytnego Izraela. Translated by J. Puchalski. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Uniwerstytetu Warszawskiego. Parole di bronzo, di pietra, di argilla. Scienze dell’Antichità 16: 27–62. The Chronology of the Biblical Fairy-Tale. Pp. 73–88 in The Historian and the Bible: Essays in Honour of Lester L. Grabbe. Edited by Philip R. Davies and Diana V. Edelman. London: T. & T. Clark. The Book of Kings and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography. Pp. 163–84 in The Books of Kings: Sources, Composition, Historiography and Reception. Edited by André Lemaire and Baruch H. Halpern. VTSup 129. Leiden: Brill. Untruthful Steles: Propaganda and Reliability in Ancient Mesopotamia. Pp. 229–44 in Opening the Tablet Box: Near Eastern Studies in Honor of Benjamin R. Foster. Edited by Sarah C. Melville and Alice L. Slotsky. CHANE 42. Leiden: Brill. Review of Corpus dei testi urartei, by M. Salvini. Or n.s. 79: 420–22.

2011 Antico Oriente: Storia, società, economia. 2nd rev. ed. Rome-Bari: Laterza. Stadt. Pp. 50–74 in vol. 13 of RlA. Un progetto entusiasmante. Rendiconti dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei 22: 361–63. Later Mesopotamia. Pp. 29–52 in The Oxford History of Historical Writing, vol. 1: Beginnings to AD 600. Edited by Andrew Feldherr and Grant Hardy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. The Pillared Hall of Neo-Hittite Melid: A New Link in the Development of an Architectural Type. Pp. 91–111 in Un impaziente desiderio di scorrere il mondo: Studi in onore di Antonio Invernizzi per il suo settantesimo compleanno. Edited by Carlo Lippolis and Stefano de Martino. Monografie di Mesopotamia 14. Florence: Le Lettere. From City-State to Empire: The Case of Assyria. Pp. 251–69 in The Roman Empire in Context: Historical and Comparative Perspectives. Edited by Johann P. Arnason and Kurt A. Raaflaub. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. Portrait du héros comme un jeune chien. Pp. 11–26 in Le jeune héros. Recherches sur la formation et la diffusion d’un thème littéraire au Proche-Orient ancien: Actes du colloque organisé par les chaires d’Assyriologie et des Milieux bibliques du Collège de France, Paris, les 6 et 7 avril 2009. Edited by Jean-Marie Durand, Thomas Römer, and Michael Langlois. OBO 250. Fribourg: Academic Press / Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht.

Bibliography of Mario Liverani

xxxiii

Accumulazione e circolazione: Ideali di comportamento economico nell’antico Oriente. Pp. 93–103 in Studi italiani di metrologia ed economia del Vicino Oriente antico dedicati a N. Parise. Edited by E. Ascalone and L. Peyronel. Studia Asiana 7. Rome: Herder. The Age of Sennacherib. Pp. 7–21 in The Sennacherib Wall Reliefs at Nineveh. Edited by C. Lippolis. Florence: Le Lettere. Review of Identità e memoria nell’Israele antico, by G. L. Prato. JAOS 131: 509–10. Review of Die mittelbabylonischenm Rechtsurkunden aus Alalaḫ, by C. Niedorf; and of State and Society in the Late Bronze Age Alalaḫ, by E. Von Dassow. AfO 52: 244–47.

2012 Arslantepe in the Neo-Hittite Period. Origini 34: 331–44. Fondazioni di città in Siria e Mesopotamia fra il IX e VII secolo a.C. Athenaeum 100: 1–15. Trifunzionalismo prima di Dumézil. Rendiconti dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei 23: 105–10. La Bible avait-elle raison? Un débat sans fin. Le Monde de la Bible 200: 15–17. From Melid through Bastam to Megiddo: Stables and Horses in Iron Age II. Pp. 443–58 in Leggo! Studies Presented to Frederick Mario Fales on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday. Edited by Giovanni B. Lanfranchi et al. LAOS 2. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Archeologia dell’archivio. Pp. 25–39 in Archivi, depositi, magazzini presso gli Ittiti. Edited by Maria Elena Balza, Maurizio Giorgieri, and Clelia Mora. StMed 23. Genoa: Italian University Press. Melid in the Early and Middle Iron Age: Archaeology and History. Pp. 327–44 in The Ancient Near East in the 12th–10th Centuries BCE: Culture and History. Edited by Gershon Galil et al. AOAT 392. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. La diffusione dei popoli semitici, a un secolo dalla teoria di Leone Caetani. Pp.  xv– xlviii in Studi di Storia Orientale, di Leone Caetani, vol. 1. Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura.

2013 Immaginare Babele: Due secoli di studi sulla città orientale antica. Rome-Bari: Laterza. Uruk: Ula al-mudun ʾala wajh al-basita. Translated by Ezz Al-Din Enaia. Abu Dhabi: Kalima. (with Marcella Frangipane) Neo-Hittite Melid: Continuity or Discontinuity? Pp. 353–75 in Across the Border: Late Bronze–Iron Age Relations between Syria and Anatolia. Edited by K. Aslıhan Yener. ANES Suppl. 42. Leuven: Peeters. Power and Citizenship. Pp. 164–80 in The Oxfortd Handbook of Cities in World History. Edited by Peter Clark. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mutamenti climatici nell’antichità vicino-orientale e mediterranea. Pp.  95–116 in Il mutamento climatico: Processi naturali e intervento umano. Edited by Antonello Provenzale. Bologna: Il Mulino. Literary-Political Motifs in the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: Measuring Continuity versus Change. Pp. 269–83 in 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, IN: Eisenbrauns. Under Northern Eyes: Egyptian Art and Ceremony as Received by Babylonians, Hurrians and Hittites. Pp. 238–43 in Decorum and Experience: Essays in Ancient Culture for John Baines. Edited by Elizabeth Frood and Angela McDonald. Oxford: Griffith Institute.

xxxiv

Bibliography of Mario Liverani

2014 Dal testo alla storia nell’antico Oriente. Atti dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, Memorie XXXIV 2. Rome: Scienze e Lettere. The Ancient Near East: History, Society and Economy. Translated by S. Tabatabai. New York: Routledge. La Sapienza nell’antico Oriente. SEL 31: 75–80. The Sahara during Antiquity: Structure and History. Pp.  443–47 in ‘My Life Is like the Summer Rose’: Maurizio Tosi e l’Archeologia come modo di vivere. Papers in Honour of Maurizio Tosi for His 70th birthday. Edited by Carl C. Lamberg-Karlovsky and Bruno Genito. BAR 2690. Oxford: Archeopress.

2015 Recherche archéologique en Islam: Du Printemps à l’Hiver. Qantara 94: 34–37. La Torre di Babele. Memorie dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei 35/3: 539–58. Exchange Models in Historical Perspective. Pp.  17–29 in Policies of Exchange: Political Systems and Modes of Interaction in the Aegean and the Near East in the 2nd Millennium B.C.E. Edited by Brigitta Eder and Regine Pruzsinzky. Vienna: VÖAW.

Abbreviations Note to the reader: The bibliographical abbreviations used in this volume can be found on pp. iii–lxxiv in vol. 14 of Reallexikon der Assyriologie. Edited by H. P. Streck. Berlin: de Gruyter, 2014. The abbreviations that are not listed there are provided here.

General A. letters from Mari in the collection of the Louvre, siglum AMS Accelerator Mass Spectrometry Ant. Josephus, Jewish Antiquities AD Anno Domini, After Christ BC/BCE Before Christ/Common Era ca. approximately chap(s). chapter(s) 1–2 Chr 1–2 books of Chronicles in the OT CUNES tablets at Cornell University, Near Eastern Studies, siglum dyn. dynasty ed(s). editor(s)/edited by fasc. fascicle fig(s). figure(s) Giricano tablets from Giricano, siglum (see Radner, K. Das mittelassyrische Tontafelarchiv von Giricano/Dunnu-ša-Uzibi. Subartu 14. Turnhout: Brepols, 2004) GIS Geographical Information System J.W. Josephus, Jewish War Judg book of Judges in the OT 1–2 Kgs 1–2 books of Kings in the OT km kilometer(s) m meter(s) n.d. no date n(n). note(s) no(s). number(s) n.s. new series p(p). page(s) pl(s). plate(s) PN personal name 1–2 Sam 1–2 books of Samuel in the OT v. vs(s). verse(s) vol(s). volume(s)

Reference Works BHS

Elliger, K., and Rudolph, W., eds., with Rüger, H. P. Biblia Hebraica Stuttgartensia. 2nd ed. Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 1983

xxxv

xxxvi KAH 2 LHBOTS MANE MC PAPS PIPOAC

Abbreviations Schroeder, O. Keilschrifttexte aus Assur historischen Inhalts, vol. 2. WVDOG 37. Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1922 Library of Hebrew Bible / Old Testament Studies (formerly Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series) Monographs on the Ancient Near East Mesopotamian Civilizations Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society Publications de l’Institut du Proche-Orient Ancien du Collège de France

Sull’armonia tra la storia e l’archeologia del Vicino Oriente L’opera di Mario Liverani nella vita di un archeologo Joaquín María Córdoba

Mercoledì 23 novembre dell’anno 1616, il nobile viaggiatore romano Pietro Della Valle raggiunse le rovine di Babilonia. In realtà, prima e dopo di lui, molti altri viaggiatori cercarono tra le rovine del campo vicino a Hilla le tracce della più emblematica città orientale dell’Antichità preclassica. Ma in Pietro Della Valle troviamo riassunte e simbolizzate le questioni che motivano le mie riflessioni: la storia della ricerca, le origini dell’archeologia come scienza, l’armonia tra storia e archeologia nel Vicino e Medio Oriente e, di conseguenza, l’opera scientifica di Mario Liverani così come io stesso la percepisco nella mia vita professionale. I ricordi e le esperienze di Pietro della Valle in Oriente furono presto pubblicati in Italia e tradotti in altri paesi europei, cosa che sancì la sua meritata fama. Viaggi, usi e costumi del tempo, rovine, paesaggi e persone denotano la sua ampia cultura e la sua inquieta curiosità. Così ora ricorderò che volle sapere di che materia era stata fatta la imponente “Torre di Babele.” Nelle sue lettere così lo racconta: “la materia, di che è composta tutta la fabrica, é la più curiosa cosa che vi sia, e da me fù con diligenza osservata, rompendola con picconi in diversi luoghi. Son tutti mattoni molto grandi e grossi di terra cruda, cotti come io credo, al sole, a guisa delle Tappie di Spagna: e son murati, non con buona calce, ma pur con terraccia.” Però in un altro punto nota che c’erano “molti mattoni della medesima grandezza, ma cotti e sodi, e murati con buona calce, ò con bitume: però li crudi sono senza dubbio assai più.” 1 In quanto spagnolo, mi colpisce il suo acuto riferimento comparativo alla nostra architettura popolare del tempo, tanto più che la storia della ricerca in Oriente ci ricorda che uno dei suoi contemporanei, l’ambasciatore di Filippo III re di Spagna, García de Silva y Figueroa, davanti allo sha Abbas il Grande, il 7 aprile 1618 misurò accuratamente le proporzioni di Persepoli, dei suoi edifici ed esaminò la tipologia e la lavorazione delle sue pietre. 2 Ed anche se la sopraggiunta morte gli Author’s note: Ringrazio la Prof.ssa Francesca Baffi per la gentile correzione della versione italiana. 1.  Lettera 17. da Baghdad, in P. Della Valle, In viaggio per l’Oriente. Le mummie, Babilonia, Persepoli (a cura di Antonio Invernizzi; Alessandria: dell’Orso, 2001) 139. 2. J. Mª Córdoba e C. Pérez Díe, “La aventura arqueológica española en Oriente,” in La arqueología española en Oriente. Nacimiento y desarrollo de una ciencia nueva. Ministerio de

1

2

L’opera di Mario Liverani nella vita di un archeologo

impedì di pubblicare le sue magnifiche memorie, sappiamo bene che entrambi, sia l’italiano che lo spagnolo, ricorsero a fonti classiche e alle loro esperienze “archeologiche” per dimostrare che Babilonia era lì, vicino a Hillah, così come Persepoli si ergeva nella remota “Cehil minar.”

1.  Della storia, la vita e la ricerca dell’armonia Lasciando da parte le necessarie specializzazioni accademiche e la determinazione delle competenze nei settori delle scienze e delle relative applicazioni, vorrei sottolineare che, senza averne consapevolezza e a differenza di ciò che succede in altri ambiti che si occupano dello studio del passato, l’armonia tra archeologia e storia è una delle caratteristiche di coloro che si dedicano, come me, allo studio dell’Antichità in Oriente. Quando a metà del XIX secolo sono stati rinvenuti i resti di Dūr Šarrukin, Ninive o Kalhu e si decifrò la lingua assira, si iniziò un nuovo modo di fare storia. Priva e allo stesso tempo libera dall’autorità segnata dai classici greco-romani, che ancora oggi continuano a dominare la storia generale della Grecia e di Roma e che anche allora incise profondamente sul discorso di E. Gibbon o di Th. Monnsem, la ricostruzione del passato d’Oriente era obbligata a fare uso di fonti scritte. Data la loro complessità e la relativa scarsa quantità, ricorse anche, in modo naturale, agli spazi, ai paesaggi e alle rovine che poco a poco iniziarono a dar corpo ai popoli dell’antico Oriente. Risulta eloquente che quasi un secolo e mezzo più tardi, nella sua introduzione a Antico Oriente. Storia, società, economia (RomaBari 1988), Mario Liverani scrivesse che “lo storico dell’antico Oriente è costretto a farsi al tempo stesso archeologo da campo e filologo, in una misura sconosciuta ad altri settori che vedono delle competenze maggiormente parcellizzate ed una catena produttiva maggiormente consolidata.” 3 Per un archeologo di formazione, ma docente universitario di Storia dell’Ori­ ente, l’armonia evocata alle origini della ricerca non suppone una limitazione peculiare di una scienza allora ai suoi albori, ma piuttosto un’indicazione di lavoro che considero vigente. Così come il lavoro sul campo è inconcepibile senza la partecipazione attiva delle scienze fisiche e naturali, l’insegnamento universitario non è pensabile come mero rapporto di eventi, ma piuttosto come esperienza viva in cui due scienze umanistiche nate in chiara armonia, storia e archeologia, si affermano nella ricostruzione di un passato in cui l’ambiente, le persone, gli animali, le idee e l’esperienza stessa del ricercatore compongono un contesto scientifico di ricchezza, profondità e umanesimo senza precedenti. E poiché credo che questo sia particolarmente vero per quanto riguarda l’antico Oriente, mi trovo completamente d’accordo quando si scrive che l’Antichità orientale “costituisce uno dei principali, se non il principale, arricchimento e ampliamento delle conoscenze storiche moderne.” 4 Cultura-Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores (a cura di J. Mª Córdoba e C. Pérez Díe. Madrid: Ministerio de Cultura y Ministerio de Asuntos Exteriores y Cooperación, 2006) 11–24. Vid. 13. 3.  M. Liverani, Antico Oriente. Storia, società, economia (Roma-Bari: Laterza, 1998) 12. 4.  Ibid., 5.

Joaquín María Córdoba

3

L’esteso e ammirevole elenco delle pubblicazioni di Mario Liverani è ricco di opere e riflessioni che, oltre a rappresentare contributi scientifici rilevanti, offrono proficue indicazioni di lavoro. Ovviamente, dal momento in cui sono venuto a conoscenza delle sue opere le ho seguite ed hanno accompagnato la mia vita professionale nella didattica e nella pratica, da Antico Oriente (1988), opera di formazione basilare per i nostri studenti, fino ai suoi molteplici studi su nobiltà regale accadica, geografia neo-assira, insediamenti agricoli nel corso del III millennio o relazioni internazionali nel II millennio. Per la mia dedizione alla storia della riscoperta e della ricerca in Oriente e per il mio quasi innamorato interesse per la pratica archeologica viva, vorrei ora riferirmi ad alcuni lavori che hanno avuto particolare rilevanza per il mio lavoro: mi riferisco a “Voyage en Orient” (1994), “The ancient Near Eastern Cities and Modern Ideologies” (1997) e “La scoperta del mattone. Muri e archivi nell’archeologia mesopotamica” (2000). 5 Nel primo testo l’autore considerava le origini illuministe dei primi viaggi europei del XVIII e XIX secolo in Oriente, i crescenti interessi politici ed economici da parte di ciò che restava dell’Impero Ottomano, la questione biblica e della definizione dei limiti della storia scientifica, il colonialismo ed i nuovi modelli di intervento o d’interpretazione. Nel secondo analizzava la percezione stessa della idea di città in Oriente nella storiografia occidentale ed i pregiudizi che sancirono la formulazione di schemi, eliminati solo con il trascorrere del tempo, l’evidenza archeologica contrastata e l’evoluzione stessa della nostra storia. Nel terzo, verificava la rivoluzione che nell’archeologia orientale ha supposto la piena identificazione del mattone crudo come elemento costitutivo dell’architettura orientale, grazie agli interventi delle missioni tedesche a Babilonia e Assur. La fortuna ha voluto che due di queste opere costituissero precedentemente il nucleo di due conferenze impartite da Mario Liverani presso la Università Autonoma di Madrid (1988 e 1993): le sue riflessioni allora e le opere pubblicate in seguito hanno certamente arricchito le nostre percezioni. È logico che nella vita accademica quotidiana e nella routine della nostra pratica professionale non ci si renda conto del filo continuo che collega le nostre azioni con quelle di chi ci ha preceduto. Se appena le considerassimo nella giusta prospettiva noteremmo la loro enorme vicinanza e la continua riconsiderazione a cui ci obbligano. Così come quella vitalità che considero caratteristica insita alla ricerca sull’Oriente, il passato, l’esperienza e l’opera di Mario Liverani forniscono continue evidenze strappate all’oblio e all’ignoranza. Alla somma di questi tre fattori vorrei aggiungere due questioni alle quali credo poter arrivare grazie all’armonia anelata: le spedizioni archeologiche francesi in Khorsabad furono capaci di lavorare

5.  Idem, “Voyage en Orient. The Origins of Archaeological Surveying in the Near East,” in The East and the Meaning of History (a cura di Biancamaria Scarcia Amoretti; Roma: Bardi, 1994) 1–16. “The ancient Near Eastern City and Modern Ideologies,” in Die orientalische Stadt. Kontinuität, Wandel, Bruch (a cura di Gernot Wilhelm; CDOG 1; Berlin, 1997) 85–107. “La scoperta del mattone. Muri e archivi nell’archeologia mesopotamica,” Vicino Oriente 12 (2000) 1–17.

4

L’opera di Mario Liverani nella vita di un archeologo

e documentare con uno spirito realmente precursore della genialità di Robert Koldewey e della scienza tedesca. L’archeologia del mattone crudo continua ad offrire, ancora oggi, scoperte del tutto insperate.

2.  Le origini della ricerca archeologica: i geniali architetti dimenticati È già da molto tempo che la storia della ricerca archeologica in Oriente ha segnato l’inizio della pratica “scientifica” con l’integrazione dei metodi di lavoro degli specialisti tedeschi in architettura storica. André Parrot 6 e, più sommariamente, Seton Lloyd 7 lo riconobbero già al loro tempo. Così ne fa menzione Mario Liverani quando scrive del “rivoluzionario passaggio dalla concezione mineraria alla concezione architettonica dello scavo, che la archeologia mesopotamica deve alla scuola tedesca.” 8 Cercare le origini di questa straordinaria innovazione fornita dalle spedizioni archeologiche tedesche della fine del XIX e all’inizio del XX secolo o spiegare le ragioni per cui furono proprio i tedeschi ad essere innovatori non è ora una questione pertinente, ma piuttosto complementare a quanto qui propongo e che comunque ho definito in altro contesto. Ma questo non impedisce, o meglio, spiega più chiaramente, ciò che, in considerazione dell’opera di M. Liverani, vorrei ora ricordare: le pionieristiche spedizioni archeologiche guidate da Paul Émile Botta e Victor Place a Khorsabad posero le basi per quello che avrebbe potuto essere l’inizio della pratica scientifica archeologica in Oriente, se gli eventi politici non avessero interrotto le spedizioni e obbligato i loro principali responsabili al rinvio e se dal loro lavoro e dalle loro pubblicazioni fossero state tratte le conclusioni che oggi mi appaiono evidenti. Mario Liverani ha ricordato che la iniziale e semplice ricerca d’antichità si sviluppò dalla metà del XIX secolo fino alle sorprendenti e felici scoperte fatte da Paul Émile Botta e Austin H. Layard nelle grandi colline di Ninive, Nimrud e Khorsabad. Certamente i diversi interessi dell’uno e dell’altro e il successo commerciale dei libri di Layard hanno marcato una differenza sostanziale a favore del britannico nell’apprezzamento popolare e scientifico dei ritrovamenti. Ma a mio parere, per quanto riguarda il metodo e le origini della archeologica scientifica, la competenza e la capacità di documentare dei francesi sono state di gran lunga superiori. Così come nel caso del rinnovamento metodologico e della configurazione scientifica della scienza fatta più tardi dai tedeschi, nella spedizione di P. É. Botta (1842–1843) la presenza di un artista con formazione in disegno architettonico come Eugène Flandin, e in quella di Victor Place (1853–1854) la partecipazione di un architetto come Felix Thomas, che durante il suo lavoro presso il sito visionò i monumentali tomi e illustrazioni dell’opera di Botta, si riveleranno provvidenziali. Contemporaneamente, l’autodisciplina, la generosità di osservazioni e l’attenzione entusiasta 6.  A. Parrot, Archéologie mésopotamienne. Les étapes (Paris: Albin Michel, 1946) 177. 7. S. Lloyd, Foundations in the Dust. The Story of Mesopotamian Exploration (London: Thames and Hudson, 1980) 175. 8.  M. Liverani, La scoperta del mattone, 12.

Joaquín María Córdoba

5

che entrambi i consoli profusero nel loro insperato lavoro si sarebbero poi tradotti in una esposizione, in modelli esemplari di documentazione che oggi sono riferimento per la tesi che io propongo. Come è noto, il 5 aprile 1843, Paul Émile Botta riferiva a Jules Mohl della riscoperta degli Assiri 9 e otteneva i mezzi e gli aiuti dei quali diceva di aver bisogno. Così il 4 maggio dell’anno successivo giunse a Mossul il pittore Eugène Flandin. La figura e l’opera di entrambi sono state abbondantemente analizzate, ma mi permetto di sottolineare il significato del contributo di E. Flandin e il ruolo che ricopre nella mia proposta. Se, come G. Bergamini ha sottolineato, P. É. Botta è stato un vero archeologo preoccupato della tipologia degli insediamenti, la conservazione dei reperti e delle caratteristiche dei siti, 10 la sua moderazione interpretativa ha inoltre saputo adattare l’opera illustrativa di Flandin alla documentazione pubblicata della sua spedizione. Oggi le sue illustrazioni possono essere considerate i primi disegni archeologici dell’archeologia in Oriente, realizzati grazie alla formazione in disegno architettonico che il giovane artista aveva ricevuto in Iran con l’architetto Pascal Coste. 11 I celebri disegni di Khorsabad firmati da Eugène Flandin sono tipici di un architetto, di un architetto attento alla forma e alla funzione degli edifici antichi. Ma le radici di tutto ciò si trovano nella sua avventura in Persia. L’ambasciata inviata nel 1839 dal re Louis-Philippe in Iran aveva uno scopo meramente politico, ma l’Accademia di Belle Arti ebbe la felice idea di integrare nella stessa due artisti: un architetto di fama come Pascal Coste e un pittore di genere, all’epoca ben visto a corte, come Eugène Flandin. Con la direzione del primo, il compito di entrambi era quello di riprodurre con disegni tutti i monumenti architettonici, sculture e rilievi in Iran, lavoro che portarono a termine soprattutto dopo il ritorno in Francia del conte Sercey. 12 Tra il 1843 e il 1844, i due artisti percorsero con notevoli difficoltà ed enormi sforzi la maggior parte dell’Iran, realizzando un’enorme e fantastica raccolta di disegni. Lo sguardo di P. Coste era quello dell’architetto: egli era interessato alla tipologia delle costruzioni e alle tecniche di edificazione, evitava di ricadere nel pittoresco e si sforzava di essere realista. Con la sua supervisione, E. Flandin doveva disegnare rilievi e integrare il lavoro dell’architetto. Questo lo costrinse a contenere la tendenza interpretativa tipica dell’artista. Quando era libero di seguire il suo impulso, il suo naturale spirito romantico si faceva notare: il confronto tra i disegni 9.  D. Beyer, “Les premières étapes de la découverte à Khorsabad,” in De Khorsabad à Paris. La découverte des Assyriens (a cura di E. Fontan, N. Chevalier; Paris: Réunion des Musées Nationaux, 1994) 46–59. Vid. 48. 10.  G. Bergamini, “‘Spolis Orientis onustus’. Paul-Émile Botta et la découverte de la civilisation assyrienne,” in E. Fontan, N. Chevalier, De Khorsabad à Paris, 68–85. Vid. 78, 81, 82. 11. N. Chevalier, “Pascal Coste en Perse,” in Regards sur la Perse antique. Catalogue de l’exposition présentée au Musée d’Argentomagus et à l’église Saint-Cyran au Blanc (1998) 35–39. 12. J.-P. Foucher, “L’ambassade en Perse de 1839 et la mission artistique de P. Coste et E. Flandin,” in Voyage en Perse 1840–1841 (a cura di P. Grosjean; Le Blanc: Amis de la Bibliothèque Municipale du Blanc, 1995) 9–16.

6

L’opera di Mario Liverani nella vita di un archeologo

Fig. 1.  Edificio di Kengavar, secondo Pascal Coste (in Regards sur la Perse antique, 1998, tavola 60).

Fig. 2.  Edificio di Kengavar, secondo Eugène Flandin (in E. Grosjean 1995, tavola 47).

dell’edificio di Kengavar che entrambi realizzarono risulta essere più che eloquente (figs. 1 e 2). Al ritorno in Francia, il ministero inviò Flandin a Mossul, dove avrebbe realizzato i primi disegni di scavi propriamente detti dell’archeologia orientale. Come ha

Joaquín María Córdoba

7

Fig. 3.  Facciata della sala del trono in Khorsabad, secondo E. Flandin (in D. Beyer 1994, fig. 5, pp. 52–53).

segnalato P. Albenda, realizzò la carta topografica del sito, panoramiche dai quattro punti cardinali e delle illustrazioni notevoli. 13 Ma credo che ciò che distingue il suo lavoro e queste illustrazioni è il fatto che includessero tre registri: la vista della struttura dopo la rimozione dei detriti, la pianta del muro, con evidente indicazione, anche se idealizzata, del massiccio volume dei mattoni crudi rivestiti da uno zoccolo di ortostati, e una proposta di ricostituzione mediata dal consiglio di P. É. Botta, che preferiva limitare l’alzato a ciò che si potesse raccogliere in situ (fig. 3). Cinquanta anni dopo e per altre vie, sorte nella tradizione delle scuole di architettura tedesche, architetti tedeschi attivi a Babilonia e Assur raggiunsero la vetta del primo disegno archeologico. Le illustrazioni litografiche di E. Flandin non ebbero il meritato riscontro per una ragione quasi aneddotica: la monumentalità della pubblicazione Monument de Ninive (1849–1850), e il suo elevato prezzo. 14 Lo stesso accadrà in seguito con i risultati documentali della spedizione guidata da Victor Place. Il nuovo e interessato console, inviato a Mossul con la stessa missione (1853–1854) che tempo addietro aveva portato P. É. Botta, ebbe la brillante e previdente idea di portare con sé la “bibliografia disponibile,” vale a dire le relazioni già pubblicate a proposito del sito. Era disposto a migliorare l’accuratezza di Botta e a documentare in modo ancora più “scientifico” l’andamento degli scavi, grazie all’ausilio del calotype di Gabriel 13.  P. Albenda, “Les dessins de Flandin,” in E. Fontan, N. Chevalier, De Khorsabad à Paris, 68–85. 14. B. André-Salvini, “Introduction aux publications de P. E. Botta et de V. Place,” in E. Fontan, N. Chevalier, De Khorsabad à Paris, 166–75. Vid. 172.

8

L’opera di Mario Liverani nella vita di un archeologo

Tranchant. 15 Però quando più tardi, il malaticcio architetto Félix Thomas, di ritorno da Babilonia, decise di interrompere il suo forzato rimpatrio in Francia per aiutare Place e Tranchand nella documentazione dei nuovi scavi di Khorsabad, in considerazione delle illustrazioni di Flandin e seguendo le indicazioni metodologiche di Place, interpretò e disegnò alzati murari e lo stato delle strutture 16 completando le pionieristiche fotografie 17 della spedizione francese sulla falsariga del “disegno archeologico” suggerito dal suo predecessore, E. Flandin. Anche allora, cercando di superare i limiti marcati da P. É. Botta, realizzò dei disegni di ricostruzione architettonica che, nonostante gli errori e le esagerazioni che non ha saputo o non ha voluto limitare, tracciarono un percorso che distingue, rispetto ad altre, anche questa seconda spedizione francese (fig. 4). La perdita di oggetti e di documenti nel disastro dello Shatt al Arab, nel maggio 1855, 18 non sarebbe stata sufficiente ad impedire la pubblicazione dei tre grandi volumi di Ninive et l’Asyrie (1867–1870). La simultanea presenza di un architetto e un artista con formazione in disegno architettonico segna in parte la notorietà delle spedizioni francesi. Né la personalità di H. H. Layard né la competenza dei suoi documentaristi, Frederick C. Cooper, Charles Doswell Hodder, Thomas Bell o Salomon Cesar Malan, espressero pari inquietudini e la maggior parte delle ricostruzioni architettoniche elaborate dall’architetto James Fergusson risulteranno fantasiose e appena in relazione con lo stesso scavo. In sintesi, attraverso le idee esposte da Mario Liverani nel suo “Voyage en Orient” (1994) o “La scoperta del mattone. Muri e archivi nell’archeologia mesopotamica” (2000), il discorso scientifico trova le basi per affrontare altre questioni che ribadiscono i numerosi elementi presenti nella ricostruzione storica, e la sensazione che le scoperte continuano tanto nel presente quanto nel passato. Per l’evoluzione stessa della nostra storia scientifica conosciamo sempre più e meglio il passato storico dei popoli antichi e gli spazi che abitarono, i quali, ancora una volta, sono prova d’armonia tra la storia e l’archeologia del Vicino Oriente antico.

3.  La scoperta del mattone crudo: dello sconosciuto mattone crudo e dell’invisibilità del materiale Gran parte dei popoli antichi del Vicino Oriente usarono la terra ed il mattone crudo come elemento fondamentale della loro architettura. La proporzione dei 15.  M. Pillet, Un pionnier de l’Assyriologie. Victor Place (Paris : Imprimerie Nationale, 1962). N. Chevalier, “Victor Place: consulat et archéologie,” in E. Fontan, N. Chevalier, De Khorsabad à Paris, 94–101. 16. E. Fontan, “Félix Thomas (1815–1875), l’architecte providentiel,” in E. Fontan, N. Chevalier, De Khorsabad à Paris, 102–15. 17.  Cl. Bustarret, “Les premières photographies archéologiques: Victor Place et les fouilles de Ninive,” Histoire de l’Art 13 (1991) 7–21. N. Chevalier, B. Lavédrine, “Débuts de la photographie et fouilles en Assyrie: les calotypes de Gabriel Tranchand,” in E. Fontan, N. Chevalier, De Khorsabad à Paris 196–213. 18.  M. Pillet, Un pionnier de l’Assyriologie, 69–76.

Joaquín María Córdoba

9

Fig. 4.  Porta monumentale nº 3 di Khorsabad, secondo F. Thomas (in D. Beyer 1994, fig. 9, p. 58).

componenti, mattone, pietra e legno o altri materiali è in diretta relazione con la tipologia dell’ambiente e della costruzione eretta. In generale comunque il mattone crudo e l’amalgama di fango furono la base dell’architettura. L’architettura rurale a loro contemporanea deve essere stata certamente una buona scuola per i primi archeologi. Una foto di Gabriel Tranchand del nuovo villaggio di recente costruzione, scattata dalla collina di Khorsabad ai piedi del insediamento, 19 rivela che i francesi, come i loro operai, non potevano ignorare l’essenziale (fig. 5). Ma se documentare i mattoni crudi degli spessi muri rivestiti di ortostati, come quelli del grande palazzo disegnati da E. Flandin, era relativamente facile, salvare e disegnare quelli di strutture più piccole è stato significativamente più complicato. Ciononostante si deve riconoscere che i pionieri fecero molto all’epoca e che i veri tecnici, come gli architetti specializzati, dovettero formarsi senza riferimenti precedenti. Durante i primi scavi e quelli che seguirono, la difficoltà di “vedere” i mattoni crudi, la loro conservazione o la loro documentazione in pianta era in diretta relazione con le scelte dei responsabili della missione ma, forse, anche con i pregiudizi culturali e il concetto classico dell’idea stessa di città degli europei. Come osservato da M. Liverani in un altro lavoro che reputo più adatto al mio attuale obbiettivo, 19.  Vid. ibid., tavola I, fig. 2, “le village de Khorsabad vu du Tell.”

10

L’opera di Mario Liverani nella vita di un archeologo

Fig. 5.  Villaggio di Khorsabad, calotipo di Gabriel Tranchand (in M. Pillet, 1962, tavola I, fig. 2).

The ancient Near Eastern City and Modern Ideologies, 1997, “the problem of ‘visibility’ of the ancient Oriental cities, as a consequence of technical difficulties in recovering mudbrick architecture.” 20 Nel 1993 ho avuto l’opportunità di organizzare presso la nostra Università Autonoma di Madrid, in collaborazione con il Vorderasiatisches Museum di Berlino e la sua allora direttrice, Dr.ssa Evelyn Klengel-Brandt, un incontro scientifico e un’esposizione dedicata alla “seconda scoperta dell’Oriente e il Museo di Berlino.” 21 Volevamo in quel momento sottolineare ciò che aveva significato il sopraggiungere delle spedizioni tedesche per il recupero del passato Orientale: la visibilità dei mattoni crudi e, pertanto, degli spazi abitati dai popoli antichi. Mario Liverani in quella occasione diede un eccellente contributo a proposito della scoperta della terra cruda che successivamente venne pubblicato 22 come sopra ho indicato. Anche se non è ora il caso di commentare il suo testo, è opportuno segnalarne le idee che mi conducono verso il mio obiettivo: dal non vedere l’elemento, al non vedere la materia. Ricorda Liverani la sorpresa di Edgar James Banks quando visitò Fara nella speranza di comprendere le novità che operai e scienziati declamavano a proposito delle tecniche tedesche applicate a Babilonia da Robert Koldewey. Formato alla luce della tradizione e ignorante del bagaglio e dell’esperienza che gli architetti tedeschi possedevano, Banks non capì ciò che vide e continuò ad applicare la prassi indicata da A. H. Layard. 23 Qualcosa di simile sarebbe poi successo all’ingegnere Jacques de Morgan, in occasione della sua visita a Babilonia—il suo commento è noto. Ciononostante si comprese, poco a poco, insieme alla tecnica di scavo, la capacità di vedere e la possibilità di ricostruire gli spazi e le città dei popoli antichi. Oggi, la città orientale antica è non solo il complesso quadro delle istituzioni, classi 20.  M. Liverani, The Ancient Near Eastern City, 90. 21.  J. Mª Córdoba, Hallado en Mesopotamia. El segundo descubrimiento del Oriente y el Museo de Berlín (Madrid: Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, 1993). 22.  M. Liverani, La scoperta del mattone. 23.  Ibid., 2.

Joaquín María Córdoba

11

sociali, professioni e associazioni che convissero e che fecero storia, ma anche lo spazio fisico interno ed esterno, la rete delle vie di comunicazione e di servizi. Se non come Fustel de Coulanges ai suoi tempi, ora accettiamo che la città orientale si deve intendere in un modo vicino a quello della storiografia classica nel concepire l’essenza della città. Così ālu non è solo lo spazio delimitato da mura e coltivazioni e villaggi extra mura, come giustamente evidenziato da Mario Liverani o da Marc van Der Miroop, 24 ma anche la sua gente, le sue assemblee e istituzioni, i suoi valori. E lo stesso, quindi, si può dire per il villaggio o l’insediamento rurale isolato. La vita rurale ed urbana, lo stesso paesaggio, sono recuperati nella loro interezza. Ma non si deve dimenticare, naturalmente, che una parte importante di questa storica rivoluzione è dovuta alla semplice scoperta del mattone crudo, del così a lungo ignorato mattone. Questo, infine, mi porta ad un paradosso che, come docente e archeologo da campo, ho sperimentato direttamente: dell’ignorato mattone crudo, spiegato a generazioni di studenti di storia, della riscoperta, dell’invisibilità della materia e di come l’ho vissuta per un decennio nelle regioni pedemontane della Penisola dell’Oman. Se l’architettura in terra cruda è l’essenza dell’archeologia orientale, il mattone crudo utilizzato dalle genti dell’età del Ferro in Oman ha rappresentato una delle esperienze più rilevanti per chi, come me, formatosi nei insediamenti della Mesopotamia e della Siria, ha cominciato a lavorare nella regione a metà degli anni novanta. Determinammo che tra il 1300 e il 300 a. C. gli abitanti delle oasi della penisola di Oman, con una densità di popolazione e d’insediamento fino ad allora sconosciuta, avevano costruito i loro edifici con mattoni biancastri, di notevole dimensione e durezza, che mostravano una sorprendente resistenza agli agenti atmosferici. 25 Così è stato nei grandi villaggi scoperti, ad esempio, in al Ain o come Rumeilah e Hili. L’analisi chimica rivelò la presenza di elementi tradizionali ed altri meno consueti, pietre e un elemento calcareo. Ma in un ambiente sabbioso, circondato dal deserto, scarso d’acqua e privo di corsi fluviali continui, indispensabili per la formazione di terreni argillosi, come e dove si preparassero i mattoni rimanevano incognite senza soluzione. Il nostro particolare interesse nel ricercare una risposta a queste domande ci ha portato a scoprire nel Madam, nel Settore AM1 H4, i resti conservati di una installazione per la preparazione di mattoni dell’Età del Ferro che conserva una vasca piena d’impasto, calpestato, ma indurito dall’abbandono e trasformato in pietra, moltissimo materiale pronto, resti di mattoni, segni d’estrazione e una prova inaspettata: gli abitanti delle oasi nel deserto utilizzarono “come argilla” il terreno roccioso disponibile, che inumidito e sminuzzato si trasformava 24.  M. Van De Mieroop, The Ancient Mesopotamian City (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997). 25.  M. Mouton, W. Yasin al Tikriti, a cura di, The architectural remains of the Iron Age sites in the United Arab Emirates and Oman (Abu Dhabi: Department of Antiquities and Tourism of al Ain / Lyon: Maison de l’Orient Méditerranéen Jean Pouiloux, 2001) (CD).

12

L’opera di Mario Liverani nella vita di un archeologo

Fig. 6.  Vasca piena di impasto nell’area per la preparazione di mattoni crudi dell’Età del Ferro in al Madam, Sharjah (foto J. Mª Córdoba).

in una pasta malleabile poi seccata al sole (fig. 6). 26 Il paradosso è che, se ci guardiamo indietro, la non considerazione del mattone che i pionieri del XIX secolo in Mesopotamia perpetrarono, alla fine del XX secolo ha portato all’invisibilità della materia di cui erano fatti, almeno nella Penisola dell’Oman. Solo l’esperienza e l’insistenza ci hanno permesso di capire ciò che pur guardando non vedevamo.

4. Conclusioni Ricordavo al principio che quando Pietro Della Valle voleva sapere come era stata eretta la collina di Babele, la misura dei mattoni e di che cosa erano fatti o quando Garcia de Silva misurava gli spazi, contava le colonne e descriveva la lavorazione delle pietre di Persepoli, entrambi davano vita ad una prima esperienza archeologica, i cui risultati, in contrasto con le fonti classiche, formavano una prima 26.  J. Mª Córdoba, “The mudbrick architecture of the Iron Age in the Oman Peninsula. A mudbrick working area in al Madam (Sharjah, U.A.E.),” in Ina kibrāt erbetti. Studi di Archeologia orientale dedicati a Paolo Matthiae (a cura di F. Baffi, R. Dolce, S. Mazzoni e F. Pinnock. Roma: Università degli Studi di Roma “La Sapienza,” 2006) 95–110.

Joaquín María Córdoba

13

storia non biblica. Scoprivano l’Antichità in naturale armonia di due saperi che, senza essere ancora archeologia e storia dell’Oriente, in fondo già lo erano. L’opera storiografica di Mario Liverani è quella di uno storico cosciente del fatto archeologico come parte integrante della sua vita, della sua pratica e del suo discorso. Oltre a difendere questa condizione nel libro che riassume tanto la sua esperienza di scienziato come quella di storico, Antico Oriente. Storia, società, economia (1988): “lo storico dell’antico Oriente è costretto a farsi al tempo stesso archeologo da campo e filologo, in una misura sconosciuta ad altri settori che vedono delle competenze maggiormente parcellizzate ed una catena produttiva maggiormente consolidata,” 27 lo evidenziano i numerosi suoi studi. Nel corso della mia vita, come docente di Storia e archeologo dell’Oriente, il suo lavoro ha arricchito la mia esperienza e ha incoraggiato quella di molti altri. La storia della ricerca, della riscoperta e la definizione della moderna archeologia nella consapevolezza della storia urbana e rurale come realtà indissolubile dal fatto politico e sociale, dal testo scritto e dall’importanza dei materiali più umili, sono indicazioni di lavoro indispensabili per accedere alla piena conoscenza della storia. Se le specializzazioni sono un fatto incontrovertibile, lo è anche il fatto che, con il suo lavoro, Mario Liverani ha recuperato non poco di quella buona e feconda armonia degli antichi. 27.  M. Liverani, Antico Oriente, 12.

Weber—Polanyi—Sraffa: A Consideration of Modes of Production Johannes Renger

1. Introduction Mario Liverani has always tried to show how the economy and economic factors or conditions determined the historical developments or the direction of political events or actions. He has explored the role of the economy in the course of history; how political institutions, the state, and its institutions and the government of a society are formed or are acting on the basis of economic conditions; the rules governing economic activities; the way that economic processes are embedded in the social fabric of a society; and vice versa—in the ways that economic behavior and economic activity are influenced by rules of custom, societal requirements, and social needs. Referring in the title of this paper to Max Weber, Karl Polanyi, and Piero Sraffa is a way to indicate to what extent the study and our perception of the economic structures and processes of ancient Mesopotamia depend on stimuli from disciplines outside our field.

2.  Karl Marx and an Initial Definition The topic mode of production was suggested by the organizers of the conference on which this volume is based as a possible topic for my presentation and this essay. It is familiar from the works of Karl Marx. He and others who followed him distinguish between productive forces (Produktivkräfte in German) and the means of production (Produktionsmittel). For Marx, it was important to identify the social and technical relations that determine material production. He focused on the importance of the right to dispose of productive means, the power or control over the productive means, and the conditions governing the productive assets of a given society. According to Marxist theory, a particular mode of production has an allencompassing nature, determining an entire historical period—as originally seen from a 19th-century European point of view. The following modes of production were distinguished: 15

16

Weber—Polanyi—Sraffa: A Consideration of Modes of Production • a primitive mode of production 1 that is in part identical with the domestic mode of production (Bernbeck 1994); • an Asiatic Mode of Production that came before a mode of production by slavery; • an ancient or Antique Mode of Production, focusing on the emergence of private ownership as the means of production; • feudalism; and, finally, • capitalism.

I prefer to refrain from going any further. More-recent theory recognizes the fact that modes of certain types of production overlap, that in certain regions of the world an older stage may still exist, whereas in other regions an advanced mode of production prevails as the dominant mode.

3.  Modes of Production in the Ancient Near East It is quite obvious that the developed societies of the ancient Near East were determined by an antagonistic relation between those who were in control of the means of production and those who were not. But such a broad statement is not sufficient to understand the structures and processes of the economy of ancient Mesopotamia. It seems to me that a characterization of the economies of the ancient Near East, in particular that of Mesopotamia, as a form of the Asiatic Mode of Production would not result in a satisfactory explanation. Thus our approach, our questions should be more specific—geared to the characteristics manifest in particular structures, processes, or mechanisms of the mode of production governing the economy, the economic and social relations of ancient  2 Mesopotamia as well as of Egypt. I suggest that other modes of production besides Marx’s are better suited to comprehending ancient economies, especially those of ancient Mesopotamia. Max Weber early in the 20th century and later also Karl Polanyi could use only a rather small segment of the Mesopotamian written record. It was in fact much later that relevant textual evidence became available. As a result, we are now able to describe the structures, processes, and mechanisms characteristic of the economy  3 of Mesopotamia and also of Egypt in more detail. 1. Hunting and gathering were the forms of obtaining one’s livelihood in the early Neolithic and even before. The term production in the strict sense is thus not quite applicable. 2.  The most succinct and comprehensive descriptions of the Egyptian economy are still Kemp 1989 and Gutgesell 1984. 3.  See Kemp (1989: 260), who disagrees with attempts to perceive ancient economies as a particular mode of production as follows: “The attempt to identify ancient economies as a special type of economic system containing special modes of transaction and interrelationships may be a useful means of grouping sources and focusing attention, but it also leads to

Johannes Renger

17

3.1.  Polanyi and His Modes of Exchange Karl Polanyi emphasizes the forms or modes of exchange as the determining factors for a particular form of economic organization in history. He and his associates distinguish three or even four primary modes of exchange, each of them relating to a particular societal structure in history. He considers reciprocity, redistribution, and exchange to be the main forms of integration of the human economy (Polanyi 1977: 35ff.). According to Dalton, Karl Polanyi uses these “very broad categories to characterize transactions at different levels and in different sectors of the same economy—village and state, internal and external, subsistence and prestige—and also to refer to utterly different economies” (Dalton 1967: 91). The analytical value of Polanyi’s paradigm is the concept of “embeddedness”—that is, the economy being embedded or integrated into the social realm of a society. But even more important is his methodological position that premodern economies should be studied with analytical tools other than those derived from the study of  4 modern, market-oriented economies that (tend) to be autonomous.

3.2.  Polanyi and Historians of the Economy of the Ancient Near East Scholars in economic anthropology as well as in ancient Near Eastern studies have been influenced by Polanyi’s ideas and have developed them further on the basis of a plethora of written documentation not available to Polanyi in the early 1950s (see, e.g., Liverani 1990: 19–21; Janssen 1975; Renger 1984; 1994; 2007).  5 But there are also more-skeptical or even outright controversial views or reactions  6 such as those raised by Morris Silver (1985). Peter Vargyas (1987)—to mention just one differing author—argues from a viewpoint that is basically determined by neoclassical theory without taking cognition of the critique voiced also by economists (those who favor classical political economic theory) about a different approach needed when analyzing premodern economies (for an overview, see Renger 2007: arguments about nothing. . . . [I]t is likewise misleading to view ancient economies as a stage in an evolutionary process.” 4.  Saller (2002: 253) refers to the incompatibility between economies before the 18th century and those modern economies analyzed by Adam Smith, Ricardo, and Marx and the neo-classical economists. 5. Lamberg-Karlovski (1996: 149) suggests reconciling the position of those seeing in ancient Sumer more of a market economy than redistribution or a temple economy on the one hand, with positions being critical of a self-regulating market system on the other hand. He sees the differences of the two contrasting opinions “in the degree of emphasis placed on the presence of either a market and/or redistribution.” In the appropriate sections of his book, Lamberg-Karlovski considers the market an active element of the economy in Egypt and Mesopotamia (1996: 147, 153). 6.  For which, see a detailed and fundamental critique in Renger 1994 that emphatically refutes his assumptions. Morris Silver is utterly selective with the sources (always secondary) he uses and with the statements of other authors who he thinks support his view. But often he misrepresents, misunderstands, or misinterprets the literature he quotes.

18

Weber—Polanyi—Sraffa: A Consideration of Modes of Production  7

188 with bibliographical references). The return to classical political economy is the topic of the volume Il ritorno dell’economia politica, which is edited by Giovanni Bonifati and Annamaria Simonazzi (2010).

3.3.  Agriculture and Animal Husbandry the Mainstay of the Economy in Mesopotamia Needless to say, in ancient societies and in many premodern societies, the nature and structure of economy and society are based on agriculture. Agricultural production in general is substantially influenced by and dependent on ecological factors. In other words, ecological conditions can result in different forms of socioeconomic structures. Irrigation agriculture as in southern Mesopotamia thus leads to a different socioeconomic system from that in areas of a predominantly rain-fed agriculture (e.g., Assyria, Upper Mesopotamia, Syria; Renger 1995a: 304–8). From early in the fourth millennium onward, agriculture in southern Mesopotamia attained extraordinary accomplishments by sophisticated agricultural methods, by technological advances, as well as by highly developed managerial means and a most effective mobilization of human and animal labor (Renger 1990). Agronomic skills were the result of an experience reaching back over a long period of time. We know a great deal about the details of agronomic skills, the use of tools, and the methods of tending fields, harvesting, and the ratio between seed  8 and crop results. Animal husbandry in ancient Mesopotamia was operated on a very sophisticated level of breeding and herding operations. Sheep provided wool for extensive textile production. Textiles of high quality were the main Mesopotamian good for trade with the outside world. Cattle served in Mesopotamia mainly as plow animals. For transport needs, especially for caravans in long-distance trade, donkeys and mules were important. Pigs, ducks, and geese were kept in individual households. Animal husbandry was integrated into the system of agricultural production in a systemic way. The two were dependent on each other. Whenever herding took place in the inhabited and agricultural area, it was competing for pasture with arable land. Especially cattle needed green pasture, which they could not find in the steppe, where only sheep and goats found sufficient grazing grounds (Renger 1986).

4.  A Historical Perspective 4.1.  Village Communities During the fifth and part of the fourth millennium BC, agricultural production in the rural settlements of the alluvial plain of southern Mesopotamia was presumably based on communal or commonly controlled arable land and executed in a 7.  For the Polanyi debate, see Lamberg-Karlovski 1996: 268 and Möller 2004. 8.  Unparalleled in antiquity is the high seed-yield ratio of 1:16 up to 1:24 and yields of ca. 750 kg/ha (classical Attica 1:7; Apulia 1:10, medieval central Europe 1:3 [the report of Herodotus about a yield of 1:200 must be considered a 10-year average]).

Johannes Renger

19

common effort by all members of a community. 9 This entails cooperation and reciprocal help among the members of the community linked by familial or lineage relations. Consequently, the form or mode of production may be described as direct association of the producers.

4.2.  The Patrimonial Mode of Production System During the fourth millennium BC, one observes—documented by archaeological surface surveys (Nissen 1999: 132–34; Benati 2015: §7.1.2)—a tendency for the village communities to diminish in substantial numbers and correspondingly of a growing role played by urban centers. The underlying cause for this phenomenon was the need to organize and maintain the irrigation network beyond local boundaries. The rather rapid concentration of the rural population in urban settlements resulted in a dramatic change of the social structure of the society. Within these urban settlements, institutional entities emerged together with hierarchical structures. The rural population that now resided in these urban settlements was integrated into the urban social hierarchy as dependent laborers (Renger 1995a: 304–8; Renger 1995b: 271–72; Benati 2015: §7.1.3). The visible characteristic features of this stage of development are monumental buildings. They are a manifestation of an institutional elite that governed the urban community. As a consequence, more or less all of the arable land and therefore all the agricultural production and the majority of the population were put under direct institutional control, under the control of the elite of the urban community. The political organization in the form of small territorial polities that emerged during this process in the second half of the fourth millennium and was manifested in urban settlements was characteristic for Babylonia—that is, the southern parts of Mesopotamia. There, we find as the dominant mode of production an economic system of large institutional urban households. They appear to be the precursors  10 of the patrimonial state —to use a term coined by Max Weber—and are quite visible in the written sources from ca. 2700 BC onward. Earlier documents beginning ca. 3200 BC and coming mainly from Uruk, one of the important urban centers in southern Babylonia, most likely attest the same situation. According to Max Weber, the household—the oikos (his term) of the ruler, the patrimonial lord—was identical with the state in institutional and spatial terms, including all of its human and material resources. This is characteristic of societies in which economic activities are organized in an autocratic-monarchic way. A considerable part of or even the entire population was dependent on institutional 9.  Before the stage of village agricultural communities, we must assume that hunting and gathering provided the basis of livelihoods; there was no production in the strict sense of the word. 10.  The origins, the roots of patrimonialism or patrimonial palace economy in the earlier parts of the fourth millennium remain clouded. They are certainly not to be found in the written record.

20

Weber—Polanyi—Sraffa: A Consideration of Modes of Production

households—that is, the temples or the palace. The people were regarded as subjects  11 of the patrimonial lord, obliged to render services. They were bound to these institutions or households by their duty to perform corvée work, by means of which the patrimonial state realized a surplus that assured its material and immaterial reproduction. Once this stage was reached, there was not much room for societal and economic structures that were independent of these institutional households. Ideally, these patrimonial households of the fourth and third millennia BC were autonomous, autarchic—at least as far as agricultural production, animal husbandry, and the manufacture of products originating in agriculture and herding were concerned. The patrimonial state and its institutions are characterized by redistributive structures. Thus the oikos system just described corresponds with Polanyi’s system of a redistributive form of economy. The redistributive system is determined by appropriation of the results of collective labor in agricultural and nonagricultural activities by a central authority and a subsequent distribution among the producers. This takes the form of rations, wages, gifts, rewards, and other forms of allocation in order to sustain the population and implement the workings of the state in all of its manifestations (Grégoire 1981).

4.3.  The Early Second Millennium: The Emergence of the Tributary Economy The time of the 3rd Dynasty of Ur (2100–2000 BC) marks more or less the end of a period of around 2,000 years that began ca. 4000 BC (Early Uruk period in archaeological terms). During this period, economic life was determined by the redistributive system. The households (or oikoi) of temples and palaces, or the great organizations—as they are called by Leo Oppenheim—represented the basic economic institutions of the redistributive system. Beginning with the 20th century BC, significant changes in the political system and the socioeconomic organization triggered by external and internal factors took place in Mesopotamia. In fact, the most drastic change in social and economic terms taking place pertained to the land-tenure system. Agricultural production increasingly became a matter of individual farming. Individuals were still subjects of the ruler, as before. In southern Babylonia, land was assigned to individuals or families to produce their sustenance in exchange for rendering various types of service or corvée, or paying dues. The land allocated was usually sufficient for the subsistence needs of a family. This was approximately 6 ha. Except for sustenance and rental fields assigned to 11.  A comparable situation is attested for ancient Egypt. According to Gutgesell (1984: 202), after the 1st Dynasty, the self-providing households were gradually abolished and integrated into the royal domains. Beginning with the 4th Dynasty, the pharaoh gave land to high officials but also to members of the royal clan. This marks the beginning of private ownership or individual control over arable land. Later agricultural land gradually came under the control of temples. In the New Kingdom, the Temple of Amun in Karnak had become the most powerful and important economic factor in all of Egypt.

21

Johannes Renger

individuals by the palace, private ownership of arable land apparently did not exist in southern Babylonia. It is well attested, however, for northern Babylonia, in addition to land under the control of the palace during the 19th–17th centuries. But it is impossible to quantify the relationship between the two types of land holdings. The written evidence lacks statistically valid data. The central role of the ration system as the main device to provide sustenance to the majority of the population had now lost its dominant role and become a subsystem along with other forms of guaranteeing sustenance. Thus, the more the people satisfied their subsistence needs by individual farming (regardless of the type of legal entitlement), the less they were dependent on rations and other allocations in kind from the palace or any other institutional household. Subsistence agriculture by individuals left little or no room for surplus production. The people were also more severely exposed to the risks of natural disaster or economic hardship. The shelter provided by the redistributive system did not exist for them anymore. As a result of the changes in the political and socioeconomic system in Babylonia, a large proportion of economic activities that hitherto had taken place in large institutional households was (except for land assigned to individuals farming small plots of land) entrusted to entrepreneurs as a sort of franchise that was often labeled the ‘enterprise of the palace’ (Palastgeschäft). Animal husbandry, datepalm cultivation, the exploitation of natural resources such as fishing or fowling, the harvesting of reeds and the making of bricks, services such as the collection of dues and revenues, transportation of agricultural goods, storage of cereals as well as long distance trade were undertaken by individual entrepreneurs. The entrepreneur had to deliver his dues to the palace in kind or in silver. Most of the entrepreneurs were members of the administrative elite. The risk of the enterprise had to be carried by the entrepreneur. However, in economic reality, the entrepreneur was more often than not unable to deliver for a number of reasons—mostly bad harvests or disease among the herds, and so on. Since the palace was dependent on the services of the entrepreneurs, however, the accrued debt was remitted by so-called edicts (Renger 2000a; 2000b). This form of economic organization guaranteed the palace its income and sustenance in the form of a ‘tribute’ (biltum)—thus, the term tributary economy.

5.  Determining the Character of an Economy There are several details about the structure, processes, and mechanisms of an economy that may contribute more than usual to our discussion about modes of production or modes of exchange. The following items need to be considered: forms of economic organization—that is, an oikos-economy and tributary palace economy; the land tenure system; the production of commodities by means of commodities; forms of administrative organization—that is, bureaucracy, particularly the organization of labor; individual entrepreneurship; access to the necessities of life by subsistence and redistribution systems and the question of which role market

22

Weber—Polanyi—Sraffa: A Consideration of Modes of Production

exchange might have played; the role of technological innovations, developments, and progress; economic growth; credit and money; the economic and social behavior and motifs of the participants in economic processes.

5.1. The oikos-Economy and the Tributary Palace Economy In a Weberian ideal-typical sense, the oikos economy is the characteristic type of economic organization in Mesopotamia that is sufficiently attested during the later part of the fourth and the third millennia. This type of socioeconomic formation can be compared with what others have described as the Asiatic Mode of Production. However, the concept of oikos-economy in all of its aspects has more explanatory power than the rather general concept of the Asiatic Mode of Production. It is too narrowly concerned with the relations between productive means and productive forces, the relations between the basic segments of a society—between those who control the means of production and those who are without access to the means of production, and between the ruling and the ruled parts of a society. During the end of the fourth and the earlier parts of the third millennium BC, according to the earliest written documents and the archaeological record (especially to be seen in Uruk), the household (oikos) of the ruler of territorial entities— which measured between 300 km2 (Uruk) and 1,300 km2 (Lagash; Renger 1995a: 285)—was in organizational (administrative) and functional terms less complex or differentiated than the patrimonial household of the rulers of the 3rd Dynasty of Ur. The household of the ruler of the Ur III state encompassed a vast territory from the Persian Gulf in the south to Assyria and the Middle Euphrates region, about 200,000 km2. The oikos system of the Ur III period was, according to Grégoire, characterized by five types of oikoi coordinated and supervised by the ruler, the patrimonial lord, and his staff (Grégoire 1992: 323–24). They were: • domains of 50–200 hectares each, managed by the temples but also by palace-dependent households; administrative documents record the aggregate size of the arable land of all temple domains within one district of the state of Lagash as ranging between a minimum of ca. 250 km2 (ca. 16 × 16 km) to ca. 500 km2 (ca. 22 × 22 km; Renger 1995a: 285); • workshops—for example, for textile production (Waetzoldt 1972: 91–108), grain processing (Grégoire 1992: esp. pp. 326–28; 2013), or producing crafted goods (Van De Mieroop 1987)—all organized as ergasteria (workhouses) managed under the supervision of and accountable to the palace, sometimes employing 1,000 or more male and female workers; • distribution households, such as the animal-collection and -distribution center in Puzrish-Dagan near Nippur (Sigrist 1992); • households supporting the administrative activities of the state (e.g., the é-sukkal, the messenger-household, an administrative unit under the supervision of the sukkal-maḫ (the grand vizier);

Johannes Renger

23

• individual households for the personal support of the ruler—members of the royal clan, high priests, and the highest officials of the realm (e.g., šakkanakkus military commanders of large districts, the sukkal-maḫ) for their personal support.

5.2.  The Land-Tenure System The type of land-tenure system prevalent during a given historical period is largely a function of the socioeconomic and political organization. Thus the landtenure system was directly derived from the oikos—and the subsequent tributary system (Renger 1995a). During the 3rd Dynasty of Ur (21st century BC) in the system of the oikoseconomy of Babylonia (southern Mesopotamia), the arable land was mostly in the hands of institutional households (temple and palace households) and was administered by them. All these households throughout the entire realm were subordinated parts of the patrimonial household of the ruler and accountable to him. In the tributary system, the state or the palace (that is, the ruler) allotted most of the arable land in small plots to individuals or families for their sustenance; they in turn were obliged to render services or pay dues.

5.3.  Production of Commodities by Means of Commodities In the oikos-system, the large institutional domains produced a surplus that may be called the general surplus of the society as a whole (GNP, gesamtgesellschaftliches Surplus). It consisted of commodities such as grain (barley) and the products of animal husbandry (mainly wool). One part of the surplus had to be redistributed as rations to those who produced it—that is, the agricultural workers and their supervisory personnel. Another part was needed to sustain the patrimonial household as a whole, its administrative and ceremonial superstructure. What was not consumed in the household itself (not needed for its material reproduction) was used to provision the personnel of the ergasteria and workshops for producing commodities—among them, valuable textiles. These in turn served as trading goods in long-distance trade to obtain strategic goods (metals), prestige goods, or objects of ostentatious value. This economic process has been labeled by P. Sraffa as the production of commodities by means of commodities (produzione di merci a mezzo di merci; Sraffa 1960; Kurz 2000; de Vivo 2004). According to the Austrian economist Heinz D. Kurz, who applied Sraffa’s model, also termed a ‘corn model’ (Kornmodell) to ancient Mesopotamia we must distinguish between: a. a subsistence economy that just permits the material reproduction of a society (seed-yield ratio 1:2–1:6), and b. an economy with a seed-yield ratio of 1:15–1:25, under the particular, good agrarian conditions in Lower Mesopotamia (Babylonia). A certain number of

24

Weber—Polanyi—Sraffa: A Consideration of Modes of Production workers produced more of the commodity corn (i.e., barley) than was needed for their own material reproduction and for sustaining the production pro 12 cess. A usable surplus of 35% to 40% (Kurz considers 40% to 50%) permits a society to feed additional personnel on a large scale. It was instrumental in  13 the sustained prosperity of the Ur III state.

5.4.  Bureaucracy as a Form of Administrative Organization The production of agriculture on a large scale needs a well-organized system in order to manage estates such as the domains of the palace or temples (Biggs 1987). Bureaucracy fostered the emergence and creation of ancient high civilizations in Mesopotamia as well as in Egypt (Kemp 1989: 136; see also p. 111). What we may call a Mesopotamian bureaucracy developed over a long period of time. The bureaucracy in ancient Mesopotamia was characterized by administrative routines that were recorded in numerous documents. The temple domains for instance were organized according to activities such as farming, animal husbandry, production of crafted goods, and so on. Each of these branches was administered by a substantial managerial personnel that was hierarchically organized in three tiers. Bureaucratic routine, for instance, aimed at setting production goals, organizing the effective distribution of water necessary for irrigation, planning the deployment of the work force, and tracking production results. But there is no indication that profit was defined or that profit rates were analyzed in order to direct invest 14 ment to points of the highest profitability. The weakness of the bureaucratic system is its meticulous, detailed system of controls, which tends to get out of hand. Nevertheless, the ancient bureaucrats  15 somehow managed to get along with it.

5.5.  The Organization of Labor The organization and management of labor was an important, decisive aspect of the bureaucracy of large institutional households during both the patrimonial and the tributary systems. The number of laborers registered in employment rosters from the Ur III period amounted to several hundred or even 1,000 for an individual institutional household. In both systems, forced labor was the norm (mobiliza12. On an area of 500 km2 (mentioned in a single document referring to a district of Lagash) = 50.000 ha = 7.875 bùr a maximum amount of 157.500 gur of barley could be produced (à 20 gur/bùr). This would result in 47.250.000 sìla (à 300 sìla/gur à 1 sìla = ca. 0,84 liters) = 65.600 annual rations à 720 sìla (for a male worker à 60 sìla /month = ca. 1.6 liters/2 sìla/daily). If one considers 50% (Kurz) as surplus of the amount harvested it would be enough for 32.800 annual rations. 13.  Note also the production of the enormous agricultural surplus secured the development and sustenance of the Egyptian high culture. 14.  Saller 2002: 255 makes this statement also with regard to Classical antiquity. 15.  Once one decides “to take control of every detail . . . the burden of administration rapidly mounts. . . Bureacracy is an attitude of mind” (Kemp 1989: 130).

25

Johannes Renger  16

tion for governmental activities such as building projects —city walls and fortifications, temples, palaces and administrative buildings), digging and maintaining canals, and so on (Gutgesell 1984: 218; Kemp 1989: 129–30). In a system of irrigation agriculture on large plots of land of institutional domains, highly sophisticated management was essential for an effective deployment of the available labor force. The labor force for agricultural work consisted of dependent workers, both male and female, integrated into these domains, and workers provided for seasonal  17 work from other institutional households (e.g., from ergasteria for textile produc 18 tion or for milling) or from the military (Goetze 1963). Slave labor was therefore not a decisive productive factor (Neumann 2011). As the evidence from more than 2,000 years indicates, slaves were basically employed for domestic purposes.

5.6.  Individual Entrepreneurship Individual entrepreneurship is most visibly documented in the Palastgeschäft during the Old Babylonian Period (Renger 2000a and 2000b). What Claus Wilcke describes as a prebendary system for the Ur III period (Wilcke 2007) should instead be seen as the entrepreneurial activities of members of the managerial elite.

5.7.  Access to the Necessities of Life: Remuneration and Distribution Besides the ways in which land tenure, agricultural production, animal husbandry, and derived economic activities are organized, the specific modes of allocation or manner of acquisition or access to the daily necessities of life were determining factors in the societal and economic life of ancient Mesopotamia (Renger 1993). Three dominant modes of access can be distinguished: redistribution, subsistence production, and reciprocal exchange. They existed side by side and interacted. They should not be seen as indicating a particular stage in an evolutionary process. Whereas redistribution is the dominant mode of access to the necessities of life in the oikos-system, reciprocal exchange is more often prevalent where subsistence  19 agriculture is dominant (Renger 1990). In the rural sphere, reciprocal exchange and traditional solidarity are the overriding principles governing social and economic relations. The other, the urban sphere is determined by the economic organization of large institutional households (temples, palace) and their redistributive or tributary system. 16.  For a unique archival example and its concise presentation, see Heimpel 2009. 17.  In the phyle-system of ancient Egypt, people served only for a limited part of the year (Kemp 1989: 112–13, 136)—a very effective use of the available labor (force). 18.  The mobilization of labor took place within a closed system that should not be seen as a labor market (other than Lamberg-Karlovski 1996: 153). 19.  Kemp (1987: 259) distinguished two spheres in ancient Egypt that were characterized by peasant exchange and state redistribution; but he also surmised the existence of a relatively dynamic private sector of members of the elite that could be compared to the entrepreneurial activities in Old Babylonian Mesopotamia.

26

Weber—Polanyi—Sraffa: A Consideration of Modes of Production

The Mesopotamian ration system (Gelb 1965) was the principal device for redistribution and encompassed the majority of the population in ancient Mesopotamia, as documented clearly by written sources, at least after ca. 3200 BC. The millions of so-called beveled-rim bowls found in several places attest the existence of the ration system—well known from later written sources—as far back as the period from approximately 4000 BC onward (Nissen 1999: 40). Beveled-rim bowls have a volume of about 1 sìla (ca. 0.84 liters), a measure that was basic in the ration system. Rations were regular and were accounted for on a daily, monthly, or annual basis. They were distributed in kind to all members of an oikos. Their size depended basically on social status and professional function. For the lowest-ranking members of a household, they held the minimum number of calories needed to sustain one person. Rations in kind could be supplemented for certain groups of the labor force and  20 administrative personnel by the assignment of small fields. These fields together with the rations assured the subsistence needs of a person or family. In this type of redistributive economy, individual property on arable land did not play any decisive economic role.

5.8.  Modes of Exchange – Market Exchange According to Polanyi, market exchange was only the latest stage in a sequence of modes of exchange. Before one assumes the existence of market exchange as a decisive economic factor for ancient economies, however, one should clarify what role market exchange could play, because it is important to recognize that the abstract term market denotes a complex process relating to the exchange of goods and services—in short, the threefold relationship of supply, demand, and the resulting price. Regarding ancient Mesopotamia, however, one must also ask whether there was enough room, enough need for a market exchange of sizable dimensions as a means of supplying the necessities of life for the entire population on a regular and  21 quantitatively sufficient basis. Therefore, the following questions must be answered: Were there sizable amounts of commodities available to sustain a full-fledged market system and, if so, of what sort and quantity were these goods, and who were the potential partici20.  During the Ur III period the size of the plots of arable land allocated for the lowest ranking members of an institutional household was ca. 0.7 ha. 21.  Gutgesell 1984: 213f. considers for Ancient Egypt a market economy not to be applicable as an economic model. Exchange patterns are determined by an extremely regulated system; it leaves little leeway for individual economic action since the economy of Ancient Egypt is dominated by a system of redistribution. Exchange is restricted to internal modes of exchange within villages because people are restricted in their freedom of movement. There is no evidence for trade of tools. The major part of production and distribution of produced goods is under state control (Gutgesell 1984: 218). Wages and prices are regulated and fixed. There is, however, a change in the redistributive system during the New Kingdom—towards more individual trade to satisfy individual needs.

Johannes Renger

27

pants? To what degree could a market system satisfy the dietary needs of the populace in its entirety? If a market system existed, how would the recipients of small quantities of commodities reciprocate? What sort of money-stuff could they use to pay for their daily dietary needs? Did other means exist to sustain a person’s livelihood; that is, were there subsystems such as remuneration in the form of regular rations (redistribution) or reciprocal exchanges between people in rural communities who were making their living through subsistence agriculture? In the redistributive era, practically the entire population was integrated into the institutional household system and was thus provisioned through rations. From the beginning of the second millennium, subsistence agriculture on family-farmed plots became more predominant and produced everything needed. Whatever was produced on these plots was consumed by those who farmed them—the plots merely guaranteed their livelihood. There was no need to provision oneself via a market, but also nothing was left to supply a market in the true sense. Thus, producing sufficiently for one’s own needs limited demand; the total or nearly total  22 consumption of one’s production limited the supply. There was no production of cash crops. All in all, neither the realm of the subsistence production of small-holders nor production by large institutional households generates the need to provision oneself for one’s daily needs via a market governed by a supply-demand-price  23 mechanism.

5.9.  Credit and Money Throughout Mesopotamian history, economic activities and social relations produced debt and credit documented by debt notes and loan contracts. Debts were often incurred by agrarian needs or for consumptive purposes, which reflected a social and economic situation that was typical of agricultural subsistence economies. Loans were often secured by pledges or sureties. In village communities and other tightly knit social environments, the rules and customs of traditional solidarity served as a means of security for the lender. In the administrative bookkeeping system, debits or fictitious advances were clad in the form of a debt note. The obligations owed the palace by an entrepreneur were usually contracted in the form of fictitious loans. As far as can be seen from the written record, credit for productive investment obviously did not exist. 22. Renger, 1993: 101. Thus, the written record does not support the conclusions of Lamberg-Karlovski (1996: 149) that goods such as barley, flour, beer, dates, fish, doves, locusts, eggs, wool, shoes, oxen, and sheep/goats, which are subsistence commodities (except for shoes and wool), were available in the market in the third to early second millennia. The situation might have been different in Neo-Babylonian times during the first millennium. 23. Ancient economic systems are dominated by use value rather than by exchange value, which emerges where competitive buyers and sellers purchase goods for resale (see Meikle 2002: 233–50; especially p. 233).

28

Weber—Polanyi—Sraffa: A Consideration of Modes of Production

Business transactions in the entrepreneurial sphere often require loans between partners. Credit is often extended in the form of commodities for a one-time partnership venture. The credit is repaid after the business venture is concluded. Only for the very particular trading ventures of the big families of Assur with Cappadocia in the beginning of the second millennium were assets put into long-term trading operations. Business credit or lending takes place within a “small circle of friends or associates.” It is based on elements of mutual trust. Credit—as the basic meaning of the word expresses—has to do with faith or trust. As far as can be seen from the written record, credit for productive investments obviously did not exist. It is noteworthy that merchants “invested” their returns or surplus by acquiring real estate as an ostentatious asset of prestige (Renger 1994: 203). Silver served as money stuff. It was brought to Mesopotamia by merchants from their trade journeys abroad. It was used in Mesopotamia as a means of payment or exchange, or it was hoarded. It served as a means to express equivalencies or prices (Renger 1995b). Debts, in whatever form they were incurred, were expressed in loan documents in quantities of weighed silver. When silver served as moneystuff, however, its use was restricted to the urban and administrative sphere, and only marginally—if at all—in the sphere of self-sufficiency in rural environments  24 distant from the urban centers. Economies of antiquity such as ancient Egypt or the premodern economies of medieval Europe—Poland in feudal times (17th–18th centuries)—rural North America in the 18th century, and ethnographically documented societies are known to have been economies without money (for details, see Renger 1995b).

5.10.  Economic Growth Growth is a central concern of modern economy. For us, the question is: did economic growth exist in ancient economies at all, and if so, what were the preconditions that could generate its growth? So far, this has not been a subject of discussion with respect to the economy of ancient Mesopotamia. The position taken here is that in ancient Mesopotamia economic growth did not exist in a measurable way during the longue durée, over centuries. The availability of manpower as a decisive factor for generating growth was limited by demographic factors that in turn were determined by the availability of land suitable for agricultural production to support the livelihood of people. Thus the available human labor was only sufficient to maintain the economic status quo, not enough to sustain a measurable growth.

24.  Kemp (1989: 117) speaks with respect to Egypt of a money economy versus a nonmoney economy, in which the “Egyptians managed large economic operations over long periods of time with a moneyless system that was adequate” (see also pp. 248–62, in the chapter entitled “Economics without Money”).

Johannes Renger

29

Several factors were decisive in letting economic growth remain at or near a level of zero percent, which is the sign of a stagnant economy: there was no major technological progress in Mesopotamia over many centuries or even millennia that could have generated a significant quantity of productive output. Once basic technological breakthroughs were achieved in metallurgy, pottery, and textile production as well as in building and agricultural techniques (5th–4th millennia BC) and effective management for the deployment of labor was introduced, no further substantial developments could be observed for the following periods of Mesopotamian history. The output of agricultural production as the mainstay of the economy in Babylonia was limited because of the low amount of water available for irrigation from the Euphrates during the growing season from October until March. Furthermore, one restricting factor was competition for the use of the land between animal husbandry and grain production in Babylonia (Renger 1986). Thus the available land was just sufficient to sustain a limited number of people. Rainfed agriculture in Assyria, which was dependent on sufficient precipitation, was precarious. As a result, we must reckon with a limited or stagnant population level, with consequent repercussions on the amount of manpower available for increased production. Maximization of agricultural production was hardly possible, because it had been developed to its greatest potential both in Babylonia and in Assyria. Economic growth also depended on the availability of sources for energy. The main sources of energy for agricultural work were human labor and animal power. In ancient Mesopotamia, these were only available in large enough amounts to support the economic status quo, not enough to sustain a measurable growth. Also, there was no use of water as a source of energy. Technological breakthroughs such  25 as the waterwheel and other mechanical inventions came at a much later date. Natural disasters as well as man-induced factors (such as intruding nomads [short term], salinization of the arable land caused by irrigation, and climate change around 1200 BC [both long term]) were additional impediments to economic growth. Of fundamental importance in sustaining an economy, besides a sufficient amount of energy input and demographic factors, is the availability of natural resources. They are—for an agrarian economy—foremost cultivable soil, water (either rain or irrigation water), and a suitable climate. The paradox of the Mesopotamian economy was the fact that the substantial societal surplus, which at times may have been between 35% and 40%, was not used for the generation of economic or productive growth but was transformed into prestigious or ostentatious consumption by the elite of the state. 25. For a general description of human and animal power, water-power, and fuel, see Schneider 2007: 16–30. His treatment of the topic is, however, restricted to Classical Antiquity; the situation in the ancient Near East is not considered.

30

Weber—Polanyi—Sraffa: A Consideration of Modes of Production

6.  The Economic and Social Behavior of Those Participating in and Determining Economic Processes How did the homo economicus antiquitatis understand his economic life? How did he react to economic facts? What were the driving forces of his economic activities? Were they stimulated by a drive to make profits? It seems that, in the rural sphere, at the subsistence level, there was not much room for accumulating riches. Custom and traditional solidarity determined social and economic behavior. Such thinking was certainly different from a profit orientation. An official in an institutional household was concerned with the task of meeting his quota. By doing so,  26 he was expecting to gain the favor of his superiors. This was his motivation. But  27 prestige also played an important role as motivation (Morenz 1969; Veblen 1899). This may have been the basis of a reference in the inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian rulers Sargon II and Assurbanipal. They boasted, after an immense inflow of booty, that the people could now afford to buy barley for the same amount of silver weight as previously had been charged in copper weight. We would call this inflation. The perception of the economy in an earlier period is best expressed by a Sumerian proverbial riddle: Where there is income, but nobody becomes rich(er); where there are expenditures, but they do not come to an end—(the solution to this riddle is) the royal property. (Diri V 183–84)

7.  In Conclusion Quite early in Mesopotamian history, the economy attained a very high level of productivity: a complex, well-developed, sophisticated system with structures, processes, and mechanisms that persisted until the first millennium. Nevertheless, it remained—for a number of reasons, which I have outlined above—a stagnant economy, an economy without growth and technological advancements after initial inventions in the fourth millennium. Its surplus was not used to generate higher productivity but instead served the ostentatious endeavors for prestige—which final word also describes Mario Liverani’s writings. 26.  Regarding the same situation for economic motivation in ancient Egypt, see Gutgesell 1984: 204–5: the controlling official had to fulfill a given quota. He tried to deliver more than was required in order to receive favor from the higher authorities or the pharaoh. 27.  One may also take into consideration the economy of the Roman Empire which was determined by an ideology of war, grandeur, and largesse, not on utility.

31

Johannes Renger

References Benati, G. 2015 Re-modeling Political Economy in Early 3rd Millennium BC Mesopotamia: Patterns of Socio-Economic Organization in Archaic Ur (Tell al-Muqayyar, Iraq). CDLJ 2015: 2. Bernbeck, R. 1994 Die Auflösung der häuslichen Produktionweise: Das Beispiel Mesopotamien. Berlin: Reimer. Biggs, R. D., and Gibson, McG. 1987 The Organization of Power: Aspects of Bureaucracy in the Ancient Near East. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Bonifati, G., and Simonazzi, A., eds. 2010 Il ritorno dell’economia politica. Rome: Donizetti. Dalton, G. 1967 Tribal and Peasant Economies: Readings in Economic Anthropology. New York: Natural History Press. Gelb, I. J. 1965 The Ancient Mesopotamian Ration System. JNES 24: 230–43. Goetze, A. 1963 The šakkanakkus of the Ur III Empire. JCS 17: 1–32. Grégoire, J.-P. 1981 L’origine et le développement de la civilisation mésopotamienne. Pp.  27–101 in Production, Pouvoir et Parenté dans le monde méditerranéen. Edited by C. H. Breteau et al. Paris: Geuthner. 1992 Les grandes unités de transformation des céréales: L’exemple des minoteries de la Mésopotamie du Sud à la fin du IIIe millenaire avant notre ère. Pp.  321–39 in Préhistoire de l’Agriculture: Nouvelles Approches Expérimentales et Ethnographiques. Edited by P. C. Anderson. Monographie du CRA 6. Paris: CNRS. 2013 Le Système Aprés-Récolte dans Hydro-Agriculture Mésopotamiene à la Fin ddu IIIe Millénnaire avant notre Ère. Pp. 267–300 in From the 21st Century B.C. to the 21st Century A.D.: Proceedings of the International Conference on Sumerian Studies Held in Madrid, 22–24 July 2010. Edited by S. Garfinkle and M. Molina. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Gutgesell, M. 1984 Wirtschaft, Landwirtschaft und Handwerk. Pp. 197–226 in Das Alte Ägypten: 3000 Jahre Geschichte und Kultur des Pharaonenreiches. Edited by A. Eggebrecht. Munich: Bertelsmann. Heimpel, W. 2009 Workers and Construction Work at Garšana. Bethesda, MD: CDL. Janssen, J. J. 1988 Prices and Wages in Ancient Egypt. AoF 15: 10–23. Kemp, B. J. 1989 Ancient Egypt: Anatomy of a Civilization. London: Routledge. Kurz, H. D. 2000 Das Kornmodell und seine Folge. Pp. 99–117 in Politik und Ökonomie—Problemsicht aus klassischer, neo- und neuklassischer Perspektive: Festschrift für Gerhard Huber. Edited by S. Ryll and A. Yenal. Marburg: Metropolis-Verlag. Lamberg-Karlovski, C. 1996 Beyond the Tigris and Euphrates: Bronze Age Civilizations. London: Manly.

32

Weber—Polanyi—Sraffa: A Consideration of Modes of Production

Liverani, M. 1990 Prestige and Interest. Padua: Sargon. Meikle, S. 2002 Modernism, Economics and the Ancient Economy. Pp.  233–50 in The Ancient Economy. Edited by W. Scheidel and S. von Reden. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Möller, A. 2004 Zur Aktualität der Wirtshaftsanthropologie Karl Polanyis. Pp. 218–29 in Commerce and Montary Systems in the Ancient World: Means of Transmission and Cultural Interaction. Edited by R. Rollinger, and C. Uhl. Munich: Franz Steiner. Morenz, S. 1969 Prestigewirtschaft im alten Ägypten. Munich: Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Neumann, H. 2011 Slavery in Private Households toward the End of the Third Millennium B.C. Pp. 21– 32 in Slaves and Households in the Near East. Edited by L. Culbertson. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Nissen, H. J. 1999 Geschichte Alt-Vorderasiens. Munich: Oldenbourg. Polanyi, K. 1977 The Livelihood of Man. New York: Academic Press. Renger, J 1986 Überlegungen zur räumlichen Ausdehnung des Staates Ebla an Hand der agrarischen und viehwirtschaftlichen Gegebenheiten. Pp.  293–311 in Ebla 1975–1985: Dieci anni di studi linguistici e filologici. Atti del convegno internationale (Napoli, 9–11 ottobre 1985). Edited by L. Cagni. Series Minor 27. Naples: Istituto Universitario Orientale. 1990a Report on the Implications of Employing Draught Animals. Pp. 267–79 in Irrigation and Cultivation in Mesopotamia: Part II. BSA 5. Edited by N. Postgate. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1990b Different Economic Spheres in the Urban Economy of Ancient Mesopotamia: Traditional Solidarity, Redistribution and Market Elements as the Means of Access to the Necessities of Life. Pp. 20–28 in The Town as Regional Economic Centre in the Ancient Near East: Proceedings of the Tenth International Economic History Congress, Leuven, 1990. Edited by E. Aerts and H. Klengel. Studies in Social and Economic History 20. Leuven: Leuven University Press. 1993 Formen des Zugangs zu den lebensnotwendigen Gütern: Die Austauschverhältnisse in der altbabylonischen Zeit. AoF 20: 87–114. 1994 On Economic Structures in Ancient Mesopotamia. Or n.s. 63: 157–208. 1995a Institutional, Communal, and Individual Ownership or Possession of Arable Land in Ancient Mesopotamia from the End of the Fourth to the End of the First Millennium B.C. Chicago Kent Law Review 71: 269–319. 1995b Subsistenzproduktion und redistributive Palastwirtschaft: Wo bleibt die Nische für das Geld? Pp. 271–324 in Rätsel Geld: Annäherungen aus ökonomischer, soziologischer und historischer Sicht. Edited by W. Schelkle and M. Nitsch. Marburg: Metropolis. 2000a Royal Edicts of the Old Babylonian Period. Pp. 139–62 in Debt and Economic Renewal in the Ancient Near East: The International Scholar’s Conference in Ancient Near Eastern Economies, vol. 3. Edited by M. Hudson and M. Van De Mieroop. Bethesda, MD: CDL. 2000b Das Palastgeschäft in der altbabylonischen Zeit. Pp.  153–83 in Interdependency of Institutions and Private Entrepreneurs: Proceedings of the 2nd MOS Symposium, Leiden

Johannes Renger

33

1998. Edited by A. C. V. M. Bongenaar. Leiden: Netherlands Institute for the Near East (NINO). 2007 Economy of Ancient Mesopotamia: A General Outline. Pp. 187–97 in The Babylonian World. Edited by G. Leick. London: Routledge. Saller, R. 2002 Framing the Debate over Growth in the Ancient Economy. Pp.  251–69 in The Ancient Economy. Edited by W. Scheildel and S. von Reden. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Schneider, H. 2007 Geschichte der antiken Technik. Munich: Beck. Sigrist, M. 1992 Drehem. Bethesda, MD: CDL. Sraffa, P. 1960 Production of Commodities by Means of Commodities. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Van De Mieroop, M. 1987 Crafts in the Early Isin Period. Leuven: Departement Orientalistiek. Vargyas, P. 1987 The Problem of Private Economy in the Ancient Near East. BiOr 44: 376–85. Veblen, T. 1899 The Theory of the Leisure Class: An Economic Study of Institutions. London: Macmillan. Vivo, G. de 2004 Da Ricardo e Marx a ‘Produzione di merci a mezzo di merci.’ Pp. 215–34 in Convegno internazionale Piero Sraffa (Roma, 11–12 febraio 2003). Atti dei convegni lincei 200. Rome: Lincei. Waetzoldt, H. 1971 Untersuchungen zur neusumerischen Textilindustrie. Rome: Centro per le Antichità e la Storia dell’Arte del Vicino Oriente. Wilcke, C. 2007 Markt und Arbeit im Alten Orient am Ende des 3. Jahrtausends v. Chr. Pp. 71–132 in Menschen und Märkte: Studien zur historischen Wirtschaftsanthropologie. Edited by W. Reinhard and J. Stagl. Vienna: Böhlau.

The Court Banquets of Sargon II of Assyria: Commensality as a Positive Affirmation of the (Successful) Hunt and Battle Irene J. Winter

Banqueting as a motif in the art of the ancient Near East was discussed in the early 1980s by Jean-Marie Dentzer and Gudrun Selz; has since been addressed by Dominique Collon and Frances Pinnock; and has been pursued recently in the several articles included in Dossiers d’Archéologie of 2003, along with what has appeared following a conference on the Royal Banquet held at Tours in 2010. 1 What has become clear is that a banquet, when depicted, did not always refer to the same sort of event. Rather, at various moments, in conjunction with religious ceremony, political inauguration, victory, hunt, or funeral, and whether before or after the focused event, it clearly represented something positive: the validating punctuation of an event to which it was juxtaposed or with which it was associated. That social banqueting had a long-standing history in the Mesopotamian sequence is evidenced in the Sumerian composition known as the Curse of Agade, which records that, in good times, “people would sit together in places of celebration . . . (and) dine together.” 2 It is also reflected visually in the mid-third 1. J.-M. Dentzer, Le motif du banquet couché dans le Proche-Orient et le monde grec . . . (Rome: Bretschneider, 1982); Gudrun Selz, Die Bankettszene, Entwicklung eines “überzeit­ lichen” Bildmotivs in Mesopotamien von der frühdynastischen bis zur Akkad-Zeit I–II (FAOS 11/3; Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1983); D. Collon, “Banquets in the Art of the Ancient Near East,” in Banquets d’Orient (ed. R. Gyselen; Res Orientales 4; Bures: l’Étude de la Civilisation du Moyen-Orient, 1992) 23–30; F. Pinnock, “Considerations on the ‘Banquet Theme’ in the Figurative Art of Mesopotamia and Syria,” in Drinking in Ancient Societies: History and Culture of Drinks in the Ancient Near East (ed. Lucio Milano; HANES 6; Padua: Sargon, 1994) 15–26, esp. p. 24. Also the several articles included in B. Lion and C. Michel, eds., Banquets et Fêtes au Proche-Orient ancien (special edition of Dossiers d’Archéologie 280; Feb. 2003); as well as in C. Grandjean et al., eds., Le banquet du monarque dans le monde antique (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2013). 2.  Cited by Piotr Michalowski, “The Drinking Gods: Alcohol in Mesopotamian Ritual and Mythology,” in Drinking in Ancient Societies: History and Culture of Drinks in the Ancient Near East (ed. Lucio Milano; HANES 6; Padua: Sargon,1994) 27–44, lines 17–29, where he notes that the Sumerian term for banquet is, literally, “the place of beer and bread,” with drinking standing perhaps by metonymy for the whole event.

35

36

Commensality as a Positive Affirmation of the (Successful) Hunt and Battle

Fig. 1.  “Standard,” Ur, Tomb PG 779. Banquet mosaic, long side: shell, carnelian, lapis lazuli. Early Dynastic III Period, ca. 2500 BCE. The British Museum, London: BM 121201.

millennium BCE, as seen on the so-called “Standard of Ur,” a trapezoidal wooden box decorated with inlaid figural mosaics dating to the Early Dynastic Period that depicts a battle scene on one long side and a banquet on the other. 3 The banquet sequence includes on the upper register a single seated individual, male, to the left, holding a cup in his right hand, facing six similarly-seated male individuals who also hold raised cups (fig. 1). Two figures at the far right, one holding a stringed instrument, the other with hands clasped and open mouth, show that the event was accompanied by vocal music. 4 The primary figure is a high-status individual, perhaps even a ruler, given his slightly larger size than the others and flounced skirt. And since provisions are shown in the two lower registers, including fish, caprids, and bovids in the middle, 3. The work was initially published by C. L. Woolley, Ur Excavations II: The Royal Cemetery (London: British Museum / Philadelphia: University Museum, 1934) pls. 91–93. It has more recently been discussed by J.-C. Margueron, “L’Étandard d’Ur’: Récit Historique ou Magique?” in Collectanea Orientalia: Histoire, arts de l’espace et industrie de la terre—Études offertes en hommage à Agnès Spycket (ed. H. Gasche and B. Hrouda; Civilisations du ProcheOrient: Series 1; Archéologie et Environnement 3; Neuchâtel: Recherches et Publications, 1996) 159–69. 4.  That the scene not only included the easily identifiable musician but also a singer was discussed by Jack Cheng, in an unpublished paper, “Requiem for Ur,” given at the conference “(Re-)Sounding Ur: New Perspectives on the Royal Tombs,” Harvard University, 18 May 2002.

Irene J. Winter

37

I am content to see the scene as a whole standing for a banquet proper and its provisioning. It will be my argument in the essay that follows, which I happily dedicate to Mario Liverani who has contributed so much to our understanding of the Assyrians, that the collective meal sponsored by the ruler—that is, official commensality as referenced in Neo-Assyrian palace texts and reliefs of the reign of Sargon II of Assyria (722–705 BCE)—served not only as an artifact of state display but also as a venue for court activity. 5 As such, it was carefully juxtaposed to events for which this sort of shared meal would mark the social importance of the associated event and would serve to consolidate social bonding. In modern times, it is too easy to reduce the royal banquet to Thorsten Veblen’s concept of “conspicuous consumption,” in which “wasteful spending” becomes the measure of social prestige and power. 6 I would not dispute such displays as important manifestations of prestige and power, certainly applying to the large state banquets described by both Sargon and Assurnasirpal II (886–859 BCE) with respect to the inauguration of their new capitals and palaces at Khorsabad and Calah, respectively. What I stress here, however, is that the banquet as a polysemous case can only be understood in the broader social context in which it occurred and was represented in juxtaposition with other events. 7

5. As understood from the Banquet Stele of Assurnasirpal II, found in Room EA of the Northwest Palace at Nimrud: = ND 1104, M. E. L. Mallowan, Nimrud and Its Remains (3 vols.; London: Collins, 1966) 1.57–74 and figs. 20 and 27. For the text, see A. K. Grayson, Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC I (1114–859 BC) (RIMA 2; Toronto: University of Toronto Press) 191 and 288–859. A longer version of the present paper that takes the formal state banquet into consideration is found in my “Banquet royal assyrien: Mise en oeuvre de la rhétorique de l’abondance,” in Le banquet du monarque dans le monde antique (ed. C. Grandjean et al.; Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2013) 287–309. That paper, which was in press for three years, was written before the essay by S. Gaspa appeared: “La cucina del Dio e del Re nell’alimentazione dell’impero assiro,” in Mangiare Divinamente: Pratiche e simbologie alimentari nell’antico Oriente (ed. L. Milano; Eothen 8; Venice: LoGisma) 177–231. I am pleased to be able to refer to it here. 6.  Thorsten Veblen, The Theory of the Leisure Class (New York: Macmillan, 1899). 7.  More recent studies of the variety of occasions and hence meanings of the banquet in the ancient Near East include C. Suter, “Who Are the Women in Mesopotamian Art from ca. 2334–1763 BCE?” Kaskal 5 (2008) 17. For a view of the complexity of the phenomenon, see M. G. Masetti-Rouault, “Les dangers du banquet en Mesopotamie,” in La Fête: La Rencontre des dieux et des homes (ed. M. Mazoyer et al.; Paris: L’Harmattan, 2004) 49–66; also J. Bottéro, “Boisson, banquet, et vie sociale en Mésopotamie,” in Drinking in Ancient Societies: History and Culture of Drinks in the Ancient Near East (ed. Lucio Milano; HANES 6; Padua: Sargon,1994) 3–13; and Pinnock, “Considerations on the ‘Banquet Theme’ in the Figurative Art of Mesopotamia and Syria,” cited above. More recently, see the papers in L. Milano, ed., Mangiare Divinamente: Pratiche e simbologie alimentari nell’antico Oriente (Eothen 20; Venice: LoGisma, 2012).

38

Commensality as a Positive Affirmation of the (Successful) Hunt and Battle

Distinct from the ceremonial meal in which the ruler could be depicted alone or before a temple (as seen, for example, on works by Assurnasirpal II) 8 is imagery that includes multiple participants shown in the process of imbibing food and/ or drink, with the presence of the king either represented or understood. Hence, I use the term commensality, derived from the Latin, to imply the literal sharing of a table—that is, “eating and/or drinking together.” I shall confine myself to commensal images here, attempting to seek meaning both from the representations themselves and, when carved in architectural reliefs, from their placement within the palace. The importance of this feasting activity has been stressed across time and space, from the Old World to the New. In particular, two recent compendia have taken on this issue: Feasts: Archaeological and Ethnographic Perspectives on Food, Politics, and Power, published in 2001; and The Archaeology and Politics of Food and Feasting in Early States and Empires, published in 2003. 9 Both bring authority and the state apparatus into the mix, insisting on the phenomenon of feasting as an arbiter of social relations at the highest level. They stress, therefore, not just commensality, but commensal politics—such as meals organized by the state and occurring in the palace or its immediate environs. What I would underscore, then, is first, the necessity of a working definition of feasting that stresses “communal food consumption . . . that differs . . . from everyday practice” (italics mine); and second, an insistence upon the social phenomenon of feasting as an arbiter of social relations at the highest level, such as a banquet organized by the state and in the palace in many cultural traditions, whether by the Ottomans at Topkapi or the French at Versailles. 10 8.  E.g., John B. Stearns, Reliefs from the Palace of Ashurnasirpal II (AfO Beiheft 15; Graz: Weidner, 1961) pl. 87: Room G, north wall, slab 3; J. E. Curtis and N. Tallis, eds., The Balawat Gates of Ashurnasirpal II (London: British Museum, 2008) figs. 5–6 and 55–56; L. W. King, Bronze Reliefs from the Gates of Shalmaneser, King of Assyria, B.C. 860–825 (London: British Museum, 1915). 9.  M. Dietler and B. Hayden, Feasts: Archaeological and Ethnographic Perspectives on Food, Politics, and Power (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2001)—in that volume, see in particular the article by D. Schmandt-Besserat, “Feasting in the Ancient Near East,” pp. 391–403; T. Bray, ed., The Archaeology and Politics of Food and Feasting in Early States and Empires (New York: Kluwer Academic/Plenum, 2003)—see in particular Susan Pollock, “Feasts, Funerals, and Fast Food in Early Mesopotamian States,” pp. 17–38. Note that Pollock, too, argues that the “Standard” from Ur depicts a banquet, not just drink (p. 24). More recently, S. Baker et al., eds., Food and Drink in Archaeology I (Totnes, U.K.: Prospect, 2008). 10. In this, Mesopotamia can be seen as participating in a larger universe of feasting traditions in the ancient world as well. See, for example, L. Green, “Some Thoughts on Ritual Banquets at the Court of Akhenaton and in the Ancient Near East,” in Egypt, Israel, and the Ancient Mediterranean World (ed. Gary N. Knoppers and Antoine Hirsch; Leiden: Brill, 2004) 203–22; C. Kroeter, “The Sensual Banquet Scene: Sex and the Senses in Eighteenth Dynasty Theban Tomb Paintings,” Journal of Art History and Museum Studies 13 (2009) 47– 56; K. Vössing, Mensa Regia: Das Bankett beim hellenistischen König und beim römischen Kaiser (Beitrage zur Altertumskunde 193; Munich: Saur, 2004); idem, ed., Das Römische Bankett im

Irene J. Winter

39

Fig. 2.  Assyrian-style incised ivory plaque, Nimrud, Fort Shalmaneser, Room SE 9, 9th century BCE. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York: 59.107.22 (after G. Herrmann, ed., Ivories from Nimrud, vol. 5: The Small Collections from Fort Shalmaneser [5 vols.; London: British School of Archaeology in Iraq, 1967–2008] #185).

Depictions of social banqueting in Assyria were not limited to the reign of Sargon II, as is visually evident from a single ivory plaque executed in 9th-century Assyrian-style incision, found at Nimrud (fig. 2). 11 There, one sees a horizontal scene showing a serving table/pot stand with attendant at the far left, followed by an image of the king facing right, seated on a backed chair before a laden table; then, on the right appear at least two clusters of four courtiers each, all of whom are seated on low stools with a covered table and attendant at the center of each cluster. 12 The plaque was found in Room SE 9 of Fort Shalmaneser, along with four additional fragmentary ivory plaques datable to the 9th century, in the style of the rulers Assurnasirpal II and/or his son Shalmaneser III. One of these additional plaques includes a tributary procession showing foreigners bearing goods on platters; another an attendant accompanying four rams and several head of cattle. The ivories as a group mirror closely the themes included in the text of Assurnasirpal’s Banquet Stele—envoys coming to Assyria bearing gifts, then provisioning for, and subsequently, an accompanying banquet. 13 The ivory banquet plaque reminds us at once of the partial nature of the largerscale-reliefs’ subject matter and the accidental nature of the archaeological record. Were it not for the ivory, one would have been tempted to state that the multi­ person banquet was simply not considered an appropriate theme for representation Spiegel der Altertumswissenschaften: Internationales Kolloquium, 5./6. Oktober 1005 (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2008); L. Brubaker and K. Lindardou, Eat, Drink, and Be Merry (Luke 12:19): Food and Wine in Byzantium—Papers Delivered at the 37th Annual Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, in Honour of Professor A. A. M. Bryer (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007). 11. M. Mallowan and L. G. Davies, Ivories in Assyrian Style: Ivories from Nimrud, 1949– 1963, fasc. 2 (London: British School of Archaeology in Iraq, 1970) esp. pls. 21.67 and 69, 24.76, and 29.100. 12.  Ibid., pl. 5.7 (= ND 7576; found in Fort Shalmaneser, Room SE 9); and see discussion, pp. 6 and 18, catalogue #7. Mallowan’s observation that the figure nearest the king wears a fillet and so is presumably a high official or prince, p. 18, will be mentioned again below. 13.  Ibid., pls. 29.100 and 31.111, respectively. 

40

Commensality as a Positive Affirmation of the (Successful) Hunt and Battle

Fig. 3.  Sargon II (721–705 BCE), Khorsabad, Royal Palace, plan of Room 2 (Albenda, Palace of Sargon, pl. 79; after Flandin, Bas reliefs assyriens).

in the 9th century BCE, because it does not appear on any of the Nimrud palace reliefs or on the recently published Assurnasirpal II bronze gate bands from Balawat. And yet, the ivory banquet scene does exist! As on the earlier banquet scene of the mosaic panel from Ur, the dominant figure is shown isolated, albeit in company. He sits alone at the left, facing right, while his companions are clustered into groups of four opposite a central table. With respect to later imagery, however fragmentary, the grouping of the companion banqueters is equally characteristic of the large-scale reliefs of Sargon II, which are known to have occupied Assurnasirpal’s Northwest Palace at Nimrud before his shift of the capital to Khorsabad. The Sargonid banquet reliefs are found in Rooms 2 and 7 in the northwest wing of the royal palace at Khorsabad. In both Assyrian cases, the 9th-century Nimrud ivory and the Khorsabad reliefs of Rooms 2 and 7, the banqueters accompanying the ruler are all dressed in Assyrian court garments, organized into groups of individuals, usually four, and seated at laden tables. 14 Unfortunately, in both rooms 14.  For tributaries, regularly shown in foreign dress, see P. Albenda, The Palace of Sargon, King of Assyria (Paris: Editions Recherche sur les Civilisations, 1986) pls. 24–25, 27–34, 67– 69. Note that Albenda’s illustrations are reproductions of the original images published in E. Flandin, Bas reliefs assyriens découvertes á Khorsabad . . . : Dessins originaux (Paris, 1846); and P. E. Botta and E. Flandin, Monuments de Ninive, vol. 1 (Paris, 1849). For the reliefs of Rooms 2 and 7, see Albenda, Palace of Sargon, pls. 116–23 and 85–90, plus discussion, pp. 80– 82. Furniture identical to that depicted in the two banquet scenes of Rooms 2 and 7 is carried in procession toward the ruler on Façade L of the palace (ibid., pls. 43, 48, 50, slabs 28–29 and 34–35), which may well imply a ceremonial occasion to be. However, in that context, one cannot declare the occasion a banquet proper, as distinct from the presentation of elaborate furnishings to the ruler by the high-ranking official (crown prince?) who stands before him (ibid., pl. 45, slabs 20–21).

Irene J. Winter

41

Fig. 4.  Sargon II, Khorsabad, Royal Palace, Room 2, Reliefs, slabs 8–9 (drawings by Flandin, in Albenda, Palace of Sargon).

at Khorsabad, the banquet scenes occur in an upper register that is very poorly preserved. The better-preserved lower registers contain scenes of battle and hunt, respectively. 15 The sequence in Room 2 is the more legible (figs. 3–4). Basic units consist of clusters of four banqueters seated on stools, two on each side of a covered table set with deep-curved bowls and stacks of what may be flat bread on pedestal stands (e.g., Room 2, slabs 10, 16–17), with each unit attended by a servant figure set off to the right. The seated figures raise lion-protome drinking vessels (rhyta) as if in a toast. They are mirrored by occasional standing figures in kilts, who, despite the fact that they are not seated, are nonetheless paired so that, eye-to-eye, their raised drinking vessels seem equally ceremonious (e.g., slabs 18–19). 16 A large cauldron 15.  The battle scenes of Room 2 are discussed in J. E. Reade, “Sargon’s Campaigns of 720, 716, and 715 B.C.: Evidence from the Sculptures,” JNES 35 (1976) 95–104, identifying them with the campaigns of 716 in the Zagros (see esp. pp. 102, 104). 16. For comparable drinking vessels and a discussion of ceremonial drinking from a very different place, see Thomas B. F. Cummins, Toasts with the Inca: Andean Abstraction and Colonial Images on Quero Vessels (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2002); also

42

Commensality as a Positive Affirmation of the (Successful) Hunt and Battle

Fig. 5.  Sargon II, Khorsabad, Royal Palace, Room 2, Doorway H, Relief, slab 1 (drawings by Flandin, in Albenda, Palace of Sargon).

with servitors filling rhyta is depicted in doorway H of that same room (fig. 5). And at least two musicians with lyres accompany the banquet, placed at the far end of slab 21. By their hairstyle, the two musicians are likely to be foreigners, corresponding with references to musicians taken as captives in Assyrian campaigns. 17 Parallels to the Early Dynastic mosaic from Ur are striking; but so are the clusters of seated participants, four to each table, when one thinks back to the 9th-century Assyrian-style ivory from Fort Shalmaneser. Additional information can be gleaned from laying out the numbered slabs in what would have been their original placement along the northeast wall of Room 2 at Khorsabad. It turns out that the banqueting units are not single occurrences, despite the usual illustration of just one slab as an exemplar. Rather, they extend the full length of the wall (some 35 m), all the participants being dressed alike in long, wrapped Assyrian court garments. The narrative sequence begins in Doorway H (slab 1), at the southeast end of the room, with the large serving cauldron and attendants filling rhyta mentioned above. It then wraps around the southeast wall, showing the musicians (slabs 20–21) and additional attendants in place. At the eastern corner of the room, along the northeast wall are placed eight standing figures with raised drinking vessels, in two sets of four—in this case, wearing short kilts but with Assyrian hair styles and other attributes (e.g., slabs 18–19); and from this point on, as much as one can reconstruct of the entire northeast wall is taken S. E. Ramírez, To Feed and Be Fed: The Cosmological Bases of Authority and Identity in the Andes (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2005). 17. On this, see Jack Cheng, Representations of Assyrian Music (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 2001).

Irene J. Winter

43

up by repeated clusters of seated banqueters, crossing the central doorway, and continuing to the north corner of the room. This sequence comprises some 15 relief slabs and thus would have consisted of approximately 12–15 feasting clusters. With Reade, I read the sequence in this direction, because the attendant figures all face left and down the wall toward that same north corner and northwest end of the room. 18 Since the seated clusters continue into the north corner, there would have been no room for a representation of the ruler at banquet, in company with the others on this northeast wall. The king may not have been absent from the array, however. Reade has suggested that the place of the ruler’s image would have been on the northwest wall. 19 The battle scenes of the lower registers of this same wall culminate in the presentation of enemy heads to the king, who is standing ceremonially in his chariot. 20 This juxtaposition makes the short wall the end point of the longer, northeast wall’s military activity—the culminating moment in the battle narrative being the successful end of the battle. The upper registers of those same slabs, 2 and 3, are completely gone, and consequently, field drawings at the time of excavation actually show vegetal elements growing along the tops of the slabs; they were probably already damaged and very near the surface when discovered. Nevertheless, if one projects the same narrative organization for the upper register as is evident for the lower, then this short, northwest wall is the natural place for the ruler to have been depicted at banquet as well—seated, with a covered and laden table before him, likely attended by fan-bearers and servants. And indeed, this would make visual sense, consistent with Assyrian compositional practices in other contexts, where the ruler is doubled above and below—as he is, for example, in the Assurnasirpal Lion and Bull Hunts, slabs B.18 and 19, from the Throne Room of the Northwest Palace, with the king seen in his chariot during the hunt in the upper register, and in the lower, performing a libation over the kill (e.g., fig. 6). 21 This vertical juxtaposition of registers in 18.  The servants who are leaving the cauldron, presumably with full drinking vessels, in Doorway H (Albenda, Palace of Sargon, Room 2, slab 1, pl. 123) also face left. Note that slab 11 is so damaged that it is not possible to discern banqueting units, and on slab 10, immediately to its left (ibid., pl. 116), there seems to be at least one figure facing south. It is likely, therefore, that these represent an additional group of standing banqueters with raised cups, as on slab 19 (ibid., pl. 121). In this case, there probably would have been only 12 sets of seated banqueters and tables, but the theme certainly does carry on from slabs 10 through 5, toward the north corner, hence covering the entire wall. 19.  Reade, “Sargon’s Campaigns,” p. 102. 20. Albenda, Palace of Sargon, pl. 111, slabs 2–3. It should be noted that the king also appears in his moving war chariot during several battle sequences along the northeast wall leading up to this scene (e.g., ibid., pl. 116, slab 10), but here, his chariot is not shown in motion; rather, it is shown stationary, in “presentation mode,” as befits the culminating moment of the prior battle(s). 21.  Juxtaposed as such in A. Moortgat, The Art of Ancient Mesopotamia (New York: Phaidon, 1965) pls. 265–66, although the slab was sliced horizontally in half in the 19th century. It is

44

Commensality as a Positive Affirmation of the (Successful) Hunt and Battle

Fig. 6.  Assurnasirpal II (885–856 BCE), Nimrud, Northwest Palace, Throne Room B, Relief, slab 19: Lion hunt (British Museum, London: BM 124534).

temporally successive scenes is an important visual device and one worth stressing in Assyrian sculptural programs. Furthermore, it privileges the short end of the room, where we know that in palace throne rooms the throne base would have been set. Such a placement of the king would then be consistent with the Nimrud ivory plaque, where the ruler is shown sitting alone facing his banqueters, who are similarly represented in clusters of four per table. important to note here that, in any temporal reconstruction, the Assurnasirpal hunt of the upper register must precede rituals over the slain lions below. With the Sargon relief registers, however, one cannot assume any such temporal sequence. Would the battle have come first, along with the double registers of Zagros campaign battles along the opposite southwest wall (see Albenda, Palace of Sargon, pl. 110; Reade, “Sargon’s Campaigns,” 102), and would the banquet then serve as a generic celebration of all the battles of Room 2 rather than of the lower registers of the northeast wall alone? Or, following the Assyrian narrative sequence of the hunts, could a banquet have preceded the battle(s)? I incline toward the former conclusion, since the room, as per Reade, probably marks several military encounters during the Zagros campaign of 716 BCE. My thanks to Yan Jia for stimulating conversations on this topic.

Irene J. Winter

45

Fig. 7.  Sargon II, Khorsabad, Royal Palace, plan of Room 7 (Albenda, Palace of Sargon, pl. 84, after Flandin, Bas reliefs assyriens).

The banqueters of Room 7 at Khorsabad are also clothed in Assyrian dress, appearing above a register depicting a hunt for small game in a wooded park (figs. 7 and 8). Here, in the much smaller room, clusters of seated individuals are preserved, once again four to each group around a central table, accompanied by servants and serving stands. Once again, each participant raises a drinking cup, while the tables seem to be laden with bound stacks of flatbread. I have argued elsewhere that it is probably no accident that a hunt was depicted in a room that looks along its axis through an anteroom, directly off the edge of the citadel, toward what may well have been Sargon’s own royal park/gardens. 22 If there is to be a narrative relationship between the lower register and the upper, then commensal activity 22.  I. J. Winter, “‘Seat of Kingship’/A ‘Wonder to Behold’: The Palace in the Ancient Near East,” Ars Orientalis 23 (1993) 27–55.

46

Commensality as a Positive Affirmation of the (Successful) Hunt and Battle

Fig. 8.  Sargon II, Khorsabad, Royal Palace, Room 7, Relief, slab 10 (Albenda, Palace of Sargon, pl. 88, after Flandin, Bas reliefs assyriens).

before or after the hunt by members of the king’s court would not be at all out of place. Both the hunt and the banquet seem to have wrapped around the entire room. The most likely placement of a banqueting ruler here would be on the northwest wall—exactly opposite and centered on the external doorway of Room 7, and thus

Irene J. Winter

47

placed on the same axis as the view off the citadel. 23 But this must remain in the realm of conjecture. What the scale and participants of the two Sargonid feasting scenes suggest is that there would have been occasions for ceremonial court commensality hosted by the monarch for high-status Assyrians—relatively small but still select groups— in addition to the banquets at the mega-level, which would have included foreign envoys attending great diplomatic occasions such as palace inaugurations. 24 It is to be lamented that Sargon’s banquet scenes are so badly preserved that we cannot tell what was represented as comestibles set on the tables. Even detailed renderings of tables preserved on two reliefs of Assurbanipal from Nineveh are hard to parse—flat breads? small birds? animal portions piled on an open bowl? 25 This gap is augmented, however, by a sequence of reliefs from the “sloping passage” LI of Sennacherib’s Southwest Palace at Nineveh, discussed by Brigitte Lion and Cécile 23. In the reliefs of Room 2 (Albenda, Palace of Sargon, 81), we can perhaps, as noted above, argue for a narrative relationship between battle and banquet, with purposeful compositional placement probably along the northwest wall. In Room 7, which is approximately 8 m2, the king again appears in his chariot in the lower registers, in motion, heading toward a small columned pavilion and body of water/lake (ibid., pl. 89, slabs 11–12, approaching the eastern corner along the northeast wall). Unfortunately, immediately above the ruler there seems to be a standard cluster of banqueters and table. Since Reade has noted that the courtiers of the upper registers “converge from right and left towards a point, opposite the (single) door . . . ,” the most likely place where the king would have been represented (if he had been a participant in the banquet, as he was clearly a participant in the outing of the lower register) is on the northwest wall, just opposite and centered on the doorway (Reade, “Sargon’s Campaigns,” 98). The relief slabs in those places (Albenda, Palace of Sargon, pl. 87, slabs 7–8) are all badly broken in the upper register. Slab 7 is also broken in the lower register, apart from a fir tree at the far right. Therefore, one cannot reconstruct which sequence in the hunt might have been placed immediately opposite the door either. Although the privileged position argues for something carefully chosen, Emily Hammer has argued recently that this does not always correspond to the figure of the ruler himself, particularly in the palace reliefs of Sargon’s son and successor, Sennacherib (“Spatiality in the Southwest Palace at Nineveh,” paper presented at the annual meetings of the American Schools of Oriental Research, San Diego, CA, November 2007). Note that it would have been lovely had the upper registers been sufficiently preserved to permit a count of participants at the table, to see if there were any consistency between them and the number of courtiers accompanying the ruler in the hunt below. 24.  Despite the functional variability of similar furniture types in general, one is tempted to wonder whether the cluster of stone tables preserved from Khorsabad (Room XVIII, to the northeast of the large Court XV), generally assumed to be “offering tables” or “altars” (see Albenda, The Palace of Sargon, pl. 148 for an original 19th-century drawing), might not have served instead as mensae or dining tables, since their shape at least is identical to the tables depicted at banquets. 25.  Richard D. Barnett, Sculptures from the North Palace of Ashurbanipal at Nineveh (668– 627 BC) (London: British Museum, 1976) pls. 59 and 63, from room S1; however, both are in association with other narratives: the lion hunt for the first and the “garden scene” for the second; neither represents an extended banquet.

48

Commensality as a Positive Affirmation of the (Successful) Hunt and Battle

Fig. 9.  Sennacherib (704–681 BCE), Nineveh, Southwest Palace, Corridor LI, Reliefs, slabs 10–12 (drawings by A. H. Layard or F. C. Cooper, in Barnett, Bleibtreu, and Turner, Sculptures from the Southwest Palace of Sennacherib, pl. 436).

Michel in their 2003 article. 26 Preserved there are not banqueters but a procession of attendants bearing foodstuffs, all of whom walk along the northwest wall in a direction up the slope toward Room XLIX of the palace (e.g., detail, fig. 9). 27 26.  Richard D. Barnett, Erika Bleibtreu, and Geoffrey Turner, Sculptures from the Southwest Palace of Sennacherib at Nineveh (2 vols.; London: British Museum, 1998), vol. 2, pls. 432–41, plus description, in vol. 1.123–25. And see B. Lion and C. Michel, “La table du roi,” Dossiers d’Archéologie 280 (Feb. 2003) 24–31. 27.  See Barnett, Bleibtreu, and Turner (Sculptures from the Southwest Palace, pl. 432) for a plan of the passage and placement of slabs. Note that what is identifiable among the foods carried are only fruits and possible sweetmeats, suggesting that the event for which these comestibles were intended represented not a full-course meal with cuts of animal meat, birds or fish but, rather, perhaps a garden event or “snack” that would have included the (probably salted) locusts carried in the procession as well as the sweets and the large storage jars with leaf-filled mouths, presumably containing wine; on this, see also A. K. Thomason, “Banquets, Baubles, and Bronzes: Material Comforts in the Neo-Assyrian Palaces,” in Assyrian Reliefs from the Palace of Ashurnasirpal II (ed. A. Cohen and S. E. Kangas; Lebanon, NH: Dartmouth University Press, 2010) 198–214, esp. p. 209, although the translation ‘confection’ for the Akkadian term budê may be misleading, because we would think of it as sweets, but the material is said to have come in flagons, suggesting a liquid rather than a solid (F. M. Fales and J. N. Postgate, Imperial Administrative Records, Pt. I: Palace and Temple Administration [SAA 7; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1992] #210, 197). Gaspa (“La cucina del Dio e del Re,” esp.  pp.  192–94) refers to the solids as “sweets and fruits.” He also notes the mention of locusts as elements of banquet delights (p. 190). Also see H. D. Galter et al., “The Colossi of Sennacherib’s Palace and Their Inscriptions,” ARRIM 4 (1986) 27–32, esp. p. 31, for a discussion of the adjacent “queen’s quarters” of the palace. One must wonder, therefore, whether passage LI was a service/connecting room to nearby ceremonial (dining) chambers or the garden. Indeed, based on the text recording the quarters of Sennacherib’s favorite wife, Tashmetum-sharrat, inscribed on colossi flanking the entrance to Room LXV to the north-

Irene J. Winter

49

Geoffrey Orchard has suggested that this procession represents provisions for a celebratory banquet following a successful military campaign, while Julian Reade has argued that it may represent the return from a hunt, particularly because the hares and small fowl are identical to those shown on the Sargonid hunt reliefs of Room 7 at Khorsabad, discussed just above. 28 The point here is that it matters little, since both battle and hunt would equally be marked by ceremonial commensality, given the polyvalence of the banquet as a positive marker for a variety of events. It is unfortunate that textual evidence for ceremonial commensality at the state level in the Neo-Assyrian Period is relatively limited, although some of the royal administrative texts provide evidence for foods served and attendants in a court setting, particularly during the reign of Sargon II and the later Assyrian kings at Nineveh. 29 The underlying economic structures attendant upon daily provisioning have been addressed by Nicholas Postgate and others for the period. Still, one could wish for a clearer picture of the meals of the Assyrian ruler in general and the number of men who ate either daily or on ceremonial occasions in the presence of Sargon II. 30 A more complete picture is provided for the king at Mari in the early second millennium BCE, where some 1,000 texts related to the royal meal have west of this passage, the reliefs could actually illustrate foodstuffs prepared in the queen’s quarters for the king and his guests; for the engagement of court women in royal feasts at Mari, see N. Ziegler, “Diplomatie à la table du roi d’après les archives royales de Mari (XVIIIe siècle av.  J.-C.),” Dossiers d’Archéologie 280 (Feb. 2003) 16–23. For the Assyrian period, see Fales and Postgate, SAA 7, ##154–55, pp. 160–61. For comparable meals in the queen’s garden and the palace, see the biblical account in the Hebrew Bible book of Esther (Esth 1:3–8, 2:18, and 4:4–5). 28.  Barnett, Bleibtreu, and Turner, Sculptures from the Southwest Palace, 2.123; J. E. Reade, “The Assyrian Court and Army: Evidence from the Sculptures,” Iraq 34 (1972) 87–112, esp. pp. 100–101. The same hare and fowl (plus small birds in nests carried on woven reed basketry platters) appear again on an Assurbanipal relief placed in an ascending passage of the North Palace, as part of a procession indeed returning from a (lion) hunt (see Barnett, Sculptures from the North Palace of Assurbanipal, Room R and pls. 39 and 42); however, in this case, attendants also carry all of the equipment from the hunt, including nets, stakes, etc., along with the dead lions. 29. Grayson, RIMA 2.1.16, line 45. Also, Fales and Postgate, SAA 7, §13: “Accounts of Banquets,” pp. 154–63; and discussion in S. Gaspa, “La cucina del Dio e del Re. . . .” Note that Gaspa cites evidence for banquets staged not only by, but for the king, attended by the crown prince, high-level officials, and other sons of the king, in which the sequence of events can be reconstructed: from the entry of the ruler to the close of the banquet (pp. 205–6, 214). What is not clear is the context(s) that occasioned such banquets, although, see the article “Mahlzeit” (in RlA 3/4 [1988] 259–67) for a breakdown of types of events and components of ceremonial banquets throughout the Mesopotamian sequence. 30.  E.g., J. N. Postgate, Taxation and Conscription in the Assyrian Empire (Studia Pohl, Series Maior 3; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1974) 249 (re. ABL 86), with respect to the storage of the king’s wine; J. V. Kinnier Wilson, The Nimrud Wine Lists (London: British School of Archaeology in Iraq, 1972) 43, 85, 105, 107 with respect to 8th-century feasting on a smaller scale. And, again: Gaspa, “La cucina del Dio e del Re.”

50

Commensality as a Positive Affirmation of the (Successful) Hunt and Battle

been preserved, making it clear that the king in fact never dined alone but was always surrounded by an entourage of some sort. 31 Here, however, one must refer to the important distinction made by Dominique Charpin between regular meals and ceremonial meals, at least at Mari. 32 Our picture of the daily meals of the Assyrian ruler and his entourage is limited, by contrast (although see the recent paper of F. Joannès which includes references to the rather large number of men who ate daily in the presence of the Assyrian king). 33 The particular juxtapositions of upper and lower registers in the Khorsabad reliefs of Rooms 2 and 7 suggest, however, that in both of these cases the attendant banquets somehow existed in relation to and were specifically associated with the accompanying battle and hunt scenes. Additional cases of ceremonial banquets in honor of the ruler on various occasions seem to be indicated as well, in which the queen, the crown prince, various high court officials, and other sons of the ruler are sometimes included. 34 Therefore, beyond the binary distinction between “regular” and “ceremonial” meals noted by Charpin, one must add necessary subdivisions to the ceremonial category. At some level, it is likely that no meal partaken by the ruler was ever “regular” but was always attended by court ceremony. But even in such a case, I would insist on the important division between “regular/daily” meals and “event-specific” meals, with only the latter qualifying as true banquets. To this last category would then belong both the grand-scale inaugural banquets described by Assurnasirpal II on his Banquet Stele and also the more limited but no less celebratory court-scale banquets depicted by Sargon II that marked auspicious or successful events (themselves subject to subdivision based on attendant circumstances). In general, one must admit that the rhetorical message conveyed by banqueting, particularly on the reliefs, was clearly deemed less important than that conveyed by narrative scenes of ritual, hunt, or battle and therefore was depicted far less frequently. Nevertheless, the fact that the imagery existed at all requires our attention and hints at events that must have played significant social roles on state occasions. The contribution of the Neo-Assyrian case to current discourse on commensality and the state may be said to lie in the argument that the royal banquet was the 31.  Described by Ziegler, “Diplomatie à la table du roi,” esp. p. 23. 32. D. Charpin, “Les usages politiques des banquets d’après les archives mésopotamiennes du début du IIe millénaire av. J.-C.,” in Le banquet du monarque dans le monde antique (ed. C. Grandjean et al.; Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2013) 31–52, which distinguishes the more regular repas from the banquette. 33.  F. Joannès, “Quand le roi mange comme un dieu . . . : Les transferts entre table divine et table royale en Assyrie et in Babylonie au Ier millénaire av. J.-C.,” in Le banquet du monarque dans le monde antique (ed. C. Grandjean et al.; Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2013) 327–42. 34.  Fales and Postgate, SAA 7, ##154–55, pp. 160–61; Gaspa, “La cucina del Dio e del Re,” esp. pp. 204–17.

Irene J. Winter

51

performative component of the very same rhetoric of royal success about abundance in production and reproduction that was so important in the ideology of the extended territorial state. If the ruler’s role as provider of this abundance is declared paramount and is the result of his special relationship with the gods who control production and productivity, 35 then the banquet hosted by the king, whether on a grand scale or for members of the court serves as an artifact of conspicuous consumption and ceremony in direct proportion to the ability of the ruler to provide abundantly, in accord with state protocols! This is not to say that the banquet and its representation served only rhetorical purposes. At its best, the banquet venue served to celebrate sociability and reinforce group solidarity, especially if one sees the royal court as a micro-society within the larger community. This (attempt at the construction of) social cohesion is, in turn, not trivial, in that the assassinations/coups challenging the life/authority of the ruler in Assyria were known to come from within this same micro-society of the court and its elite. Such instances fall within the domain stressed by Tamara Bray, editor of the volume on Archaeology and the Politics of Food and Feasting, who insisted in her own article that banquets were directly “implicated in significant ways in processes of social change and historical transformation,” as well as in social maintenance. 36 In the end, then, the Neo-Assyrian evidence has in fact given us two types of official royal banqueting hosted by the ruler, albeit both at the elite level, as well as the banquets hosted for the king. The first type of official banquet would have been one that performed commensality at large state events that include delegations from outside the immediate social boundaries of the court—as referenced on the Banquet Stele—celebrating the founding of new state capitals and palaces. The second official court banquet marked internal (although also special) events, which included only court individuals wearing Assyrian dress—as depicted on the 8thcentury reliefs of Sargon II and the 9th-century ivory from Nimrud. A third would have been state occasions that celebrated the ruler himself—attested by text, but not clearly apparent in imagery (unless suggested by the furnishings carried toward the ruler on façade L of the royal palace at Khorsabad). 37 Whether at the immediate level of the court or at the grand scale of the state reception, these banquets were clearly not egalitarian. As host, the king would have assumed the “patron role” in feasting: one well known in the ethnographic literature, in which “generous hospitality is used to maintain asymmetrical social relationships.” 38 As celebrant, the king’s status would have occasioned the 35.  I. J. Winter, “Ornament and the ‘Rhetoric of Abundance,’ in Assyria,” Eretz-Israel 27 (Miriam and Hayim Tadmor issue; 2003) 261. 36.  Bray, “The Commensal Politics of Early States and Empires,” 9. 37. Albenda, Palace of Sargon, pls. 43–45, for Façade L of the palace. 38.  M. Dietler, “Theorizing the Feast: Rituals of Consumption, Commensal Politics, and Power in African Contexts,” in Feasts: Archaeological and Ethnographic Perspectives on Food,

52

Commensality as a Positive Affirmation of the (Successful) Hunt and Battle

accompanying ceremonial. That the king was not of equal status with the other participants is reinforced visually on the Nimrud ivory as well as on the “Standard” of Ur, where, despite a scene of commensality, the ruler sits apart and is differentiated by his high-backed seat/throne, dress, size, and paraphernalia. In addition, it is surely not accidental that on the Nimrud ivory (fig. 2) the figure immediately in front of the king wears a head fillet, a marker of relatively high status in the reliefs of Assurnasirpal II and Sargon and often thought to represent the crown prince. As such, his placement closest to the ruler must have been carefully planned to convey this social position and may well reflect the role of crown prince in administrative accounts of court banquets, noted above. 39 Status differentiation was thus both stressed and reinforced, and the asymmetry of obligations and beneficences would escape the notice of no one. But most important, for the Neo-Assyrian Period at least, I would argue that official commensality—“the royal banquet”—as enacted, reported, and depicted actually performed sociality and ideology no less than other types of events (receipt of tribute, hunt, and battle) selected for representation in official texts and images. The royal banquet must equally be seen, therefore, as an artifact of the state apparatus—political, social, and ceremonial—communicating at once power, abundance, generosity, positive social relations despite status-dissonance, and the rhetorical success of both ruler and polity. Politics, and Power (ed. M. Dietler and B. Hayden; Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2001)  65–114. See also the articles by N. Ziegler, “Diplomatie á la table du roi,” esp. pp. 19–20; and J.-J. Glassner, “Boire et manger au quotidien: La reception de l’hôte. Le vivre et le couvert,” 44–47; in Dossiers d’Archéologie 280 (ed. Michel and Lion; Feb. 2003), where it is made clear that diplomatic guests were also hierarchically treated, differentiated according to status through placement, foods offered, and hospitality gifts offered. Similarly, at the coronation function organized by the then-Shah of Iran at Persepolis in 1971, there were clearly at least two classes of guests, with different accommodations, food, and social treatment (I am grateful to Robert H. Dyson for his recollections of this event). 39.  E.g., Fales and Postgate, SAA 7, ##154–55, pp. 160–61.

Was Uruk the First Sumerian City? J. S. Cooper

Did we really need Mario Liverani to announce yet another Sumerian first—the first city—a half century after Samuel Noah Kramer dished up 25 Sumerian firsts (Liverani 1998; 2006; Kramer 1956)? Now, I knew Kramer, and I can attest that Liverani is no Kramer but, more to the point, Kramer was no Liverani. Kramer was a genius at piecing together Sumerian literary compositions and at almost singlehandedly making a broader public aware of the Sumerians’ existence and achievements. But he was always quick to admit that his study of the tablets was superficial and, he used to say, it was Falkenstein and Falkenstein’s students as well as Jacobsen and Civil who, in Kramer’s wake, developed a more profound understanding of the material. Liverani, too, is profound but, to a reader accustomed to conventional philological brilliance, Liverani is brilliant in unconventional and sometimes astonishing ways. When I read some remarkable new insight in a work by Liverani, I do not say what I often say when reading other colleagues’ work: “Why didn’t I think of that?” Rather, I quietly admit that I never would have thought of it. Liverani’s Uruk: The First City sets itself a twofold task. First, to account for the initial emergence of urbanism and the early state in Babylonia (what specific factor led to this happening for the first time in that particular place?), and second, to describe the infrastructural elements and the political and economic processes of that first urban polity, to tell us how Uruk worked. It is difficult to account for beginnings. How can we extract a single element from a synergistic process and claim that it is the one that set the whole process in motion, without which the end result would never have been achieved? For Liverani, the sine qua non was the long field, the exploitation of which required centralized management (Liverani 1998: 19–43; 2006: chap. 2). This almost neo-Wittfogelian analysis ties the origin of the centralized state to the irrigation regime, as does a more recent monograph by Guillermo Algaze (2008). Algaze, seemingly unaware of Liverani’s book, sees the crucial element as the particular hydrography of Babylonia, a fluvial system that “encouraged linearly arranged agglomerations based on boat and barge transport” and enabled the “irrigation agriculture [that] provided the practical means to support such enlarged populations” (2008: 145). According to Algaze, Wittfogel “was right but for the wrong reasons” (Algaze 2008: 147). Liverani’s second task, describing how archaic Uruk worked, is accomplished to a large extent by extrapolation from later sources, especially from late Early Dynastic Girsu and various Ur III archives. Little use is made of the thousands 53

54

Was Uruk the First Sumerian City?

of texts from archaic Uruk itself, but this is understandable, given the difficulties that they present. Although Liverani never explicitly discusses the ethnolinguistic situation of Babylonia toward the end of the fourth millennium, he mentions “an extraordinary continuity between the archaic and later Sumerian texts” (Liverani 2006: 13) implying that the archaic texts are Sumerian and the products of a bureaucracy and society whose workings can be interpreted through better-understood Sumerian archival texts from later periods (cf. Liverani and Heimpel 1995). Algaze is more explicit. His first chapter is entitled “The Sumerian Takeoff,” and in his first footnote he states that he uses “Sumerian . . . in a cultural rather than a linguistic sense. It presupposes an unbroken line of continuity between the creators of the early cities . . . in the Mesopotamian alluvium . . . and the people that inhabited those cities later on in the third millennium, who wrote in the Sumerian language—irrespective of what their ethnic affiliation may have been” (Algaze 2008: 177). Elsewhere, Liverani also has recognized ethnolinguistic mixture in archaic Babylonia “sin dall’inizio della documentazione scritta” (Liverani 1988: 168). But however mixed archaic Uruk may have been, the archaic protocuneiform writing system is almost certainly the creation of those who organized and commandeered the resources and labor of the city, those in whose language decisions were made and orders given, and it was their language that should be the language of the archaic texts. This is where the arguments from continuity are most powerful: archaic protocuneiform is undeniably the ancestor of the Sumerian cuneiform we know well from the third millennium onward, and there is absolutely no positive evidence that would lead us to assume that the language of the archaic texts is anything other than an earlier form of Sumerian. Yet the question—was Uruk a Sumerian city?—cannot be answered so simply. If, by “Sumerian,” we mean dominated by speakers of an earlier form of Sumerian, then we should be able to find some recognizable Sumerian names in the archaic administrative tablets, but we cannot. And because the archaic texts represent only a limited spectrum of linguistic forms—perfectly adequate for encoding the administrative transactions they record—eschewing the grammatical affixes that identify cuneiform texts from the early third millennium on as Sumerian in language, it cannot be demonstrated beyond a reasonable doubt that the archaic texts are indeed the product of speakers of Sumerian. The broad scholarly consensus is, however, that the archaic texts do represent the Sumerian language (Cooper 2012). If the Uruk elite were Sumerian speakers, did they think of themselves and their city as Sumerian? My guess is that identity at the end of the fourth millennium was local, but there was a broader regional identity evidenced by the rapid spread of protocuneiform throughout Babylonia, by the Jemdet Nasr city sealings, and by the archaic lexical list “Cities” (Cooper 2012; 2016). But Babylonia as a whole by the late fourth millennium was probably even more multi-ethnolinguistic than we might imagine Uruk to be, so it is difficult to imagine that any regional Babylonian identity would have been or should be called “Sumerian.” In fact, the Sumerian

J. S. Cooper

55

word for ‘Sumer’ does not appear at all before the middle of the third millennium, and the word for the Sumerian language is first found only a few centuries later. A single small Old Akkadian tablet has just two entries: lú a uri-me ‘men of Akkadian seed’ and eme-gi 7 ‘Sumerian (language),’ each preceded by a number (MAD 4 161). Apparently, in this unique instance, groups of people are being distinguished by their ethnolinguistic affiliation, and the Sumerian language is named in writing, nearly a thousand years after writing emerged as an administrative technology in the first city, Uruk. This ethnolinguistic sense of “Sumerian” appears again only in the last century of the third millennium, in the hymns of Shulgi, the second and greatest ruler of the so-called Third Dynasty of Ur. But Shulgi, whose native language was Akkadian (Rubio 2006; pace Sallaberger 2011), boasted of being Sumerian as a way of asserting how educated he was, and education meant having mastered the Sumerian school curriculum, just as it did in the Old Babylonian Period, in the first centuries of the second millennium (Cooper 2016). The same usage appears a millennium later in an inscription of the Assyrian king Assurbanipal (668–627), who bragged that he could “read complicated texts, whose Sumerian is obscure and whose Akkadian is hard to figure out.” But by Assurbanipal’s time, and, indeed, quite a bit earlier, any sense that Sumerian had been the language of a separate people, different from those who used Akkadian, had been lost entirely (Cooper 2010; George 2009: 110–11). Except for that single Old Akkadian tablet mentioned above, “Sumerian” as an ethnic designation may be in large part an artifact of modern scholarship, not only in the sense that it is an etic designation without a corresponding category in ancient Mesopotamia but, if we accept, as we must, Mario Liverani’s contention that Babylonia was ethnolinguistically mixed “sin dall’inizio,” it probably has little or no historical validity whatsoever. Nevertheless, it would be unwise to go as far as R. Matthews, who has suggested that the polyglot nature of life in . . . Uruk around the last quarter of the fourth millennium BC, with slaves and traders being brought in from the furthest reaches of a far-flung world system, may in fact have stimulated the invention and development of a system of administrative communication which was specifically designed to transcend the idiosyncracies of any single language, and thus be comprehensible and user-friendly to all participants within specific social and economic contexts of a multi-ethnic society. (Matthews 1999: 550–51)

Other “primary scripts”—Chinese, Egyptian, Mayan—“display under-grammaticalization and phonic opacity in their earliest examples,” but such features do not mean that a script “exists apart from a linguistic setting” (Houston 2004: 12; cf. Damerow 2006). What, then, is the answer to the question posed at the outset: was late-fourthmillennium Uruk a Sumerian city? Mario Liverani has warned us that answers to research questions “should not be ideological or theoretical, but must be based

56

Was Uruk the First Sumerian City?

on the available documentary data” (Liverani 2006: 69). Archaeological evidence gives us no reason to imagine an ethnolinguistic rupture at the beginning of the Early Dynastic period, and the continuity evidenced by the texts strongly supports ethnolinguistic continuity. But decisive evidence remains elusive, and the inability to detect recognizable Sumerian personal names in the archaic texts is discouraging. Nevertheless, on balance, the answer is yes, probably, the writers of the archaic texts spoke a language ancestral to the Sumerian we know, and the lexemes in this early Sumerian are what protocuneiform represents. However, it is doubtful that these early Sumerian speakers, or even later ones, had a notion of Sumerian-ness— Sumeritude?—that we would recognize as such.

References Algaze, G. 2008 Ancient Mesopotamia at the Dawn of Civilization: The Evolution of an Urban Landscape. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Cooper, J. 2010 I have forgotten my burden of former days! Forgetting the Sumerians in Ancient Iraq. JAOS 130: 327–35. 2012 Sumer. A. Pp. 290–97 in vol. 13 of RlA. 2016 Sumerian Literature and Sumerian Identity. Pp. 1–18 in Problems of Canonicity and Identity Formation in Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia. Edited by K. Ryholt and G. Barjamovic. Copenhagen: Carsten Niebuhr Institute. Damerow, P. 2006 The Origins of Writing as a Problem of Historical Epistemology. CDLJ 2006: 1. George, A. R. 2009 Babylonian Literary Texts in the Schøyen Collection. CUSAS 10. Bethesda, MD: CDL. Houston, S. 2004 The First Writing: Script Invention as History and Process. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kramer, S. 1956 From the Tablets of Sumer: 25 Firsts in Man’s Recorded History. Indian Hills, CO: Falcon’s Wing. Liverani, M. 1988 Antico Oriente. Rome: Laterza. 1998 Uruk: La prima città. Rome: Laterza. 2006 Uruk: The First City. Translated by Z. Bahrani and M. Van De Mieroop. London: Equinox. Liverani, M., and Heimpel, W. 1995 Observations on Livestock Management in Babylonia. ASJ 17: 127–44. Matthews, R. 1999 Review of OBO 160/1. BSOAS 62: 549–50. Rubio, G. 2006 Šulgi and the Death of Sumerian. Pp. 167–79 in Approaches to Sumerian Literature: Studies in Honor of Stip (H. L. J. Vanstiphout). Edited by P. Michalowski and N. Veldhuis. CM 35. Leiden: Brill. Sallaberger, W. 2011 Sumerian Language Use at Garšana. Pp. 335–72 in Garšana Studies. Edited by D. Owen. CUSAS 6. Bethesda, MD: CDL.

City and Countryside in Ancient Mesopotamia Marc Van De Mieroop

In 714 BC, Assyria’s King Sargon II marched his troops into the Zagros Mountains in pursuit of the Urartian King Rusa, capturing 430 towns and settlements along the way, feats he described in his renowned letter to the god Assur. 1 When he reached the cities of Tarui and Tarmakisa, the account boasts: “The people were seized with terror. They abandoned their cities and fled, seeking life, into an arid wasteland, a place of thirst like the desert.” 2 This sentence sums up a crucial idea in Assyrian thought and in that of ancient Mesopotamia in general: there is a fundamental opposition between town and countryside, between culture and nature. What is outside the city is dry wasteland, even if it is in the lush Zagros Mountains. Sargon’s campaign narrative is famous today for its treatment of the natural environment, because several passages seem to describe the countryside in graphic detail. And indeed the Zagros Mountains, which in antiquity were still densely forested, must have presented a stunning landscape, the beauty of which could have inspired any poetically inclined traveler. The unknown author of Sargon’s letter skillfully employed highly metaphorical language, for example in this description of a mountain impeding the army’s progress: Mount Simirria, a great mountain peak that points upwards like the blade of a lance, and raises its head over the mountain where the goddess Belet-ili lives, whose twin peaks lean against heaven on high, whose foundations reach into the midst of the netherworld below, which, like the back of a fish, has no road from one side to the other and whose ascent is difficult from front or back, ravines and chasms are deeply cut in its side, and seen from afar, it is shrouded in fear, it is not good to climb in a chariot or with galloping horses, and it is very hard to make infantry progress in it. 3

The descriptive quality of this passage is deceptive, however. As A. L. Oppenheim pointed out in his seminal article on Sargon’s text, the narrative is a “pathetic quest for an accurate representation of reality,“ and he compared the literary treatment to that in Assyrian relief sculptures, where he saw “jarring pseudo-perspective and 1.  Thureau-Dangin 1912; KAH 2, 141; and Weidner 1937–39. For an edition of the text, see Mayer 1983. An eloquent English translation can be found in Foster 2005: 790–813. 2.  TCL 3: lines 192–93; cf. Foster 2005: 801. 3.  TCL 3: lines 18–22; cf. Foster 2005: 792.

57

58

City and Countryside in Ancient Mesopotamia

embarrassing lifelessness of schematized figures.” 4 When we look at the depiction of the natural environment in Assyrian reliefs, we have to agree. At best, one could say the representation is summary: Mountains are piles of scales with some trees on them, deserts empty spaces, and perhaps most detail appears in aquatic settings. Marshes are shown with abundant reeds and stereotypical water creatures, such as fish and crabs. These we also see in the seas, but the naturalism is deceptive. A closer look shows that it is a world of fantasy also inhabited by mythical figures. It is not that the artists lacked the skills to be realistic—Assyrian sculptors produced some masterpieces of realism—they lacked the will to do so. Mesopotamian literature shows no appreciation of the countryside—bucolics did not exist. Outside the city walls, the world was a dangerous place, best to avoid. Among other things, it was the realm of ghosts, 5 and incantations intended to drive away evil spirits urged them to go back there. To quote one example: Evil Utukku-demon to your steppe! Evil Alū-demon to your steppe! Evil ghost to your steppe! Evil Sheriff-demon to your steppe! . . . Stop encircling (the victim) in the dark in the middle of a city, or surrounding in the outskirts (but) go off to the bottom of the Netherworld, and to your obscurity. Be adjured by    the great gods, so that you indeed depart. 6

Wild animals lived there as well. A vivid illustration of how the countryside was the world of the wild and the city the world of the civilized appears in the Epic of Gilgamesh, where it describes the civilization process of the hero Enkidu as a transition from the steppe to the city. Born a waldam ṣēri ‘a creature of steppe’, he evolved from enfant sauvage to civilized human being by having intercourse with a woman, eating cultivated food, and moving into the city. Wild things belong to nature; civilized humans belong to cities. There was nothing idyllic about living in nature. To be called a “mountain man” was an insult. 7 In Mesopotamian eyes, the city was a refuge, a place of order in the midst of chaos. This is clear from many sources, including descriptions of cities and their layout. I have argued this in an earlier publication for the city of Babylon as renovated in the sixth century BC—a massive architectural project under the auspices of the Neo-Babylonian dynasty. 8 Nebuchadnezzar II portrayed the city as rising up from the waters of the sea, like the ‘pure hill’ (du 6-kù in Sumerian, the name of a platform in Marduk’s Temple) that arose at the beginning of time, an event that began the course of creation in the Babylonian Creation Myth. That 4.  Oppenheim 1960: 134. 5.  Abusch 1999: 310; Janowski 1999: 897. See also Verderame 2011, and his discussion of “la periferia circostante.” 6.  Geller 2007: 224–25. 7.  Meissner 1916. 8.  Van De Mieroop 2003.

Marc Van De Mieroop

59

myth provides a clear idea of how the Mesopotamians saw the process: creation was organization, putting order into chaos. The myth starts at the time when only the primordial ocean existed, the sea being personified by the goddess Tiamat. When she decided to annihilate the other gods, they chose the young god Marduk as their champion. He defeated Tiamat and used her body “sliced in two, like a fish for drying” 9 to fashion the universe. The culmination of creation was when the other gods, in recognition of Marduk’s great deeds, built the city of Babylon as his abode. In essence, the building of every city was a repetition of that creation. This is explicit in the building account of the city of Dur-Sharrukin, Sargon II’s new capital of the late eighth century, where he states: In front and back on both sides, I opened up eight city-gates into the eight wind-directions. 10

This enigmatic sentence can only be understood as a direct reference to the Babylonian Creation Myth, where Marduk, using Tiamat’s body, “opened up gates on both (sides of her) ribs” 11 when he created the vault of heaven. 12 The protective character of city walls is obvious: they are massive and, in visual representations, iconic of the city. Assyrian armies attacking cities confront large walls, and when defeated people offer signs of submission to the victorious king they hold small models of city walls. More depressing may have been the Assyrian practice of shaping metal braziers as city walls; with fires burning in them, they must been an eerie sight. The success of a city’s defenses was tested at the gates, which by definition have a paradoxical function: they protect and keep unwanted things out at the same time that they provide the only means of access for things wanted. Much effort went into making gates effective, both through their physical structure and through magical means. Babylon’s famous Ishtar Gate was efficient not only because of its layout and scale—potential attackers had to walk for 200 m between two high walls, from the top of which they could be easily bombarded—but also because of multiple magical factors. Its remains still show some 150 images of dragons and bulls, the symbols of the gods Marduk and Adad, while Nebuchadnezzar II wrote that he set up “fierce bulls of copper and frenzied dragons” 13—statues that are now lost. Following the rationale of the evil eye, captured hostile forces could be used to keep dangers away. The Assyrian kings Tiglath-Pileser I and Assur-belkala stated that they set up at the palace gate sculptures of two types of monsters: nāḫiru and burḫish. 14 The exact nature of these creatures eludes us, but it is clear that they were dangerous animals from the sea and from the mountains. In cosmic terms, they represented the chaos of the sea (Tiamat) and of the mountains (the 9.  Foster 2005: 462. 10.  Fuchs 1993: 42 and 295, line 66. 11.  Foster 2005: 463. 12.  Parpola 1995: 69 n. 1. 13.  George 1992: 339–40. 14.  Grayson 1991: 44 and 105.

60

City and Countryside in Ancient Mesopotamia

rebel lands). In mundane terms, they represented the foreign enemy territories of the Mediterranean Sea in the west and the Zagros Mountains in the east. 15 The creatures became the protection against the dangers they originally posed. Despite the focus on the urban center as the place where order existed, the Mesopotamians clearly had much interaction with areas outside the city walls. In fact, one can even argue that their manipulation of the countryside was one of the most intrusive in early world history and a precondition for the very existence of Mesopotamian civilization. 16 Simon Schama’s quip that “ancient Mesopotamia, all unknowing, begat global warming” 17 identifies correctly the moment when a reversal in the relationship between humans and nature occurred: whereas before the onset of urban society in southern Mesopotamia, nature dictated how humans could live, from the fourth millennium BC on, humans began to manipulate nature so that it could support urban habitation. The canalization projects, even if they were small-scale at first, brought about a much more radical alteration in the ecology of the region than was the case in contemporary Egypt, for example. We now learn that drainage of excess water may have been more important for early urbanization than bringing water to crops, 18 but this does not take away from the fact that humans changed the cycles of nature to enable agriculture. The inhabitants of southern Mesopotamia were not unaware that their canals turned an arid countryside into fertile land, and several kings boasted of the irrigation projects they commissioned. 19 Yet, besides these references to canals, there is very little writing about life in the nonurban areas reclaimed for habitation. References to á-dam ‘territory adjacent to a city’—incidentally, a word used in Sumerian texts but of Semitic origin 20—are scarce and almost always combined with the word for city, as if it had no independent existence. Also in the archaeological record, although remnants of canals are noticeable all over the southern Mesopotamian countryside, there is no evidence of monuments or the like that would have established a claim on the massive projects that the irrigation systems required. Perhaps the lack of preservation of visible remains in the nonurban environments of the region is to be blamed for this absence, but it remains a topic to be investigated whether southern Mesopotamian rulers left physical markers of their works in the countryside and how they would have done so. But I turn here to northern Mesopotamia, where nature provides more opportunities to leave stable signs of human manipulation, especially the mountain zones of modern southern Turkey and western Iran. Many ancient cultures, and more recent ones for that matter, not only used similar mountainous areas as the 15.  Maul 2000: 25–6. 16.  The best historical study of the developments is Liverani 2006 (Italian original, 1998). 17.  Schama 1995: 13. 18.  Pournelle 2007. 19.  E.g., Charpin 2002. 20.  Durand 1998: 293.

Marc Van De Mieroop

61

setting for architecture but integrated the natural features into their architectural projects. In the Near East, we only need to think of the rock sanctuary that the Hittites created at Yazilikaya near their capital, Hattusa, 21 or the Achaemenid Persian funerary complex at Naqsh-i-Rustam close to Persepolis. 22 Ancient Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans all used the natural setting to enhance the appeal of buildings and conversely turned nature into architectural space. The Assyrians did not leave the countryside untouched, and in recent years there has been renewed scholarly interest in the rock reliefs and freestanding stelae that they left behind in the early first millennium—some 50 of them known today. 23 These carvings at “symbolically charged places” 24 such as strategic mountain passes and springs were indeed intended to imprint a lasting mark on the natural environment and to draw it into the Assyrian imperial world as a place of cult or as a lieu de mémoire. 25 But they are relatively rare, on the periphery, and often remarkably inaccessible and nearly invisible. 26 When the Assyrians wanted to civilize a region, they did so by constructing cities, introducing the urban ideal. While the rock reliefs were markers of Assyrian activity in the countryside, they did not represent a radical manipulation of that countryside, a shaping of the natural environment. In this sense, the Assyrians seem to have been very different from their contemporary northern neighbors, the Urartians, who imposed fundamental changes on the mountain zones they controlled. 27 There was an exception to the Mesopotamian rule, however, a unique moment in urban planning when the city and its surroundings were merged into a single unit: Sennacherib’s rebuilding of Nineveh. Upon the death of his father, Sargon II, Sennacherib abandoned the latter’s vanity project Dur-Sharrukin and chose Nineveh as the new imperial capital. Albeit a venerable old city that had received much royal attention in the past, Nineveh had never been the administrative center of a vast empire, and Sennacherib set in motion a massive project to make it serve that purpose in proper—imperial—style. He extended the city boundaries, built new walls and gates, rearranged the internal layout, and constructed monumental buildings to house himself and his entourage. His “palace without a rival” was gigantic and artfully designed and decorated to flaunt the emperor’s ambitions. 28 Sennacherib situated it on top of a high platform, rising over the city walls to give a view of the countryside. 29 The building project lasted the king’s entire reign of

21.  Sagona and Zimansky 2009: 276–80. 22.  Ghirshman 1964: 225–27. 23.  E.g., Harmanşah 2007; and Shafer 2007. 24.  Harmanşah 2007: 190. 25.  Cf. Harmanşah 2007’s use of Pierre Nora’s concept (e.g., Nora 1996). 26.  Morandi 1988: 124–27. 27.  Smith 2003: 149–83. 28.  Russell 1991. 29.  Lumsden 2000: 816.

62

City and Countryside in Ancient Mesopotamia

more than two decades (704–681) and can be compared with Baron Haussmann’s reconfiguration of Paris in 19th-century Europe. 30 Sennacherib did not limit his activities to the city. He developed an elaborate canal system to bring water from the Zagros Mountains into Nineveh over a distance of up to 90 km, a project that took 15 years, involved several stages, and has been called the greatest engineering feat of ancient Mesopotamia. 31 At the head of the longest canals, he had rock reliefs carved on the mountainsides near the source at Maltai 32 on the western branch and at Bavian in the east. The latter location, developed in the final stage of the project, is unique because of the presence of inscriptions that describe the work. Sennacherib writes: At the mouth of the canal that I had excavated through the mountain, I established six steles on which I placed the images of the great gods, my lords, and set up the image of my lordship facing them. The entire work of my hands within Nineveh I had written out on them and left it forever for the kings, my descendants. 33

The 13 surviving reliefs do indeed show scenes of the king facing the gods and their symbols. At the feet of the cliff, structural remains were discovered, and the German scholar Walter Bachmann, who devoted much effort to recording them in the early 20th century, fancied the entire place as a summer residence for the king, with parks and artificially created waterfalls. Probably inspired by examples from other historical cultures, he portrayed it as a haven from the heat of the Tigris valley, made attractive through a combination of nature and art. 34 Later research by Seton Lloyd and Thorkild Jacobsen downgraded the remains to parts of a weir, dismissing all ideas of a rural retreat. 35 Sennacherib’s rock reliefs represent the most extensive visual manipulation of the countryside in ancient Mesopotamia. He linked the work at the sources of the canals to what he did in the city itself by turning the zones in between into agricultural fields, parks, and recreation areas, also watered by the newly built canal system. In these areas, he settled deported populations to develop them for the benefit of the city. 36 Simultaneously, he brought aspects of the countryside into the city, laying out gardens and marshes within its walls. He thus merged city and countryside into a single unit. Sennacherib was not only innovative with his use of space within Nineveh, 37 he extended his new ideas beyond the city walls. The absence of similar projects by Sennacherib’s colleagues is startling. They withdrew into their cities and, rather than going out into the countryside to domesticate it, 30.  Smith 2003: 204. 31.  Reade 2000: 404–7; Ur 2005. Bagg (2000: 169) praises it as an engineering feat. 32.  Boehmer 1975. 33.  Bagg 2000: 353, lines 54–57. 34.  Bachmann 1927: 1. 35.  Jacobsen and Lloyd 1935. See also Bagg 2000: 219–20. 36.  Ur 2005. 37.  Lumsden 2000.

63

Marc Van De Mieroop

they brought some of it into their cities to show “domesticated” wilderness in the shape of parks and zoos. 38 These may have seemed wild, but they were not. One of the masterpieces of Assyrian relief sculpture and ostensibly a work of high naturalism is the depiction of Assurbanipal’s lion hunt from his North Palace at Nineveh. The agony of the dying lions is shown with unparalleled vividness, and someone looking at the detail of the king piercing a lion’s throat with his dagger may be awestruck by his courage and strength as a hunter in the wilderness. 39 But if we look at the entire relief, it becomes clear that the lions were released from cages and kept inside a confined space by armed shield bearers and dogs. No unexpected dangers faced the king here. This was pure theater, performed within the safety of the city. 40 Mario Liverani, who taught us that writing ancient Near Eastern history is not just paraphrasing what the ancient sources tell us, has regularly complained that we are too urban-focused in our perception of Mesopotamia. His primary concern in this respect has been the disregard for villages, an attitude exemplified by the Reallexikon der Assyriologie’s dismissal of the entry Dorf with a reference to Stadt. 41 There are no entries whatsoever for Landschaft and Natur in the same encyclopaedic work, an absence inspired by the ancient Mesopotamians’ silence on these topics. The Mesopotamians may have seen themselves as urbane and civilized, but this description was probably more conceit than reality. They encountered the natural environment often, many of them depended on it for multiple reasons, and they modified it radically. They approached nature with a certain fear, however, that led to a deafening silence in the written record and stands in contrast to the verbosity they displayed when activities in the urban environment were involved. Ancient Mesopotamia was indeed a “heartland of cities,” 42 but an urban history that ignores its countryside fails to see the full picture. 43 38.  Novák 2002. The location of gardens outside the walls in his plans of Kalhu and DurSharrukin does not agree with the inscriptional evidence that places them within the cities. 39.  For detailed photographs, see Collins 2008: 96–141. 40.  Weissert 1997. 41.  E.g., Liverani 1999: 40 n. 18. 42.  Adams 1981. 43.  Manuscript submitted in October 2011.

References Abusch, T. 1999 Etemmu. Pp. 309–12 in Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible. Edited by K. van der Toorn, B. Becking, and P. W. van der Horst. Leiden: Brill / Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Adams, R. McC. 1981 Heartland of Cities: Surveys of Ancient Settlement and Land Use on the Central Floodplain of the Euphrates. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

64

City and Countryside in Ancient Mesopotamia

Bachmann, W. 1927 Felsreliefs in Assyrien, Bawian, Maltai und Gundük. WVDOG 52. Leipzig: Hinrichs. Bagg, A. 2000 Assyrische Wasserbauten: Landwirtschaftliche Wasserbauten im Kernland Assyriens zwischen der 2. Hälfte des 2. und der 1. Hälfte des 1. Jahrtausends v. Chr. BagF 24. Mainz am Rhein: von Zabern. Boehmer, R. M. 1975 Die neuassyrischen Felsreliefs von Maltai (Nord-Irak). Jahrbuch des deutschen archäologischen Instituts 90: 42–82. Charpin, D. 2002 La politique hydraulique des rois paléo-babyloniens. Annales: Histoire, Sciences Sociales 57: 545–59. Collins, P. 2008 Assyrian Palace Sculptures. London: British Museum Press. Durand, J.-M. 1998 Documents épistolaires du palais de Mari II. LAPO 17. Paris: Cerf. Foster, B. 2005 Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature. 3rd edition. Bethesda, MD: CDL. Fuchs, A. 1993 Die Inschriften Sargons II. aus Khorsabad. Göttingen: Cuvillier. Geller, M. J. 2007 Evil Demons: Canonical Utukkū Lemnūtu Incantations. Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. George, A. R. 1992 Babylonian Topographical Texts. Louvain: Uitgeverij Peeters. Ghirshman, R. 1964 The Arts of Ancient Iran. New York: Golden Press. Grayson, A. K. 1991 Assyrian Rulers of the Early First Millennium BC I. RIMAP 2. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Harmanşah, Ö. 2007 ‘Source of the Tigris’: Event, Place and Performance in the Assyrian Landscapes of the Early Iron Age. Archaeological Dialogues 14: 179–204. Jacobsen, T., and Lloyd, S. 1935 Sennacherib’s Aqueduct at Jerwan. OIP 24. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Janowski, B. 1999 Wild Beasts. Pp. 897–98 in Dictionary of Deities and Demons in the Bible. Edited by K. van der Toorn, B. Becking, and P. W. van der Horst. Leiden: Brill / Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Liverani, M. 1999 The Role of the Village in Shaping the Ancient Near Eastern Rural Landscape. Pp. 37–47 in Landscapes: Territories, Frontiers and Horizons in the Ancient Near East: Papers Presented to the XLIV Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Venezia, 7–11 July 1997. Edited by L. Milano et al. HANEM 3/1. Padua: Sargon. 2006 Uruk: The First City. Edited and translated by Z. Bahrani and M. Van De Mieroop. London: Equinox. Lumsden, S. 2000 On Sennacherib’s Nineveh. Pp. 815–34 in Proceedings of the First International Congress on the Archaeology of the Ancient Near East, Rome, May 18th–23rd 1998. Edited by

Marc Van De Mieroop

65

P. Matthiae et al. Rome: Università degli studi di Roma “La Sapienza,” Dipartimento di scienze storiche, archeologiche e antropologiche dell’antichità. Mayer, W. 1983 Sargons Feldzug gegen Urartu. MDOG 115: 65–132. Maul, S. 2000 Der Sieg über die Mächte des Bösen: Götterkampf, Triumphrituale und Torarchitektur in Assyrien. Pp. 19–46 in Gegenwelten zu den Kulturen Griechenlands und Roms in der Antike. Edited by T. Hölscher. Munich: Saur. Meissner, B. 1916 Die Assyrer und die Natur. Assyriologische Forschungen 1: 1–18. Morandi, D. 1988 Stele e statue reali assire: Localizzazione, diffusione e implicazioni ideologiche. Mesopotamia 23: 105–55. Novák, M. 2002 The Artificial Paradise: Programme and Ideology of Royal Gardens. Pp. 443–60 in Sex and Gender in the Ancient Near East. Edited by S. Parpola and R. M. Whiting. Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. Nora, P. 1996 General Introduction: Between Memory and History. Pp. 1–20 in Realms of Memory: The Construction of the French Past. Edited by P. Nora and L. D. Kritzman. New York: Columbia University Press. Oppenheim, A. L. 1960 The City of Assur in 714 B.C. JNES 19: 133–47. Parpola, S. 1995 The Construction of Dur-Sharrukin in the Assyrian Royal Correspondence. Pp. 48– 77 in Khorsabad, le palais de Sargon II, roi d’Assyrie: Actes du colloque organisé au musée du Louvre par le Service culturel les 21 et 22 janvier 1994. Edited by A. Caubet. Paris: La Documentation française. Pournelle, J. R. 2007 KLM to CORONA: A Bird’s-Eye View of Cultural Ecology and Early Mesopotamian Urbanization. Pp. 29–62 in Settlement and Society: Essays Dedicated to Robert McCormick Adams. Edited by E. C. Stone. Los Angeles: Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, University of California / Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Reade, J. E. 2000 Ninive (Nineveh). Pp. 388–433 in vol. 9 of RlA. Russell, J. M. 1991 Sennacherib’s Palace without Rival at Nineveh. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sagona, A., and Zimansky, P. 2009 Ancient Turkey. London: Routledge. Schama, S. 1995 Landscape and Memory. New York: Knopf. Shafer, A. 2007 Assyrian Royal Monuments on the Periphery: Ritual and the Making of Imperial Space. Pp. 133–59 in Ancient Near Eastern Art in Context: Studies in Honor of Irene J. Winter by Her Students. Edited by J. Cheng and M. H. Feldman. Leiden: Brill. Smith, A. T. 2003 Political Landscape: Constellations of Authority in Early Complex Polities. Berkeley: University of California Press. Thureau-Dangin, F. 1912 Une relation de la huitième campagne de Sargon. TCL 3. Paris: Geuthner.

66

City and Countryside in Ancient Mesopotamia

Ur, J. 2005 Sennacherib’s Northern Assyrian Canals: New Insights from Satellite Imagery and Aerial Photography. Pp. 317–45 in Nineveh: Papers of the 49th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale. Edited by D. Collon and A. George. London: British School of Archaeology in Iraq. Van De Mieroop, M. 2003 Reading Babylon. AJA 7: 257–75. Verderame, L. 2011 L’immagine della città nella letteratura sumerica. Pp. 99–126 in Città nel Vicino Oriente e nel Mediterraneo: Linee di storie e di simboli dall’antichità ad oggi. Edited by R. Dolce and A. Pellitteri. Palermo: Flaccovio. Weidner, E. 1937–39  Neue Bruckstücke des Berichtes über Sargons achten Feldzug. AfO 12: 144–48. Weissert, E. 1997 Royal Hunt and Royal Triumph in a Prism Fragment of Ashurbanipal. Pp. 339–58 in Assyria 1995. Edited by S. Parpola and R. M. Whiting. Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project.

Mesopotamian Cities in Comparative Perspective, Briefly: An Appreciation Norman Yoffee

According to Mario Liverani’s fantasy (1996), it is 2084, a time when Iraq/ Mesopotamia is a ruined and looted countryside. There are no archaeological sites except for one rumored to be in the bottom of a lake, the cities are polluted, the land subject to floods and wars. But looking further, we see in 2084 that scholars of Mesopotamia in Rome—historians, archaeologists, and philologists—no longer belong the Dipartimento di scienze storiche, archeologiche e antropologiche but are simply members of the Umberto Eco Department of Semiotics. They teach that Mesopotamian literature and especially royal inscriptions were intended for an audience of inner elites and, during long lunches, the learned colleagues also confess their own modern biases. In the department, Mesopotamian studies have pride of place since Mesopotamia is a laboratory for the study of how ideologies flourish and fail. The success of the Dipartimento Eco is such that all Italian school children in 2084 study the history of Mesopotamia in order to understand their own world in its historical depth. Students in the Dipartimento Eco are required to read Comte de Volney’s Les ruines, ou méditations sur les révolutions des empires (1791). Volney describes a traveler passing though the Near East who is confronted by the monumental ruins along the Nile and Tigris. He then sees a vision of the future in which devastated urban landscapes line the banks of the Seine and the Thames. Writing in the wake of the French Revolution and the Terror, the moral is clear: the constructions of tyrants are condemned to oblivion. Volney’s argument, prefiguring Michelet, is that people are more important than leaders. For the Mesopotamianists in the Dipartimento Eco, the message is about the purpose of ancient studies. The organizers of the Liverani Conference assigned me the topic (in our theme of nonsolostoria) of antropologia e storia. Since anthropology is notoriously hard to define, I rely on Mario Liverani’s working definition: anthropology is the “study of differences in human behavior and culture through time and space” (Liverani 1996: 287). In this essay, I take up certain cultural differences with respect to the study of ancient cities in order to consider Mesopotamian cities in comparative perspective. This is a subject that owes a great deal to Mario’s work. In 1986, he wrote L’origine della città, in 1987, “La città vicino orientale antica,” in 1998, Uruk: 67

68

Mesopotamian Cities in Comparative Perspective, Briefly: An Appreciation

La prima città (translated by Zainab Bahrani and Marc Van De Mieroop in 2006), in 1997, “The Ancient City: Near Eastern City and Modern Ideologies” in the book Die altorientalische Stadt, edited by E. Wirth (apparently the editor did not read Mario’s essay too closely, since it rebuts the very idea of an altorientalische Stadt), and in 2008, the article “Stadt” in RlA. Only Marc Van De Mieroop (1997) has taken up the topic of Mesopotamian cities with the same scope as Mario (and see May and Steinert 2014; Yoffee 2015). Most recently, Mario has cast the study of cities in comparative and theoretical perspective (Liverani 2013). My own favorite Mesopotamian city is Kish. Kish began as two separate villages (see maps in Gibson 1972; and Moorey 1978) about 3000 BC, near the ostensibly more important town of Jemdet Nasr (Englund and Grégoire 1991; Matthews 2002) only about 25 km from Kish, where a large building, nearly 100 m in length, was partly excavated. On the basis of the texts found there, which are in style identical to the Uruk III stage of writing at Uruk itself, we infer that central Mesopotamia shared with the south important aspects of a roughly similar culture—this is in spite of certain claims of ethnic and cultural difference between southern and central Mesopotamia. In 2500 BC, Kish was the greatest city in the world. In east Kish, Tell Ingharra, there were these roughly contemporaneous structures: Palace A, twin ziggurats, an elite cemetery, and a fortified building (the “plano-convex building”). Perhaps there was a ceremonial boulevard connecting them; this is pure speculation, but it is based on a ceremonial road of this sort, the calle de los muertos, in the great city of Teotihuacan in south-central Mexico, and on known processional ways in much later Mesopotamian cities. Also from Kish, there is the first Mesopotamian royal inscription (Steinkeller 2013). The gist of the inscription is a tally of places that were subject to Zababa, the patron deity of Kish. It dates to the Early Dynastic I, if not earlier. The role of “kings of Kish” in mid-third-millennium Mesopotamia is well known, as are references to Kish in the Sumerian King List and in Mesopotamian literature, and do need recapitulation here. From its highpoint before Agade, Kish persisted as a satellite to its neighbors for the next 3,000 years and suffers an ironic fate today, now (or, for a time) protected (if this is the right word) as an American military base. How do we know that Kish was the “greatest city in the world in 2500 BC”? In this case, we can look at archaeological evidence (if briefly) from around the globe (as I have attempted to do, Yoffee 2005). In Egypt, there were of course cities, and we can trace the evolution of some of them, notably Hierakonpolis. But Mario (1990) has argued that Egypt, unlike Mesopotamia, was a territorial state, its political borders more or less congruent with the cultural extent of Egypt. Much of the structure of cities was dedicated to displays of royal power and religious ceremony, especially mortuary displays, and administration in cities was concerned with managing these displays and the labor to build and maintain edifices of royal and ritual power, as John Baines has written (see Baines and Yoffee 1998).

Norman Yoffee

69

In northern China, cities predate the Shang Dynasty and its immense capital at Anyang. But in 2500 BC, the largest sites in the Longshan period were sparsely populated, although enormous in the extent of space marked and sometimes walled. By 1200 BC, the largest city in the world was surely at Anyang, now calculated to encompass 35 km2 and with perhaps 200,000 inhabitants. Contrasting with early Mesopotamian cities, however, cities of the Shang period were ephemeral, quickly built, home to many bronze workshops, royal and nonroyal cemeteries, palaces, and neighborhoods, and then just as quickly abandoned. In the Indus region of southern Asia, sites such as Mohenjo Daro and Harappa flourished in about 2500 BC but were smaller than Kish. Especially at Mohenjo Daro, we have evidence of city planning, neighborhoods in various mounds, plumbing installations, and public arenas for celebrations of city and state. What we do not find are palaces and royal burials. In the New World, one of the largest cities in the world in AD 200 was Teoti­ huacan, covering about 20 km2, and with at least 100,000 people. The ceremonial center of the city is clearly marked, and Mexican and international teams have surveyed the city comprehensively, having worked there for nearly a century. We know of barrios, neighborhoods, some of them occupied by ethnic groups. It is thought that, perhaps like Harappan cities, Teotihuacan may have been governed by an oligarchy of some sort. Contemporary Mayan cities to the south were like Mesopotamian cities, mainly politically independent, culturally interlinked, and usually at war with their neighboring city-states. Mayan cities were filled with royal tombs, palaces, and images of kings. Although there were Mayan kings, we also know of councils and council houses in Mayan sites. Why should such comparative studies of cities be appropriate to the Dipartimento Eco (and its study of Mesopotamia)? For anthropological archaeologists and world historians, this sort of comparison does not require justification. Mario, for example, in his article “Stadt” in RlA (and in his Immaginare Babele, 2013), reviews urban studies from Fustel de Coulanges to the Chicago urbanologists (although Mario emphasizes the work of V. G. Childe). The latter urban sociologists and geographers influenced Robert Adams, who made the study of Mesopotamian cities and civilization a normal part of the curriculum of anthropology departments in America. Although I cannot comment further on the history of urban studies (see Yoffee 2015), I want to review some important questions that can only be answered on the basis of comparative studies—namely: How and why did cities evolve? What are the distinctive qualities of cities in places where they evolved? And what is the meaning of cities? My comments will be brief, not more than a prolegomenon to the subject (Yoffee 2009), and I conclude with a contrasting example—of a city that is not comparable with Mesopotamian cities. From the surveys of Robert Adams (Adams 1981) and analyses by Susan Pollock (2001) and others, it is apparent that the settlement system in Mesopotamia

70

Mesopotamian Cities in Comparative Perspective, Briefly: An Appreciation

evolved from a few small sites that were fairly evenly spaced along watercourses in the late Ubaid and early Uruk periods around 4000 BC, to one of a few large sites, such as Uruk in the south, with a number of towns and villages surrounding them. Then, in the course of the third millennium, smaller sites decrease in number as conurbations grew. Although this process is usually called “urbanization,” it can also be termed “ruralization.” That is, in this demographic process in which villagers moved into cities, the countryside was created. A village is not a village is not a village—since villages in the early, preurban fourth millennium BC were unlike villages in the third millennium, which were socially, economically, and politically related to cities. Furthermore, we can see that this demographic change was relatively rapid, and thus Childe’s term “urban revolution” is apt. Mario has discussed this in a number of his articles on cities, and I shall return to it below. Here, it is important only to emphasize that the countryside was reinvented after the apogee of urbanization in the mid-third millennium. On the basis of comparative information, we can see that the twin processes of urbanization and ruralization occurred in a number of places where the survey data allow us to draw conclusions. In the early periods in the valley of Teotihuacan, one sees the development of larger centers with surrounding towns and villages, and in later ones the creation of the metropolis of Teotihuacan, a leading center in its region (see Yoffee 2005 with references). A similar process can be followed in southern Peru at Wari, where a large city grew while its countryside became relatively depopulated. What is the meaning of this demographic transformation that includes the evolution of the earliest cities? As I have surmised (Yoffee 2005), early cities were nodal points of pilgrimages, exchange, storage and redistribution, and centers for defense and warfare. In the earliest cities, social groups that were differentiated— that is, inhabitants from various places and with their own social structures and belief systems—were recombined (as Maurice Godelier [1986] has described the new social order). New identities as citizens were created; and this point has significance in urban studies, in a reflection of Max Weber’s work on selbststaendige Gemeinden, as Mario has discussed in his RlA article. But these new identities did not supplant existing relationships, because people were still members of ethnic, kin, and economic groups. Certain aspects of identity were also forged with citizens of other cities, who shared a common, if created, heritage, and these were maintained and reproduced over time. We see aspects of this cultural reproduction in Mesopotamia in the transmission of cultural texts—god lists, city lists, and other texts in the school tradition—in various cities that were political rivals. We also see these “civilizational” commonalities in material culture, especially clearly in Harappan cities, whose architecture, planning, pottery, script, system of weights and measures are conspicuously similar across hundreds of kilometers. We see the process also in second-millennium China, where city planning and bronze crafts, highly linked to developing elite status, were developing. We can

Norman Yoffee

71

also cite similar civilizational commonalities among the earliest Mayan cities: nearly identical material culture, the ceremonial organization of cities (which form “cosmograms” in which the universe is symbolized in the quadrants of cities), an identical writing system, decorated ceramics, and so on. Thus, the early civilizations tend to consist of city-states, not as a single political, territorial state. But there are exceptions, notably in ancient Egypt, as is well known. In the earliest cities, new rituals and ceremonies connected rulers with citizens and the gods. These displayed and justified the supremacy and legitimacy of kings and reaffirmed command over the social order. The social roles and practices of citizens were routinized within the urban layout of monumental constructions, streets and pathways, walls and courtyards. The built environment itself demonstrated the superior access to knowledge and planning held by the rulers, ostensibly on behalf of all. Statecraft in the earliest cities involved providing an order for the present, which the rulers relentlessly proclaimed in literature and in a created landscape that overlay the unruliness of society composed of many groups, each with its own interests and orientations. Much of this I have thought about before (Yoffee 2005) but am inspired, if this is the word, to rethink based on reading Mario’s various works on cities and his emphasis on Childe’s “urban revolution.” For Mario, Childe’s revolution depended not only on the production of surplus but the removal of surplus from families to corporate spheres—that is, to the great estates of temples and then palaces. Surplus was alienated from consumption by its producers to the storage and maintenance of administrators charged with coordinating labor. Whereas I agree with this materialist analysis (and who would not?), there is also an ideological aspect to the urban revolution. In countless ethnographies, we read that, in traditional societies, which in some form must resemble the prestate social formations in Mesopotamia and elsewhere, leadership is considered dangerous and accumulation of wealth is to be avoided. Potlatches and other wealth-sharing mechanisms show this repeatedly. Therefore, the new kinds of centralized leadership that we find in cities, such as I have outlined, are especially striking. In cities, new ideologies had to be created that insisted that leadership was not only possible but the only possibility (Yoffee 2005). Cities and kingship had always existed and were the products of divine ordinance. These new ideologies of statecraft set the rules for how leaders and would-be leaders should behave, and they created the symbols of the state that must be expensively guarded and reproduced along with the knowledge of how to maintain and display them. Cities were the environments in which new social interactions were created, new offices were invented, and monumental art was integral to the display of rulership. Cities rerouted the practical experiences of everyday life and incubated the new ideologies in which economic and social differences and bases of power could be expressed and contested. If states were thus created in cities, by state I mean foremost a state of mind.

72

Mesopotamian Cities in Comparative Perspective, Briefly: An Appreciation

What I mean by the importance of this ideological restructuring of the state can be illustrated by a comparison with an ideology that failed in the formation of a city. My example is from North America in the culture and time period called Mississippian. Cahokia is located about in the center of the continental U.S.A., near the modern city of St. Louis. About AD 1000, Cahokia was a small settlement, but in 50 years’ time, there was an explosion of building and migration from neighboring areas that resulted in Cahokia’s becoming the highest-ranking site in the region (Pauketat 2009). Central in the site is Monk’s Mound, an enormous earthen pyramid, on the top of which are “temples”—that is, charnel houses of the ancestors of Cahokia’s rulers. These rulers grounded their power in ritual. In Mound 72, there are two burials of elite males, the bodies of which are covered by bead capes in the shape of falcons. Accompanying these burials are dozens of retainers and/or captives. In front of Monk’s Mound is a huge plaza where ceremonies of state took place. The population of Cahokia proper is estimated to be around 15,000 souls, and the greater Cahokia area, much destroyed by modern construction may have included a number other major villages and a population of around 50,000. At Cahokia, there are workshops, trade items, polychrome pottery decorated with symbols of the Cahokia polity, and there are council houses emblematic of local authority in and around Cahokia. Cahokia was, in short a city, the center of a regional state, a city like some of the cities I have described, and whose evolution looks much like the evolution of these cities. Cahokia, however, flourished barely 200 years and then collapsed, and this collapse is as important as its sudden rise, especially for our considerations of why Mesopotamian, and other cities in the early states I have limned, survived, persisted, changed, regenerated. The reasons for collapse, which I shall outline, are speculations, in part my own and in part what I have learned especially from the work of Tim Pauketat and others. In contrast to demographic changes resulting in an urban system, a restructuring of the countryside resulting in the phenomenon of ruralization, the development of differentiated and stratified society, the appearance of an agricultural surplus in maize, which came from the south into the American Middle West only a century or two before the Big Bang at Cahokia—one thing did not change. And that is how the nature of political authority and leadership was conceived. We can recognize from the symbols of rulers in art and in burial practices that elites, especially ritual leaders, owed their power to their rank in a high-status lineage, in other words to the existing kinship system. The kinship system, it appears, did not change at the time that new social and economic forces emerged in the growth of Cahokia. To put it another way, the ideology of leadership, the rules for getting power and reproducing power and for contesting power did not change at Cahokia. Absent this ideological change—of the sort I have been describing that did happen in Mesopotamia and elsewhere—the forces of competition at Cahokia, from various ethnic groups in and around Cahokia and from enemies, brought

Norman Yoffee

73

Cahokia to a rapid end. The site was abandoned as people (labor) migrated from the region, founded new sites, and celebrated new rites (known as the Southeastern Ceremonial Complex). Given enough time and lack of European invasions of the Americas, one can confidently suppose that new cities would have evolved, and the new institutions developed would have led to their durability. We shall never know. But, for our present purposes, we can learn something about what is vital in the evolution of cities from instances in which cities faltered and failed. In a recent book of collected essays on cities, the editor, Monica Smith (1998), has asserted that there is much to be learned from studies of modern cities about how ancient cities looked and functioned. For me, this statement must be qualified or problematized. However, even this sort of comparison can lead us to ask what sorts of things are not often asked about ancient cities and how and why they are different from modern cities (aside from the obvious technological differences). Again, Mario has introduced such discussions in his article on cities in the RlA, and he has also discussed significant differences in Mesopotamian cities, at least on the basis of the kind of information that has been recovered from cities such as Nippur, Ur, and Larsa—to limit the discussion only to the southern part of Mesopotamia. Cities, of course, are human environments, not just collections of architectural structures, and ultimately to describe an urban landscape one needs to consider the experiences of the people that built it and used it. In the earliest cities, we must imagine—and control this imagination by reference to other ancient cities and more recent ones—that there were new and importunate sights, sounds, and smells that surpassed anything previously known. In Dell Upton’s new book (2008) on the early cities in the American republic, the author notes the “oceans of fetor” that flooded pre–Civil War cities—that is, cities whose extent and population may be suggestive of life in more ancient cities. He describes the tanneries, distilleries, slaughterhouses, and fat-rendering plants whose stenches permeated the urban air. Added to this was the smell of animals that shared cities with people. Most cities had no drainage systems (though cities in the Harappan region did have sewers), and garbage was thrown into the streets. As Mario has noted, many of these technologies and features can be found in descriptions of Mesopotamian cities. Undeniably, in early cities there was a sheer sensory overload of urban life, the mixed throngs, crowded streets and neighborhoods, the crucible within which city dwellers formed a sense of what it meant to be a citizen. I could go on, but I think the point is clear (at least if we assume that anthropology and history are disciplinary sisters, as they are in Dipartimento Eco in Rome): we must model cities on the basis of information we have and comparative data. These models will remain speculations, of course, but if we cannot see and smell a city, we also cannot know certain critical things about it. Agent-based modeling and 3-D visualizations, which have been used to visualize Mesopotamian villages and lands by the Chicago group (Christiansen and Altaweel 2005), need to be extended to other Mesopotamian cities.

74

Mesopotamian Cities in Comparative Perspective, Briefly: An Appreciation

I conclude with a last comparison and a moral. A Mayan scholar once proclaimed that Mayan royal inscriptions were not historical. She argued, for example, that an inscription by a lord of the city of Palenque that described the ruler’s biography— his reign, his age, and accomplishments—was fiction. Biological studies of the king’s skeleton showed that he died far younger than the age attributed to him in his inscription. And it could also be shown that Palenque was subject to another city during the king’s rule, which contradicted claims in the inscription. Thus, the inscription was not real history. But, in the Dipartimento Eco of Mesopotamian studies, such an opinion of what is history would be dismissed. History is not simply what happened: events arranged in chronological order and conclusions that some documents are “wrong.” History is as much about claims and symbols and representations and ideologies as it is about deeds, especially of kings. Of course, this is what Mario Liverani has taught us over the years and why anthropologists number Mario as one of their own.

References Adams, R. 1982 Heartland of Cities. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Baines, J., and Yoffee, N. 1998 Order, Legitimacy, and Wealth in Ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia. Pp. 199–260 in Ancient States. Edited by G. Feinman and J. Marcus. Santa Fe, NM: School of American Research Press. Christiansen, J., and Altaweel, M. 2005 Modeling Ancient Settlement Systems with the ENKIMDU Simulation Framework. oi.uchicago.edu/OI/PROJ/MASS/papers/BrazilSFI2005. Englund, R., and Grégoire, J.-P. 1991 The Proto-Cuneiform Texts from Jemdet Nasr. Berlin: Mann. Gibson, McG. 1972 The City and Area of Kish. Coconut Grove, FL: Field. Godelier, M. 1986 The Mental and the Material: Thought, Economy, and Society. Translation by M. Thom. London: Verso. Liverani, M. 1986 L’origine delle città: Le prime comunità urbane del Vicino Oriente. Rome: Riuniti. 1987 La città vicino orientale antica. Pp.  57–85 in Modelli di città: Strutture e funzioni politiche. Edited by P. Rossi. Turin: Einaudi. 1990 Prestige and Interest: International Relations in the Near East, ca. 1600–1100 B.C. Padua: Sargon. 1996 Ancient Propaganda and Historical Criticism. Pp. 283–89 in The Study of the Ancient Near East in the Twenty-First Century. Edited by J. Cooper and G. Schwartz. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. 1997 The Ancient Near Eastern Cities and Modern Ideologies. Pp. 85–107 in Die Orientalische Stadt: Kontinuität, Wandel, Bruch. Edited by G. Wilhelm. Berlin: Deutsche Orient-Gesellschaft. 1998 Uruk: La prima città. Rome: Laterza. (Translated by Z. Bahrani and M. Van De Mie­ roop, Uruk: The First City. London: Equinox, 2006.)

Norman Yoffee

75

2008 Stadt. Pp. 50–74 in vol. 13 of RlA. 2013 Immaginare Babele: Due secoli di studi sulla città orientale antica. Rome: Laterza. May, N., and Steinert, U., eds. 2014 Aspects of Urbanism, Urban Topography, and Society in Mesopotamia, Greece, and Rome. Leiden: Brill. Moorey, P. R. S. 1978 Kish Excavations 1923–1933. Oxford: Clarendon. Pauketat, T. 2009 Cahokia: An Ancient American Great City on the Mississippi. New York: Penguin. Pollock, S. 2001 The Uruk Period in Southern Mesopotamia. Pp. 181–232 in Uruk Mesopotamia and Its Neighbors: Cross-Cultural Interactions in the Era of State Formation. Edited by M. Rothman. Santa Fe, NM: School of American Research Press. Smith, M., ed. 1998 The Social Construction of Ancient Cities. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press. Steinkeller, P. 2013 An Archaic ‘Prisoner Plaque’ from Kish. RA 107: 131–57. Upton, D. 2008 Another City: Urban Life and Urban Spaces in the New American Republic. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Van De Mieroop, M. 1997 The Ancient Mesopotamian City. Oxford: Clarendon. Volney, C.-F. 1791 Les ruines, ou méditations sur les révolutions des empires. Paris: Desenne. Yoffee, N. 2005 Myths of the Archaic State: Evolution of the Earliest Cities, States, and Civilizations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 2009 Making Ancient Cities Plausible. Reviews in Anthropology 38/4: 264–89. Yoffee, N., ed. 2015 Cambridge World History, vol. 3: Early Cities in Comparative Perspective. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Du texte à l’histoire Jean-Marie Durand

Il est courant de répéter après Aristote «  une hirondelle ne fait pas le printemps », mais, pour paraphraser cette affirmation devenue proverbiale, « un texte fait-il l’histoire  ?  ». On aurait bien l’impression que si, puisque l’on établit une grande coupure entre Pré-histoire et Histoire au moment de l’apparition de l’écriture, au point que si jamais une technique permettait un jour de dater la plus ancienne tablette on saura dès lors au jour près la date de naissance de Clio, ce qui la distinguera des autres muses qui existent sans doute de toute éternité. C’est dans la fin du IVe millénaire que l’apparition de l’écrit fonde l’histoire, parce que l’État est dès lors apparu avec ses deux ancillaires, l’administration et la comptabilité. Il faut néanmoins dire que la documentation textuelle est alors comme un de ces gruyères dont les trous sont plus apparents que le fromage. Il n’est que de constater la difficulté des interprétations, les lacunes textuelles, les ruptures de l’information. En réalité, plus on prend du champ par rapport à de telles données, moins on distingue les détails et plus la vision globale est nette. Tout ce domaine est affaire surtout de façon de voir les choses et la théorie a partie belle sur la philologie. Pour quasiment tout le IIIe millénaire, la situation ne change pas beaucoup, même si la documentation s’amplifie considérablement. En fait, aux approches des premiers temps de la recherche constituées surtout par le goût pour l’histoire de l’Art et celle de l’Architecture, s’est ajouté ces dernières décennies l’apport considérable de l’archéométrie qui a su récupérer une information négligée, pour ne pas dire méprisée jusqu’ici (que l’on songe que, pour une époque plus récente, les cuisines du palais de Mari étaient encore pleines lorsque l’inventeur de ses « trésors » Author’s note: Ce texte est très exactement celui qui a été lu devant Mario Liverani dans l’Aula de la Sapienza. Mes remerciements s’adressent d’abord au Maître qui m’a jugé digne de tenir en sa présence ces propos (qu’il n’a pas commentés), ensuite à mes collègues non mariologues qui ont eu la patience d’écouter mon discours que j’espère exempt d’apologétique, surtout à Maria Giovanna Biga qui a eu le talent de transformer en fête de l’amitié cette réunion de savants. Beaucoup des thèmes que j’aborde ont fait l’objet de discussions au fil du temps avec Dominique Charpin, mais la responsabilité de leur mise en forme ici n’incombe qu’à moi-même. Les deux espoirs de la mariologie que sont Michael Guichard et Lionel Marti, puis N. Ziegler qui a depuis longtemps rattrapé ses maîtres ont eu in fine le dévouement de vérifier la lisibilité de ces lignes.

77

78

Du texte à l’histoire

a procédé à leur fouille). Il faut accepter de considérer, pour ces hautes époques, les textes comme une espèce de documentation analogue à celle de l’archéométrie  ; elle se caractérise par son apport propre dans les domaines de la langue, de l’onomastique, de la religion, la plupart du temps parce qu’elle donne accès aux dénominations anciennes et indigènes. Au lieu du « seigneur à plumes », purement descriptif, on parle désormais de rois ou de divinités précises. À part cela, localement, il est indéniablement possible de constituer aujourd’hui, au gré des documentations locales des dossiers extrêmement nourris et complexes, tout comme un seul lieu d’inhumation peut faire crouler sous l’information : on assiste alors à un vol d’hirondelles, qui ne crée toujours pas le printemps. Le discours historique existe bien sur les hautes époques, mais comme un point de convergence de plusieurs approches, au sein desquelles la textuelle ne représente qu’un aspect, pas toujours le plus riche, ni le plus sûr, certainement pas le plus solide ni le plus définitif : Dungi est devenu Šulgi, puis se retrouve Sulger pour l’heure. La situation semble changer avec le second millénaire, car à cette époque il est possible d’envisager une sorte de discours historique global à partir des seuls textes et non plus en se fondant sur une convergence d’informations d’horizons divers, ce qui devrait rester néanmoins toujours l’objectif d’un vrai historien, même contemporanéiste. À ce propos, les textes de Mari donnent l’impression d’un commencement. Ils représentent, en effet, un véritable miracle de concentration de données textuelles, lesquelles ont dû d’ailleurs exister ailleurs aussi et seront peut-être trouvées un jour, ou du moins peut-on l’espérer. Dans ce centre politique majeur et non pas régional, capable de documenter non seulement la vaste région qui lui est humainement et politiquement rattachée mais aussi les autres centres contemporains  —  qui pour l’heure sont muets — on voit, grâce à l’abondance et à la diversité des renseignements, émerger même des sujets peu susceptibles statistiquement d’apparaître dans l’information écrite. Le fait vient surtout de ce que l’essentiel de la documentation y est ressérée sur 25 ans. Ce sont ces conditions très particulières qui permettent d’envisager, pour la première fois dans l’histoire de l’humanité, la question de savoir comment se servir d’une documentation textuelle pour écrire de l’histoire.

(A) (a) Tout part en fait d’une réforme de l’écriture, celle qui a été introduite au temps du roi Yahdun-Lîm vraisemblablement, à en juger par la date du changement. Malgré certains documents spectaculaires de cette époque, il est sûr aujourd’hui que la réforme n’a pas été faite en un jour, ni sans doute en réponse à une seule volonté réformatrice consciente, royale ou scribale, mais qu’elle s’est préparée lentement par toute une série de tâtonnements et de réalisations mixtes entre la façon locale d’écrire et le modèle extérieur à adopter, en l’occurrence vraisemblablement celui d’Ešnunna, avant que le saut ne soit fait. S’il y a eu bien saut qualitatif en définitive, il n’y a sans doute pas eu de révolution brutale mais une simple accélération, plus ou moins consciente, de procédés en marche.

Jean-Marie Durand

79

La réforme n’a d’ailleurs pas été générale ; on s’en rend compte maintenant. Les textes mariotes appelés shakkanakku relevaient d’une conception avant tout locale et d’intérêt immédiat, dans le droit fil de l’héritage du IIIe millénaire  :  restes aujourd’hui de paniers à tablettes où étaient stockées les activités du jour et du mois, ils n’avaient valeur classificatrice que dans l’ensemble du contenu du panier, non dérangés, ni récupérés, pour les contemporains qui les avaient faits, entassés et savaient quoi y trouver. Une fois désuets, ils n’avaient d’autre survie que par le biais du recyclage de leur matériau. Leurs survivants n’ont donc plus aujourd’hui qu’une valeur générale, pour ne pas dire surtout philologique, ce qui n’est certes pas nier leur utilité pour la recherche. La réforme, en introduisant, outre une nouvelle graphie standardisée au service d’une lingua franca — ce qui est le plus visible aujourd’hui, à la simple lecture puisqu’on a pensé un moment trouver dans les documents de Mari le témoignage de la « langue de Mari » — la notion de comput annuel, nous permet d’observer l’activité des contemporains sur plusieurs années et elle introduit des repères à partir desquels on peut aujourd’hui tenir un discours suivi ; ils ne sont plus uniquement ceux que pouvaient avoir les scripteurs et auxquels nous n’avons plus accès. L’historien de ces époques n’a pas à sa disposition de discours suivi (annalistique) ; il n’a pas d’autre moyen pour s’en faire le contemporain que de mettre sa documentation en relation avec d’autres d’origines différentes. Faire entrer ses agissements dans le temps est, même si l’on n’a plus le moyen de décider du degré de conscience que comportait un tel acte, au moins aussi important aujourd’hui pour ses conséquences que la décision de participer à une koïné culturelle, fait qui a peut-être été surtout senti à l’époque comme une inféodation politique de Mari au suzerain d’Ešnunna. En tout cas, la façon de faire locale héritée des temps anciens a perduré en fait dans les Bords-de-l’Euphrate pendant encore tout le règne de Zimrî-Lîm ; il est facile désormais de voir qu’y appartient toujours la rédaction des textes des petits centres autour de Mari, comme Ṣubâtum — lieu de culte important de Dagan, mais régional — ou de ceux qui concernent une gestion domaniale, comme les archives d’un Sammêtar, ministre de Zimrî-Lîm, ramenées au Palais après la mort de l’homme politique, ou encore certains dossiers, comme celui de la viande dont les motivations seront étudiées par son éditeur, Lionel Marti. Un fait majeur est certainement que l’écriture des textes administratifs centraux du Palais de Mari s’est conformée à la réforme, ce qui aurait très bien pu ne pas être le cas. On en a ainsi l’exemple dans l’ancienne Tuttul où la seule lettre ancienne (antérieure au royaume de Haute-Mésopotamie) conservée ne répond pas aux critères de l’écriture des documents administratifs de type nettement shakkanakku. Cela est encore plus patent à Kültepe d’où l’on écrit à Mari selon des standards internationaux, alors que les marchands assyriens continuent à utiliser entre eux leur code interne, ou encore à Aššur d’où arrivent à Mari des lettres rédigées en parfait babylonien, non en dialecte local. On doit, cependant, réfléchir à ce que l’on peut espérer tirer de ces documents administratifs pour le travail de l’historien.

80

Du texte à l’histoire

Il est important d’introduire dans la présente problématique une différence essentielle, celle qui existe entre écriture et lecture. Ces tablettes sont certainement écrites par des virtuoses de l’écriture. Elles devaient néanmoins être consultables et contrôlées par des administratifs qui n’avaient pas pour cela obligatoirement une formation de très grands lettrés. Le plus souvent sous forme de tableaux, leur écriture est en fait très différente de celle des lettres : ces documents supposent ainsi une lecture par approche globale : repérage des énumérations d’items et des noms propres qui les accompagnent à quoi s’ajoute le mot clef qui donne le sens du texte (réception ou sortie). Ils abondent en notations idéogrammatiques précédées des chiffres qui leur sont propres, à la différence des lettres qui privilégient le phonétique ; les chiffres perpétuent par leur notation la ligature conceptuelle que constituent les notions de nombre et de matière : on n’écrit pas l’unité sans que cette dernière n’évoque la nature de ce qui est nombré, ce qui limite beaucoup l’affirmation que les chiffres ont été les premières conceptualisations de l’esprit humain. La lecture d’un texte administratif tient en fait au décryptage d’une information globale par le repérage de signes ou de nomenclatures vraisemblablement mémorisés « par cœur », ce qui n’est pas toujours le cas de lettres, même si ces dernières ont souvent été rédigées avec le souci d’y incorporer des aides pour leur lecture. On peut donc concevoir que la consultation d’un texte administratif d’enregistrement ne supposait pas automatiquement la possibilité de déchiffrer n’importe quel texte, mais avant tout permettait de contrôler un enregistrement. Il y a plus. Lorsque l’on constate que le mot clef « šu-ti-a » (« reçu ») peut être noté sur ces tablettes « šu-te-e », on se dit que le scribe devait prononcer à la mariote (où /ia/ donne /ê/) une séquence idéogrammatique qu’il ne « lisait » donc pas comme mahirtum ou melqîtum, ainsi que le propose le Manuel de R. Labat, ce qui fait le consensus des assyriologues. De là, d’ailleurs, l’étonnement corollaire que des mots techniques sumériens soient empruntés à Mari sous leur forme emesal, comme šušmarum, ce qui indique qu’ils y sont parvenus par voie d’oralité, non par mode écrit, et que l’emesal devait avoir une réalité vernaculaire. Certains textes donnent l’impression d’être des notes « en attente » ; il est difficile aujourd’hui d’en faire grand chose. Ils représentent en « graphie modernisée » l’ancienne conception du document écrit. (b) Quand l’on prend en considération le corpus nouveau qui découle de la réforme de l’écriture, écrit selon des normes « universalisées », on peut néanmoins avoir des doutes sur l’utilisation que l’on en peut faire aujourd’hui et sur ce que l’on peut espérer en tirer pour définir « l’économie palatiale ».  —  Un premier point : ces documents ne nous font jamais assister qu’à l’exploitation d’un stock, non à la constitution de ce dernier, même si nous avons des renseignements ponctuels (et fort intéressants) sur certains apports  ; les archives administratives de Mari relèvent de ce que l’on appellera à d’autres époques, les « comptes faits ».

Jean-Marie Durand

81

 —  Un second point : nous n’assistons jamais qu’à un moment d’une activité ; ainsi, le palais remet-il des coupons d’étoffes ou des quantités de laine brute, dont les particuliers usent ensuite à leur guise. Sauf exception, la plupart des soi disants «  noms d’habits  » sont en fait des «  nomenclature de finition  » et la notion de « forme » ne concerne que des exemplaires particuliers (archaïques ou rituels, surtout) ou des séries d’enregistrement (« chemises », « ceintures », « souliers »). Ainsi l’accoutrement du roi sur les « peintures du palais » ne préjuge-t-il pas de ce qu’il devait porter quotidiennement. Il manque, en effet, dans notre documentation tout l’apport visuel. Il est un fait qu’après les enregistrements exhaustifs de ARM 30 il soit toujours impossible de parler de « la sexualisation des habits », si ce n’est qu’une pièce d’équipement demandait pour une femme moins de matière première que pour un homme. Il s’agit en fait là de la notation, importante pour l’enregistrement, d’une quantité, donc d’une indication de valeur, non d’une spécificité. Le « matériau », du genre de nos « velours, soie, coton », est, effectivement « unisexe », ce qui ne devait pas être le cas de l’habillement dans cette société.  —  Un troisième point, le plus important peut-être, nous apparaît désormais : le texte administratif n’est en fait généré qu’à proximité du roi, ou au moins lorsqu’il est au palais. On note ainsi soigneusement l’endroit où se trouve Celui « devant qui » le texte est fait : « sur la terrasse, dans la cour, dans le hall entre la grand salle et la cour du Palmier, dans son appartement, dans la « chapelle d’Eštar . . . ». Cela est normal puisque, chaque fois, il s’agit, en fait, de la gestion de la maison du roi et que ce dernier agit en « père de famille » qui contrôle ce que l’on fait de son patrimoine. Ces notations notent des « moments » de la vie du roi, non la vocation du lieu où l’on a rédigé l’acte, à moins que des fréquences soient repérables. Lorsque le roi n’est pas là, en tout cas, les textes cessent au palais ; ce qui a été écrit pendant cette absence et dont le Palais garde la mémoire l’a été en réalité au cours du déplacement royal, toujours au contact du Maître, et ramené ultérieurement au palais qui l’archive. Nous avons ainsi des textes in absentia regis à partir desquels il est surtout possible en fait aujourd’hui de reconstituer la route suivie par le monarque, par exemple vers Hušlâ, ou vers Ugarit. Si c’est la présence du roi qui génère le texte c’est bien que le document ne représente pas uniquement un bilan économique, ce que l’on croit trop souvent et fort naïvement, en dissertant de façon générale sur la « gestion palatiale », mais avant tout la légitimation d’une activité devant le propriétaire des biens ou celui qui représente ses intérêts  ; il s’agit donc d’une administration domaniale où la notion d’État n’a aucune place, même si l’on reçoit et l’on traite un visiteur, éventuellement de rang royal. On ne peut pas imaginer qu’en l’absence du roi toute consommation cesse dans le palais de Mari ; il faut donc sans doute supposer que « l’autorité qui vérifie » en son absence se trouvait ailleurs qu’au palais et avait éventuellement ses propres archives. C’est ainsi que l’on peut comprendre qu’un des lieux (administratif, non cultuel !) majeurs pour la gestion du métal (déclarations de fabrication, vérification

82

Du texte à l’histoire

des alliages) soit la chapelle d’Eštar, soit la Salle 130 du palais. Il s’agit en fait d’un endroit consacré et ce qu’y font les administratifs qui y sont convoqués consiste surtout en déclarations solennelles d’activité, ce que l’on appelle alors des «  redditions de comptes », peut-être sous l’autorité auguste de la déesse, même s’il est difficile de savoir pourquoi c’est elle plus que la « Dame du palais » qui préside à ces activités. Plutôt que des textes de gestion économique, ces textes doivent donc être considérés comme des actes juridiques de justification d’activité. On ne le sait pas de façon explicite, mais, comme cela est probable à la lecture des lettres, ces documents doivent représenter un « accord de dépenses », allant éventuellement jusqu’au compromis, entre le roi et ses « facteurs », lesquels peuvent d’ailleurs représenter des intérêts privés. Il ne faut donc pas les tenir trop naïvement pour des résultats qui renseignent sur l’efficience d’une technique, mais plutôt comme un consensus normatif. Il est important de tenir compte de tous ces paramètres avant de « quantifier les documents » et de se lancer dans une « histoire économique de Mari », ou une théorisation de la « gestion palatiale ». On n’obtient d’après cette documentation que des fragments de la réalité, ce qu’il faut soigneusement garder en mémoire lorsque l’on traite de documents bien moins complets que ceux de Mari et où l’exception est volontiers « montée » (beaten) en norme.

(B) (a) En fait, l’intérêt majeur de Mari pour l’historien vient de son corpus de lettres et de leurs rencontres occasionnelles avec les documents administratifs qui facilitent (quelquefois, voire assez souvent) leur insertion dans la chronologie absolue. Leur importance aux yeux des anciens archivistes est montrée par le fait que, l’actualité des textes administratifs de l’époque du royaume de Haute-Mésopotamie étant passée, ces documents furent considérés comme inutiles et matériau à recycler, éventuellement dans une banquette de la cour 106, alors que les tablettes épistolaires de la même époque étaient, semble-t-il, toujours archivées dans le palais. S’il n’en a pas été de même pour les lettres de Yahdun-Lîm dont ne nous est parvenue qu’une toute petite partie, il faut tenir compte du hiatus chronologique entre ce roi et son successeur Yasmah-Addu, mais surtout, de l’ampleur du réaménagement opéré dans le palais : celui que A. Parrot a retrouvé représente en fait la bâtisse réaménagée sur l’ordre (et peut-être les conceptions ?) de Samsî-Addu, compte tenu de la façon dont Zimrî-Lîm l’a, en dernier lieu, utilisé. Les textes antérieurs à la reconstruction (d’époque shakkanakku ou du début du règne de Yahdun-Lîm) ont donc été retrouvés par les fouilleurs sous des sols, dans le palais, ou rejetés à l’extérieur, à la périphérie du palais. On constate aussi que, lorsque les Babyloniens ont occupé le palais de Mari, ils ont pris connaissance de ses archives épistolaires ; une partie de ces dernières a même été déménagée vers un lieu aujourd’hui inconnu, peut-être Babylone, si elle n’a pas été abandonnée en route.

83

Jean-Marie Durand

Il faut tenir compte donc de grands manques, mais, corollairement, on constate aujourd’hui que le palais de Mari contenait aussi des archives extérieures, qu’on y avait ramenées et qui doivent être aujourd’hui séparées des archives proprement palatiales. Deux exemples sont spectaculaires : la correspondance des rois mâr yamîna révoltés ou celle de Samiya, gouverneur pour Išme-Dagan de Šubat-Enlil. Peutêtre s’agit-il là de documents interceptés. Mais il faut également sortir des archives palatiales les « papiers » de Sammêtar ou ceux d’Asqûdum qui y avaient été inclus et qui brouillent le regard porté sur la « gestion palatiale ». Il ne m’apparaît plus sûr aujourd’hui qu’il faille se servir pour décrire les rituels de Mari des petits billets au seing d’Asqûdum du début du règne. (b) Il faut donc, pour l’exploitation de cette masse documentaire que les fouilles ont rendues dans le plus grand désordre, à la fois tenir compte des grands dossiers absents (surtout la correspondance d’ordre diplomatique de la fin du règne et les échanges avec les grandes cours du Proche-Orient, en général, sauf exemplaires erratiques et la plupart du temps mal conservés) et du fait qu’il y a des textes intrusifs dont une lecture naïve peut toujours entraîner sur de fausses pistes le lecteur moderne : j’ai ainsi longtemps cru que les « présages contre Zimrî-Lîm » racontaient les derniers moments de Yasmah-Addu, avant d’en comprendre la véritable situation historique qui concerne les débuts du règne de Zimrî-Lîm. Toute lettre qui n’est pas adressée directement au roi doit paraître suspecte, qu’elle lui ait été retransmise à des fins d’information, ou qu’elle ait fait l’objet d’une confiscation, éventuellement post mortem. (c) Le grand intérêt de cette littérature épistolaire tient néanmoins à son caractère prolixe, au fait qu’elle porte en elle-même son propre commentaire et qu’elle présente une réalité infiniment plus complexe que la documentation dite d’ordre administrative.

(C) Un moment décisif dans la prise de conscience de ce que représente la littérature épistolaire retrouvée à Mari consiste à constater qu’elle se répartit en deux corpus extrêmement distincts et dont il faut bien comprendre l’altérité. 1. D’abord, il y a la masse des lettres d’information simple : elles se caractérisent par une écriture facilitée : l’exposé suit un ordre qui oriente le lecteur du document et lui en facilite la compréhension. (a) Le sujet sur lequel on informe arrive immédiatement après l’adresse : il est indiqué alors par aššum + le référentiel. Le plus souvent c’est une réponse à une question du roi, développée par la citation explicite de la demande : « Au sujet de ce dont m’a parlé mon seigneur disant, etc. » Le discours direct est annoncé par ki’âm et conclu par annîtam (alors que les lettres paléobabyloniennes contemporaines montrent que tel n’est pas le bon usage en akkadien qui dit ki’âm . . . ki’âm). Le « premier discours » est annoncé par « umma référent-ma » et poursuivi par « ummâ-mi » qui énonce « le discours dans

84

Du texte à l’histoire

le discours ». Éventuellement, ce « discours dans le discours » peut être ponctué par la répétition de -mi. L’interrogation est marquée, outre l’allongement d’une voyelle, par la particule finale -ma-a. Tout un jeu de particules énoncent les degrés des probabilité, u (en tête de phrase et après un -ma de coordination), pîqat, assurrê, etc. Les différents sujets sont fortement marqués par šanîtam, quoique une lettre traite généralement d’un seul sujet  ; šanîtam fonctionne dès lors surtout pour marquer la progression de l’information ; certaines lettres de particuliers en usent comme on le ferait d’un waw hébraïque et l’expression adverbiale signifie souvent « et puis . . . ». Beaucoup de cela pourrait être rendu de nos jours par de simples marques graphiques et équivaut en réalité à des substituts de ponctuation, de façon analogue, inter alia, au iti qui termine un discours direct en sanscrit. On s’adresse toujours au roi à la 3e personne, alors qu’il est patent que l’usage parlé recourait exclusivement à la 2e personne. Le roi n’est jamais nommé par son nom propre mais référé par une forme du substantif bêlum ; s’il l’est, c’est qu’un étranger s’adresse à lui. (b) L’aide majeure pour la lecture d’une missive consiste dans le fait que l’on ne se lance pas dans un exposé sans répéter ce qui l’a motivé : la tablette cite dès lors les propos mêmes auxquels elle répond et fournit tout de suite un contexte clair, alors que la correspondance privée montre que l’on procède plutôt par allusions, renvoyant à un échange qui se poursuivait, de lettre à lettre (aššum annîm, « relativement à ce que tu sais », éventuellement en début de lettre). L’étude des parallèles, lorsque elle est possible, prouve néanmoins que, souvent, la citation des propos mêmes du roi est ad sensum et non les ipsissima verba. (c) Le trait essentiel de ces compositions, faites pour être comprises sans problème, est évidemment que le scripteur a procédé, préalablement, à une contraction et un ordonnancement de l’information : il va droit au but et ne se perd pas en digressions, d’où l’impression de monotonie qu’elles peuvent donner. (d) Le texte se clot par un appel à la décision royale présentée comme l’expression de sa toute puissance. Un codicille peut s’y ajouter néanmoins, sur un sujet rajouté à l’information du corps de la lettre. On a des idées sur la façon dont ces textes étaient rédigés à la consultation des mémorandums dont certains nous ont été gardés : énumération sèche des sujets à traiter avec rédaction précise d’une phrase importante, dont le libellé a dû faire l’objet de débats ou d’une réflexion. Nous ne pouvons naturellement jamais comparer mémorandum et lettre aboutie, puisque par définition ce qui a été écrit à quelqu’un se trouve hors de Mari. Il ne semble pas qu’il y ait jamais eu un archivage systématique de ce qui a été envoyé  ; la demande n’est connue que par l’écho que l’on en trouve dans la réponse qui lui est faite. S’il y a bien néanmoins de (très rares  !) copies (mehrum

Jean-Marie Durand

85

signifie « copie », mais aussi « réponse »), quelques lettres semblent n’avoir jamais été envoyées, sans doute parce qu’elles ont été reprises sous une autre forme qui, elle, a été expédiée. Ces missives se conforment fondamentalement à des formulaires scolaires qui ont servi d’apprentissage aux scribes de l’administration, où l’on a inséré des informations concrètes. Le stade ultime est atteint par les lettres de politesse, écrite pour ne « rien dire », ou « dire des riens » : « Je t’écris pour que tu m’écrives » en représente le « niveau zéro », petits billets qui valent une carte de visite actuelle, quand on en avait l’usage, ou encore les « letter-orders », à la limite de la note administrative personnalisée. Les premières ont l’extrême intérêt de montrer l’importance qu’a prise l’écrit dans cette société ; c’est ce qu’il faut tirer des pauvres billets envoyés, à l’occasion, par une reine à son royal époux. 2. À côté, il y a les lettres où l’information unique relève du sensationnel. (a) Manifestement, il faut que le roi soit informé, mais « transmettre l’information » en coûte beaucoup à l’expéditeur. L’autorité informatrice prend elle-même le calame sans plus passer par les scripteurs habituels. Tout va donc dépendre de sa propre formation scribale. Lorsqu’il s’agit d’un haut fonctionnaire, il n’y a généralement que les problèmes qui s’attachent à comprendre dans son concret une situation atypique. Si la philologie est correcte, manifestement, l’autorité ne sait pas comment rédiger : en témoignent les digressions, les reprises, les ratures, l’expression embarrassée et la crudité des propositions faites au roi, qui montrent que l’on « est entre soi ». Un sous-genre est constitué par les « lettres de récrimination » qui ont néanmoins, cependant, un incipit obligé damqâ ša têpušanni « Avec quelle amitié (DMQ) m’as-tu traité ! », ce qui avait l’avantage d’interpeler le destinataire plus sûrement que les ! ! qui peuvent débuter un de nos Emails. (b) La sorte la plus difficile à comprendre pour nous aujourd’hui est ce que nous avons appelé, sans doute à tort, « les lettres barbares ». S’y exprime directement une personne qui, manifestement, sait lire et écrire mais de façon non professionnelle, voire maladroite. Les exemples les meilleurs sont dus aux filles de Zimrî-Lîm, mariées au loin, qui exposent à leur père leurs doléances sans passer par le truchement d’un scribe de métier. Comment apprécier de tels documents ? Elles ne méritent le terme de « barbares » que par l’amoncellement des barbarismes qu’on y constate. On a cru d’abord à des singularités linguistiques et que l’on pourrait retrouver dans ces textes des traits de la langue locale, par derrière un akkadien mal maitrisé ; mais comment le croire quand c’est une princesse mariote qui s’adresse à son père ? En fait, toutes les valeurs employées dans ces documents sont bien connues, mais dans d’autres contextes que ceux où elles sont utilisées. Il apparaît maintenant que le même genre de fautes peut être fait par de hauts fonctionnaires mariotes de la Capitale, comme lorsque le gouverneur de Mari, Itûr-Asdu, utilise le signe NI pour noter un précatif. NI a bien une valeur LÍ, mais, selon l’usage de l’époque

86

Du texte à l’histoire

uniquement dans des séquences comme /NI-NI/ ou /BE-NI/, pour lesquelles, si elles doivent être réalisées phonétiquement, un vrai scribe utiliserait les séquences / NI-NE/ ou /BE-NE/, ce que nous rendons aujourd’hui par -ni-ni5 ou -be-ni5 ; les particularismes constatés ne sont donc en fait que des fautes qui relèvent d’un usage anarchique des conventions d’écriture cunéiformes  ; elles ne font qu’illustrer la non-pratique d’une saine orthographe. Elles montrent néanmoins, elles-aussi, la diffusion du cunéiforme chez les élites administratives ou autres. Il faut se souvenir qu’il est plus facile de déchiffrer (décodage) que d’écrire (encodage) lorsque l’on n’est pas expert dans une expression écrite ou dans une lettre, la « compréhension globale » étant plus facile que l’analyse philologique. De tels documents montrent la pratique de l’écriture dans les classes élevées, y compris chez les « dames de la bonne société ». 3. Un état intermédiaire entre les deux sortes de correspondance est occasionné par la nécessité de transmettre au roi la réalité des faits «  tels qu’ils se sont réellement passés  ». On dispose alors inter alia de la citation de propos verbatim. Le niveau change du tout au tout, même linguistiquement, et l’on passe du discours médiatisé par la politesse et la distanciation à la réalité la plus ignoble : ce sont des moments bénis pour le lexicologue où l’on atteint enfin le niveau de l’expression basse et vulgaire, voire de l’injure la plus dégoûtante que tabouent les conventions d’écriture. Ces propos introduits généralement par un innocent umma recourent en fait à la langue vernaculaire et non plus à l’akkadien correct et châtié. Les paroles citées constituent le plus souvent un corpus à part, tant lexicalement que grammaticalement, qui mériterait d’être étudié pour lui-même. La correspondance privée entre gens du même rang, qui représente ni plus ni moins que des conversations privées, n’ignore pas de tels écarts dialectaux, comme l’échange furibard d’Asqûdum et de Yassi-Dagan de ARM 26 75 en reste un bon exemple, avec ses dialectalismes et son expression par proverbes.

(D) Comment utiliser ces différents niveaux de discours qui recourent au plus banal mais aussi au plus sensationnel, passant de l’exposé le plus plat et le plus prévisible au propos le plus direct et le plus cru ? Où se trouvent les documents les plus sûrement exploitables ? Il est indispensable d’avoir une idée nette de la motivation d’un texte pour savoir ce que l’on peut en attendre et si le projet de l’historien — qui n’est, à tout prendre, qu’un individu d’aujourd’hui avec ses idiosyncrasies — est réalisable, et à quel prix. Cela est d’autant plus important que très souvent le point de départ du chercheur, ou la preuve sur laquelle il s’appuie, ne représente qu’une partie de la documentation espérée, voire un texte unique  :  testis unus testis nullus, disait-on dans le temps, avant que nécessité ne fasse loi et que l’on ne néglige cet adage qui rendrait caduques bien des exposés actuels  :  à tel prix pourrait rapidement tourner court tout le discours historique à partir des documents anciens. Il faudrait au

Jean-Marie Durand

87

moins décider des critères qui permettent de baptiser un document « échantillon », spécimen unique mais néanmoins représentatif. Or, très souvent, on peut se demander si le document à disposition traite de la norme ou parle plutôt d’une situation exceptionnelle. 1. Le premier point que je voudrais souligner est que, à tout prendre, l’information que nous collectons à Mari à partir de la documentation épistolaire est de l’ordre de ce que nous appelons aujourd’hui « journalistique ». Or un journal n’est pas un « quotidien » parce qu’il paraît tous les jours mais, surtout, parce qu’il apporte « les nouvelles du jour ». Elle est, dès lors, souvent de l’ordre des flashes qui tombent sur nos télescripteurs. C’est du « contemporain brut et non digéré ». Lorsque nous lisons dans un texte adressé au roi une information, on peut toujours se demander où en est la confirmation, où en sont les éventuels démentis ? Un seul texte nous donne l’information importante qu’on s’efforce généralement de ne pas envoyer une lettre sans qu’elle ne soit au préalable relue par l’autorité. Cela confirme que l’on faisait attention à l’exactitude de l’information, mais qu’on pouvait aussi se défier a priori du scribe. Nous connaissons même le terme qui désigne « faire une faute par inadvertance », rasâpum, en l’occurrence un lapsus calami. De fait, ce que ne montrent pas souvent les autographies cunéiformes, ni les éditions qui ne les comprennent pas toujours comme telles, les lettres sont emplies de repentirs, de passages effacés ou remplacés, pour des raisons de « mise en page », ou déplacés pour intégrer un fait nouveau ; c’est d’ailleurs une des caractéristiques des missives envoyées par l’autorité qui se prive des services d’un scribe ; à plusieurs reprises, ce genre de fautes s’expliquerait au mieux d’ailleurs si le scribe recopiait pour l’envoi un texte préalablement rédigé sur un support préparatoire, une sorte de brouillon ; mais — à tout prendre — cela ne rassure nullement sur l’exactitude en soi de l’information transmise. 2. En certaines occurrences nous pouvons encore apercevoir les lignes de faille de l’information. (a) À propos de la mort de Samsêrah, une sorte de desperado qui a mené une vie pleine de fureur et d’exactions en Haute-Djéziré, ce qui ne nous est quasiment connu que par des rapports faits au roi par des Mariotes, nous avons encore trois jugements post mortem (désormais publiés, 2010) qui vont de la condamnation pure et simple à la louange et au « bon souvenir » qu’on a gardé de lui dans certains milieux. On soulignera, au passage, que celui qui aurait dû rapporter le fait lui-même, le gouverneur mariote de la région, ne renseigne nullement sur sa fin : soit qu’il ne l’ait fait qu’en passant dans un endroit aujourd’hui cassé de sa correspondance, soit qu’il l’ait jugé insignifiant et l’ait tu, soit qu’il l’ait fait transmettre oralement au roi. La situation est aujourd’hui inextricable pour qui voudrait savoir ce que représentait populairement ce hapirum dans la réalité politique du Nord proche-oriental. (b) Un texte est mieux connu, parce que publié depuis longtemps par D. Charpin : il concerne ce que nous avons appelé « les trois morts du roi Zuzu ». Il ne

88

Du texte à l’histoire

s’agit plus de trois informateurs différents qui donnent chacun au roi leur point de vue sur la personnalité d’un mort, mais du même informateur qui transmet trois nouvelles contradictoires concernant la mort d’un autre trublion du Nord, le roi Zuzu de Šubat-Enlil. Celui qui écrit a recueilli des faits, somme toute contradictoires, comme ils lui venaient, sans faire d’enquête, sans même choisir celui qui lui paraissait le plus digne d’être communiqué à la personne royale. (c) Or, ces deux types d’informations sont typiques de ce que nous apprennent justement les sources antiques classiques : alii narrant . . . allii certant . . . Souvent, il a existé des chroniqueurs anciens, voire des historiens plus récents, qui ont pratiqué le genre ambigu de la contamination entre les sources à disposition, sans vouloir en perdre une, et qui en ont tiré, par combinaison, le discours unique et indissociable que nous considérons aujourd’hui comme notre vulgate et qui, souvent, est désormais notre seule source d’information. 3. Ce qui reste à nos études est donc constitué surtout par la convergence de certains dossiers exceptionnels. On se rend compte aujourd’hui que l’information des documents de Mari n’est pas continue mais discontinue. Les lettres qui concernent des personnages ou des lieux précis (mis à part les sujets majeurs de l’époque) sont le plus souvent très reserrées dans le temps et constituent des « affaires uniques » qui ne permettent pas de déployer l’information sur la durée entière du règne : un personnage secondaire ou un lieu mineur n’apparaissent en pleine lumière que pour ensuite disparaître. 4. Je voudrais donner un exemple du travail qui, aujourd’hui, peut être entrepris et de l’esprit dans lequel on peut travailler pour faire autre chose que « l’exploitation directe des textes de Mari pour l’histoire du royaume de Mari » : en mois avril 2009, nous avons voulu réunir à Paris, en présence justement de Mario Liverani, une documentation mariote composée de ces documents primaires, des rapports au roi, qui en représentent la véritable richesse, sur le thème général des hapirum, ces gens qui quittent leur chez-eux pour y revenir éventuellement ou tenter fortune ailleurs : ce sont des documents bruts qui convoient une certaine façon de présenter l’information ; puis, nous avons regardé l’histoire d’Idrimi dont le trajet personnel est analogue mais que nous connaissons sous la forme d’une autobiographie, que cette dernière soit son œuvre ou celle d’un successeur, document historique d’une autre sorte, synthétique et apologétique, répondant sans doute à l’instauration de cet Idrimi comme l’Ancêtre auquel se rattache désormais une lignée locale à Alalah ; nous avons terminé par le récit romanesque relatif à la jeunesse de David tel que nous l’a conservé la Bible : il est facile de voir que chaque époque génère sa propre technique de récit. Il serait aisé de suppléer à partir de chaque documentation celle qui nous manque. M. Guichard a ainsi pu composer un embryon de « chronique » qui reprendrait synthétiquement la geste de Samsêrah. Le bref récit d’Idrimi pourrait donner lieu à plusieurs lettres racontant à une autorité les différents moments de son existence, etc. Au moins dans une portion du temps de ceux qui ont vécu au Proche-Orient ancien et dans un secteur géographique délimité, la documentation de Mari per-

Jean-Marie Durand

89

met ainsi de retrouver ce qui a pu être le point de départ, engoncé dans la réalité historique, de récits que nous prendrions sinon comme de purs archétypes énonciatifs déconnectés du réel. Il s’agit de la réintroduction du récit historique devenu apologie, puis trame romanesque dans la réalité socio-culturelle du Proche-Orient. On peut rêver, rêve d’historien d’aujourd’hui !, à l’époque où toutes les archives de la sorte que nous a restituée Mari étaient intactes ; on peut supposer qu’y ont fait alors leurs collectes ceux qui étaient à la recherche d’interrogations de toutes sortes. Beaucoup de gens dans l’Antiquité ont pratiqué de telles enquêtes : on connaît le périple en Grèce de Pausanias, mais Tite-Live, lui aussi, est allé aux sources municipales réunir l’information de ses Histoires Ab Urbe condita et chez les Arabes des premiers temps de l’Hégire des commissions de spécialistes ont même collecté des informations d’ordre purement grammatical dans leurs parcours parmi les tribus. Il est vraisemblable que cet énorme stock d’informations que gardaient les archives des chancelleries (ou des temples mésopotamiens ?) n’est pas resté inexploité mais a eu ses lecteurs, ses annotateurs, voire ses copistes et qu’une bonne partie des immenses corpus à notre disposition dans le domaine, par exemple, de l’information divinatoire doit en provenir, transformé, systématisé, mais avec une base réelle : celle de l’authentique mémoire antique.

State and Society: Flight in the Near East during the Old Babylonian Period (20th–17th Centuries BCE) Dominique Charpin

When Gilda Bartoloni and Maria Giovanna Biga invited me to take part in this intellectual and friendly enterprise in honor of our colleague Mario Liverani, they asked me to choose a topic belonging to the field of “State and Society.” It was not difficult for me to choose one: among the manifold aspects of the history of the ancient Near East that have intrigued Mario Liverani, the phenomenon of flight/fleeing is one that has held his attention, especially as it presents itself in the Amarna letters. 1 In this essay, I would like to follow up on the study of this phenomenon. Allow me to limit myself to the period I know best, the Old Babylonian Period—that is, the first four centuries of the second millennium BC according to the Middle Chronology. 2 Flight as an economic, political, and social phenomenon is a “classic” subject in ancient history: surprisingly, it has not resulted in a bibliography as large as one might have expected after the study by J. Renger in 1972. 3 The book published by D. Snell on Flight and Freedom in the Ancient Near East is, 4 unfortunately, disappointing, particularly as the Old Babylonian Period is concerned. Yet, numerous new Author’s note:  This research was conducted in the context of the project “ARCHIBAB. Archives babyloniennes, XXe–XVIIe siècles,” financed in 2008–10 by the ANR (Agence Nationale de la Recherche) as part of the programme Corpus et outils de la recherche en sciences humaines et sociales. The sigla used in this essay can be found at www.archibab.fr. The documentation has been left as it was sent in September 2010: I have only updated a few references. 1.  M. Liverani, “Farsi Ḫabiru,” VicOr 2 (1979) 65–77. 2.  I will continue to employ it until a consensus has been reached among the specialists regarding the question. See most recently R. Pruzsinszky, Mesopotamian Chronology of the 2nd Millennium B.C.: An Introduction to the Textual Evidence and Related Chronological Issues (Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften phil.-hist. Klasse 56; Vienna: OAW, 2009). 3. J. Renger, “Flucht als soziales Problem in der altbabylonischen Gesellschaft,” in Gesellschaftsklassen im Alten Zweistromland und in den angrenzenden Gebieten: XVIII. Rencontre assyriologique internationale, München, 29. Juni bis 3. Juli 1970 (ed. D. O. Edzard; Munich: Beck, 1972) 167–82. 4.  D. C. Snell, Flight and Freedom in the Ancient Near East (CHANE 8; Leiden: Brill, 2001). See my review in RA 102 (2008) 181.

91

92

State and Society: Flight in the Near East during the Old Babylonian Period

data have been published in recent years that have not been sufficiently exploited. This is why I am devoting this paper to the discussion of some particularly instructive examples, without pretending to be exhaustive. 5

1.  Flight for Economic Reasons I begin by describing certain economic conditions that prompted many inhabitants of the cities of ancient Mesopotamia to flee and the measures that kings felt the need to adopt in order to allow for their return.

1.1.  Roaming the Steppe In some cases, roaming was caused by an arbitrary decision of the administration. For example, someone complained to the king of Mari about the action of the chief of the land registrar, Ikšud-appašu: Now, Ikšud-appašu has deprived me of the subsistence-field and the birtum-field which my lord had bestowed unto me and which I had harvested, and he has expelled me from all (my belongings) in the house and the city of Saggaratum, so that for now, I have become a wanderer. 6

Obviously, this sort of wandering has nothing to do with the mobility of the nomads who, in the context of their seasonal movements, followed paths that were well marked. 7 Someone who wanders around moves ‘in the midst of the land’ (ina libbu mâtim), as one letter says. 8 The Old Babylonian version of the Epic of Gilgamesh enables us to understand this: 5.  Because this contribution draws on the results of several studies previously published in French, I thought it useful to publish it in English, and I wish to acknowledge the help of J. Rothkamm. This is for me also a way of paying homage to the book by M. Liverani, Prestige and Interest: International Relations in the Near East, ca. 1600–1100 B.C. (HANES 1; Padua: Sargon, 1990) (see p. 3). My presentation in Rome in April 2009 was read in French, a fact that I then justified in these terms: “S’il faut m’excuser de parler aujourd’hui en français, je dirai que Mario Liverani ayant été professeur au Collège de France en 2005, je souhaite rattacher ma communication d’aujourd’hui à ce séjour où j’ai appris à mieux le connaître personnellement. J’espère qu’il a comme moi gardé un bon souvenir de cette période, et notamment des quelques jours qu’il a passés dans notre maison de Touraine. . . .” 6.  Unpublished A.857: (3) a - š à šu-ku-sà-am (4) ù bi-ir-tam ša be-lí i-di-nam°-ma (5) e-ṣí-du (6) Iik-šu-ud-ap-pa-šu (7) i-ki-ma-an-ni ù i-na (8) na-ap-ha-ra-t[im] i-na é (9) i-na ur uki sa-ga-ratimki (10) [uš]-te-ṣí-ni-ma (11) [i-n]a-an-na at-ta-na-gi-iš. For the link between expulsion and roaming, the unpublished A.184 can also be cited: (10) i-na é-ti-ia (11) ša GN šu-ṣa-ku (12) ù d u m u-ri it-ta-n[a-g]i-iš ‘I have lost my patrimony of GN, and my son is without hearth or place’. 7.  The territory of the routes used by the nomads was called nighum; see J.-M. Durand, “Peuplement et sociétés à l’époque amorrite (I): Les clans bensim’alites,” in Nomades et sédentaires en Mésopotamie: Compte rendu de la XLVIe Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Paris, 10–13 juillet 2000 (ed. C. Nicolle; CRAI 46 = Amurru 3; Paris: Édition Recherche sur les Civilisations, 2004) 111–98, esp. pp. 118–46. 8.  AbB 11 188: (10) du m u - m e š PN (11) ša i-na li-ib-bi ma-tim (12) it-ta-gi-i-šu.

Dominique Charpin

93

I keep on roaming in the midst of the steppe as someone who has been unfairly deprived of his belongings. 9

Nevertheless, in most cases, it was a deteriorating economic situation that precipitated a flight.

1.2.  Insolvent Debtors: The Case of Suhum I will study two cases stemming from the same geographical setting—that is, the region of Suhum. This zone was quite fragile from an economic point of view because of its ecological situation: the Euphrates valley downstream from Mari was actually reduced to a small strip of land on both sides of the river, where agriculture could barely develop due to the lack of irrigable land in sufficient quantity. The two examples are taken, one from the Mari archives, and the other from a Late Old Babylonian text. Thus, I would like to demonstrate (once again) that we must abolish the traditional borders in Assyriology, in particular the boundary that separates Mari from the rest of Old Babylonian. This boundary is regrettable from a scientific point of view. The desire to integrate all sources, irrespective of their origin, genre, and even language and writing system is one of the numerous reasons for the success of the book by Mario Liverani, Prestige and Interest, which is certainly one of his major works and has left its mark on historiography.

1.2.1.  During the Reign of Yasmah-Addu During the reign of Yasmah-Addu, a famine occurred in the Suhum of such severity that the king of Mari proclaimed the cancellation of debts and interest rates. He wrote to his father, Samsi-Addu, as follows: The people of the Suhum are [very] hungry. It is absolutely essential that I reach them (lacuna). I have to rescue them, so that those of their brothers [who have fled] to the midst of the country (ana libbi mâtim), having heard about it, might return. This is the upshot of my reflections. Now, I will release (uwaššar) them from the grain they have borrowed, including interest. Now Father knows! Besides, I have just sent a message: the local heads (sugâgum) of the Suhum will have a meeting. I will proclaim to them my edict (šipṭum) and I will appease them (libbašunu unâh). 10 9.  A. R. George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003) 278; Gilg. OB VA + BM ii 11′: at-ta-na-ag-gi-iš ki-ma ha-bi-lim qá-ba-al-tu ṣe-ri. CAD Ḫ 16 translates: ‘Like an outlaw, I rove in the middle of the open country’ (italics mine). A. George preferred: ‘I wandered like a trapper through the midst of the wild’ (italics mine), because of the late version (see pp. 283–84); but it is not impossible that the Old Babylonian scribe understood the line differently. 10.  ARM 4 16 (= LAPO 18 1049): (5) [l ú - m eš s]ú-ha-yuki (6) [dan-ni-iš] bé-ru-ú (7) [ka-ša]du-um-ma (8) [a-ka-ša-as-sú-n]u-[t]i (. . .) (R.) (. . . 1′) [lu-š]a-a[l-li-im-šu-nu-ti] (2′) ù ah-hu-šu-n[u ha-al-qú-tum] (3′) a-na li-ib-bi ma-˹a˺-[tim-ma] (4′) li-iš-mu-ma ù li-[t]u-˹ru˺-[nim] (5′) an-ni-tam áš-ta-al i-na-an-na še-em (6′) ša a-na ur5-ra il-qú-ú (7′) qa-du-um ṣí-ib-ti-[š]u a-na šu-nu-ši-im-ma (8′) ú!-wa-aš-ša-ar an-ni-tam (9′) Ia-ad-da-a lu-ú i-de (10′) ù a-nu-um-ma áš-ta-pa-ar (11′) su-gagu ša sú-hi-im i-pa-hu-ru (12′) ši-ip-ṭà-am a-na-di-šu-nu-ši-im (13′) ù li-ib-ba-šu-nu ú-na-ah.

94

State and Society: Flight in the Near East during the Old Babylonian Period

It appears, therefore, that the decree (šipṭum) 11 had to be proclaimed by the king to the assembly of individuals who represented the people concerned: 12 YasmahAddu decided to remit the loans of grain, including interest (qadum ṣibtišu). The use of the verb wuššurum clearly defines this measure as an andurârum, even if the word is not used. 13 It is Yasmah-Addu’s hope that the residents of the Suhum who had fled would thus return to their villages. We have here a good example of the royal response to the flight of insolvent debtors.

1.2.2.  At the Time of the Accession of Ammi-ditana The second example was written one and a half centuries later and dates to the accession of Ammi-ditana (1646 BC). It is from the same region, the Suhum, and is known to us from a document that was discovered in the 1980s during the rescue excavations of Khirbet ed-Diniye, ancient Harradum, and has recently been published by F. Joannès. 14 The envelope was sealed. I suggest identifying the legend as belonging to the seal of Ammi-ditana as crown prince, as a result of restoring the lacunae as follows: [a-bi-e]-šu-[uh] [l u g a l ] k a l -g a [l u g a l ] k i -en -g i k i -[u r i ] [am]-mi-di-ta-[na] [i b i l a k i ]-á g -g á -[n i ( -i r ) ] [i n ]-n a -a n -[b a ]

[Abi-e]šu[h], strong [king], [king] of Sumer and Ak[kad], [to Am]mi-dita[na], [his heir m]uch loved, has giv[en] (this seal).

If this is correct, we are dealing with one of the first documents issued by Ammiditana, just after his accession, before he was even able to have a seal engraved with his royal title. The text of the inner tablet is unfortunately not well preserved. The beginning reads: 11.  On this word, see in particular my article “Les mots du pouvoir dans les archives royales de Mari,” Cahiers du Centre G. Glotz 2 (1991) 3–17, www.digitorient.com /?p=76. 12. For sugâgum as ‘mayor’ (the Amorite equivalent of the Babylonian rabiânum), see my “Économie, société et institutions paléo-babyloniennes: Nouvelles sources, nouvelles approches,” RA 101 (2007) 147–82, esp. pp. 170–71. Note the use of the verb pahârum (line 11′): we are dealing here with a puhrum consisting of the king and the ‘mayors’ of the localities concerned regarding the measure to be announced (for the puhrum-assembly, see my remarks in RA 101 [2007] 180–81). 13.  This illustrates the limit to approaches that are exclusively based on lexicographical evidence. For andurâram wuššurum, see my article “Les décrets royaux à l’époque paléo-babylonienne, à propos d’un ouvrage récent,” AfO 34 (1987) 36–44, esp. p. 41. The unpublished tablets quoted in this article have since been published by J.-M. Durand, Le Culte d’Addu d’Alep et l’affaire d’Alahtum (FM 7 = Mémoires de NABU 8; Paris: SEPOA, 2002) A.3192 = FM 7 47; A.445 = FM 7 48. 14.  F. Joannès et al., Haradum II: Les textes de la période paléo-babylonienne. Samsu-iluna– Ammi-ṣaduqa (Paris: Edition Recherche sur les Civilisations, 2006). For more details, see my study “Un édit du roi Ammi-ditana de Babylone,” in Von Göttern und Menschen: Beiträge zu Literatur und Geschichte des Alten Orients—Festschrift für Brigitte Groneberg (ed. D. Shehata, F. Weiershäuser, and K. V. Zand; CM 41; Leiden: Brill, 2010) 17–46.

Dominique Charpin

95

1[The

. . .] of Harradum 2that lack everything and 3–4are living in the interior of the land,—9[I am wr]iting 5–6so that they return to their city and 7–8reside in their usual dwelling-places. 15 

A second fragment indicates how the king intended to instigate this return: 4′Concerning

[the outstanding amount] of money of the miksum-tax, 5′of grain of the šibšum-tax and of grain of bamâtum, 6′–8′nobody [will be entitled to lay a claim against] their [households]. 16

We are no longer dealing with debts as in the times of Yasmah-Addu but with outstanding amounts related to various royal taxes: one wonders whether it is the proliferation of taxes that explains the flight of the residents of Harradum. Ammiditana at least hoped that the remission of these taxes would result in the residents of Harradum leaving the place of their exile (libbu mâtim) and returning to their homes. The seal of Ammi-ditana as crown prince situates the affair at the moment of the death of Abi-ešuh. Consequently, we have a somewhat exceptional application of the mîšarum-measure, which was traditionally related to a king’s ascension to the throne. 17

1.3.  The King as the Good Shepherd It is possible to show how such measures of remission had repercussions for the representations of kingship. 18 The image of a king-shepherd who is gathering his scattered herd is a central feature of royal rhetoric. It is attested, for example, in inscription no. 7 of Hammu-rapi which commemorates the construction of a fortress: I gathered the scattered people of Sumer and Akkad. I provided for them pastures and watering places. In abundance and plenty I shepherded them. I settled them in peaceful abodes. 19

15.  Haradum II 11 A: (1) ˹x x x˺ ha-ra-du˹ki˺ (2) ša iz-kam-ma (3) i-na li-ib-bu ma-tim (4) waaš-bu (5) [a]š-šum a-na a-li-šu-nu (6) ta-ri-im-ma (7) i-na ma-⟨áš⟩-ka-ni-šu-nu (8) [wa]-ša-bi-im (9) [aš-ta]-pa-ar. 16.  Haradum II 11 B: (4′) ˹a-na˺ [lál-hi-a] kù-babbar mi-i[k-s]i (5′) še-e ši-ib-ši ù še-e ba-ma[tim] (6′) ma-[am]-ma-an (7′) [a-na é]-hi-a-šu-[nu] (8′) [ú-ul i-ša-as-si]. The restitutions are confirmed by comparing them with §14 of the edict of Ammi-ṣaduqa. 17.  See in particular my essay “Les prêteurs et le palais: Les édits de mîšarum des rois de Babylone et leurs traces dans les archives privées,” in Interdependency of Institutions and Private Entrepreneurs (MOS Studies 2): Proceedings of the Second MOS Symposium (Leiden 1998) (ed. A. C. V. M. Bongenaar; PIHANS 87; Leiden: NINO, 2000) 185–211. 18.  I have developed this point in my contribution “L’exercice du pouvoir par les rois de la Ière dynastie de Babylone: Problèmes de méthode,” in Organization, Representation and Symbols of Power in the Ancient Near East (ed. G. Wilhelm; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2012) 21–32. 19.  D. Frayne, RIME 4 341–42 no. 7: (28) k alam šu-me-rí-im (29) ù ak-ka-di-im (30) ni-šišu-nu sa6-ap-ha-tim (31) lu u-pa-ah-hi-ir (32) mi-ri-tam ù ma-aš-qí-tam (33) lu aš-ku-un-ši-na-ši-im (34) in nu-úh-šim ù hé-gál (35) lu e-ri-ši-na-ti (36) šu-ba-at ne-eh-tim (37) lu u-še-ši-ib-ši-na-ti.

96

State and Society: Flight in the Near East during the Old Babylonian Period

These ‘peaceful abodes’ (šubât nêhtim) are those that are safe from a tax inspector who arrives and seizes property. 20 It is interesting that we encounter in the Hammurapi inscription the same use of the root NÛH as in the letter of Yasmah-Addu cited above (libbašunu unâh). The image of the king as a ‘good shepherd’ has therefore nothing to do with pastoral allegory: it refers very concretely to the proclamation by a sovereign of a mîšarum-edict. Feigin and Landsberger had already noted that the year-names of Hammu-rapi and his successors commemorating a mîšarum were characterized by the epithet ‘shepherd’ (sipa) added to the king’s name. 21 But we must go further in order to understand the reason for this association: the measures of debt release taken by the sovereigns in the mîšarum-edicts enabled the debtors to return to their homes. The image is thus that of a shepherd taking lost animals back to his flock. And we know of concrete example of such returns. For instance, two letters “from Sippar” reveal that a merchant of Sippar, because he was unable to reimburse a creditor, had left his town: Tutu-nâṣir, member of the merchants’ guild (kârum) of Sippar, had fled for fear of his creditor to Adur-bisa; there, he was in the service for a whole year among the. . . . As soon as the mîšarum had been established, he returned to his city, Sippar. 22

It is thus in a concrete way that the king-“shepherd,” by proclaiming a mîšarum, enabled people scattered in the libbu mâtim to return to their original residences. This is a good example and enables us to decode the royal rhetoric. 23 The yearnames or commemorative inscriptions are not “propaganda,” as is often said—that is, a means of disseminating deceitful information. They refer honestly to concrete events, for which we have quite a bit of evidence from other sources, notably archival documentation.

2.  Flight for Political Reasons Runaways were not always forced to abandon their place of residence due to unfavorable economic conditions. Sometimes, political circumstances prompted individuals or groups to leave. We will limit ourselves to the examination of three cases: deserters, individuals who obtained the right of asylum, and exiled people returning to their home country.

2.1. Deserters War could prompt the civil population to flee ahead of the armies of the enemy, but soldiers could be tempted to flee the battlefield as well. This is why mem20.  The usual formula is ana bîtim šasûm (see CAD Š/2 160–61). 21.  S. I. Feigin and B. Landsberger, “The Date List of the Babylonian King Samsu-ditana,” JNES 14 (1955) 137–60, esp. p. 146. 22.  AbB 13 89.13–18. As indicated by W. van Soldt, AbB 11 113 is probably the answer to this letter—which explains why it is less explicit. 23.  As M. Liverani requested in one of his most celebrated articles, “Memorandum on the Approach to Historiographic Texts,” Or 42 (Mél. Gelb; 1973) 178–94.

Dominique Charpin

97

bers of the tribes of nomads allied to the king of Mari needed to swear an oath to Zimri-Lim: [. . . If the enemy] attacks, I swear not to [fl]ee and not to [follow] a way that is shameful and without glory! [Otherwise,] may the hand of my enemy make an end to the pasture and may it extinguish my tribe! 24

A leading Mari figure wrote to Zimri-Lim that he had sent a message dealing with deserting soldiers: From Harbe, I wrote to Šallurum thus: “The men that have brandished the bronze spear in the face of the army of the House of Tišpak and that have sinned against the prince (= have escaped from the camp of Ešnunna), I have seized them and I shall escort them to my lord (= the king of Mari). The prince (= the king of Ešnunna) will write to his son (= the king of Mari) and we shall do to them what he says.” 25

The army deserters of Ešnunna who were captured by the Mari army would suffer a fate determined by their sovereign: the fact that the king of Mari is described as “the son” of the king of Ešnunna shows that the letter was written at a moment when Zimri-Lim acknowledged the superiority of his eastern neighbor. 26 The end of the text shows that the fate of these soldiers was decided by their king: they could be executed by the king of Mari or delivered to the king of Ešnunna, who would certainly let them suffer a fate not much to be envied. Sometimes, as the result of a defeat, kings who had been vanquished saw no other solution than fleeing. In the region to the north of the Sindjar, we learn, for example, that: Šarraya has triumphed over two hundred Huršanum soldiers and he has seized the land of Huršanum. Zinnugan, the king of Huršanum, has fled and Šarraya has installed Nanip-šawri as king over the land of Huršanum. 27

This was also the case with the Benjaminite kings defeated by Zimri-Lim at the beginning of his reign: they took refuge in the kingdoms close to Mari, in particular 24. M.6060, published under the title “Le protocole des Bédouins” by J.-M. Durand, “Précurseurs syriens aux protocoles néo-assyriens: Considérations sur la vie politique aux Bords-de-l’Euphrate,” in Marchands, diplomates et empereurs: Études sur la civilisation mésopotamienne offertes à Paul Garelli (ed. D. Charpin and F. Joannès; Paris: Recherche sur les Civilisations, 1991) 13–72, esp. pp. 50–52 (= LAPO 16 297): (1′) [šum-ma na-ak-rum] im-ha-aṣ [. . . . . .] (2′) [la ap-pa-ra-š]i-du ù pa-da-[nam] (3′) [la da-mi-iq]-tam la na-wi-ir-tam ˹la˺ [. . . . . . . . . . . .] (4′) [ú-lu-ma q]a-at na-ak-ri-ia ri-tam (5′) [li-qa-a]t-ti ù li-mi li-ba-˹al˺-li. 25.  ARM 26/1 37.5–11. 26.  For greater detail on this event, see my “Extradition et droit d’asile dans le ProcheOrient ancien: Le cas du dieu de l’Orage d’Alep,” in Le monde de l’itinérance en Méditerranée de l’antiquité à l’époque moderne: Procédures de contrôle et d’identification. Tables-rondes Madrid 2004–Istanbul 2005 (ed. C. Moatti, W. Kaiser, and C. Pébarthe; Études 22; Bordeaux: Ausonius, 2009) 621–42, esp. p. 625; revised version in English in D. Charpin, Gods, Kings, and Merchants in Old Babylonian Mesopotamia (PIPOAC 2; Louvain: Peeters, 2015) chap. 2. 27.  ARM 14 94 (= LAPO 16 361).

98

State and Society: Flight in the Near East during the Old Babylonian Period

in Aleppo. The letters published by Jean-Marie Durand in Florilegium Marianum 7 show the efforts taken by Zimri-Lim to have them delivered back to him, which leads us to the study of extradition and the right of asylum.

2.2.  Extradition and Right of Asylum Extradition and the right of asylum have been the subject of two recent studies by Jack Sasson and by me. 28 I will therefore not dwell on this. The principle was simple: kings were mutually bound to deliver any fugitive who had entered their territory back to the territory of origin. Sometimes, the request was expressed in the form of a letter, as was the case in the following example, where the king of Kurda wrote to Zimri-Lim: Šarrum-andulli, my special secretary (ṭupšar sakkakkim), and Zakura-abi, servants of mine, suddenly fled. Now I have heard (from someone, saying) this: “These young people live in Mari.” For now, if you are really talking in a fair way to me, send me these young people back. These young people are servants of mine: do not hold them back! 29

It is easy to imagine the confidential information that the secretary of the king of Kurda could bring to the king of Mari. . . . We do not know why the two servants fled, and the end of the story remains unknown. In this context, the Kingdom of Aleppo constitutes an exception. We know that Zimri-Lim asked Yarim-Lim to extradite the Benjaminite kings who had taken refuge in his territory. The king of Aleppo responded to the envoy of the king of Mari: Has Zimri-Lim forgotten the will of the god Addu? In fact, I fear that Zimri-Lim does not know that in the land of Addu, fugitives are not to be delivered by force. Why does he write me, “Expel these people from your country; may they no longer live there!”? 30

The rule is clearly expressed: the people who had taken refuge in the Kingdom of Aleppo were exempt from being extradited by any means. As has justly been stressed by D. Schwemer, we are not dealing with right of asylum that was limited to the Temple of Addu 31 or even to the city of Aleppo: it applied to the entire kingdom, which is here described as the “land of Addu” (line 27). This particular situation was obviously connected with the storm-god of Aleppo; it is also attested in the first millennium, in the treaties of Sefire.

28.  J. M. Sasson, “Scruples: Extradition in the Mari Archives,” in Festschrift für Hermann Hunger zum 65. Geburtstag gewidmet von seinen Freunden, Kollegen und Schülern (WZKM 97; 2007) 453–73; D. Charpin, “Extradition et droit d’asile dans le Proche-Orient ancien.” 29.  ARM 28 163. 30.  FM 7 8.24–33. 31. D. Schwemer, Die Wettergottgestalten Mesopotamiens und Nordsyriens im Zeitalter der Keilschriftkulturen: Materialien und Studien nach den schriftlichen Quellen (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2001) 212 n. 1467.

Dominique Charpin

99

2.3.  The Return from Exile of the Inhabitants of Isin My last point regards the case of exiled persons. We have an important set of archival data relating to the family of Isin, the youngest member of which was called Dada. Several dozen texts enable us to trace the activities of this individual from Year 2 to Year 28 of Samsu-iluna; texts relating to his father, Kubbulum, and his grandfather, Puzur-Gula, are also preserved. 32 The oldest two texts of this archive refer to a lawsuit between Puzur-Gula and his brother Ahu-waqar concerning their association (tappûtum). 33 The first document dates to the 11th month of Year 6 of Hammu-rapi. The judges ask Ahu-waqar to deliver evidence to support his complaints, but he is unable to produce the tablet containing the contract of association or any witnesses; without written or oral proof, the judges resort to the instrument of the oath. 34 The judges “deferred Puzur-Gula to his gods, Šamaš and Gula, for an oath (mammîtum).” Ahu-waqar was dismissed, and the text finishes with Ahu-waqar promising not to make any further claim on Puzur-Gula in the future. Six years later, in Year 12 of Hammu-rapi, Ahu-waqar returns to the matter and files another claim against his brother. But Puzur-Gula has only to produce the tablet containing the old verdict to have his rights recognized by the judges. The two texts that I have just summarized are undeniably linked. They have five witnesses in common, which indicates that they were written in the same place; this is further confirmed by the oath formula by the god Numušda and the king Hammu-rapi that is present in both texts and that points to the region of Kazallu as the place of writing. However, Puzur-Gula is known in the remainder of the archive as a resident of Isin, and the museographic unity of the archive leaves no doubt about the fact that both tablets originated from illegal excavations carried out in Isin. Now, the first trial clearly shows that Puzur-Gula and his brother are strangers in the city where they are residing, for they do not have access to their archives or to any witnesses. Why were they missing these? The date of the first text, Year 6 of Hammu-rapi, gives us an indication: during the course of this year, Hammu-rapi seized Uruk 32. This archive will soon be edited by me in a volume of the new series Archibab; it contains numerous unpublished texts from the Louvre and the Nies Babylonian Collection. See in the meantime my “Immigrés, réfugiés et déportés en Babylonie sous Hammu-rabi et ses successeurs,” in La circulation des biens, des personnes et des idées dans le Proche-Orient ancien: Actes de la XXXVIIIe Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale (Paris, 8–10 juillet 1991) (ed. D. Charpin and F. Joannès; CRRAI 38; Paris: Édition Recherche sur les Civilisation, 1992) 207–18, esp. p. 209; and, since then, idem, “Les prêteurs et le palais,” 200–201; idem, Gods, Kings, and Merchants in Old Babylonian Mesopotamia (PIPOAC 2; Louvain: Peeters, 2015) chap. 5. 33.  For translation and commentary of these (still unpublished) texts, see my “Lettres et procès paléo-babyloniens,” in Rendre la justice en Mésopotamie (ed. F. Joannès; Paris: Presses universitaires de Vincennes, 2000) 69–111, esp. pp. 77–78, nos. 36–37. 34. See my Writing, Law and Kingship: Essays on Old Babylonian Mesopotamia (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010), chap. 3.

100

State and Society: Flight in the Near East during the Old Babylonian Period

and Isin, an event that he commemorated in the name of his 7th year. We do not know how long this conquest lasted. 35 But our two documents, which date to Hammu-rapi 6 (// Rim-Sin 36) and Hammu-rapi 12 (// Rim-Sin 42), respectively, do not provide any evidence that Isin had fallen into Hammu-rapi’s hands during this time, because they were composed in another place besides Isin. It seems therefore that, after his conquest of Isin in the 6th year of his reign, Hammu-rapi was obliged to withdraw quickly; part of the population of the city would have followed him, unwilling to find themselves again under the domination of Rim-Sin. Probably the families who collaborated with Babylonians were forced to follow them when they withdrew. This could have been the context in which Puzur-Gula and his brother left Isin, abandoning their house as well as their archives; they returned some years later. This trajectory enables us to understand better a passage in the prologue of the Code, where Hammu-rapi states: I am the shelter of the country, the one who gathered the scattered people of Isin. 36

We see here that the flight was not caused by economic problems but was due to political and military events. The political exiles’ way of life is particularly well documented in the Mari archives. In this context, the abundant documentation on the hâpirum must also be mentioned, which was recently reviewed by Jean-Marie Durand. 37 The case of Samsi-Erah, recently studied by Michaël Guichard, 38 enables us to see that not all the chiefs of the hâpirum group experienced a fate as enviable as Aziru, the big enemy of Rib-Addi (and someone who is dear to Mario Liverani’s heart). In fact, Samsi-Erah was captured and executed. His son was too young to succeed him, so his brother took over as head of the group but soon ceased to be mentioned in the sources, which is almost always a bad sign. . . .

35. See the comment by D. O. Edzard: “einen grossen militärischen Erfolg errang Hammu-rabi in seinem sechsten Jahr mit der Eroberung von Uruk und Isin (Datum 7 = Rīmsîn 37). Wenn der König von Babylon—ob der Erfolg nun ephemär oder von längerer Dauer war—seinen Machteinfluss bis auf 30 km an die Residenz Rīmsîns herantrug, so zeigt diese Tatsache, daß wir die Macht und Stabilität des Reiches von Larsa nach der Eroberung von Isin nicht überschätzen dürfen. Außer dem Jahresdatum liegen bisher keine Quellen vor, die über diese Eroberung berichten” (ZZB 181). 36.  Code of Hammu-rapi I 48–50: ṣulūl mātim mupahhir nišī saphātim ša Isin; see M. Roth, Law Collections from Mesopotamia and Asia Minor (Writings from the Ancient World 6; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995) 78. 37.  J.-M. Durand, “Assyriologie,” Cours et travaux du Collège de France (2004–5) 563–84, esp. pp. 568–73. 38.  M. Guichard, “Un David raté ou une histoire de habiru à l’époque amorrite: Vie et mort de Samsī-Ērah, chef de guerre et homme du peuple,” in Le jeune héros: Recherche sur la formation et la diffusion d’un thème littéraire au Proche-Orient ancien. Actes du colloque du Collège de France du 6 et 7 avril 2009 (ed. J.-M. Durand and T. Römer; OBO 250; Fribourg: Academic Press / Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011) 29–93.

101

Dominique Charpin

3.  Flight as a Social Phenomenon The need to flee was not just for economic or political reasons. Sometimes individuals hoped for a better life, whether they were slaves trying to escape from their masters or craftsmen in search of a more generous employer.

3.1.  Runaway Slaves Obviously, texts of various sorts mention runaway slaves. One interesting escape attempt has been described in two letters from Mari. 39 The first was sent by Yasim-Sumu, a finance minister under Zimri-Lim, and by Manatan, head of the guard of the capital: Two servants of the palace (warad ekallim) left the house of the queen in the direction of the gate of Itur-Mer. They mounted the surrounding wall, the middle one. Yarʾip-Dagan immediately informed me about it. I went up; I tried to pursue them and at this moment, they jumped off the wall, where the takkapum-openings are located. I called on the gardeners outside (the city) and they seized them. 40

Another letter, sent by Yarʾip-Dagan himself, explains the situation in more detail to the king’s secretary. With this letter, Yarʾip-Dagan hoped not to be held responsible by the king: Say to my father, Šu-nuhra-Halu: thus (says) Yarʾip-Dagan, your son. Two individuals belonging to the administration (ša bît têrtim) diverted the attention of the porter and escaped during the night. I immediately informed Manatan; he has given strict orders at the gates of the city. These people, being unable to escape by the gates of the city, have mounted the surrounding wall, the middle one, which is (equipped with) takkapum-openings and is located between the great surrounding wall and the cold-room. The guards called on the gardeners. They immediately seized these men. For now, a letter by Yasim-Sumu and Manatan has been sent to the king about “the evil and the enemy.” If my father so desires, may he present the affair in the right light. May my father write in order to relieve my heart! 41

When slaves managed to escape, they often tried to reach a foreign kingdom. This is the reason for requests for the extradition of fugitive slaves, such as this letter, which relates to Bunuma-Addu, the king of Nihriya, and Zalluhan, the king of Hadnammuru: On the other hand, when . . . , I went to Mari to my lord. . . . of my house . . . [5 slaves] ran away. 3 slaves, in Nihriya, are in Bunuma-Addu’s possession; 2 slaves, in Zalluhan, are in Hadnammuru’s possession. (Now) I was told: “The indigenous slaves have been returned to your merchant.” I have just written to my lord: if my lord so desires, my lord must send a trustworthy man, so that they return these

39.  N. Ziegler, “Deux esclaves en fuite à Mari,” in Recueil d’études à la mémoire de Maurice Birot (ed. D. Charpin and J.-M. Durand; FM 2; Paris: SEPOA, 1994) 11–21 (hereafter referred to as FM 2). 40.  FM 2 2. 41.  FM 2 1.

102

State and Society: Flight in the Near East during the Old Babylonian Period 5 slaves to me. I am a servant of my lord: I should not be wronged (lâ ahhabbal). I shall do what my lord says. 42

We see the way in which the author of this letter defers to royal justice. We should not fall victim to our documentation: certainly, we would not dispose of the Code of Zimri-Lim, but the correspondence of Mari shows that he was no less concerned with justice than his famous contemporary, Hammu-rapi of Babylon. 43 We know that there was a person in the Late Old Babylonian Period who was in charge of denouncing to the authorities all transgressions that had been committed and held the title qabbâʾum; 44 he was especially in charge of denouncing runaway slaves, as shown by AbB 2 71.

3.2.  The Search by Artists and Craftsmen for a Better Employer Not only slaves wanted to leave. Artists and craftsmen who were unhappy with their current situation could be prompted to leave their place in hope of better working conditions. Nele Ziegler has studied the case of musicians. 45 She highlights the fact that the references to “runaway” musicians refer to two realities that seem quite distinct to us: not only abandoning a position, but also moving around without being authorized to do so. What were the reasons for these flights? Like other specialists, craftsmen, or learned people of the time, musicians were conscientious and held definite opinions about their remuneration, that it should be in accordance with their status. 46 They claimed social position and wanted revenues at a certain level. These expectations were not always met. In general, these people felt themselves to be free, but this was not the point of view of their “employers,” who considered their departure to be fleeing. A letter by Samsi-Addu to his son testifies to this: Sin-iqišam, the musician, Gurruru, the barber, men of Ešnunna, and Ṣillaya: these 3 men happened to be at Talhayum and encountered me. For the present, they have left and took refuge with you (/in Mari) together with their families. As soon as you have listened to the present tablet, seize these peoples and, under a good guard, may they be conducted to me, in Šubat-Enlil. 47

Reproaches uttered by Samsi-Addu could sometimes be more severe: 42.  A.2500+ (= LAPO 18 926). 43.  For more details on this subject, see my essay on “L’exercice du pouvoir par les rois de la Ière dynastie de Babylone.” 44.  See my note “qabbâʾum ‘délateur’?” NABU (1993/23). 45.  N. Ziegler, Les Musiciens et la musique d’après les archives de Mari (FM 9 = Mémoires de NABU 10; Paris: SEPOA, 2007) 28–31 (hereafter referred to as FM 9). 46.  I will only quote the letter ARM 26/1 267, in which the dissatisfaction of a doctor relating to his former employment in Mari is expressed. The doctor quit his assignment and entered the service of Samsî-Addu in Šubat-Enlil. 47. ARM 2 4 (= LAPO 16 11).

Dominique Charpin

103

A steward, 5 cooks have taken refuge with you. Almost always when domestic staff run away, it is in your direction that I have chased them away! Now, these flunkeys, you have installed them with you. It is because of these servants that you have started to spend more than you have and to squander! Come on! Don’t be a baby! They come to you only for . . . , for amusement, for the cabaret, and for playing! They have no superior to command them and they are relaxed. If a messenger of mine comes up to you, what will you give him? Can you give him silver or grain? Where is the silver or the grain you could give him? For the present, I have just sent you Išme-Addu. Seize these people, handcuff them, and may a rope be attached to their waist. Give them a strong escort that they be led right back into my presence. May they be brought wherever I am! And, next time, any fugitives that come to you, even before I send you a message, seize them and have them led back to me. 48

Some, nonetheless, had more scruples. Here, we may cite the case of the diviner Yalʾa-Addu, who received a job offer from Zimri-Lim. In spite of this, he did not want to leave the Yamhad without authorization from King Yarim-Lim: Say to my lord Zimri-Lim: thus (speaks) Yalʾa-Addu, your servant. I have listened to the tablet that my lord brought to me. As you are in a hurry that I may come to you, my lord must listen to my tablet. He must write to his father, Yarim-Lim, in these terms: “I do not stop writing to your servant Yalʾa-Addu so that he may come down to me. (But) he says: ‘I shall not come without the permission of my lord.’ Write him so that he may come to me.” This is the message you should send to your father. As long as my lord has not written. . . . 49

In spite of damage, the end of the letter is clear: the diviner did not want to leave the Kingdom of Aleppo without being allowed to do so, in order to avoid being considered a fugitive. 50 We know that diviners kept important secrets. . . . The professions that we consider “noble” such as diviners and musicians were not the only ones concerned. Simple weavers could also go missing: About PN, the specialist of mardatum-clothes, whom my lord let go to Kahat to Yarʾipum, the tapestry-maker, for further improvement of his skills; although he was under strict surveillance, he has escaped and left for Šubat-Šamaš. Presently, at Šubat-Šamaš, he is occupied with the weaving of blankets. I wrote to Iškur-lu-til and Ili-uri, but they did not let him leave. Now he is very good. And he should not elude my lord. My lord should write in due form to Iškur-lu-til and Ili-uri so that they may send him back to my lord, to the palatial workshop that my lord will designate. 51

In the cases that have been cited so far, the setting of the dispute was a kingdom in Upper Mesopotamia. But in some cases, the direction of the flight was toward a foreign kingdom. This occurred in a letter by Samsi-Addu to Yasmah-Addu: 48. ARM 1 28 (= LAPO 16 2). 49.  ARM 26/1 148.1–17. 50.  It is very likely that diviners in Aleppo had to swear the same sort of fidelity oath to the king, as diviners in Mari did (ARM 26/1 1). 51.  A.4186 (= LAPO 16 139).

104

State and Society: Flight in the Near East during the Old Babylonian Period Ahum, Ibbi-Illabra and [Etey]a, son of Ili-e, after taking their musical instruments, have fled. If they have run away to you, seize them, and send them back to me. If this is not the case, they went perhaps to the land of Yamhad or to the land of Qaṭna. Put up strong patrols in order to seize them and send them back to me. 52

Flight could also happen in the opposite direction, as is shown by this administrative text, discovered at Tell Biʾa/Tuttul in the palace of Yasmah-Addu, which lists bread and beer for the provision of the musician Šamaš-naṣir, when he had fled from Aleppo. 53

Some musicians seem to have quit merely due to a need for change, leaving their families on the spot, without any means of survival. One illustration is a story about the musician Lipit-Enlil: Lipit-Enlil complains to my lord without reason (when he says:) “My family is held back!” Four years [ago], if the present year is counted, being unable even to [fe]ed his family, he got up and le[ft]. I took his wife and their children to the palace and, until today, they have always received their grain rations, rations of oil, and ra[tions of wool]. Lipit-Enlil approached me for protection; I picked [him] up and I gave him the house as well as the wife of Akšaya, the musician. Having squandered all I gave him, he got up and fled. For the present, I have summoned his wife in the presence of the messenger from my lord and (I said to her:) “Where is the domestic staff, the cattle, the donkeys, and the sheep that your husband left for you?” She (replied:) “He left nothing for me!” It is out of respect for my lord that I now send his wife. May [my lord] ask her what he (= Lipit-Enlil) has left for her. 54

Conclusion We see that the phenomenon of flight was not limited to the lower stratum of Old Babylonian society—anyone, from a slave to a king, might need to flee! One role of a sovereign was to bring fugitives back to their home country. This return was positive when it concerned runaway debtors or exiled people; it was less so when a king asked for the extradition of a subject who had emigrated for political reasons. 52.  ARM 1 63+ (= LAPO 16 13). 53.  KTT 144; see M. Krebernik, Tall Biʿa/Tuttul II: Die altorientalischen Schriftfunde (WVDOG 100; Saarbrücken: Saarbrücker Verlag, 2001) 93–94. 54.  FM 9 36.4–30.

The Ur III Literary Footprint and the Historian Piotr Michalowski The past is never dead. It’s not even past. — William Faulkner

On the day the Bastille fell, Louis XVI of France returned home from the hunt and wrote in his private diary “Rien.” This often-told story is only partially true, but that need not concern us here; more pertinent is the commentary on this anecdote, put in the mouth of one Lord Malquist by the British playwright Tom Stoppard (1966: 8): “‘Nothing’, said the earl ‘is the history of the world viewed from a sufficient distance’.” This fictional gloss is apposite for historians who study distant times, because our work requires the constant adjustment of the focus of the lens through which we observe the past. Set too close, one is confronted with an overwhelming array of small details and no discernible patterns; if the focus goes too far in the other direction, the levels of generalization, often without reference to enough pertinent data, can become so vague as to lose all relevance, giving us Malquist’s nothing. The former produces massive accumulations of unprocessed data, digressions on small details, and footnote orgies; the latter—that is, the very long focus—may be seemingly more satisfying, but in the wrong hands it can also generate narratives that lack substance. Somewhere in between lies a broad array of lens settings that facilitate the production of knowledge, but the criteria for judging and deciding these parameters are often difficult to calibrate and are prone to subjective judgments as well as theoretical dispute. It is often noted that the fragmentary nature of the preserved documentation, archaeological as well as textual, colors everything we say and write about the distant past (Millard 2005). But is there really such a thing as enough data, and how Author’s note:  This is a somewhat revised version of the oral presentation from 2009 that preserves much of the rhetoric of such a reading. It has been brought up to date, as much as possible, but that is all. Much of what I say here is pursued with fuller documentation and perhaps more clarity in articles and in a book that has appeared since. I am grateful to Gary Beckman and Peter Machinist for their generous comments on a draft version of this essay.

105

106

The Ur III Literary Footprint and the Historian

would this be measured? Indeed, the very substance of what is used for analysis often eludes us: the choice of what constitutes historical evidence can mislead and destabilize our investigations so that even the most judicious selection of information can be undermined by inappropriate contextualization. To offer but one illustration: for historians of Mesopotamia, most prominently for those who are interested in the later periods, texts produced by the Crown—inscriptions, annals, chronicles, and so on—provide much of the basic source material for historical reconstruction. But as Mario Liverani (1995: 2353–54) expressed it so well: Historians’ use of the celebrative texts issued by the ancient kings requires an understanding of their background and their purposes, and of the communicative conventions in use, in order to reach a deeper level of reading, to recover the truth behind propaganda, and to identify the real problems behind their verbal resolution. Ideology is often a virtual inversion of reality. 1

The distorted optics of the historical imagination, not to mention the ideological inversion of reality, are well in evidence in the case of the period that moderns have designated as the Third Dynasty of Ur (ca. 2112–2004 BC). 2 To many present-day observers, this was one of the glorious moments of early Mesopotamian history, rivaled only by the preceding period, when Mesopotamia was ruled by Akkad. To be sure, political glory is a matter of taste, and ever since the rise of the nation-state Western civilization has shown a marked preference for centralized large polities, even if they were the anomaly rather than the rule in early Mesopotamian history. Indeed, one could argue that the short century during which Ur controlled Babylonia was an aberration by local standards—as was the somewhat longer hegemony of Akkad—but that, of course, leads to the question: if this is so, why is the Third Dynasty of Ur held in such high regard? Is it because we have more than 90,000 precisely dated documents (Molina 2008), numerous inscriptions (Frayne 1997), and a vivid literary heritage purporting to come from that time, or is something wrong with the way we approach our sources, or with the manner in which we calibrate the lens of our viewing apparatus? Not everyone has been fully seduced by ancient propaganda and modern adulation; Igor Diakonoff (1959) famously denounced the Third Dynasty as a time of oppressive despotic rule, in a sense anticipating Liverani’s claim that ideology can invert reality. 3 To illustrate some of these issues in a volume that celebrates the achievements of Mario Liverani, whose senses are so well attuned to the subtleties of the historical 1.  Mario Liverani (2010) developed these ideas further in a recent essay on propaganda and reliability of royal stele. 2.  For convenience, dates adhere to the broadly followed “middle chronology,” as listed by J. J. Brinkman in Oppenheim 1977: 335–46, although it is now generally assumed that these dates need to be shortened. 3. On all things Ur III, with an extensive bibliography, see Sallaberger 1999. For a short but nuanced historical synopsis, see Van De Mieroop 2007: 73–84; more recently, see Michalowski 2011.

Piotr Michalowski

107

imagination, I propose to perform a brief experiment by juxtaposing three reconstructed views of the period. I will first present what I think is the current scholarly consensus on the broad outlines of Ur III times; I will follow with some of my own opinions on these matters; and finally, I will briefly survey the manner in which the kings of Ur presented themselves to—and were viewed by—their literate cultural inheritors in Old Babylonian times, centuries after their kingdom had disintegrated. I should note that I am not attempting here to defend my own opinions; rather, I present them here only as symptoms of one possible point of view, subject to revision and rejection. As I understand it, the general scholarly opinion on the Ur III period, looking back from a sufficient distance, can be sketched out as follows. After the collapse of the Sargonic state, Babylonia was fragmented once again into a series of small polities; some regained independence; Gutian foreigners from the east dominated others; while another highland group led by one Puzur-Inshushinak of Awan or Anshan occupied an area of northern Babylonia. 4 One of the local kings, Utu-hegal of Uruk, drove out the Gutians, but upon his death another leader, Ur-Namma, possibly his brother, founded a territorial state centered in Ur, and once again reestablished broader hegemony over southern Mesopotamia. His son, the long-lived Shulgi—or Sulge, as some would now have it—accomplished great deeds, reforming administration, weights and measures, and the army; he established scriptoria in which scribes composed magnificent hymns in his honor, and battled mightily in the east and northeast. The endless warfare he instituted extended the influence, if not always the control of Ur deep into the highlands, and his martial accomplishments were matched by great diplomatic and reproductive skills which resulted in many marital alliances with neighboring states, a series of events that began under his father, who made such an arrangement with the king of Mari. At the time of his death, the Kingdom of Ur extended from the Persian Gulf up to Assur in the north. Shulgi was not only a mighty warrior but also a superlative scholar, musician, lawgiver, and linguist. 5 But, strong as Ur might have been, it was under threat from nomadic Amorites; Shulgi had to build a wall to keep them out, one that had to be extended by his second successor, Shu-Sin. 6 These efforts were all in vain, because 20 years after the great wall of Sumer was built, the Ur III state, weakened 4.  On the collapse of the Akkadian state, see now A. Westenholz 1999: 56–59; on the Gutians and the “Gutian Period,” see Steinkeller 2015; and on Puzur-Inshushinak, see Steinkeller 2013. 5.  On Shulgi’s reign, see now Vacin 2011. 6.  See, for example, Hallo and Simpson 1998: 7, where Shulgi’s “wall” is described as a “predecessor” to Shu-Sin’s constructions, and both are viewed as intending to ward off Amorites. Selz (2005: 102), Van De Mieroop (2007: 79), and Sallaberger (2009: 37), to cite only a few recent works, likewise consider one to be an extension of the other, as did I for some time. It is more likely that they were very different constructions, although the linkage of one to the other already took place in Old Babylonian times in the literary royal correspondence (Michalowski 2011).

108

The Ur III Literary Footprint and the Historian

by Amorite incursions, the betrayal of an Amorite officer named Ishbi-Erra, internal strife, an overgrown and bloated bureaucracy, food shortages, riverine diversions, field salinization, or even natural disasters in Syria, was finished off by the armies of the Elamite/Shimashkian king Kindattu, who managed to hold on to the capital for 14 years before he was driven out by a new king from the Mesopotamian city of Isin. 7 The tragic collapse of the state notwithstanding, the time when Ur-Namma and his son and grandsons ruled the land from Ur has often in the past been described as a “(neo)-Sumerian renaissance,” a complex metaphor that combines notions of artistic excellence with ethnic and linguistic resurgence and recovery. Few scholars use the term today. 8 Now, I understand that there are various shades of opinion about these matters and that many scholars have developed more-nuanced opinions about certain aspects of this history. The narrative picture of a powerful, successful, hegemonic and supremely well-organized centralized Ur III state has been challenged in recent years (Michalowski 2004; 2013a; Yoffee 2005; Garfinkle 2013). Nevertheless, I hope that I will not offend anyone, if for nothing more than the sake of this particular discussion I restate my own disagreement with much of the interpretation summarized in the previous paragraphs, concentrated and simplified as it might be. 9 In my view, the main organizational outlines of the kingdom were established by Ur-Namma, but it is impossible to ascertain the methods he used to create a centralized polity that dominated over traditional local power structures. 10 We have no way of ascertaining how much coercion was involved or the levels of acquiescence to the new power at Ur. Unlike his predecessor Sargon, Ur-Namma never claimed any victories over other Babylonian polities as far as we know, and the lack of contemporary local sources hinders any analysis. 11 Nevertheless, he seems to have accomplished much in his 18 years: consolidating a new territorial state; setting up a complex provincial administration; arranging lasting political alliances with states such as Mari; and instituting logistically and fiscally complex massive public projects, including the construction of at least five ziggurats in major cities of his realm.

7.  For a synopsis of competing theories on the immediate sources of the Ur III collapse, see Zettler 2003: 23–24. 8.  The label was criticized in detail by Andrea Becker (1985) but is still encountered in the literature. Cooper (2001: 132) suggests that “Ur III florescence” might be more apt. 9.  A fuller documented argument for the ideas summarized in the following paragraphs can be found in Michalowski 2011. 10.  On Ur-Namma, including an edition of all the Sumerian literary texts concerning the king, see Flückiger-Hawker 1999. A new edition of the Laws of Ur-Namma (UNL), based on a new Ur III manuscript is available in Civil 2011; new duplicates of the important Cadastre of Ur-Namma are published in Steinkeller 2011. 11.  The UNL mentions a contemporary ruler of the Lagash polity, but the verb in the line cannot be read with certainty, and therefore the reference remains ambiguous.

Piotr Michalowski

109

His successor, Shulgi, spent half his reign trying to hold the state together after Ur-Namma’s death, and then seems to have turned most of his attention to semipermanent warfare in the eastern and northeastern highlands. While I fully understand that there remain good arguments to the contrary, my own analysis leads to the conclusion that this military activity was a haphazard, improvised, often reactive, and ultimately futile attempt to control trade routes and livestock pastures and to keep order in an area that lay between the Ur kingdom and the possibly much more powerful states of Anshan and Marhashi to the east and southeast. The extent of his control was smaller than is often presumed, because Assur was only a vassal state (Michalowski 2009), and the vital Diyala valley was not fully controlled by Ur until the last years of the long-lived king. Upon Shulgi’s death, which may have taken place under suspicious circumstances, the throne was taken over in succession by three of his sons, some or all of them possibly from a side of the family that may not have been designated to rule in the old monarch’s lifetime (Michalowski 2013b). But even though there are signs of unusual governmental machinations during the nine-year reign of Amar-Sin, from the military and diplomatic point of view it seems to have been a time of stability and relative success. All that changed when his brother Shu-Sin came to power. The military and construction projects that were finished or initiated by his administration may have overextended the reach of Ur, depleting its coffers as well as its manpower. As soon as he took the throne, he sent armies to support a local dynasty far up the Tigris to the northwest, in Simanum, where Ur III armies had never tread before as far as we know, spent much effort building a line of fortifications in the east, and then, in his sixth year, after breaking all diplomatic ties with allies, mounted a massive attack on Shimashkian principalities in Iran. Although his inscriptions claim great victories, the consequences of this eastern war and of the cumulative results of the military and policing policies already in place under his father, Shulgi, were ultimately disastrous for his kingdom. All that these monarchs and their administrations managed to accomplish was to pressure the various small kingdoms of the Iranian borderlands to coalesce under the banner of one Shimaskian overlord, Kindattu, and six years after Shu-Sin’s claimed successes, the armies of Shimashki took over Susa, cutting off one of the main access routes to the east, while simultaneously Eshnunna seceded from Ur, thus depriving it of the other major road to the east through the Diyala. This was undoubtedly the death knell for Ur-Namma’s Dynasty, even if it took two more decades for events to lead to its ultimate collapse. This is not the place to speculate about these last years, except to say that the traditional culprit in all of this, the “nomadic Mardu” are nothing but a phantom construct of modern historians, who have filled the otherwise opaque historical landscape by projecting modern concepts onto the past, including certain notions of ethnicity, civilization, and the glories of statehood and urbanism.

110

The Ur III Literary Footprint and the Historian

My reanalysis of the Amorite problem would take up many pages, so I will only summarize the main points here. 12 First, while one cannot rule it out, it is impossible to prove that groups described as “Amorite” in Ur III sources led a roaming lifestyle, because there is very little evidence—false analogies with Mari aside—that anyone called Mardu/Amurrum in the documentation from this time was a nomad. Some people whom others designated by this name may have been mobile, moving from pasture to pasture with their flocks, but before the domestication of the camel such transhumant groups lived very differently from the nomads of more recent times. Second, there were both hostile and friendly Mardu/Amurrum in Ur III times, but the hostiles posed little danger compared with the much more pressing military, economic, and diplomatic threats that loomed in the east. Shulgi never built any wall against them, and even Shu-Sin’s constructions may have had other purposes in mind, even if nominally they were considered to be keeping those designated as Tidnum at bay. Most important, the friendlies are hardly documented in large numbers, as is often asserted, and because we cannot be sure if any of them were actually nomads, we cannot claim that they were being sedentarized at the time. Indeed, the term Mardu/Amurrum in Ur III economic documents was most likely a professional name for elite bodyguards, many of them securing the royal family, and not strictly an ethnic description. And, finally, as I have already stated, few of them had much to do with the downfall of the Ur III dynasty, and (Larsa aside) none of them took power in major Mesopotamian cities in the immediate aftermath of the Ur III collapse. 13 How is it possible that one can reach such radically opposed views, while using the same database, even if I admit to having rhetorically overstated the case in order to gain maximum contrast? To continue with the initial metaphor, part of this is due to the setting of the lens—that is, with the manner of selection and sorting of the information—but the very choice of each lens may be at fault, more precisely, the manner in which one views statehood, ethnicity, power, bureaucracy, and even geography. But something more is at play, and for this I need to address the third element in this experiment—namely, the manner in which the Third Dynasty of Ur was viewed in Old Babylonian times, and therefore how it has been received by modern historians and literary scholars who have immersed themselves in ancient writings from those periods. Certain teachers in Nippur, Ur, Uruk, Isin, Mari, Susa, 12.  On the matter of the nomadic status of Amorites mentioned in Ur III texts, as well as other social and military issues summarized in this and the preceding paragraph, see Michalowski 2011. I should note that Verderame (2009; 2013) reached similar conclusions, based on somewhat different evidence (I was not able to refer to his first essay, which only reached me when my book was in press). More recently, Durand (2012), although somewhat critical of my efforts, has presented a fascinating critique of current opinions on the Amorite language, creating doubt regarding its very identity. 13.  For a very different view on these matters, see most recently Sallaberger 2007.

Piotr Michalowski

111

and in other places that used the same general advanced educational repertoire of texts during the reigns of Rim-Sin (1822–1763), Hammurapi (1792–1750), and Samsu-iluna (1749–1712) were continuing a tradition that went back, albeit by a circuitous route, to the period when the House of Ur-Namma ruled the land. At some time, possibly beginning during the reign of Gudea of Lagash or earlier and continuing under the kings of Ur, the government completely changed the trajectory of Mesopotamian literary history, discarding all but a few of the hundreds of mythological poems that went back 500 or more years. 14 They replaced them with a new literature that was very different in tone, and some of it was hitched for the first time, as far as one can ascertain, to politics and the rhetoric of royal selfrepresentation. Ironically, Shulgi claimed to have cherished the old classics even as his representatives were destroying them, but he commissioned new texts composed in the now dead or dying Sumerian language, thus inserting them into the “stream of tradition” and providing them with a classical patina. 15 Some of these texts, such as the royal hymns—a new type of poetry that may have been first developed by poets in Lagash—celebrated contemporary royals directly, but other compositions elaborated a new sense of history and celebrated various aspects of Mesopotamian civilization as defined anew by the masters of Ur. Some of this, as Cooper (2010) has seen so well, involved a strategic rethinking of official views of the past, inserting strategic blank spots into collective memory. The new literary collections, geared in part at least to the indoctrination of small select groups of young members of the elites, were the foundation of the learned, advanced school curriculum; over the next few hundred years, beginning in early Isin times, these were sifted, revised, expanded, and redacted, culminating in the large corpus known to us, which was preserved to a large extent by the dramatic events of Samsu-iluna’s reign, when a rebellion created much social disruption in the land (ca. 1740 BCE). These troubles, tragic as they may have been at the time, preserved much of this literary output for moderns by sealing it in destruction and abandonment layers for archaeologists to find. All of this was not, by any means, a simple linear development. We cannot ascertain, at this moment, when certain texts were inserted into the curriculum, so that even compositions that go back to Ur III times or just before them may have been adopted quite late in this literary history. To provide one example: W. W. Hallo (1973) has argued that certain poems such as the Nanshe Hymn or the Ninurta poem Lugale that belonged to the Lagash tradition may have been added to the 14.  I had earlier linked this strongly with the figure of Shulgi, but I accept some of the critiques of Cooper (2010). 15.  It is possible that a few Akkad-period literary compositions were retained, but it is difficult to trace back the time of origin of such texts to Sargonic times. As Cooper (2001) has demonstrated, modern scholarly attempts to depict certain poems known from Old Babylonian versions as allegories of political events from Early Dynastic and Old Akkadian times are without foundation.

112

The Ur III Literary Footprint and the Historian

Nippur repertoire during the time of Warad-Sin or Rim-Sin of Larsa in the 18th or 19th century. The Hendursanga Hymn likely belongs to this group as well. Hallo’s interesting idea does not work well for Lugale, the most widely copied and longest of all of these, because an Ur III manuscript of the composition from Nippur (Rubio 2000: 212 n. 39) indicates that it was part of the literary tradition in the city much earlier. Likewise, with a few exceptions, we cannot easily determine which poems actually go back to Ur III originals and which were composed later but were ascribed to earlier times, nor can we trace the redactional history of individual poems. It is important to observe, however, that the scribes working for the Isin Dynasty took over from the Ur III court the idea of poetry as a vehicle for royal self-representation and developed it further, adding numerous royal hymns to the school repertoire, continuing the innovations of Shulgi’s propaganda machine. With these restrictions in mind, the situation may be summarized as follows. Of the roughly 300 Old Babylonian Sumerian-language compositions known to us at present, a good percentage can be traced to Ur III times, including the four poems of the Matter of Aratta, the Curse of Agade, the Sumerian King List (which surely must have been composed during Shulgi’s reign), and probably four out of the five Gilgamesh tales, as well as two disputations that were supposedly performed before Shulgi and Ibbi-Sin, not to mention occasional school copies of their inscriptions. 16 More impressive in number if not in literary merit are the more than 48 hymns in honor of Ur-Namma and his successors, as well as some of the 24 literary letters, purportedly from Ur III times. All of this adds up to approximately 80 texts, which is roughly a quarter of the surviving Old Babylonian literary corpus. There are, to be sure, differences of opinion concerning the date of origin of some of these texts; as an example, one may note the possibility that the Sumerian King List was composed under the Akkad kings (Steinkeller 2003), and there is much debate about the authenticity of the literary letters and about the time of their origin (Huber 2001; Hallo 2006; Michalowski 2011). 17 A listing of the 74 currently known Old Babylonian versions of the hymns and letters ascribed to Ur III rulers is provided in fig. 1 (not counting a few marginalia). The surviving hymns portray the kings in deceptively individualizing manner and give a definite advantage, in terms of sheer number, to Shulgi. While his father was remembered mainly for his death, the son was celebrated as a mighty polymath whose physical and martial power was equaled by his administrative, linguistic, and scholarly talents; every advanced schoolchild had to learn of his athletic abilities that allowed him to run back and 16.  Copies of royal inscriptions, more often than not imitating earlier script, are found among school texts from Nippur and Ur, but they are exceptional and were not a regular part of the learning process. I exclude Gilgamesh and Aga from this enumeration, because it was most likely an Old Babylonian composition (Wilcke 1998; Michalowski 1999). 17.  Claus Wilcke and Jerrold Cooper have preferred to date the composition of the SKL to the time of Shulgi, while Esther Flückiger-Hawker has argued for Ur-Namma as the royal patron of the text; see Flückiger-Hawker 1999: 41–42, with earlier references.

113

Piotr Michalowski

Ur-Namma Hymns  8 Elegy  1 Shulgi Hymns 27+ Letters 18 Amar-Sin Hymns  0 Misc.  1 Letters  (2)18 Shu-Sin Hymns  8 Letters  2 Ibbi-Sin Hymns  5 Letters  4 Fig. 1.  OB literature concerning Ur III Kings.

forth effortlessly from Ur to Nippur in a single day, right through a great hailstorm. Moreover, and this has not been without resonance in our time, Shulgi inscribed himself and his followers into Mesopotamian mythology by proclaiming himself a god, encompassing by means of history and genealogy both the mundane and the transcendent spheres. His son and successor Amar-Sin was hardly mentioned in the Old Babylonian literary record, aside from the King List, lists of year-names, and a few omens. Only one actual literary text describes his reign; it appears on three fragments from Ur, and they describe a ruler who inspired a revolt in the land, and whom the gods abandoned, but the details are sketchy at present. 19 Shu-Sin, on the other hand, was remembered as a great lover, even though his own inscriptions represent him to his contemporaries as a brutal, vindictive warrior. Ibbi-Sin, the last king of the dynasty, was portrayed as a luckless monarch who lost a kingdom, and was abandoned and perhaps even cheated by the gods. Try as we may, many historians cannot avoid being influenced by these Old Babylonian portraits of Ur III rulers. Shulgi, in particular, is almost universally praised by modern scholars for his great accomplishments in a manner that would have pleased a certain latter-day 20th-century despot, who probably had much more in common with the king of Sumer than we are willing to admit. But anyone who compared Shulgi with the Great Linguist Joseph Vissarionovich Djugashvili would most likely offend the Sumerologists who have been unduly seduced by the self-representational strategies he pursued with such obvious success. 20 Although  18

18.  There is a short letter from Amar-Sin to King Shulgi with a reply; both are considered to be part of Shulgi’s correspondence (Michalowski 2011: 16–17). 19.  See, most recently, Zólyomi 2000. 20.  Indeed, only a few months after I read this paper in Rome, Luděk Vacín, quite independently, read a paper entitled “Šulgi Meets Stalin: Comparative Propaganda as a Tool of

114

The Ur III Literary Footprint and the Historian

the content of the surviving inscriptional, artistic, and architectural material is quite different, the effect is similar to that achieved by the earlier kings of Agade. I cite myself here, since the words that follow were penned for a conference organized by Mario Liverani: “Many of our textbooks have immortalized the language of ancient propaganda, as their authors view history as no more than a paraphrase of ancient chronicles and inscriptions.” 21 Heeding his admonition, I resist this ancient propaganda and view the Ur polity as a failed state that achieved short-term bureaucratic success but long-term military failure. Two quotations from important scholars of different generations exemplify the high status of King Shulgi in modern times, an estimation based in many respects on an analysis of royal hymnography. In a study of one such poem, Samuel Noah Kramer (1967: 371–72) wrote: In fact, it is not too much to say that Shulgi was one of the most distinguished and influential kings of the ancient world, one who made his mark as an outstanding military leader, as a punctilious administrator, as an energetic builder, as a cultural Maecenas. . . . No wonder that the Sumerian poets and men of letters outdid themselves in composing hymns of exaltation and glorification in his honor.

In a survey of the hymns of the second ruler of the Ur III dynasty, Jacob Klein (1981b: 8) echoed this opinion: As befitting his greatness and fame, Šulgi was perhaps the most celebrated Mesopotamian king in hymns and prayers of all kind. As of today, over twenty separate hymns pertaining to this king have been recovered and reconstructed from about 200 clay tablets and fragments, scattered in various museums on this and other continents. The Šulgi hymns, varying in length from 50 to 600 lines, represent the finest examples of this literary genre. They are distinguished by their high literary quality, rich, archaic poetic language, and unique spiritual and theological ideas. The royal hymns of subsequent generations are colorless imitations of the literary forms and contents introduced by the poets of Šulgi.

One cannot blame those who live too closely to their texts, but the source pool we usually exploit for analysis is in itself a scholarly construct that differs somewhat from what was learned by Old Babylonian schoolchildren. The number of Ur III literary texts listed in fig. 1 above is illusionary; we tend to gather together all the texts we find and count them equally in our totals. But only some of these poems were studied on a regular basis. Indeed, many were perhaps marginal study texts that may have been used once or twice as auxiliary instructional materials or were idiosyncratically used by one or two teachers. Moreover, it is becoming increasingly apparent that only a small number of those who knew how to read and write were ever exposed to literary Sumerian during the time they spent mastering the Mining the Šulgi Hymns for Historical Data from the 21st Century BC to the 21st Century AD,” at a conference in Madrid, now published as Vacín 2013. 21.  Michalowski 1993: 69.

115

Piotr Michalowski A B C D+X E F G H L N O P Q R S T U V W Y Z Za Zb CUNES 48-18-118 Ni. 4511 UET 6/3 522? Nergal C

52 N, 3 Ur, 1 Kish, 1 Susa, 1 Uruk, 1 Babylon, 26 X 22 67 N, 4 Ur, 2 X, Mari 23 17 N 10 N, 2 X 10 N, 4 X 7 N, 1 X 1X 3N 1X 7N 9/10 N 3N 1N 3 N, 3 Ur 3 N, 3 Ur 1N 1X 1N 1 Ur 1 N, 1X 1N 1X 1N 1X 1N 1 Ur 1 N, 1 X

Fig. 2.  Source distribution of Shulgi hymns: number of surviving manuscripts (N = Nippur, X = provenance unknown).

cuneiform script, because there were many roads to literacy in Old Babylonian times (Michalowski 2012).  22  23 This is obviously a complicated matter, but I will illustrate it briefly with a few figures. Of the 27 known Shulgi hymns, few were actually in common use; only 11 are attested in more than one exemplar. 24 Of the 48 surviving Ur III royal poems, approximately 26 were in general circulation. Much the same can be said about the royal letters: only 6 or 7 of them were part of the Nippur “curriculum” (Michalowski 2011). All of this is summarized in figs. 2 and 3. The numbers in figs. 2–3 highlight the uneven distribution of copies: some are attested in one or two exemplars but are known from more than one city. This suggests that, even though they were not 22.  There are a number of known unpublished duplicates. They are cited in five catalogs, including one from Ur III. 23.  “Plusieurs témoins,” Cavigneaux and Colonna d’Istria 2009: 52. 24.  On Shulgi hymns, see Klein 1981a; 1981b; 1985; 1990; etc.

116

The Ur III Literary Footprint and the Historian

A B C D+X E F H N O P R S Nergal C

82 (52 N, 3 Ur, 1 Kish, 1 Susa, 1 Uruk, 1 Babylon, 26 X) 73 + (67 N, 4 Ur, several from Mari, 2 X) 17 (N) 12 (10 N, 2 X) 14 (10 N, 4 X) 8 (7 N, 1 X) 3 (N) 7 (N) 9/10 (N) 3 (N) 6 (3 N, 3 Ur) 6 (3 N, 3 Ur) 2 (1 N, 1 X)

Fig. 3.  Shulgi hymns attested in more than one exemplar.

often used in schooling, they were not part of an idiosyncratic curriculum used for a brief time by one or two teachers in Nippur. Nevertheless, the figure highlights the fact that in the textual repertoire that we currently control, the most commonly used Shulgi hymns were A, B, C, and E. Not only is the number of hymns smaller than one might think; the exact wording, orthography, and rhetorical import of the Old Babylonian literary versions of these texts had been altered, to various degrees, by successive phases of redactional activity. These accumulations of alteration are difficult to detect and analyze and, as a result, unless one is fortunate to find an Ur III version of a literary composition, it is impossible to know when a specific literary text was composed. There are at present only two Ur III manuscripts of Ur III royal hymns: one small piece of a tablet inscribed with Ur-Namma Hymn D (Civil 1985: 34) and a prism with a version of Shulgi Hymn A (Rubio 2000: 216), both from Nippur. The latter is also the only securely identifiable composition in an Ur III literary catalog that lists 32 royal hymns as well as an additional 10 other hymns (Hallo 1963), none of which seems to have endured into Old Babylonian times. The fact that so many royal poems did not survive the redactional processes that ensued after the fall of Ur is a telling indication of the ways in which the royal self-representation of the Ur-Namma Dynasty was edited and altered in subsequent centuries. 25 Moreover, Shulgi Hymn A, which was one of the first full-length poems learned by advanced students in Nippur, Ur, Susa, Uruk, Kish, Babylon, and elsewhere was, to reiterate, a compact 91-line composition that contained in compressed and concentrated form most of the self-representational motifs of the Shulgi hymnography. 25. I exclude from this discussion the other surviving Sumerian literary texts of Ur III date, such as the Temple Hymns, Lugalbanda 1, The Curse of Agade, The Sumerian King List, The Fields of Ninurta, Lugale, a handful of Gilgamesh poems, etc.; see, for the present, Rubio 2000.

Piotr Michalowski

117

LUr LSUr LN LUk LE No. of Sources 92 63 73 26 10 Nippur 76 46 68 20   8 Ur  6 14  1  5  1 Kish  3 Larsa  3?  2?  1? Sippar  1  2  1? unprovenanced  3  1  2 Fig. 4.  City laments: manuscript distribution.

In a sense, one could argue that the other well-attested texts of this type—namely, hymns B and C, which are three times as long—were complex elaborations of the material that is so succinctly manipulated in Hymn A, suggesting that it may have provided a basic matrix for later poets. Moreover, Shulgi Hymn A can be linked to ceremonies from the first decades of the king’s reign, proclaimed in his 7th yearname, and may therefore rank among the earlier examples of the genre. 26 A translation of this ubiquitous poem is provided in the appendix to this article. 27 Some Old Babylonian students were also familiar with lamentations that commemorated the collapse of the Ur III state. The best-attested poem of this type by far is the lament of Ningal, the wife of Ur’s titular deity Nanna (The Lamentation over the Destruction of Ur = LUr). The dirge the moon god himself (The Lamentation over the Destruction of Ur = LUr) and The Lamentation over the Destruction of Nippur (LN), which preserves a distant memory of those events, even though it may have been composed during the reign of King Ishme-Dagan of Isin half a century later, are preserved in a good number of copies, but only about half as many as the LUr tablets. The badly attested laments over Eridu (LE) and Uruk (LUk) may likewise have been composed in the immediate aftermath of the fall of the House of UrNamma (Samet 2014: 8). 28 It is obvious from these figures that the LUr was used by certain teachers in Nippur as commonly as—or perhaps even more commonly than—Shulgi Hymn A, while the LSUr and LN compare in manuscript numbers with Shulgi Hymn B. Old Babylonian students also learned about the kings of Ur through the study of their literary letters. Twenty-four of these epistles are known at present, of which 18 belong to the correspondence of Shulgi, 2 to that of his son Shu-Sin, and 4 to that of Ibbi-Sin, probably another of Shulgi’s offspring and the last member of the dynasty. As is the case with the hymns, it is somewhat misleading to view this 26.  See, most recently, Steinkeller 2010: 380–82. 27.  For previous renditions, see n. 31. 28.  Editions of the laments: LUr: Samet 2014; LSUr: Michalowski 1989; LN: Tinney 1995; LE: Green 1978; LUk: Green 1984.

118

The Ur III Literary Footprint and the Historian

ArŠ1 ŠAr1 ArŠ2 AbŠ1 ArŠ3 PŠ1 IšI1 PI1 IP1 No. of Sources 20 21 10 18   5   9   8 17 28 Nippur 10 11  7  3  5  4  3  9  4 Ur  1  2  3  1  2 Fig. 5.  Hypothetical (expanded) core of the correspondence of the kings of Ur (Michalowski 2011).

group of texts as a corpus. If one excludes texts of unknown origin and the handful of exemplars from places such as Susa, Sippar, Uruk, Isin, Larsa, and Kish, there remains a small core of epistles that were used by a small number of teachers in Nippur and Ur. The number of preserved copies for these more-commonly used letters is presented in fig. 5. 29 A glance at this table reveals that the role of literary letters in schooling at Nippur, at least, was relatively marginal compared with the use of royal hymns and laments. Moreover, it is obvious that only a few of them were in more common usage, although even here we may be dealing with the personal preferences of only a few teachers. Whether real or imaginary, these letters show a more tempered but nonetheless flattering portrayal of Shulgi as a wise administrator, who knew how to adjust to the requirements of practical politics. So what did the literate members of Old Babylonian society know about the Ur III period? Many of them probably knew very little, because it is quite possible, as observed above, that the majority of practicing scribes received only rudimentary instruction in reading and writing. This form of teaching did not include Sumerian literature at all, and therefore most of them may have known nothing of the exploits of Shulgi or the calamity that brought down the Ur III state. 30 Those who were privy to a certain type of elite literary education were mainly exposed to a small number of Shulgi hymns, to a handful of letters, and to the two or more laments that described in highly poetic terms the final collapse of the state. The core of the royal correspondence consisted primarily of epistles concerning Shulgi and Ibbi-Sin, the last Ur III monarch. The most commonly studied Shulgi hymns, A, B, C, and E, were self-congratulatory poems phrased in the first-person singular, but the excesses of this sort of poetic indulgence were tamed somewhat by the letters, which provided a more sober view of the monarch’s reign. 31 The three best-known 29.  A more detailed discussion is presented in Michalowski 2011. In this figure, the top row includes abbreviations for individual letters; i.e., ArŠ1 = Aradmu to Shulgi letter 1; Ar = Aradmu (Shulgi’s prime minister); Š = Shulgi; P = Puzur-Shulgi/Numushda; Iš = Ishbi-Erra; I = Ibbi-Sin. 30.  For a preliminary discussion of the distinction between elite literary education and the practical training of the majority of Old Babylonian scribes, see Michalowski 2012. 31. Editions: Hymn A = Klein 1981a: 167–17; new matrix and translation using additional sources in Delnero 2006: 1858–1909. See Steinkeller 2010: 380–81 for lines 28–35 and parts of 40–78; Vacín 2011: 268–99 publishes eight new manuscripts and provides and a partial

Piotr Michalowski

119

Shulgi hymns cover similar territory, and while B, C and E are almost 400 lines long, the most commonly attested, Hymn A—a poem that was studied early on in the advanced phase of education—counts only 99 lines. All in all, a majority of the students learned about the self-proclaimed greatness of one Ur III king and about the fall of his kingdom a generation and a half later. I am obviously simplifying a complex problem, and this kind of analysis has obvious methodological constraints, curbed by the chance of discovery and by the limits of our present knowledge. The numbers presented above have no hard statistical value, and they pertain only to a specific context: a kind of elite educational environment that was not the only locus of Old Babylonian literacy but that has influenced our perceptions of Sumerian-language poetry of the time. As is becoming increasingly evident, there were many other texts in circulation in other places and in other intellectual contexts, but we still do not know a great deal about them. 32 However, the overall tenor of the argument is clear: the Ur III kings left a heavier imprint on modern scholarship than on the imagination of select groups of Old Babylonian pupils. I should say that the way in which these kings were perceived outside the central learning establishments might have been quite different, judging by the fragmentary evidence of letters and hymns of unknown provenience. In these other places, they had to vie for attention with the earlier kings of Akkad, who are mostly absent from the central curriculum but who played an important role in the nascent Akkadian-language literature that was being created outside Nippur and that has a very different ideological tone (Westenholz 1997). 33 I return now to the metaphors that I used to set up these ruminations on varying views of Ur III history. Competing historical reconstructions are, of course, the very stuff of scholarship; it is hardly surprising that there are differences of opinion on the very nature of the polity founded by Ur-Namma. It is obvious that historians will read the Ur III sources differently and use them to support competing accounts, but the stories we tell are influenced, to various degrees, by the messages that the Ur III administration wished to spread and by various levels of later reinterpretations of these narratives. The lenses through which we view that past are predominantly Old Babylonian in date. But this ancient optical set is also an illusion, created by the totalizing effect of our scholarship and requires a reshuffling to be effective. The lens metaphor can take us only so far, because over time the sources, individually edition of lines 1–67; The most recent published translation with short commentary is in Edzard 2004: 500­–509. Hymn B: Castellino 1972: 9–242; unpublished composite text with variants by Gerd Haayer; Hymn C: Castellino 1972: 243–94; Hymn E: unpublished ms by J. Klein. 32. For various non-Nippurean, Old Babylonian, Sumerian-language literary productions, see, for example, Tinney 2011 and Ludwig 2013. 33.  “Remarkable is the lack of interest in this period [= Ur III] by later Mesopotamians when compared to how the Akkadian kings were remembered” (Van De Mieroop 2007: 76).

120

The Ur III Literary Footprint and the Historian

and collectively, refracted differently in a constantly shifting manner. Thus, for example: Was the totalitarian portrait of Shulgi tempered by later redactors, or was it exaggerated for reasons that we cannot establish today? Was the military might of Ur without rival, or did it experience setbacks and defeats that are suppressed by the propaganda of success? From a certain point of view, however, some but not all of these preserved or reconstructed narratives are complementary and, within certain parameters can be used together to paint portraits of Ur III times. I am not advocating radical postmodernist positions and do not claim that there is no historical truth but only that various narratives, properly contextualized, reveal different aspects of the past and can all be used in a judicious manner to illuminate diverse perspectives that all add up to the incomplete, multidimensional collage that we call history. After all, “we all know that in Antiquity history was an art, not a science” and that the ancients may very well have been right. 34

Shulgi Hymn A 35   1 10 20

King am I, from (my mother’s very) womb a warrior am I! Shulgi am I, from my very birth a powerful man am I! Fierce eyed lion born of a lioness am I! King of the Universe am I! Herdsman and shepherd of the black-headed people am I! Master, god of all the lands am I! Child born of Ninsun am I! Called (to be king) in the very heart of An am I! Whose future was determined by Enlil am I! Shulgi—beloved of Ninlil am I! Tenderly cherished (as a babe) by Nintur am I! Granted wisdom by Enki am I! Mighty king of Nanna am I! Roaring lion of Utu am I! Shulgi—lustily chosen by Inana am I! A mule right for the road am I! A horse swishing its tail on the route am I! Shakkan’s stallion, seeking to run, am I! Learned scribe of Nidaba am I! And just like my military prowess and might, So is my wisdom perfect; So I make judicious verdicts, Love justice, But do not evil love And detest those who evil speak! Shulgi am I; mighty king who surpasses all am I! Because I am a robust (man) who celebrates his might,

34.  Ligota 1982: 1. 35.  For the sources and recent editions, see n. 31 above.

Piotr Michalowski

121

I reinforced the pathways and put in order the roads of the homeland, I marked off the proper length of the mile and built caravanserais, 30 Bordered them with gardens and thus established them as resting places So that travelers coming from north or south Could refresh themselves in their cool embrace, So that young men traveling on the thoroughfares, who would (normally) spend the night on the road, Could find shelter there as in a well-built town. To establish my name for all time, that it never leaves the mouths (of men), That my glory resounds throughout the homeland, As a runner, I mustered my strength, (and) to test (my speed) in running, From Nippur to the brickwork of Ur, I decided to make round trip, as if it were a (mere) mile. 40 As a lion that never tires in his youthful energy, confident in his strength, was I— I covered my hips with a (mere) short wool frock And like a dove . . . flying off from its roof (abode), I swung my arms, Like (the lion-headed eagle) Anzu sighting its mountain (lair), I pressed on. The folk in borderland cities I had established stood up to (greet) me, The black-headed people, plentiful as ewes, gazed at me in adoration. Like a mountain kid hurrying to its resting place, Just as (sun-god) Utu spread daylight over the countryside, I entered Ekishnugal and (That) temple of Suʾen, stall full of fat, I filled with plenty; And there I ordered oxen slaughtered, sheep sacrificed, 50 The sounding of tympani, kettledrums, And the playing of delicate hand drums. Because I am Shulgi, who provides all, I made offerings of food there: On the royal stand, having raised myself lion-like, In the supreme palace of (Inana)-Ninegala I knelt and bathed in flowing water Then sat down and feasted. Thereupon I shot up like a harrier or falcon And cheerfully turned back around to Nippur. But just then storms wailed and tempests spun, 60 North wind and the south wind howled at one another, Lightning and the seven winds clashed in the heavens, Howling storms made the earth quake, (Storm-god) Ishkur thundered in the far-flung heavens, Heavenly rains mingled with earthly waters, And their hailstones, large and small, Thudded my back. But as I am King, I was neither frightened nor afraid: I sprung unfettered like a young lion, I galloped like a wild ass, 70 I ran on with joy in my heart! Having raced like a solitary donkey foal, Before (sun-god) Utu could set his face toward his (nighttime) home, I ran a distance of fifteen miles. And as my chief warriors watched,

122

The Ur III Literary Footprint and the Historian I celebrated Nippur’s and Ur’s festivals on the very same day. And it was together with my brother and companion, ever-youthful Utu, That I drank beer in the palace that had been founded for me by An. My musicians sang for me to the accompaniment of the seven sacred drums; My mate, Maiden Inana, voluptuous mistress of the heavens and the earth, 80. Reclined with me as we drank and ate. I would never boast about myself, but Having gone wherever my will takes me, Whoever my heart prompts me, I challenged; An placed the consecrated crown on my head, And once I received the holy scepter in shining temple Ekur, On the bright dais, on the firmly founded throne, I lifted (my) head toward the   heavens. I exalted the power of kingship, I made all the enemy lands bow down and rectified all in the homeland. The secure people throughout the (entire) universe shall pronounce my name, 90 Sing of me in sacred song, And proclaim my greatness thus: “Lavished with supreme royal power, “Granted martial power and might, “As well as a good life by Suʾen, from Ekishnugal temple, “Given superior strength by Nunamnir (Enlil), “O Shulgi, destroyer of all enemy lands, rectifier of all in the homeland, “O Purification priest of the heavens and the earth, without rival, “O Shulgi, majestic son of An!” To Nidaba be praise!

References Becker, Andrea 1985 Neusumerische Renaissance? Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zur Philologie und Archäologie. BagM 16: 229–316. Castellino, Giorgio 1972 Two Šulgi Hymns (BC). Rome: Istituto di studi del Vicino Oriente. Cavigneaux, Antoine, and Colonna d’Istria, Laurent 2009 Les découvertes épigraphiques des fouilles récentes de Mari: État des recherches en janvier 2009. Studia Orontica 6: 59–68. Civil, Miguel 1985 On Some Literary Texts Mentioning Urnamma. Or n.s. 54: 27–45. 2011 The Law Collection of Ur-Namma. Pp. 221–86 in Cuneiform Royal Inscriptions and Related Texts in the Schøyen Collection. Edited by A. R. George. CUSAS 17. Bethesda, MD: CDL. Cooper, Jerrold S. 2001 Literature and History: The Historical and Political Referents of Sumerian Literary Texts. Pp. 131–47 in Historiography in the Cuneiform World: Proceedings of the 45th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, part 1. Edited by T. Abusch et al. Bethesda, MD: CDL. 2010 ‘I Have Forgotten My Burden of Former Days!’ Forgetting the Sumerians in Ancient Iraq. JAOS 130: 327–35.

Piotr Michalowski

123

Delnero, Paul 2006 Variation in Sumerian Literary Compositions: A Case Study Based on the Decad. Ph.D. dissertation, University of Pennsylvania. Diakonoff, Igor M. 1969 The Rise of the Despotic State in Ancient Mesopotamia. Pp. 15–31 in Ancient Mesopotamia, Socio-economic History: A Collection of Studies by Soviet Scholars. Edited by I. M. Diakonoff. Moscow: Nauka. Durand, Jean-Marie 2012 Réflexions sur un fantôme linguistique. Pp.  165–91 in Altorientalische Studien zu Ehren von Pascal Attinger: mu-ni u4 ul-li2-a-aš ga2-ga2-de3. Edited by C. Mittermayer and S. Ecklin. OBO 256. Fribourg: Academic Press / Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Edzard, Dietz O. 2004 Altbabylonische Literatur und Religion. Pp. 485–640 in Mesopotamien: Die altbabylon­ ische Zeit. Edited by Dominique Charpin, Dietz Otto Edzard, and Martin Stol. OBO 160/4. Fribourg: Academic Press / Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Flückiger-Hawker, Esther 1999 Urnamma of Ur in Sumerian Literary Tradition. OBO 166. Fribourg: Academic Press / Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Frayne, Douglas R. 1997 Ur III Period (2112–2004 BC). RIME 3/2. Toronto: Toronto University Press. Garfinkle, Steven 2013 The Third Dynasty of Ur and the Limits of State Power in Early Mesopotamia. Pp. 153–67 in From the 21st Century B.C. to the 21st Century A.D.: Proceedings of the International Conference on Sumerian Studies Held in Madrid, 22–24 July 2010. Edited by S. Garfinkle and M. Molina. Madrid: SEPOA. Green, Margaret W. 1978 The Eridu Lament. JCS 30: 127–67. 1984 The Uruk Lament. JAOS 104: 253–79. Hallo, William W. 1963 On the Antiquity of Sumerian Literature. JAOS 83: 167–76. 1973 Choice in Sumerian. JANES 5: 165–72. 2006 A Sumerian Apocryphon? The Royal Correspondence of Ur Revisited. Pp. 85–104 in Approaches to Sumerian Literature: Studies in Honor of Stip (H. L. J. Vanstiphout). Edited by P. Michalowski and N. Veldhuis. Leiden: Brill. Hallo, William W., and Kelly Simpson, William 1998 The Ancient Near East: A History. 2nd edition. Fort Worth, TX: Harcourt Brace. Huber, Fabienne 2001 La Correspondance Royale d’Ur: Un corpus apocryphe. ZA 91: 169–206. Klein, Jacob 1981a Three Shulgi Hymns: Sumerian Royal Hymns Glorifying King Shulgi of Ur. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press. 1981b The Royal Hymns of Shulgi King of Ur: Man’s Quest for Immortal Fame. PAPS 71: 1–48. 1985 Shulgi and Ishmedagan: Runners in the Service of the Gods. Beer-Sheva 2: 7*–38*. 1990 Shulgi and Ishmedagan: Originality and Dependency in Sumerian Royal Hymnology. Pp. 65–136 in Bar-Ilan Studies in Assyriology Dedicated to Pinhas Artzi. Edited by J. Klein and A. Skaist. Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press.

124

The Ur III Literary Footprint and the Historian

Kramer, Samuel N. 1967 Shulgi of Ur: A Royal Hymn and a Divine Blessing. Jewish Quarterly Review 57: 369–80. Kuhrt, Amélie 1995 The Ancient Near East c. 3000–330 BC. London: Routledge. Ligota, C. R. 1982 ‘This Story Is Not True’: Fact and Fiction in Antiquity. Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 45: 1–13. Liverani, Mario 1995 The Deeds of Ancient Mesopotamian Kings. Pp. 2353–66 in CANE, vol. 4. Edited by J. M. Sasson. New York: Scribners. 2010 ‘Untruthful Steles’: Propaganda and Reliability in Ancient Mesopotamia. Pp. 229– 44 in Opening the Tablet Box: Near Eastern Studies in Honor of Benjamin R. Foster. Edited by S. C. Melville and A. Slotsky. Leiden: Brill. Ludwig, Marie-Christine 2012 BM 96740: Eine altbabylonische Liste von Textanfängen. Pp.  201–13 in Altorientalische Studien zu Ehren von Pascal Attinger: mu-ni u4 ul-li2-a-aš ga2-ga2-de3. Edited by C. Mittermayer and S. Ecklin. OBO 256. Fribourg: Academic Press / Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Michalowski, Piotr 1989 The Lamentation over the Destruction of Sumer and Ur. MC 1. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. 1993 The Boundaries of Empire: The Politics of Expansion of the Akkad State. Pp. 69–90 in Akkad: Atti del convegno tenuto a Roma nel 1991. Edited by Mario Liverani. Padua: Sargon. 1999 Épopèes, hymnes et letters. Pp. 248–56 in Supplément au Dictionnaire de la Bible, fascicule 72. Edited by J. Briend and M. Quesnel. Paris: Letouzey et Ané. 2004 The Ideological Foundations of the Ur III State. Pp. 219–35 in 2000 v. Chr. Politische, wirtschaftliche und kulturelle Entwicklung im Zeichen einer Jahrtausendwende. 3. Internationales Colloquium der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft 4.–7. April 2000 in Frankfurt/Main und Marburg/Lahn. Edited by W. Meyer and W. Sommerfeld. Heidelberg: Harrassowitz. 2009 Aššur during the Ur III Period. Pp. 147–55 in Here and There across the Ancient Near East: Papers in Honour of Professor Krystyna Łyczkowska. Edited by O. DrewnowskaRymarz. Warsaw: Agade. 2011 The Correspondence of the Kings of Ur: An Epistolary History of an Ancient Mesopotamian Kingdom. MC 15. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. 2012 Literacy, Schooling and the Transmission of Knowledge in Early Mesopotamian Culture. Pp. 39–57 in Theory and Practice of Knowledge Transfer: Studies in School Education in the Ancient Near East and Beyond: Papers Read at a Symposium in Leiden, 17–19 December 2008. Edited by W. S. van Egmond and W. H. van Soldt. PIHANS 121. Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten. 2013a Networks of Authority and Power in Ur III Times. Pp. 169–206 in From the 21st Century B.C. to the 21st Century A.D.: Proceedings of the International Conference on Sumerian Studies Held in Madrid, 22–24 July 2010. Edited by S. Garfinkle and M. Molina. Madrid: SEPOA. 2013b Of Bears and Men: Thoughts about the End of Šulgi’s Reign and the Ensuing Succession. Pp. 285–319 in Literature as Politics, Politics as Literature: Essays on the Ancient Near East in Honor of Peter Machinist Edited by D. S. Vanderhooft and A. Winitzer. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.

Piotr Michalowski

125

Millard, Alan 2005 Only Fragments from the Past: The Role of Accident in Our Knowledge of the Ancient Near East. Pp.  301–19 in Writing and Ancient Near Eastern Society: Papers in Honor of Alan R. Millard. LHBOTS 426. Edited by P. Bienkowski, C. Mee, and E. Slater. London: T. & T. Clark. Molina, Manuel 2008 The Corpus of Neo-Sumerian Tablets: An Overview. Pp. 19–54 in From the 21st Century B.C. to the 21st Century A.D.: Proceedings of the International Conference on Sumerian Studies Held in Madrid, 22–24 July 2010. Edited by S. Garfinkle and M. Molina. Madrid: SEPOA. Oppenheim, A. Leo 1977 Ancient Mesopotamia: Portrait of a Dead Civilization. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Peterson, Jeremiah 2010 A Sumerian Literary Fragment Mentioning Shulgi’s Northern Campaigns and the Extent of His Conquests. NABU 2010/2: 29. 2011 A New Shulgi Hymn or Hymnic Passage. NABU 2011/4: 73. Rubio, Gonzalo 2000 On the Orthography of the Sumerian Literary Texts from the Ur III Period. ASJ 22: 203–25. Sallaberger, Walther 1999 Ur III-Zeit. Pp. 119–414 in Mesopotamien: Akkade-Zeit und Ur III-Zeit. Edited by Walther Sallaberger and Aage Westenholz. OBO 160/3. Fribourg: Academic Press / Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. 2007 From Urban Culture to Nomadism: A History of Upper Mesopotamia in the Late Third Millennium. Pp. 417–56 in Sociétés humaines et changement climatique à la fin du troisième Millénaire: Une crise a-t-elle eu lieu en Haute Mésopotamie? Actes du Colloque de Lyon, 5–8 décembre 2005. Edited by C. Kuzucuoğlu and C. Marro. Varia Anatolica 19. Istanbul: Institut français d‘études anatolienne Georges-Dumézil. 2009 Die Amurriter-Mauer in Mesopotamien: Der älteste historische Grenzwall gegen Nomaden vor 4000 Jahren. Pp. 27–37 in Mauern als Grenzen. Edited by A. Nunn. Mainz am Rhein: von Zabern. Samet, Nili 2014 The Lamentation over the Destruction of Ur. MC 18. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Selz, Gebhard J. 2005 Sumerer und Akkader: Geschichte, Gesellschaft, Kultur. Munich: Beck. Steinkeller, Piotr 2003 An Ur III Manuscript of the Sumerian King List. Pp. 267–92 in Literatur, Politik und Recht in Mesopotamien: Festschrift für Claus Wilcke. Edited by Walther Sallaberger, Konrad Volk, and Annette Zgoll. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. 2010 On the Location of the Towns of Ur-Zababa and Dimat-Enlil and on the Course of the Arahtum. Pp.  369–82 in Festschrift für Gernot Wilhelm anläßlich seines 65. Geburts­tages am 28. Januar 2010. Edited by Jeanette C. Fincke. Dresden: Islet. 2011 The Cadastre of Ur-Namma. Pp.  25–28 in Cuneiform Royal Inscriptions and Related Texts in the Schøyen Collection. Edited by A. R. George. CUSAS 17. Bethesda, MD: CDL. 2013 Puzur-Inšušinak at Susa: A Pivotal Episode of Early Elamite History Reconsidered. Pp. 293–317 in Susa and Elam: Archaeological, Philological, Historical and Geographical Perspectives. Edited by K. de Graef and J. Tavernier. MDP 58. Leiden: Brill.

126

The Ur III Literary Footprint and the Historian

2015 The Gutian Period in Chronological Perspective. Pp. 281–88 in History and Philology. Edited by W. Sallaberger and I. Schrakamp. ARCANE 3. Turnhout: Brepols. Stoppard, Tom 1966 Lord Malquist and Mr. Moon. New York: Knopf. Van De Mieroop, Marc 2007 A History of the Ancient Near East ca. 3000–323 BC. 2nd edition. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Tinney, Steve 1995 The Nippur Lament: Royal Rhetoric and Divine Legitimation in the Reign of Išme-Dagan of Isin (1953–1935 B.C.). Philadelphia: Samuel Noah Kramer Fund. 2011 Tablets of Schools and Scholars: A Portrait of the Old Babylonian Corpus. Pp. 577– 96 in The Oxford Handbook of Cuneiform Culture. Edited by K. Radner and E. Robson. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Vacín, Ludĕk 2011 Šulgi of Ur: Life, Deeds, Ideology and Legacy of a Mesopotamian Ruler as Reflected Primarily in Literary Texts. Ph.D. dissertation, University of London. 2013 Šulgi Meets Stalin: Comparative Propaganda as a Tool of Mining the Šulgi Hymns for Historical Data. Pp. 233–50 in From the 21st Century B.C. to the 21st Century A.D.: Proceedings of the International Conference on Sumerian Studies Held in Madrid, 22–24 July 2010. Edited by S. Garfinkle and M. Molina. Madrid: SEPOA. Verderame, Lorenzo 2009 Mar-tu nel III Millennio: Fonti e interpretazioni. RSO 82: 229–60. 2013 Un pueblo imaginario? La creación de la identidad amorrea en los estudios asiriológicos. Pp. 41–55 in Diversidad de formaciones políticas en Mesopotamia y el Cercano Oriente: Organización interna y relaciones interregionales en la Edad del Bronce—Trabajos presentados en el taller organizado en la Universidad Nacional de Rosario, Argentina, 17 y 18 de agosto de 2012. Edited by C. Di Bennardis, E. Ravenna, and I. Milevski. Barcina orientalia monographica 1. Barcelona: Universitat de Barcelona. Westenholz, Aage 2009 Old Akkadian Period: History and Culture. Pp. 17–117 in Mesopotamien: Akkade-Zeit und Ur III-Zeit. Edited by Walther Sallaberger and Aage Westenholz. OBO 160/3. Fribourg: Academic Press / Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Westenholz, Joan Goodnick 1997 Legends of the Kings of Agade: The Texts. MC 7. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Wilcke, Claus 1998 Zu ‘Gilgamesh und Akka’. Pp.  457–85 in dubsar anta-men—Studien zur Altorientalistik: Festschrift für Willem H. Ph. Römer zur Vollendung seines 70. Lebensjahres mit Beiträgen von Freunden, Schülern und Kollegen. Edited by T. Balke, M. Dietrich, and O. Loretz. AOAT 253. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Yoffee, Norman 2005 Myths of the Archaic State: Evolution of the Earliest Cities, States, and Civilizations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Zettler, Richard L. 2003 Reconstructing the World of Ancient Mesopotamia: Divided Beginnings and Holistic History. JESHO 46: 3–45. Zólyomi, Gábor 2000 Amar-Suena and Enki’s Temple. NABU 2000/3: 56–58.

On Egyptian Elite and Royal Attitudes to Other Cultures, Primarily in the Late Bronze Age John Baines

Background Within Mario Liverani’s enormous range of contributions to ancient Near Eastern studies, Prestige and Interest (Liverani 1990) has been an inspiration to many scholars who have treated relations among peoples and polities of the ancient Near East, especially in the Late Bronze Age (ca. 1500–1200 BCE). Moreover, his studies of topics relating to regions on the periphery of his core interests have often been far ahead of what specialists in these areas had achieved. For an Egyptologist such as myself, a striking example is his treatment of the Tale of Wenamun in the same book (Liverani 1990: 247–54), which at the time of its publication could only be matched in any way by an article by an Assyriologist (Bunnens 1978): nothing comparable had come from within Egyptology. In relation to the questions I treat here, I would single out Mario’s presentation in Prestige and Interest of a model of how ancient polities of many types conceptualized relations between themselves and the world beyond the areas they controlled (Liverani 1990: 33–43). Although his formulation is almost abstract, he presents a highly cogent picture that prompts consideration of how the patterns he identifies have a near-universal character and, I suggest for the present essay, what they might mean for spatial contexts in which contacts and negotiations between polities were set. Here, implications of the terms prestige and interest can perhaps be revisited, using a perspective a little different from that of Mario’s book, in order to think some more about what the differing Egyptian presentations of the world outside by rulers and elites meant in relation to prestige, and how interest—in the sense of wanting to know about and experience something rather than “having an interest” in it for conquest or exploitation—was realized in elite, as well as largely unknown non-elite, knowledge and lives. Despite the widespread perception of ancient Egyptians as inward-looking members of a somewhat isolated society, they maintained

Author’s note:  I am very grateful to Elizabeth Frood and Gay Robins for comments and references, and to Alison Wilkins for help with illustrations.

127

128

On Egyptian Elite and Royal Attitudes to Other Cultures

and elaborated on a vast store of information about the world outside, while many Egyptians went abroad and were attracted by other societies, whether or not any such attraction could be acknowledged openly back in Egypt. It is possible to explore this tension in the Egyptian presentation of foreigners in various sorts of display and in the way that attitudes developed more broadly. Contrasts among domains can be understood as divergences between ideology and habitus. One can observe a little of how the world abroad was presented to Egyptians at home, while considering more hypothetically the experience of foreigners who visited Egypt and of Egyptians who went abroad. The “history” that such questions raise is not the history of events but of ideas and attitudes; these persisted in a range of media alongside, and no doubt influenced by, repeated assimilation into Egypt of people and cultural materials from abroad. In this essay, which presents a train of thought without full documentation, I focus on the Late Bronze Age or Egyptian New Kingdom, the time of greatest cultural interchange before the emergence of large empires in the mid-first millennium BCE; similar points could be made about other periods. I offer these comments, which draw on published materials from over a century but not on extensive research, in admiring homage to Mario’s fundamental contributions to the study of the ancient Near East. 1

Contexts of Diplomatic and Cultural Exchange between Regions By the Late Bronze Age, exchange between polities in the Near East, a number of which had been states for nearly 2,000 years, involved diplomatic practices that seem to have been based on conventions deriving from Mesopotamia, at least in written form. Egypt was the largest unitary state of the time, but in its general and visual culture it was a highly influential outlier rather than belonging within the span from western Iran in the east through Mesopotamia and the Levant to central Anatolia in the northwest (like Egypt, the Aegean stood a little apart). Visitors to Egypt, including diplomats negotiating and supporting relations between rulers, would be confronted immediately and directly by cultural differences because they were dependent on institutions of hospitality and gift exchange and unable to be self-sufficient so far from home. As is known from the Amarna letters, visitors could be detained in Egypt for years before their missions were accepted; this is stated in the fictional Tale of Wenamun as happening in the reverse direction at Byblos in the Levant. The Amarna letters and the Hittite correspondence with Ramesses II 1.  Interest in Egyptian visual and textual treatments of foreigners goes back to the early 19th century. An important textual study is Loprieno 1988; short synthesis: Valbelle 1990. I am aware of work in progress that is relevant to this essay by David O’Connor, Kate Liszka (notably 2012, now in preparation for book form), and Flora Anthony, among others. I give very limited references, focusing on the 18th Dynasty. An article of Wolfgang Helck (1964) remains worth reading. For a rather different perspective on the first millennium BCE with a perhaps overly broad definition of foreigners, see Vittmann 2003.

John Baines

129

(ca. 1279–1213), both of which are strongly rhetorical in tone, also bring other aspects of international diplomacy to life (Roth 2006: summary from an Egyptian perspective). Individuals who were granted an audience with the king, or perhaps with high officials in the royal residence or palace complex, would move progressively into a context of aggression and xenophobia displayed in visual form. For indigenous Egyptians, the importance of such experiences of approaching royalty is shown by biographical texts (e.g., Baines 2013: 254, 260), literary works, and reliefs in the much earlier 5th Dynasty mortuary complex of Sahure (ca. 2450: el-Awady 2009; Brinkmann 2010). Foreigners would have had a less participatory perspective on the king and court life, but a central aim of decoration and ceremony surrounding royalty in Egypt, as in Assyria and other societies throughout the world, was to overawe visitors, whether or not they were Egyptian. If they were there to be welcomed, the aim was to impress on them the special favor that they were receiving. Aspects of the environment surrounding the king are depicted in compositions in nonroyal tombs of the 18th Dynasty that include scenes of royal audiences (Radwan 1969). The context itself is attested in a building from the reign of Amenhotep III (ca. 1394–1355) at el-Malqata in western Thebes, where the ramp leading up to what was perhaps a reception hall bore floor paintings of fettered enemies (Committee of the Archaeological Survey in Egypt 1983: vol. 1, pls. 1–8; vol. 2, pls. 1–9). Glazed fragments of the reign of Ramesses II from Qantir in the Delta display comparable figures of subjugated foreigners, reconstructed as coming from daises and doorways and including a three-dimensional group consisting of a lion with a prisoner in its mouth (Hayes 1937)—a motif that is also attested in New Kingdom miniature artifacts. Similar visual elements appear on the stonework of the slightly later palace of Merneptah from Memphis (now University Museum, Philadelphia: see O’Connor 1993), as well as in temples, where some Windows of Appearance and a wider range of decorative elements use motifs of the same character. Rare examples of portable artifacts—from clothing through heraldic elements to elaborately decorated stone vessels—bear essentially the same message of dominance over foreigners, who are placed in agonizing subjection, bound to furniture, crushed under the king’s feet, or squashed by being used as supports for heavy objects. At best, foreigners who are subject to or in awe of the king are shown paying homage to Egyptian power, which is presented as being embodied essentially in his person. Display pieces depicted as having been made in Nubia and offered as tribute to Egypt exhibit a range of such types, including combinations of the squashed and the beseeching or adoring. Even peoples in colonized areas and their leaders commissioned Egyptian or Egyptianizing works that expressed their own subjection; fig. 1 perhaps shows an elaborate multimedia piece. It might be supposed that many of these representations belonged in a selfreferential pictorial world that hardly correlated with lived spaces. The tomb of

130

On Egyptian Elite and Royal Attitudes to Other Cultures

Fig. 1.  Landscape-style composite object shown as Nubian tribute in the Theban tomb of Huy (TT 40); reign of Tutankhamun. After Nina Davies and Gardiner 1926: pl. 26.

Tutankhamun, however, contained numerous decorated objects that do not fit with such an idea (e.g., Murray 1963; http://www.griffith.ox.ac.uk/discoveringTut/). Although some of them seem to have been unused, others show signs of wear and appear to have been pieces of palace equipment or formal attire; thus, the king seems to have inhabited such a visual environment, at least in formal contexts. A particularly vivid instance is provided by a group of long, gilded staffs with a shape similar to heqa-scepters that end in figures of Africans, in one case paired back to back with a Levantine (Carter nos. 48a, c, d). When Tutankhamun grasped the staffs, the figures would have been upside-down in his hand, rendering tangible

John Baines

131

Fig. 2.  Travertine vessel with a lion on the stopper, a scene of animals devouring prey on the body, and columns with Bes capitals, supported on a base with protruding heads of four foreigners. From the tomb of Tutankhamun, Carter no. 211. Photograph by Harry Burton, no. 0660. Courtesy Griffith Institute, Oxford.

the common expression that he held opponents ‘in his grasp’ (m ḫ f  ʿ. f  ; Erman and Grapow 1929: 272.18–20). There is no reason to suppose that such pieces would be displayed only when foreigners were present. More likely, they were part of the apotropaic apparatus surrounding the king and paralleled in various contexts and media—for example, in the smiting scenes on pylons at temple entrances. Motifs such as these, which could be applied at scales ranging from the colossal to the miniature, were also extended metaphorically. A travertine vessel (fig. 2) with a three-dimensional figure of a reclining lion on its lid and a scene of a lion and dog attacking a steer on its side—the former presumably signifying royal presence— sits on an X-shaped base, the crossbars of which end in heads of foreigners, who are ethnically differentiated to represent regions with which the Egyptians had contacts, distributed according to cardinal directions. A comparable symbolism was developed in a rather different spirit on objects such as the painted chest from Tutankhamun’s tomb, which may have contained hunting equipment and had two somewhat fantastic hunting scenes as its culminating decoration (Davies and Gardiner 1962). While hunting was parallel in meaning to the defeat of enemies, being treated in narratives as its culmination and as a reward for successful combatants (Baines 2013: 187–234), its iconography (as well as probably its implementation) was a little less exclusive and aggressive

132

On Egyptian Elite and Royal Attitudes to Other Cultures

than warfare, and it had counterparts in scenes in nonroyal tombs. The equation of defeated enemies with hunters’ prey that is evident in most periods and paralleled in many cultures was implicit in royal hunts and presumably informed the ideology of hunting in elite contexts. However, the association of hunting with countries abroad where war would be waged, which is clear in royal sources, is not evident in nonroyal images; the nonroyal hunt’s importance to this discussion is that it presents royal relations with the world outside in a slightly milder way than the environment just described and is viewed in a positive light. Visual evidence for the form of the king’s immediate surroundings when he received people in scenes in nonroyal tombs, where he is shown in front of high officials, often with the foreign envoys whom they are introducing. Before reaching the throne dais, visitors would pass gateways and go through halls decorated with images of royal dominance. These would become smaller but more immediate around the person of the king, who is shown seated on a throne on a plinth, under a baldachin (e.g., Kuhlmann 1977: 71–80). The plinth is typically decorated with the torsos of bound foreigners who emerge from oval-fortress shapes that enclose the names of their polities—a device with ancient origins that can also convey cosmographic meanings and is best known from smiting scenes in temples and from temple statuary. The side of the king’s throne may bear pairs of foreigners who are bound and face outward from a central hieroglyph for ‘unite’ (zmꜢ), alluding to the royal epithet “Uniter of the Two Lands,” while the outward direction signifies that they are rejected from the proper order of Egypt, in contrast to the inward direction of fecundity figures in the same position (Schäfer 1943; Baines 1985: 226–76). The motif occurs also on thrones of queens, notably Amenhotep III’s Queen Tiye, when they are seated with the king under the baldachin; in this case, the foreigners are women (e.g., Lange and Hirmer 1968: pl. 154; Romano 1979: no. 101). The king’s footstool bears additional images of defeated enemies, as is confirmed by examples from the tomb of Tutankhamun, as well as by the seat of a chair from there (Eaton-Krauss 2008: nos. 7, 20–23, pls. 39 [chair seat], 44–71). Some examples of his sandals, the decoration of which is not visible in the tomb scenes, also bore figures of bound foreigners on their surfaces, which were thus pressed down directly under the soles of his feet; additionally, the ancient device of the “nine bows” signified enemies in general; the enemies acquired names of specific regions in some New Kingdom examples (Uphill 1965–66). One can speculate about how an envoy might have asked someone (not the king) for translations of the names of foreign peoples inscribed on the royal throne plinth. However, most likely, he—we have no evidence of female envoys, although there were exchanges between royal women, and other women sometimes traveled on missions—would know better than to do such a thing, because he knew that his own people might be represented there and he understood from the context and from parallels at home that what was shown was traditional ideology and might bear little resemblance to international relations as they were practiced. Although the violence of the Egyptian imagery of defeated enemies is less graphic

John Baines

133

Fig. 3.  Levantine elites, set against the background of a forest, emerge from a fortified country estate (?) to present gifts; painting in the 18th Dynasty tomb of Amenmose (TT 42). After Nina Davies 1933: pl. 36.

and perhaps less compelling than that of Neo-Assyrian art (e.g., Bahrani 2008; Collins 2014), its forms would have been unlike those of an envoy’s homeland and for this reason alone might have made a strong impression. Material of this type shows no tendency toward adopting an “international style” (see below). For the learned—in the local context, principally Egyptians—it might also have been impressive simply because of its timeless character, which went back in essence to the state’s formative period. The envoys depicted in tomb scenes of the pre-Amarna-period 18th Dynasty pay homage to the king and present children who were perhaps to be educated in Egypt but also functioned partially as hostages—a practice that is mentioned in texts. The contrast between this relatively pacific treatment and the hostility of the imagery around the king’s throne is strong, and I see no reason to think that it would have differed much from what envoys actually experienced (their rulers visited Egypt seldom, if at all). The tomb of the general who later became King Haremhab, which dates to the reign of Tutankhamun, has comparable but heavily caricatured images of foreigners beseeching the king through intermediaries, as well as long processions of finely characterized foreigners taunted by Egyptian minders (Martin 1989). This treatment probably bespeaks Haremhab’s royal aspirations, as well as perhaps being developed partly for esthetic extravagance; for example, the pleading figure lying on his back (Martin 1989: pl. 114) brings to mind some phraseology of obeisance attested in the Amarna letters. What is shown does not, however, seem to correspond to a specific event. Nonroyal tombs contain other images and texts that provide evidence for a strong interest in the world outside Egypt and a pride at having visited foreign lands—motifs that are attested no later than the Old Kingdom (e.g., Baines 2007).

134

On Egyptian Elite and Royal Attitudes to Other Cultures

Fig. 4.  The Egyptian doctor Nebamun receives a Levantine visitor, his wife, and children; painting in his 18th Dynasty tomb at Thebes (TT 17). After Säve-Söderbergh 1957: pl. 23.

Examples in 18th Dynasty tombs include narratives of military campaigns to the south and the north, representations of the Levantine environment (fig. 3), and images of encounters with people from various lands. They include a Levantine who is seated on an Egyptian chair while his elaborately dressed wife stands beside him, probably as guests of the tomb owner, in a composition showing visitors to Egypt bringing gifts, as well as wheeled carts of non-Egyptian design drawn by humped oxen, which were a novelty in New Kingdom Egypt (fig. 4; details restored from older copies). This was a period when a palace was decorated with Aegean or eastern Mediterranean wall paintings (Bietak et al. 2007), Near Eastern technology such as glass came to Egypt and was adapted and further developed there (Shortland 2012), and large numbers of foreigners from south and north settled in the country, generally becoming integrated into elite (and, no doubt, non-elite) society in a few generations. How far immigrant groups, particularly those forcibly settled in Egypt, retained a distinct identity over time is unknown, but evidence of a continuing ethnicity from the pre-Ramessid New Kingdom relates mainly to the paramilitary Medjay (Liszka 2012). At the same time, many Egyptians went abroad for a variety of purposes, took part in the colonial settlement of Nubia, or remained abroad (a development only obliquely acknowledged in texts). Little is known of how such outward journeys affected people’s attitudes, but knowledge of the Levantine world is a major theme of the Ramessid Satirical Letter (Fischer-Elfert 1986: 148–226). Images in a couple of

135

John Baines

18th Dynasty Theban tombs show strong interest in landscapes of the Levant and the Eastern Desert (Nina Davies 1961)—as do the Punt reliefs of Hatshepsut from the state’s perspective (see below) and Ramessid reliefs of conquest on the outer walls of temples (see, e.g., Heinz 2001). Literary texts offer different perspectives on such matters, significantly including the adaptation of whole mythical tales into the Egyptian language (e.g., Collombert and Coulon 2000).

Sources of and Attitudes toward Knowledge This large body of material, which I have only sketched, includes pictorial and textual genres. Typically, Egyptian compositions that integrate images and texts include the personified fortress shapes containing sets of names of foreign regions and cities—the genre often termed “topographical lists.” In a more individualized form, a sequence of fortified places is shown in miniature and distributed across the bottom of a pair of large scenes of a military campaign of Sety I at Karnak (Gardiner 1920: pls. 11–12; details partly omitted from Epigraphic Survey 1986). The most eloquent depiction of a foreign land is probably that of Punt in the temple of Hatshepsut at Deir el-Bahri (Naville n.d.: pls. 69–75; Smith 1965: figs. 173–74), which is far more specific and detailed than the depiction known from the 5th Dynasty temple complex of Sahure, which dates a millennium earlier (el-Awady 2009; Brinkmann 2010). By contrast, a fragment from the mortuary temple of Izezy (ca. 2350) shows localities, regions, plants, and animals from abroad in a quasiencyclopedic integration of images and texts (Grimm 1985), suggesting that aspects of the foreign world could have been classified and recorded in various genres from as early as modes of listing and detailed depiction were developed—possibly back to the early third millennium. Among texts that should be mentioned here are healing prescriptions that use foreign terms or are composed in a foreign language but written in Egyptian hieratic (Leitz 1999: 49–50, 61–63). These fit with the exchange of medical personnel and expertise between Egypt and other polities of the Near East that is documented in New Kingdom royal correspondence, while showing that some foreign medical knowledge became part of the Egyptian written repertory, although perhaps not in the longer term. The topographical lists incorporated into visual compositions in New Kingdom temples (and conceivably earlier) are likely to have been stored in less visual forms, which could have been used also as sources for the relief from the temple of Izezy. Such materials probably belonged to a body of codified and curated knowledge about this world and the next. This knowledge would have been maintained by elite groups who probably overlapped with royalty, tomb owners, and dependents of theirs or of the institutions they served. The Book of Gates, a visual–verbal composition presenting the underworld (which is first attested in the royal tomb of the same Haremhab) includes paired figures representing four human groups: Nubian, Libyan, Levantine, and Egyptian (e.g., Hornung 1990: 139, pls. 105, 107–9).

136

On Egyptian Elite and Royal Attitudes to Other Cultures

In this otherworldly and unspecified setting, they are not characterized as enemies or fettered, and the Egyptian figure is placed alongside the others, as is sometimes found elsewhere (see e.g., Posener 1965). Such a treatment appears to constitute a change from visual and textual presentations of the third millennium, but not necessarily a change in attitudes toward other peoples and cultures. Gerald Moers (2004) has shown that, contrary to the widespread view of Egyptologists, non-Egyptians were categorized in all periods as “people” and that the opposite impression is due to an overliteral interpretation of Egyptian vocabulary. Vast amounts of information about the world beyond Egypt were assembled and integrated into organized knowledge, at levels from the royal and divine to the elite. Attitudes among the non-elite are essentially inaccessible. Many of them, however, must have experienced far greater amounts of daily interaction with foreigners than came the way of their more sheltered superiors. Perhaps their perspectives generally lay somewhere between royal stereotypes of domination and elite attraction to the world outside. During the 18th Dynasty, the presentation, and perhaps the underlying organization, of the assembled knowledge of that world was developed in new ways, and new elements were incorporated into display. A prime example is the names of regions and places in the Aegean and in Anatolia that are inscribed on the bases of colossal statues in the mortuary temple of Amenhotep III (e.g., Sourouzian and Stadelmann 2005). While this treatment conformed with stereotypes of foreigners as abject beings crushed by the king’s might, the information contained in the extended repertory changed, to some extent in keeping with conditions in this period, and it did so again in the Third Intermediate period, when a large sequence of Palestinian place-names was inscribed at Karnak (Epigraphic Survey 1956). The details of such changes can be elusive, not least because of problems of chronology, and it may not have occurred to anyone that it was particularly important to reflect the political map of any specific period in compositions that were essentially formal (the same would not be true of magical prescriptions and rituals involving foreigners and enemies, which seem to have been kept up to date). Nonetheless, engagement with regions beyond Egypt must have involved recording features in writing and in pictorial form. In the case of the Punt expedition during the reign of Hatshepsut, some of what was depicted of the land itself appears arbitrary, notably the houses raised on stilts, which probably related to a different environment and might be compared with the fantastic foreign plants in the “botanical garden” of Thutmose III at Karnak (Beaux 1990). The rendering of types of Red Sea fish, however, is so precise, as well as typical of Egyptian concern with living species, as to support the idea that specimens were collected, whether during the expedition or at an earlier date (Danelius and Steinitz 1967). For Punt and for the Levant, comparable sources with a more strongly pictorial character, for which no direct evidence is known, could have contributed to images of terrain and buildings. Commonalities in treatment suggest that realizations in temples and tombs adapted similar visual models in different ways (Baines 2013: 43–150).

137

John Baines

Such sources were presumably stored in cultural repositories. These could have been in royal and administrative institutions, temples, or to some extent in private collections. What is relevant here is the indication that the material gives of detailed and focused interest in recording the world outside Egypt, as well as the generally positive view of the world that it conveys. Since Egyptian visual works seldom followed a fixed template, the very hostile pictorial presentations around the person of the king, in temples, and in media, including texts inscribed on monuments near the frontiers, may have been composed at least partly from the less adversarial collections of information that I am positing here.

Radical Change Two important developments fall outside the pattern described so far. First is the emergence of an “international style,” which was defined by William Stevenson Smith (1965), while his definition has been extended and varied by Marian Feldman (2005). This style and the associated content are mainly attested on small, exchangeable objects made of a range of often high-value materials, but they also have counterparts in palace and tomb wall paintings, and their currency extended beyond the Levant and Egypt to Anatolia and the Aegean. The style may have emerged in the 15th century BCE—a few generations earlier than suggested by Feldman—at a time of increased international contact and of the dissemination across the Near East of esthetic products and newer technologies. The Aegean-style paintings from Tell el-Dabʿa in the Egyptian Delta (Bietak et al. 2007) and from Levantine sites, which may date to the mid-15th century BCE or before, are perhaps early outliers of the movement. The international style is relevant here particularly because it idealizes its subject matter, emphasizing rural contexts and minimizing aggression against human beings (but not in hunting or among animal species). While some finds, such as the 19th Dynasty Tell Basta treasure from the Nile Delta (e.g., Baines 2013: 118–19 with fig. 36), appear to come from temple contexts, other pieces may derive from nonroyal and nontemple sources and thus belong with the less antagonistic treatments of “the other” sketched above. Unlike Feldman and in agreement with David Wengrow’s review of her book (2007), I do not see pieces in the international style as being tied to exchanges among rulers. Rather, they belong to a broad realm of transportable elite material culture that would have encompassed perishable materials such as textiles and wooden furniture. The style is a little less “international” than Feldman claims, because pieces vary in character, and most of them can be assigned to specific regions of manufacture. If anything, what they exemplify is the Egyptian influence on Levantine visual forms in particular, which goes back at least to the Middle Bronze Age (e.g., Teissier 1996). Furthermore, the international style can hardly be characterized as a single, definable phenomenon. It formed part of a wider development, and Marc Van De Mieroop (2007) proposes that elites throughout the Near Eastern and Egyptian realm of cultural and material exchange would have felt as much or more affinity

138

On Egyptian Elite and Royal Attitudes to Other Cultures

with their peers in different polities as with their own whole society. Such subjective attitudes—which would have coexisted with the ruler-focused visual rhetoric of domination—would appear in different ways according to context. The central group in the larger polities would have excluded elites in peripheral areas or in smaller-scale domains of their own societies, yet these same excluded people might have included themselves in their perceptions of the group. Regions such as Nubia and Punt, which were crucial to the Egyptian world picture, are examples of places where these sorts of divergent perspectives might have been present—as could have been the case in a different way for the Aegean. Evidence for a diversity of perceptions is available for Nubia, even on single monuments (see also below), whereas Punt and its societies are archaeologically unknown and may not have corresponded to any single entity on the ground. The other development that is significant for the present argument is the shortlived but crucial phase of the reign of Amenhotep IV/Akhenaten (the Amarna period) and its aftermath, with its reforms in religion and in many other domains. Because this period is attested from the Amarna letters, although without clear reference to the revolutionary changes in Egypt, it has long been central to interpretations of international relations, notably in the works of Mario Liverani (e.g., 1979; 2004). As indicated above, royal and nonroyal monuments of the earlier 18th Dynasty in particular have widely divergent presentations of the world abroad and of Egyptian relations with it. Such differences are less marked for the reign of Akhenaten. One reason for this convergence is that the decoration of nonroyal tombs includes more scenes of royal and official life than at other times, in compositions that are seemingly closer in character to those of royal monuments. At the same time, the range of subject matter in temple decoration is less strongly “sacred” than before, probably in part because traditional scenes of the king before a range of deities ceased to be appropriate for the new forms of worship. From the earliest of the new decorations onward, notably in the Theban tomb of Ramose, groups of foreigners are depicted being received by the king in audiences (e.g., Norman Davies 1941: pl. 37). Images from the Karnak temples dedicated to the new form of the sun god include similar groups in groveling poses (Anonymous 1976: no. 10) that contrast with the somewhat freer and less-subservient presentation in nonroyal tombs at el-Amarna—for example, the tomb of Meryre II (Norman Davies 1905: pls. 33–35). In both contexts, figures of Egyptians are shown in poses that are essentially similar to the foreigners’ poses or even appear more subservient (Schwaller de Lubicz 1999: pl. 250), if only because of their greater numbers. While idealized, the compositions convey a stronger sense of possible settings than do the scenes in earlier 18th Dynasty tombs. In the tomb of Meryre II, the foreigners, who probably represent envoys, stand behind Egyptians who bow to address the king on an occasion when the tomb owner is being rewarded. It is plausible that envoys would have attended events organized to reward Egyptian high officials, not least because this would send the message that formal events with an internal Egyptian significance were on the same scale of importance as international affairs.

John Baines

139

Moreover, envoys in the court societies of many periods and regions participated in general court life, not only when business related to their interests was conducted. Since they would have depended on royal largesse to be able to live at the royal residence and would not have had many other calls on their time, participation of this sort would have been beneficial in more than one way. Furthermore, enforced waiting for an audience and exclusion would have been a powerful weapon, making even survival difficult for an envoy. The violent, apotropaic presentation of foreigners did not disappear in the face of this newer depiction of court ceremonial. Beneath the figures of king and queen in the reward scene of Meryre II are traditional groups of foreign captives tethered to the central “unification” sign. A ship of Queen Nefertiti has a scene on the hull near the bow showing her about to smash the heads of female captives (Cooney 1965: no. 51a); this is calqued on scenes of kings and has an indirect forerunner in the example of Amenhotep III and Queen Tiye mentioned above. The reward scene attests—in an image rather than through a palace structure—the direct juxtaposition of something like a “normal” practice of receiving foreigners and the stereotyped ideology of the context. This context can hardly be traced in the material record and could have been in a temporary structure that might be archaeologically invisible, even in the desert location of el-Amarna. The palace decoration from the following century supports the assumption that locations where the king received visitors bore comparable motifs, as well as the ancient icon of a king smiting the heads of enemies. The same clash is visible in the luxury objects depicted as coming from Nubia (fig. 1): the tomb of Huy, which contains the painting reproduced in fig. 1, attests a whole range of treatments of Nubians in less and more stereotyped renderings of alterity and integration with Egyptian styles of comportment and modes of dress. More generally, violent treatments of foreigners are richly attested during the reign of Tutankhamun, just a few years after Akhenaten; some of the objects that bear these images may have been inherited from Akhenaten’s reign. Thus, nothing points to a break in continuity in the presentation of foreigners under Akhenaten. Rather, the radical changes in decoration in his time fit with the presence of both aggressive imagery in the king’s surroundings and less adversarial but still domineering practices in the same context; these appear in compositions that were a little closer to the examples in elite tombs. In this perspective, the extravagant rendering of foreigners petitioning Tutankhamun and of processions of captives in the Saqqara tomb of Haremhab displays the strongest merging of two developments: the characterization of many distinct foreign groups shown in subjection to Egypt and its king, often on royal monuments; and, in Haremhab’s tomb, the scene of the elite tomb owner presenting beseeching foreigners to the king. My final example is a small, painted stela of a Syrian soldier from el-Amarna (fig. 5). The owner sits on a high-status folding stool of basically Egyptian design and is about to drink from an amphora by means of an un-Egyptian straw, helped by an

140

On Egyptian Elite and Royal Attitudes to Other Cultures

Fig. 5.  Stela of a man named Terer (Dalilu?), drinking from a vase through a straw, and his wife Irbura. From el-Amarna, late 18th Dynasty. Berlin, Ägyptisches Museum 14122. After Spiegelberg and Erman 1898: pl. 17.

Egyptian servant. His wife, who is shown in Egyptian style, might not be ethnically Egyptian. This composition must have been acceptable to its patron, who might have been the Syrian or his widow, but one wonders how seriously the designer intended it. To an Egyptian, it might have conveyed a stereotype of a foreigner rather than a proper rendering, and it seems less respectful than the treatment of a Syrian’s visit to a high Egyptian official (fig. 4), perhaps because its protagonist was not as high up the social scale. A pictorial ostracon from Deir el-Medina dating about a century later depicts a monkey in a very similar composition, also seated on a folding stool, showing that at that date such a treatment was parodic (Vandier d’Abbadie 1946: pl. 48, no. 2315). On the one hand, an object such as

141

John Baines

this exemplifies the difficulties of interpreting how subjects from outside Egypt (or who originated from outside the country) were represented within Egyptian conventions, while on the other hand, it attests the strong, detailed interest that Egyptians had in the appearance and customs of non-Egyptians, including those who resided, and presumably died, among them.

Conclusion The principal materials I have reviewed, which date to a period more than 1,500 years after the formation of the Egyptian state, display a range of attitudes expressed in primarily visual forms: stereotypical disdain for the world outside Egypt and, by implication, fear of it; careful observation and recording of that world and its inhabitants; engagement with its landscapes, alongside acquiring prestige from diplomatic and other associations with elite foreigners; and a humorous interest that may imply considerable familiarity. In a complex, state-level society that generally accepted both forced and voluntary immigration (Schneider 1998; 2003), as well as maintaining contacts with many other polities, people must have encountered foreigners in diverse contexts and at most social levels. Attitudes toward them would hardly be unitary or consistent within social groups, between social groups, or in different settings and periods. The dissonances in royal and elite domains that I have discussed here were no doubt paralleled in other contexts. In part, these dissonances were due to the use of inherited symbolism, particularly in royal and sacred milieux. Symbolic residues like these can be paralleled in many societies. Those who deployed the motifs would have been conscious of the contradictions involved, and wherever it was expedient they would have treated them as ideology and not taken them literally, or they would have understood them as magical protection. Comparable interchanges on elite and diplomatic levels in other societies would have been treated in similar ways. It is common almost everywhere to retain stereotyped images of the foreign world, particularly in epithets and iconography. Associated attitudes, however, continue to have devastating consequences for millions today. While the sophistication and complexity of Egyptian knowledge of the foreign world and the resources devoted to amassing, sustaining, and revising this knowledge are remarkable, one should have no illusion about their context, which was in a society that was routinely cruel both to foreigners and to its own people. Moreover, elites benefited from the positive aspects of connections with other societies and left less-convenient aspects to their perhaps more accommodating inferiors. We see something of these paradoxes in highly esthetic forms in tomb decoration and on small objects. The esthetic impulse was applied both to negative, stereotyped images and to freer and more-positive images. The influence of Egyptian stereotyped forms on the even more aggressive forms of the Egyptian-influenced Napatan–Meroitic civilization of a number of centuries later (e.g., Wildung 1997: 266 [Naqaʿ]; Willeitner

142

On Egyptian Elite and Royal Attitudes to Other Cultures

1997: 211, and Fisher et al. 2012: 229 [Gebel Qeili]) illustrates how such treatments may exercise greater attraction than the rather suppler and more nuanced motifs that are apparent particularly in 18th Dynasty sources.

References Anonymous, ed. 1976 Nofretete Echnaton Tutanchamun. Mainz: von Zabern. [Exhibition catalog, collected version, Munich, Berlin, Hildesheim, 1976; all versions have the same catalog numbers.] Awady, T. el2009 Abusir XVI: Sahure—The Pyramid Causeway. History and Decoration Program in the Old Kingdom. Prague: Czech Institute of Egyptology. Bahrani, Z. 2008 Rituals of War: The Body and Violence in Mesopotamia. New York: Zone / Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Baines, J. 1985 Fecundity Figures: Egyptian Personification and the Iconology of a Genre. Warminster: Aris & Phillips / Chicago: Bolchazy-Carducci. 2007 Travel in Third and Second Millennium Egypt. Pp.  5–30 in Travel, Geography and Culture in Ancient Greece and the Near East. Edited by C. Adams and J. Roy. Leicester Nottingham Studies in Ancient Society 10. Oxford: Oxbow. 2013 High Culture and Experience in Ancient Egypt. Studies in Egyptology and Ancient Near East. Sheffield: Equinox. Beaux, N. 1990 Le Cabinet de curiosités de Thoutmosis III: Plantes et animaux du “Jardin Botanique” de Karnak. OLA 36. Leuven: Departement Oriëntalistiek/Peeters. Bietak, M.; Marinatos, N.; and Palivou, C. 2007 Taureador Scenes in Tell el-Dabʿa (Avaris) and Knossos. Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Denkschriften der Gesamtakademie 43. Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Brinkmann, V., ed. 2010 Sahure: Tod und Leben eines grossen Pharao: Eine Ausstellung der Liebieghaus Skulpturen­ sammlung, Frankfurt am Main, 24. Juni bis 28. November 2010. Frankfurt: Liebieghaus Skulpturensammlung / Munich: Hirmer. Bunnens, G. 1978 La mission d’Ounamon à Byblos: Point de vue d’un non-Egyptologue. Rivista di Studi Fenici 6: 1–16. Collins, P. 2014 Gods, Heroes, Rituals, and Violence: Warfare in Neo-Assyrian Art. Pp.  619–44 in Critical Approaches to Ancient Near Eastern Art. Edited by B. A. Brown and M. H. Feldman. Boston: de Gruyter. Collombert, P., and Coulon, L. 2000 Les dieux contre la mer: Le début du “Papyrus d’Astarté” (PBN 202). Bulletin de l’Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale 100: 193–242. Committee of the Archaeological Survey in Egypt 1983 Malkata-South 1, Kom el-Samak (Hill of the Fish): Archaeological Report. 2 vols. Tokyo: Waseda University Press. [Japanese]

John Baines

143

Cooney, John D. 1965 Amarna Reliefs from Hermopolis in American Collections. Brooklyn, NY: Brooklyn Museum. Danelius, E., Steinitz, H. 1967 The Fishes and Other Aquatic Animals on the Punt-Reliefs at Deir el-Baḥri. JEA 53: 15–24. Davies, Nina M. 1961 A Fragment of a Punt Scene. JEA 47: 19–23. Davies, Nina M., and Gardiner, A. H. 1926 The Tomb of Huy, Viceroy of Nubia in the Reign of Tutʿankhamūn (No. 40). Theban Tombs Series 4. London: Egypt Exploration Society. 1962 Tutʿankhamūn’s Painted Box. Oxford: Griffith Institute. Davies, Nina M., and Davies, Norman de G. 1933 The Tombs of Menkheperrasonb, Amenmosě, and Another (Nos. 86, 112, 42, 226). Theban Tombs Series 5. London: Egypt Exploration Society. Davies, Norman de G. 1905 The Rock Tombs of El Amarna II. Archaeological Survey of Egypt 14. London: Egypt Exploration Fund. 1941 The Tomb of the Vizier Ramose. Mond Excavations at Thebes 1. London: Egypt Exploration Society. Eaton-Krauss, M. 2008 The Thrones, Chairs, Stools, and Footstools from the Tomb of Tutankhamun. Oxford: Griffith Institute. Epigraphic Survey, the 1956 The Bubastite Portal. Reliefs and Inscriptions at Karnak 3. Oriental Institute Publications 74. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 1986 The Battle Reliefs of King Sety I. Reliefs and Inscriptions at Karnak 4. Oriental Institute Publications 107. Chicago: Oriental Institute, University of Chicago. Erman, A., and Grapow, H. 1929 Wörterbuch der ägyptischen Sprache III. Leipzig: Hinrichs. Feldman, M. H. 2005 Diplomacy by Design: Luxury Arts and an “International Style” in the Ancient Near East, 1400–1200 BCE. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Fischer-Elfert, H.-W. 1986 Die satirische Streitschrift des Papyrus Anastasi I: Übersetzung und Kommentar. Ägypt­ ologische Abhandlungen 44. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Fisher, M. M.; Lacovara, P.; Ikram, S.; and D’Auria, S., eds. 2012. Ancient Nubia: African Kingdoms on the Nile. Cairo: American University in Cairo Press. Gardiner, A. H. 1920 The Ancient Military Road between Egypt and Palestine. JEA 6: 99–116. Grimm, A. 1985 Das Fragment einer Liste fremdländischer Tiere, Pflanzen und Städte aus dem Totentempel des Königs Djedkare-Asosi. Studien zur Altägyptischen Kultur 12: 29–41. Hayes, W. C. 1937 Glazed Tiles from a Palace of Ramesses II at Ḳantīr. Metropolitan Museum of Art Papers 3. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art.

144

On Egyptian Elite and Royal Attitudes to Other Cultures

Heinz, S. C. 2001 Die Feldzugsdarstellungen des Neuen Reiches: Eine Bildanalyse. Untersuchungen der Zweigstelle Kairo des Österreichischen Archäologischen Institutes 17. Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Helck, W. 1964 Die Ägypter und die Fremden. Saeculum 15: 103–14. Hornung, E. 1990 The Valley of the Kings: Horizon of Eternity. New York: Timken. Kuhlmann, K. P. 1977 Der Thron im alten Ägypten: Untersuchungen zu Semantik, Ikonographie und Symbolik eines Herrschaftszeichens. Abhandlungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Abteilung Kairo 10. Glückstadt: Augustin. Lange, K., and Hirmer, M. 1968 Egypt: Architecture, Sculpture, Painting. 4th ed. London: Phaidon. Leitz, C. 1999 Magical and Medical Papyri of the New Kingdom. Hieratic Papyri in the British Museum 7. London: British Museum Press. Liszka, K. 2012 “We Have Come to Serve Pharaoh”: A Study of the Medjay and Pangrave Culture as an Ethnic Group and as Mercenaries from c. 2300 BCE until c. 1050 BCE. Ph.D. dissertation, University of Pennsylvania. Liverani, M. 1979 Three Amarna Essays. Sources and Monographs on the Ancient Near East 1/5. Malibu, CA: Undena. 1990 Prestige and Interest: International Relations in the Near East ca. 1600–1100 B.C. HANES 1. Padua: Sargon. 2004 Myth and Politics in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography. Edited by Zainab Bahrani and Marc Van De Mieroop. Studies in Egyptology and Ancient Near East. London: Equinox. Loprieno, A. 1988 Topos und Mimesis: Zum Bild des Ausländers in der ägyptischen Literatur. Ägyptologische Abhandlungen 48. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Martin, G. T. 1989 The Memphite Tomb of Ḥoremḥeb, Commander-in-Chief of Tutʿankhamun I: The Reliefs, Inscriptions, and Commentary. Excavation Memoir 55. London: Egypt Exploration Society. Moers, G. 2004 Unter den Sohlen Pharaos: Fremdheit und Alterität im pharaonischen Ägypten. Pp. 81–160 in Abgrenzung, Eingrenzung: Komparatistische Studien zur Dialektik kultureller Identitätsbildung. Edited by F. Lauterbach, F. Paul, and U.-C. Sander. Abhandlungen der Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen, Philologisch-Historische Klasse 264,3. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Murray, H., and Nuttall, M. 1963 A Handlist to Howard Carter’s Catalogue of Objects in Tutʿankhamūn’s Tomb. Tutʿankhamūn’s Tomb Series 1. Oxford: Griffith Institute / Oxford University Press. Naville, E. n.d. The Temple of Deir el Bahari III. London: Egypt Exploration Fund.

John Baines

145

O’Connor, D. 1993 Mirror of the Cosmos: The Palace of Merneptah. Pp. 167–98 in Fragments of a Shattered Visage: The Proceedings of the International Symposium on Ramesses the Great. Edited by R. E. Freed and E. Bleiberg. Monographs of the Institute of Egyptian Art and Archaeology 1. Memphis, TN: Memphis State University Press. Posener, G. 1965 Sur l’orientation et l’ordre des points cardinaux chez les Egyptiens. Pp.  69–78 in Göttinger Vorträge vom ägyptologischen Kolloquium der Akademie am 25. und 26. August 1964. Edited by S. Schott. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Radwan, A. 1969 Die Darstellungen des regierenden Königs und seiner Familienangehörigen in den Privatgräben der 18. Dynastie. Münchner Ägyptologische Studien 21. Berlin: Hessling. Riggs, C., and Baines, J. 2012 Ethnicity. In UCLA Encyclopedia of Egyptology. Edited by W. Wendrich, J. Dieleman, and E. Frood. Los Angeles: Department of Near Eastern Languages and Cultures, UCLA. http://www.escholarship.org/uc/item/32r9x0jr. Romano, J. F. 1979 The Luxor Museum of Ancient Egyptian Art: Catalogue. Cairo: American Research Center in Egypt. Roth, S. 2006 Internationale Diplomatie am Hof Ramses’ II. Pp. 89–118 in Der ägyptische Hof des Neuen Reiches: Seine Gesellschaft und Kultur im Spannungsfeld zwischen Innen- und Auss­enpolitik. Akten des internationalen Kolloquiums vom 27.–29. Mai 2002 an der Johannes Gutenberg-Universtität Mainz. Edited by R. Gundlach, and A. Klug. Königtum, Staat und Gesellschaft früher Hochkulturen 2. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Säve-Söderbergh, T. 1957 Four Eighteenth Dynasty Tombs. Private Tombs at Thebes 1. Oxford: Griffith Institute / Oxford University Press. Schäfer, H. 1943 Die “Vereinigung der Beiden Länder”: Ursprung, Gehalt und Form eines ägyptischen Sinnbildes im Wandel der Geschichte. Mitteilungen des Deutschen Instituts für Ägyptische Altertumskunde in Kairo 12: 73–95. Schneider, T. 1998 Ausländer in Ägypten während des Mittleren Reiches und der Hyksoszeit I: Die ausländischen Könige. Ägypten und Altes Testament 42. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. 2003 Ausländer in Ägypten während des Mittleren Reiches und der Hyksoszeit II: Die ausländische Bevölkerung. Ägypten und Altes Testament 42. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Schwaller de Lubicz, R. A. 1999 The Temples of Karnak. Rochester, VT: Inner Traditions. Shortland, A. J. 2012 Lapis Lazuli from the Kiln: Glass and Glassmaking in the Late Bronze Age. Studies in Archaeological Sciences 2. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Smith, W. S. 1965 Interconnections in the Ancient Near East: A Study of the Relationships between the Arts of Egypt, the Aegean, and Western Asia. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Sourouzian, H., and Stadelmann, R. 2005 Die ältesten Erwähnungen von Ioniern und Danaern: Neueste Grabungen im Totentempel Amenophis III. in Theben enthüllen kolossale Statuen und Sockel mit Darstellungen fremder Völker. Antike Welt 36/6: 79–83.

146

On Egyptian Elite and Royal Attitudes to Other Cultures

Spiegelberg, W., and Erman, A. 1898 Grabstein eines syrischen Söldners aus Tell Amarna. Zeitschrift für Ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde 36: 126–29. Teissier, B. 1996 Egyptian Iconography on Syro-Palestinian Cylinder Seals of the Middle Bronze Age. OBO: Series Archaeologica 11. Fribourg: Universitätsverlag / Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Uphill, E. 1965–66  The Nine Bows. Jaarbericht Ex Oriente Lux 19: 393–420. Valbelle, D. 1990 Les Neuf Arcs: L’Égyptien et les étrangers de la préhistoire à la conquête d’Alexandre. Paris: Colin. Van De Mieroop, M. 2007 The Eastern Mediterranean in the Age of Ramesses II. Oxford: Blackwell. Vandier d’Abbadie, J. 1946 Catalogue des ostraca figurés de Deir el Médineh. Documents de Fouilles publiés par les membres de l’Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale du Caire 2/1–3. Cairo: Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale. Vittmann, G. 2003 Ägypten und die Fremden im ersten vorchristlichen Jahrtausend. Kulturgeschichte der Antiken Welt 97. Mainz: von Zabern. Wengrow, D. 2007 Review of M. H. Feldman, Diplomacy by Design (2006). Cambridge Archaeological Journal 17: 119–21. Wildung, D., ed. 1997 Sudan: Ancient Kingdoms of the Nile. Paris: Flammarion. [Exhibition catalog, various locations.] Willeitner, J. 1997 Nubien: Antike Monumente zwischen Assuan und Khartum. Munich: Hirmer.

The Garamantes and After: The Biography of a Central Saharan Oasis 400 BC–AD 1900 David Mattingly

Introduction The extraordinary career of Mario Liverani is rightly celebrated by many essays in this volume dealing with the early civilizations of the Near East and the processes of urbanization and state formation that characterized those societies. These correspond with the area, period, communities, and issues where he has made his major contributions. It is fitting, however, that my essay draws attention and responds to a remarkable footnote to his career—his excursion into the Libyan Sahara, where he encountered many of the same issues that characterized his work in the Near East. His publications on the people known as the Garamantes (broadly contemporary with Greco-Roman civilization) have made a major contribution to changing perceptions and approaches in Saharan archaeology over the last decade (for a summary of the research approach, see inter alia Liverani 2000b; 2000c; 2004). Prior to the late 1990s, while admittedly the Garamantes had attracted more archaeological interest than other ancient Saharan peoples, the state of research and publication left many basic issues unresolved, such as the location and morphology of their settlements and the nature of their society (for early work, see Ayoub 1967a; 1967b; Pace, Sergi, and Caputo 1951; Daniels 1970; 1989). When I compiled the Barrington Author’s note:  My work on the Garamantes has been supported by various funding bodies, most notably the European Research Council, the Society for Libyan Studies, the Leverhulme Trust, the British Academy, and the Arts and Humanities Research Council. The work reported on here was very much a team effort, as is clear from the multiple authorship of contributions in the principal reports cited (Mattingly, ed. 2003; 2007; 2010; 2013). The main specialist reports in Archaeology of Fazzan 4 are included as separate entries in the bibliography below, and my text and figures draw extensively on their work. I have not listed all of the individual chapters in the stratigraphic description and analysis in my bibliography but want to make special acknowledgment here of David Thomas, a principal co-author of many of the stratigraphic chapters, and Martin Sterry, who also made significant contributions on AMS dating and GIS analysis. They were also responsible for producing several of the figures used here. I am grateful to Maria Giovanna Biga for her patience and perseverance regarding my slow delivery of this paper!

147

148

The Biography of a Central Saharan Oasis 400 BC–AD 1900

Atlas map of the region in 1999, only a handful of settlements could be mapped to accompany the abundant evidence of cemeteries (Mattingly 2000). The ancient sources tended to portray the Garamantes as nomadic barbarians, with all the stereotyping implicit in that categorization (Mattingly, ed. 2003: 76– 90; 2011b: 34–36), and such judgments have often gone unchallenged in modern scholarship. However, as we shall see, at the heart of Garamantian civilization were sedentary, oasis-farming communities, using sophisticated irrigation systems (Mattingly and Wilson 2004). Indeed, a key factor in understanding the Garamantes is their relationship to the network of Saharan routes and oases that sustained life and supported trade (fig. 1a). Fazzan is the largest cluster of oases west of the Nile, at a vital junction between east–west and north–south routes; the oases of Fazzan are arranged in three primary bands: Wadi ash-Shati, Wadi al-Ajal, and the Murzuq depression (fig. 1b). The Garamantian heartlands were in the central band (Wadi al-Ajal), with their capital at Jarma, ancient Garama. Liverani’s team has worked primarily in the outlying oases of the Wadi Tannzuft and Ghat area to the west of the Akakus Range, near the Libyan/Algerian border. With his team, Liverani excavated a number of important settlements and cemeteries that he was able to associate with the Garamantes, including the sites of Aghram Nadarif and Fewet (Castelli et al. 2005; Liverani 2006a; Mori 2013). He has also written landmark articles on the origins of Saharan trade (Liverani 2000b) and on the nature of Garamantian society and demography (Liverani 2006a; 2006b; 2007a; 2007b). One of the interesting aspects of his work is that, with the Italian mission being based toward the southwestern limits of Garamantian territory, the version of Garamantian civilization that he encountered was correspondingly peripheral. By coincidence, Liverani’s period of directing the Libyan mission of the Sapienza–University of Rome corresponded with the beginning of my own fieldwork in the Garamantian heartlands around their capital at Old Jarma in the Wadi al-Ajal. My project has thus produced a complementary picture of Garamantian society as seen from the heartlands (some of the differences in perspective that resulted have been explored by us in an open dialogue in Liverani 2006a; Mori 2013—to both of which I contributed an opening commentary). Differences between the two regions seem to have widened in the Classic Garamantian period, from what appear initially to have been nearly identical pioneer oasis communities in the first millennium BC, cultivating the same range of basic crops and employing similar burial monuments and rituals. Rectilinearity of buildings and funerary monuments appears to have become more prevalent over time in the Garamantian heartlands, reflecting exterior influences overlying the traditional Saharan preference for curvilinear forms of dwelling and tombs. Both regions appear to have had a slightly mixed population, although there was less variability in the Ghat area (Mori 2013; Nikita et al. 2010). This is not the place for a full-blown synthesis of the extraordinary nature of Garamantian civilization that is now possible as a

David Mattingly

149

Fig. 1.  (a) Map of the Sahara showing putative network of early routes; (b) detail of the oasis belts of Fazzan, heartlands of the Garamantes.

150

The Biography of a Central Saharan Oasis 400 BC–AD 1900

result of the work of both of our teams. Rather, my intention is to offer a short summary of the conclusions of one important component of my work, relating to the survey and excavation of the long-lived urban center that was the capital of the Garamantian kingdom and had a long and interesting afterlife through the Islamic era down to its final abandonment in ca. 1935. This touches on key issues of preIslamic and Islamic urbanization and state formation in the Sahara, which have also been important themes of Liverani’s Libyan research. It is a pleasure to offer these thoughts on “The Garamantes and After” in his honor.

The Garamantes and the Story of Old Jarma The work on Old Jarma was a key element of the Fazzan Project, which I directed from 1997 to 2001. From this work, I have published a series of four volumes on the archaeology of this part of the Sahara, establishing a new baseline for knowledge and understanding. Volume 1 (Mattingly, ed. 2003) offered a first synthesis. Volume 2 (Mattingly, ed. 2007) provided a site gazetteer and presentation of finds from survey work, while vol. 3 (Mattingly, ed. 2010) published a series of excavations of Garamantian sites undertaken by the late Charles Daniels, with additional information from the Fazzan Project work. Volume 4 (Mattingly 2013a) concluded the series with its publication of excavations at Old Jarma by the Fazzan Project, by Daniels (see also Daniels 1970; 1989), and by the Sudanese archaeologist Mohamed Ayoub, who worked at Jarma in the 1960s (see Ayoub 1967a). Volume 4 is thus the story of one site, known as Garama to the Garamantes and later as Jarma (most recently, Old Jarma). When first encountered by European explorers in the 1820s, it was a crumbling, dilapidated, walled site with a diminishing population and most of its houses already in ruins (Mattingly 2013a: 3–24). The site was later recognized as having originated as the main center of a Saharan people called the Garamantes who were contemporary with the Roman Empire. In this essay, I will present a brief biography of this remarkable, long-lived Saharan center. So, who were the Garamantes, and why are they important? As noted above, the Greco-Roman sources tend to give the impression that the Garamantes were unruly, nomadic barbarians who lacked the key traits of civilized people. Archaeology has demonstrated the falsity of this ancient stereotyping in that we can now appreciate them as an urban, agricultural, literate, well-ordered society that employed advanced technologies and traded widely with Mediterranean and sub-Saharan zones (Mattingly 2003; 2006; 2011a—echoing similar arguments in Liverani 2006a). I hope that the detail presented in the rest of this essay will amply support these claims. But the story of Garamantes lies buried far beneath the modern surface at Old Jarma, and an important element of our work there has been to learn as much as possible about the Islamic phases of the site as well. Survey work by Daniels and the Fazzan Project supplemented by air photographs and satellite images allow us to build a composite picture (fig. 2a–b) of many details of the medieval walls and

David Mattingly

151

Fig. 2.  Islamic Jarma: (a) showing defensive features of medieval town; (b) showing mosques, marabout tombs, and cemetery areas.

152

The Biography of a Central Saharan Oasis 400 BC–AD 1900

Fig. 3.  Old Jarma, showing location of the area of excavations of Ayoub within the medieval town, and the more-recent trenches (G1–G4).

defenses of the site, including a fortress or qasabah at its west end, its mosques, and its houses (Mattingly 2013a: 27–63). Here, we find a significant contrast between my work and Liverani’s in the Ghat region, where the Garamantian sites were essentially abandoned by Late Garamantian times, and later settlements were mostly created at new locations. In the Wadi al-Ajal, while there is evidence of a contraction of the population, there is also crucial evidence of long-term continuities of the population and settlement. Excavations at Old Jarma have taken place on several occasions since the 1930s—most notably in the 1960s, in the period when Ayoub was controller of antiquities here and set about large-scale exploration of the center of the site, aided by up to 40 workmen and a train for removal of spoil (Ayoub 1967a). Unfortunately, this was little more than a glorified treasure hunt and caused incalculable damage to the archaeological features of all periods, though it did lay bare some impressive stone-footed buildings of Garamantian date (fig. 3). Little was ever published, and the surviving records are poor. Daniels carried out some small-scale sondages in and around these buildings to try and establish their chronological boundaries, but again, little of that work was previously published (Daniels 1970; 1989). Our excavation work (the G1–G4 excavation areas in fig. 3) was located on the west-

David Mattingly

153

Fig. 4.  General view of Garamantian building GER001.1 excavated by Ayoub in foreground looking west, with Islamic-era qasabah and other buildings above and in rear.

ern edge of Ayoub’s crater, with the intention of excavating a small area from the modern surface systematically down to the origins of the site in the belief that this would also shed more light on the earlier, tantalizing results of Ayoub and Daniels (Mattingly 2013a: 6–115, for our attempt to make sense of the earlier excavations). The first thing that is evident to a visitor to Jarma today when standing in Ayoub’s crater and looking west toward the medieval citadel (qasabah) is that a considerable depth of stratified deposits survived in that direction, overlying the Garamantian buildings exposed by Ayoub (fig. 4). As our excavations progressed, we revealed 10 main phases of superimposed buildings, representing a buildup of around 4 m at the heart of the site. Area G1 was our main excavation area, located just to the west of Ayoub’s original opencast, with secondary investigations also carried out in several other areas and below one of his excavated buildings. In this area, Ayoub had identified several main structures (labeled on fig. 5 as GER001.1, GER001.3, and GER001.4) and fragments of others. In exposing these stone-footed buildings, his workmen dug through numerous additional mud-brick structures, removing practically all traces of them. They also obliterated one side (GER001.5) of what we are pretty sure was a Late Garamantian castle-like building (or qasr) erected at the center of the site. Figure 6 indicates our best guess at its original size and shows some parallels for this sort of central qasr at other major Garamantian sites.

154

The Biography of a Central Saharan Oasis 400 BC–AD 1900

Fig. 5.  Montage of kite photos showing detailed layout of the center of Old Jarma (buildings labeled GER001.1, etc., were excavated by Ayoub); G1–G4 shows areas of the Fazzan Project excavations.

Of the major structures uncovered by Ayoub (fig. 5), his Building 1 (GER001.1) was an extraordinary construction in ashlar-quality masonry, ornamented with architectural elements of Mediterranean inspiration, though the plan of two matching halls with longitudinal colonnades is probably of Saharan inspiration. The building produced some finds of gold and was evidently an elite structure of some sort, though its actual purpose is not known (Mattingly 2013a: 73–86).

David Mattingly

155

Fig. 6.  Comparative plans of Old Jarma, showing Garamatian features, compared with other large Garamantian settlements with central, castle-like buildings (qsur).

Close by to the north was another extraordinary stone-footed structure, Building 3 (GER001.3), with a stepped façade that went through several phases of development (Mattingly 2013a: 93–99). Our G1 area of excavation was directly behind this building, where numerous pits were uncovered. Architectural fragments again indicate that this façade was ornamented with a colonnade, and the building is plausibly interpreted as a temple, though again, the architecture seems to combine Mediterranean and Saharan features. This view is also reinforced by the finds from this structure, which include fragments of sculpture, a gold rosette, and from the pits behind the temple a series of figurine fragments of decidedly nonMediterranean appearance. Building 4 was uncovered by Ayoub but followed up by Daniels, who was able to show here that there were three phases of superimposed Garamantian buildings and that these were overlaid by numerous later structures visible in the section but dug away without any record by Ayoub (Mattingly 2013a: 10–12). Perhaps the greatest loss during Ayoub’s quarrying away of the Islamic phases was the destruction of the town’s central mosque—visible in the background of a few early photos but demolished without formal record (Mattingly 2013a: 55– 58). Ayoub uncovered the Garamantian temple under part of the area where the mosque stood, but he was confused by other features that he found beneath this mosque, trying to make a corner with a triangular tower out of two walls that were in fact of different phases. One wall was part of the Late Garamantian qasr

156

The Biography of a Central Saharan Oasis 400 BC–AD 1900

Fig. 7.  Phase plans of the Fazzan Project excavations at Jarma, with earliest structures (Phase 10) at top left, and most recent (Phase 1) at bottom right.

David Mattingly

157

already mentioned, but the other elements marked the corner of a later structure, a rare example of a stone-footed Islamic building, which clearly cut through and overlay the qasr. What is apparent from some further excavation work done by us is that the small standing mosque that Ayoub demolished overlay a considerably larger structure, also arguably a mosque (Mattingly 2013a: 67–71, 167–78). Our dating evidence strongly suggests that this large mosque was built in the 11th or 12th century. The large 11th–12th-century mosque is a significant addition to our knowledge of early Islamic monuments in the Sahara. Jarma was by no means an easy site to excavate: even in the winter months, it was hot and dusty, and the mud-brick structures were often elusive as the ground dried out. Frequent pits cut from higher levels compounded problems of elucidating plans. I cannot overemphasize the extraordinary skill of my excavation codirector, David Thomas, or the dedication of my excavation teams in teasing out the complicated sequence. An unexpected blessing was that we managed to renovate the tracks and the diesel engine to assist in removing spoil (Mattingly 2013a: 117–25). I have already mentioned the deep stratigraphy and the 10 main phases of construction at the site (see fig. 7). In the absence of diagnostic finds for many periods of its occupation, we had to establish a new type series of pottery and to date this independently by conducting an extensive scientific dating program, allowing us to establish a fairly precise set of dates for these phases. It is clear that, with the exception of a few cases of residual material, the sequence is generally in strong agreement with the absolute dates. The radiocarbon dates confirm that the settlement was established ca. 400–300 BC, with buildings already using mud-brick and with complex multiroom layouts. Phases 10, 9, and 8 correspond with what we term the Proto-Urban Garamantian phase (broadly, 4th–1st centuries BC), with increasing sophistication and architectural experimentation as time went on. In the Classic Garamantian era (1st–4th centuries AD), the town was ornamented with a series of stone-footed monumental buildings, incorporating elements of classical architecture (Preston and Mattingly 2013a; 2013b). The initial phase of the temple was probably constructed in the 1st century BC, prior to direct contact with the Roman Empire, but it was embellished on a considerable scale in the 1st century AD and later (fig. 8). Phases 7 and 6 correspond to the Classic Garamantian phase (1st–4th centuries AD), with Phase 5 being the Late Garamantian phase (4th–9th centuries AD), probably linked to the construction of the qasr at the heart of the town. By Phase 4 (9th–11th centuries AD), the site had passed its prime, though initially in the Post-Garamantian era we suspect the community remained pagan. Only during Phase 3 (11th–12th centuries) do we think the town embraced Islam, and occupation continued through Late medieval and Early Modern times (Phases  2 and 1, 13th century onward), until final abandonment in the 1930s. As we shall see, this long urban sequence of ca. 2,300 years provides us with a remarkable window on the changing rhythms of life in a Saharan community over time. If we add in the

158

The Biography of a Central Saharan Oasis 400 BC–AD 1900

Fig. 8.  Stone architectural elements recovered from the Garamantian temple GE001.3.

David Mattingly

159

evidence from Daniels’s excavations at the nearby Proto-Urban-phase hillfort site of Zinkekra, we have a settlement sequence of ca. 3,000 years (Mattingly 2010: 19–84). Figure 7 shows the main phase plans recovered from the earliest Phase 10 features (top left) to the final Phase 1 house (bottom right). Many of the building plans are incomplete due to the limited size of the excavated area or to intrusive features from higher levels cutting down into other features, but they give a clear impression of the changing orientation of buildings on this plot over time. One can also see how the area of our excavations was progressively stepped in: the footprint covered was much smaller in Phase 10 than in Phase 1 (and this included the addition of sondages beneath Ayoub’s temple as our area G4). The Classic Garamantian levels exposed were less than half the area of the Early Modern. Figure 9a illustrates the diminishing footprint of the G1 excavation clearly. Note that Phases 7 and 8 include the area of the temple (G4) and, for Phases 7–10, the area excavated within G1 was a tiny fraction of the original area of the trench. Figure 9b shows that we excavated ca. 480 separate features in the Islamic and Early Modern phases (Phases 1–3), 130 in the Phase 4 Post-Garamantian era, 300 in Classic and Late Garamantian times (Phase 5–7), and 120 from the Proto-Urban Garamantian (Phases 8–10). However, when we compare the numbers of small finds recovered by phase (fig. 9c), it is clear that the Classic and Late Garamantian phases had much more abundant finds than the Islamic and Early Modern phases. I shall return to the significance of this below. The domestic architecture revealed changes in construction style from the use of large, regular mud bricks to a cruder method of forming walls from salt-rich mud lumps that bake like concrete in the Saharan sun. By the final phase of occupation, most houses were of a simple type and comparatively small, with few habitations of substantial scale or manifesting characteristics of urban houses at other Saharan oases (Mattingly 2013a: 305–12). Both the domestic and public architecture of the Garamantian and earliest Islamic phases of the site suggests that the urban character of the site was far stronger in the former era than the latter (Mattingly 2013a: 287–321). We can also trace the changing character of the site by looking at what was made there. In the Garamantian era, there was considerable evidence of manufacturing activity—metallurgy, including iron and copper alloy working, spinning and weaving of textiles, ivory working, and mass production of beads (Cole 2013a; 2013b). Because there is no source of copper near Jarma, the production of small copperalloy bar ingots is a strong hint that metal was being recycled into convenient form for use in Saharan trade, and textiles and beads are other strong candidates for widely tradable commodities. However, this productive activity declined sharply in Post-Garamantian times and was almost entirely gone by the Early Modern phases. The same pattern is apparent if we consider evidence of pottery and glass imports from the Mediterranean as a proxy for the wider trade relations of Jarma (pottery: Leone 2013a; 2013b; glass: Hoffmann 2013a; 2013b). The Classic Garamantian

160

The Biography of a Central Saharan Oasis 400 BC–AD 1900

Fig. 9.  (a) Graph showing diminishing footprint of the Fazzan Project excavation area with depth; (b) graph showing the relationship between the numbers of contexts excavated by phase; (c) chart showing the number of small finds recovered by phase.

David Mattingly

161

period saw a massive increase in imports of Roman fineware and amphorae for wine, olive oil, and other liquid commodities; these pots became comparatively abundant at settlement sites and in burials, as exemplified at the Saniat Bin Huwaydi cemetery (Mattingly 2010: 213–342). The greatest peak of such imports occurred during the first two centuries AD, although imports continued on a reduced scale through Late Garamantian times but practically disappeared thereafter (for recent overviews of trans-Saharan trade, see Gatto and Mori 2012; Liverani 2006a; Mattingly 2003: 355–62; 2013a: 511–21; 2013b; Schörle 2012; Wilson 2012). Part of the gap in imports in Late Garamantian times appears to have been made up by more-locally-sourced ceramics, such as an attractive example of red on white painted ware (Leone 2013: 400–405); this is relatively common in levels dating from the 4th to 9th centuries AD, although we are still trying to determine its origins. Some of it at least contains distinctive microfossils in its clay fabric that suggests it was not made near Jarma, though a central Saharan source still seems most likely. Imports of glazed Islamic pottery are almost absent, with less than 30 sherds found in the entire site (Leone 2013a: 407, fig. 13.48 illustrates the seven diagnostic types recovered). The combination of the disappearance of manufactures at the town and the lack of imports indicates that Islamic Jarma lost its earlier status as a key entrepot in Saharan trade. The local pottery production of the Islamic and Early Modern period consisted mainly of a limited range of low-quality handmade cooking pots, with little change across 1,000 years of production. Returning to the evidence of small finds: fig. 10a shows the proportion of various types of material present in the various phases. What is immediately notable is the greater range present in the Garamantian era and the predominance in the more-recent eras of ground stone tools, which are items such as querns, stone mortars, and grinding and pounding stones for basic food processing (Parton 2013a; 2013b for ground stone tools; Cole 2013a; 2013b for other small finds). Figure 10b models the disparity of occurrence of finds across periods by first averaging all finds of a given type across the total number of contexts and then plotting for each phase the variance above or below such a notional average figure (see Thomas and Mattingly 2013: 253–63, for an extended discussion). The Classic and Late Garamantian periods stand out as strongly positive peaks, with the immediate Post Garamantian still echoing that pattern. The Proto-Urban period figures are probably biased by the relatively low level of excavation of features identified but nonetheless are closer to the average than the Islamic and Early Modern figures, which are strongly negative. The Garamantian era thus stands out as the time of greatest material prosperity at Jarma. The same point can be illustrated by reference to just one finds-category, beads, where there is a pronounced peak in the Garamantian phases and a very low occurrence in the Early Modern phases. Our excavations produced other clues to the sophistication of Garamantian society in the form of a Libyan inscription on a ceramic plaque from a 1st-century AD

162

The Biography of a Central Saharan Oasis 400 BC–AD 1900

Fig. 10.  (a) Percentage of small finds by material type and phase; (b) actual finds modeled against expected small finds of different types by phase.

context (Mattingly 2013a: 517–18). This is one of the earliest stratified examples of Libyan writing ever discovered and hints that one day more-complex documents relating to the Garamantes may be found. The figurines associated with the temple

David Mattingly

163

Fig. 11.  (a) Relative proportion of bones of main domesticates by phase; (b) actual number of identified bones for main species by phase.

open an important window on a Saharan tradition of plastic art, with both anthropomorphic figures and animals, among which horses and camels feature strongly (Townsend 2013a; 2013b). Both animals were crucial to Saharan travel and trade. I turn now to the evidence of what the people of Jarma ate and how this changed over time (Holmes 2013; Holmes and Grant 2013). Figure 11a shows the relative proportion of bones from the main domesticated species from the Classic Garamantian phases and onward (earliest phases are to the right; most recent to

164

The Biography of a Central Saharan Oasis 400 BC–AD 1900

Figure 12.  (a) Garamantian settlement pattern in Fazzan; (b) Early Modern settlement pattern in Fazzan, based on Italian census data.

David Mattingly

165

the left). Ovicaprines (sheep or goats) were predominant in all periods, but we can see a gradual reversal of the relative numbers of cattle (decreasing) and camels (increasing) over time. There is an interesting persistence of pig bones right through to the Early Modern period, suggesting that some minority element in society did not follow the Islamic dietary code. However, the most interesting pattern is shown in fig. 11b, which relates to the actual number of bones recorded for each species by phase. The number of bones from the earliest Garamantian phase was low because of the limited extent of excavation at those levels, but from the Classic Garamantian period on, the number of excavated contexts was quite large, and the pattern should represent something meaningful about the consumption of meat in the diet. A Garamantian peak in meat consumption was followed by a drastic decline in the availability of meat in later phases—bringing to mind the complaints of some early European travelers, who failed to find even a chicken to buy at the impoverished 19th-century settlement. The botanical evidence tells a somewhat similar story (Pelling 2008; 2013a; 2013b). One the earliest Garamantian sites to have been identified is a large hillfort called Zinkekra, about 3 km southwest of Jarma and probably Jarma’s predecessor. Zinkekra was first occupied around 1000 BC, and one of the most important results of excavations there by Charles Daniels was the demonstration that Garamantes were cultivating dates, wheat and barley, grapes, and figs already around 2,800 years ago (Daniels 1968 for original excavations; van der Veen 1992; and van der Veen and Westley 2010 for botanical results). This was only possible with irrigation works in the hyperarid desert conditions. The complementary evidence now available from Jarma shows important additions to the crop repertoire by the Classic Garamantian period, including sub-Saharan crops such as cotton and sorghum— both of which are clear indicators of an intensive irrigation regime. The botanical evidence from Jarma also reveals a greater variety of cultivated plants, especially fruits, in the Garamantian era, compared with the Early Modern period (Pelling 2013: 474–84). Put simply, the diet was more varied and richer in the Garamantian era. The wider survey work of my team has led to the identification of hundreds of Garamantian settlement sites (Mattingly 2013a: 525–44; Mattingly, Sterry, and Leitch 2013; Sterry and Mattingly 2011). The distinction between Garamantian settlement (fig. 12a) and the Early Modern pattern (fig. 12b) as recorded in the Italian census of the 1930s highlights the extraordinary nature of the Garamantian pattern. This was evidently the heyday for this part of the Sahara and matches closely the patterns that we have been observing in the excavated material from Jarma, where the finds-pattern shown in fig. 10 indicates a massive peak then a sharp drop-off in the Post Garamantian era. The combination of all the different forms of archaeological evidence from the excavations at Jarma along with the knowledge that we now have about the wider settlement pattern in Fazzan strongly

166

The Biography of a Central Saharan Oasis 400 BC–AD 1900

supports the view argued independently by Liverani and me that the Garamantes merit recognition as an early Saharan state (Liverani 2006a; 2006b; Mattingly 2006). The results from Jarma also add weight to the identification of the larger and more sophisticated settlements of the Garamantian era as urban in character (Mattingly and MacDonald 2013; Mattingly and Sterry 2013). One possible explanation for the change is that after the 7th century the focus of trade routes moved eastward to Zuwila (Mattingly, ed. 2003: 90–97; 2007: 282–88). The predominance of Jarma in the Garamantian era entailed a westward diversion from the later north–south routes that ran through east Fazzan, and there was also a later emphasis on another route in west Fazzan. All later capitals of Fazzan have been close to the eastern north–south route and, certainly, I have seen more Islamic pottery on the surface during brief visits to Zuwila and Murzuq, for instance, than during our five seasons of excavation at medieval Jarma (see fig. 1b). Nonetheless, there are some anomalous aspects of the apparent material decline of Jarma and its physical appearance in Islamic and Early Modern times. In 1931, at the time of the Italian colonial census, Jarma was still the largest site in the Wadi al-Ajal, but it had almost the lowest population of all the villages in the wadi. It stands out from other settlements because it has a substantial walled circuit and a large fortress or qasabah at its heart. For these reasons, we characterize it as a “village masquerading as a town” in its latest phases (Mattingly 2013a: 518–44). This suggests that, despite the evidence of economic decline and loss of significance in Saharan trade networks, Jarma had retained an important political role well into the Islamic era. AMS dates from a series of medieval structures allow us to put some chronological markers on the Islamic settlement (Mattingly, ed. 2007: 294–302; 2013a: 43, 47, 55, 61, 125–34; Sterry and Mattingly 2013; Sterry, Mattingly, and Higham 2012). We have already noted the 11th–12th-century date of the large central mosque, and the Islamic wall circuit seems to belong to this same period, with the qasabah dating to the 14th century (see fig. 2a–b). All of these are moments when a population group in the Wadi al-Ajal known as the Khurman appear to have become politically more important within the wider region of Fazzan for short periods (Mattingly, ed. 2003: 91–103). The striking resemblance between the name Khurman and the Garamantes can hardly be coincidental, and Jarma’s political importance in Islamic times is surely connected with some residual (though occasional) prominence of the descendants of the Garamantes, whose chief site remained based there. People often ask me, “What happened to the Garamantes? Where did they go?” The answer is that history happened (as it tends to). Their precocious early Saharan state was not sustainable in the long term and eventually fragmented, but the core element of the Garamantian population did not go anywhere and is still recognizable in the same location later on as the Khurman. This emphasizes the essential continuity of the people (even though social conditions varied greatly) in the long-term biography of the site known, successively, as Garama and Jarma.

167

David Mattingly

References Ayoub, M. S. 1967a Excavations in Germa between 1962 to 1966. Tripoli: Ministry of Education. 1967b The Royal Cemetery at Germa: A Preliminary Report. Libya Antiqua 3–4: 213–19. Castelli, R., et al. 2005 A Preliminary Report of Excavations in Fewet, Libyan Sahara. Journal of African Archaeology 3: 69–102. Cole, F. 2013a Small Finds Reports. Pp. 455–72 in Mattingly 2013a. 2013b Catalogue of Small Finds. Pp. 793–840 in Mattingly 2013a. Daniels, C. M. 1968 Garamantian Excavations: Zinchecra 1965–67. Libya Antiqua 5: 113–94. 1970 The Garamantes of Southern Libya. London: Oleander. 1989 Excavation and Fieldwork amongst the Garamantes. Libyan Studies 20: 45–61. Gatto, M. C., and Mori, L. 2012 The Garamantes of the Fezzan and the Trans-Saharan Trade in Roman Times. Pp. 219–35 in Entre Afrique et Égypte: Relations et échanges entre les espaces au sud de la Méditerranée à l’époque romaine. Edited by S. Guédon. Bordeaux: Ausonius. Hoffmann, B. 2013a Discussion of the Glass from Old Jarma. Pp. 409–19 in Mattingly 2013a. 2013b Catalogue of Glass from the FP Excavations at Jarma. Pp.  707–22 in Mattingly 2013a. Holmes, M. 2013 Faunal Data Appendices. Pp. 853–64 in Mattingly 2013a. Holmes, M., and Grant, A. 2013 The Animal Bone Assemblage. Pp. 495–501 in Mattingly 2013a. Leone, A. 2013a Pottery from the FP Excavations at Jarma. Pp. 325–408 in Mattingly 2013a. 2013b Pottery Catalogues. Pp. 683–706 in Mattingly 2013a. Liverani, M. 2000a The Garamantes: A Fresh Approach. Libyan Studies 31: 17–28. 2000b The Libyan Caravan Road in Herodotus IV. 181–184. JESHO 43: 496–520. 2000c Looking for the Southern Frontier of the Garamantes. Sahara 12: 31–44. 2004 Rediscovering the Garamantes: Archaeology and History. Libyan Studies 35: 191–200. 2006b Imperialismo, colonizzazione e progresso tecnico: Il caso del Sahara libico in età romana. Studi Storici 4: 1003–57. 2007a Cronologia e periodizzazione dei Garamanti: Acquisizioni e prospettive. Athenaeum 95: 633–62. 2007b La struttura sociale dei Garamanti in base alle recenti scoperte archeologiche. Rendiconti dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei Ser 9/18: 155–204. Liverani, M., ed. 2006a Aghram Nadarif: A Garamantian Citadel in the Wadi Tannezzuft. Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio. Mattingly, D. J. 2000 Garama. Pp. 545–51 in Barrington Atlas of the Greek and Roman World. Edited by R. Talbert. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. 2006 The Garamantes: The First Libyan State. Pp. 189–204 in Mattingly et al. 2006.

168

The Biography of a Central Saharan Oasis 400 BC–AD 1900

2011a The Garamantes of Fazzan: an early Libyan state with Trans-Saharan connections. Pp. 49–60 in Money, Trade and Trade Routes in Pre-Islamic North Africa. Edited by A. Dowler and E. R. Galvin. London: British Museum Press. 2011b Imperialism, Power and Identity: Experiencing the Roman Empire. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. 2013b To South and North: Saharan Trade in Antiquity. Pp. 169–190 in Living and Working in the Roman World: Essays in Honour of Michael Fulford on His 65th Birthday. Edited by H. Eckardt and S. Rippon. JRA Supplement 95. Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology. Mattingly, D. J., and MacDonald, K. C. 2013 Africa. Pp. 66–82 in Oxford Handbook of Cities in World History. Edited by P. Clark. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mattingly, D. J., and Sterry, M. 2013 The First Towns in the Central Sahara. Antiquity 87 (366): 503–18. Mattingly, D. J.; Sterry, M.; and Leitch, V. 2013 Fortified Farms and Defended Villages of Late Roman and Late Antique Africa. Antiquité Tardive 21: 167–88. Mattingly, D. J., and Wilson, A. I. 2004 Farming the Sahara: The Garamantian Contribution in Southern Libya. Pp. 39–52 in Arid Lands at the Time of the Roman Empire. Edited by M. Liverani. Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio. Mattingly, D. J., ed. 2003 The Archaeology of Fazzan, vol. 1: Synthesis. London: Society for Libyan Studies, Department of Antiquities, London. 2007 The Archaeology of Fazzan, vol. 2: Site Gazetteer, Pottery and Other Survey Finds. London: Society for Libyan Studies, Department of Antiquities. 2010 The Archaeology of Fazzan, vol. 3: Excavations Carried Out by C. M. Daniels. London: Society for Libyan Studies, Department of Antiquities. 2013a The Archaeology of Fazzan, vol. 4: Survey and Excavations at Old Jarma (Ancient Garama) Carried Out by C. M. Daniels (1962–69) and the Fazzan Project (1997–2001). London: Society for Libyan Studies, Department of Antiquities. Mattingly, D. J., et al., eds. 2006 The Libyan Desert: Natural Resources and Cultural Heritage. London: Society for Libyan Studies. Mori, L., ed. 2013 The Archaeological Investigation in the Oasis of Fewet: Life and Death of a Rural Village in Garamantian Times. Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio. Nikita, E., et al. 2010 Human Skeletal Remains. Pp. 375–408 in Mattingly 2010. Pace, B.; Sergi, S.; and Caputo, G. 1951 Scavi sahariani. Monumenti Antichi 41: 150–549. Parton, H. 2013a Ground Stone Tools from Jarma. Pp. 435–54 in Mattingly 2013a. 2013b Catalogue of Ground Stone Tools from Old Jarma. Pp. 753–92 in Mattingly 2013a. Pelling, R. 2008 Garamantian Agriculture: The Plant Remains from Jarma, Fazzan. Libyan Studies 39: 41–71. 2013a The Archaeobotanical Remains. Pp. 473–94 in Mattingly 2013a. 2013b Botanical Data Appendices. Pp. 841–52 in Mattingly 2013a.

David Mattingly

169

Preston, J., and Mattingly, D. J. 2013a Stone Architectural Elements from Jarma and Associated Sites. Pp.  267–85 in Mattingly 2013a. 2013b Catalogue of Architectural Stonework from Old Jarma and Related Sites. Pp. 663– 82 in Mattingly 2013a. Schörle, K. 2012 Saharan Trade in Classical Antiquity. Pp. 58–72 in Navigating the Sahara: Frontiers of Mobility in Northwest Africa. Edited by J. Scheele and J. McDougall. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Sterry, M., and Mattingly, D. J. 2011 DMP XIII: Reconnaissance Survey of Archaeological Sites in the Murzuq Area. Libyan Studies 42: 103–16. [With contributions by Muftah Ahmed, Toby Savage, Kevin White, and Andrew Wilson.] 2013 Desert Migrations Project XVII: Further AMS Dates for Historic Settlements from Fazzan, South-West Libya. Libyan Studies 44: 127–40. Sterry, M.; Mattingly, D. J.; and Higham, T. 2012 Desert Migrations Project XVI: Radiocarbon Dates from the Murzuq Region, Southern Libya. Libyan Studies 43: 137–47. Thomas, D. C., and Mattingly, D. J. 2013 Stratigraphic Conclusions of FP Excavations. Pp. 227–63 in Mattingly 2013a. Townsend, A. 2013a Art Objects Modelled from Clay. Pp. 421–34 in Mattingly 2013a. 2013b Catalogue of Art Objects Modelled from Clay. Pp. 723–52 in Mattingly 2013a. Veen, M. van der 1992 Garamantian Agriculture: The Plant Remains from Zinchecra, Fezzan. Libyan Studies 23: 7–39. Veen, M. van der, and Westley, B. 2010 Palaeoeconomic Studies. Pp. 488–522 in Mattingly 2010. Wilson, A. I. 2012 Saharan Trade: Short-, Medium- and Long-Distance Trade Networks in the Roman Period. Azania: Archaeological Research in Africa 47/4: 409–49.

The “Kenite Hypothesis” in the Light of the Excavations at Ḥorvat ʿUza Nadav Naʾaman

The Kenites and the Judahite Fortress of Kinah Ḥorvat ʿUza (Khirbet Ghazzeh) is located about 10 km southeast of the fortress of Arad, on the southeastern border of the valley of Beer-sheba. The main road leading from the Beer-sheba valley to the region of Aravah passed southward from the Tel Malḥata–Tel Masos area to ʿAroer and through the Scorpion Pass to Naḥal Aravah. A secondary road existed at the southeastern end of the plain of Arad, passed near Ḥorvat ʿUza, and continued to the southern end of the Dead Sea (see map in Beit-Arieh 2007a: 2). Contrary to Aharoni’s suggestion (1967: 54), the latter road does not form part of the “way of Edom” mentioned in the story of the three kings’ campaign against Moab (2 Kgs 3:20). In fact, the “Edom road” passed from the area of Naḥal Aravah eastward to Edom; the western component of the route was separate from this. According to the book of Kings, Jehoram, king of Judah, while marching to subjugate the Edomite rebellion, “passed over ṣāʿîrâ with all his chariots” (2 Kgs 8:21). The LXX rendered the toponym’s name seiōr (Lucianic seōr), a form that suggests an original ṣōaʿrâ ‘to Zoar’ (Montgomery 1951: 398; Cogan and Tadmor 1988: 96). Zoar (Zair in English Bibles) is located south of the Dead Sea. The Edomites defeated Jehoram by a surprise night attack near this locale. The Judahite campaign passed along the route where many years later the fortress of Ḥorvat ʿUza was built. Roads in Biblical Hebrew were called by their destination; hence, it might be called “the way of Zoar.” The assumed motivations for erecting a fortress in this location in the 7th century BCE are manifold: (a) the growing power of the Kingdom of Edom following the Assyrian conquest of the Levant in the late 8th century BCE; (b) the growing danger posed by the pastoral nomadic groups wandering in the Aravah in the 7th century; (c) the development of commerce along the Beer-sheba valley and the collection of tolls at the entrance to the Kingdom of Judah from the Aravah via the way of Zoar. The identification of Ḥorvat ʿUza with the town of Kinah mentioned in Josh 15:22 is commonly accepted and is based on the preservation of the ancient name in modern-day Wadi el-Qeini, which descends eastward from the southern part of the fortress area (Lemaire 1973: 18–23; Naʾaman 1980: 137). Kinah is also mentioned 171

172

The “Kenite Hypothesis” in the Light of the Excavations at Ḥorvat ʿUza

in ostracon no. 24 from Arad, in which a local commander was ordered to take five soldiers from Arad and probably an equal number from Kinah and send them to Ramat Negev, “lest Edom shall come there” (Lemaire 1973: 11–18; Aharoni 1981: 46–49). We may assume that Edomites had plundered the settlements of the central Negev area via the route that passed near ʿAroer, so the fortresses’ commanders were ordered to send soldiers from the eastern flank of the Beer-sheba valley to confront the impending danger. The small number of soldiers noted indicates that the garrisons posted in the two fortresses were small and that they were mainly guarded by the local population. Kinah was named after the Kenite families who settled in the Negev of Arad, forming most of the place’s inhabitants. Their early settlement in the area is explicitly mentioned in Judg 1:16, which with some minor textual corrections reads as follows: And the descendants of ⟨Hobab⟩ the Kenite, Moses’ father in law, went up from the City of Palms with the children of Judah . . . which is in the Negev of Arad; and they went and dwelt with the Amalekites (ʾt hʿmlqy) [LXX version]. 1

The text refers to the peaceful settlement of the Kenites in the district of Arad (cf. Judg 4:11) and their neighborly relations with the Amalekites (cf. Num 24:20–22). Actually, the Amalekites may well have been the dominant tribal group that settled in the Beer-sheba valley during Iron Age I (see 1 Sam 15:6). The City of Palms should be identified with the fortress of Tamar, which is situated south of the Dead Sea (1 Kgs 9:18; Ezek 47:19; 48:28), even though the “City of Palms” is better known as a designation for Jericho (Deut 34:3; Judg 3:13; 2 Chr 28:15). The large fortress of Tamar (ʿEn Haṣeva) was probably built by the Assyrians in the late 8th century BCE (Cohen and Yisrael 1995; Naʾaman 2001: 267–68; Ussishkin 2010), and the reference to its name points to the late date when the text was written. In David’s storycycle, the district of Arad was called “Negev of the Kenites” (1 Sam 27:10). A group of Kenites settled in the highlands of Judah, northeast of Ziph, as indicated by the place-name Kain ( Jos 15:57). Another group wandered northward and camped in a place north of the Jezreel valley ( Judg 4:11). The Kenites must have retained their tribal cohesion from the time of their early settlement, probably in the 10th century, until the late First Temple Period. The persistence of their identity is typical of frontier tribes and subtribes, which were forced by the local conditions to maintain their internal cohesion and socioeconomic solidarity (Lissovsky and Naʾaman 2003: 305, 318, 321; Naʾaman 2008: 269–70). Because the Kenites maintained their family ties down to the 7th century, it is not surprising that the late fortress erected in their territory was called Kinah, after the tribal name of its inhabitants.

1. For the translation of the passage, see Burney 1918: 14–17. For the suggestion to read ʾt hʿmlqy (‘and Amalek with him’) at the end of v. 16, see Barthélemy 1982: 73–74. For a detailed discussion, including various textual emendations, see Mittmann 1977: 213–19.

173

Nadav Naʾaman

The settlement of the Kenites in the fortress of Ḥorvat ʿUza tallies with the policy of late Judahite kings to settle groups of wandering pastoral nomads in the southern frontier of the kingdom. The Edomite pottery discovered in late-8ththrough early-6th-century BCE sites in the Beer-sheba valley is evidence of this policy. Most remarkable is the extensive Edomite material culture unearthed at Tel Malḥata (Beit-Arieh 2011), at the cult site of Qitmit (Beit-Arieh 1995), and at Tel Aroer (Thareani 2007; 2011); but Edomite pottery was also discovered in several other sites in the Negev (E. Mazar 1985; Singer-Avitz 2004; Thareani 2010). The efforts made by kingdoms/states at various times in various regions to settle nomads either in new settlements founded for the purpose or in existing centers is well known and requires no further elaboration. The late Judahite kings’ efforts to settle the nomads are another indication of this policy. Josephus narrates the campaign conducted by King Antiochus XII against the Nabateans in the year 84 BCE (J.W. 1.102; Ant. 13.391). The Seleucid king was defeated and killed in battle, and part of his army escaped to Kefar Kana, where many of his soldiers suffered severe hunger and starved to death. The village’s name is probably the same as biblical Kinah and may be identified as Ḥorvat ʿUza, where a fortress was built in the Hellenistic Period (Lemaire 1973: 20). 2

The Excavations of Ḥorvat ʿUza The fortress of Ḥorvat ʿUza was excavated over the course of seven seasons in the years 1982–86, 1988, and 1996 (Beit-Arieh and Cresson 2007). It encompassed an area of about 2 dunams and was surrounded by a 1.50-m-thick wall with ten towers, two of them flanking the gate. A secondary wall of 1.25 m supported the earth rampart that surrounded the fortress walls (for the fortress plan, see Beit-Arieh and Cresson 2007: 18–19). The width of Ḥorvat ʿUza’s walls is much narrower than the width of Arad’s walls (4 m), Tel Malḥata’s (3.5 m), or ʿAroer’s (4 m across the offsets and 2.30 m across the insets). Clearly, the fortification was built to defend the place from surprise attacks rather than to withhold a long siege. The internal area of the fortress was well planned and densely inhabited. Its eastern part was divided into insolates, and the external and internal walls of each building unit were composed of one row of stones. These buildings were mainly residences. The northwestern building constructed west of the gate was much larger than all the buildings on the eastern side, and its walls are double in width. It must have served as the military-administrative headquarters of the place. Unfortunately, the western side of the fortress was only partially excavated, and not enough data exist to understand the way it functioned. Neither a central store nor a major cistern was discovered at the site. However, a storehouse/granary (mz[w]) located in the place is probably what was being referred to in the Edomite ostracon discovered 2.  The identification of Kefar Kana with biblical Kinah is missing in the works of Möller and Schmitt 1976: 117; and in Tsafrir, Di Segni, and Green 1994. It is also missing in Beit Arieh’s final report on the excavations (2007).

174

The “Kenite Hypothesis” in the Light of the Excavations at Ḥorvat ʿUza

at Ḥorvat ʿUza (Israel 1987: 341; Zwickel 1988: 38; Lindenberger 2003: 137; Becking and Dijkstra 2011: 113–14). 3 A few cisterns have been detected near the site and in its vicinity (Beit-Arieh and Cresson 2007: 48, 55), but it is possible that a (not-yet discovered) cistern that collected rain from all parts of the fortress was in fact dug somewhere inside the fortress. A small altar approached by three steps was built in a room near the gate (BeitArieh and Cresson 2007: 31–33). Nearby, a thick layer of ash with burnt animal bones was discovered. Cultic activity similar to that which may be inferred to have happened at this site must have taken place in many Judahite settlements throughout the First Temple Period. Josiah’s cultic reform was aimed at eliminating the major cult places and, in particular, purifying the central temple of Jerusalem rather than eliminating small local altars such as the one unearthed at Ḥorvat ʿUza. Comparison of the Iron Age fortress with the Hellenistic and Roman fortresses built later in the site is instructive. Inside the later fortresses, buildings were erected only along the fortress walls, whereas most of the internal area was left vacant (BeitArieh and Cresson 2007: 58, 63). In contrast, the Iron Age fortress had buildings all over the entire area. This difference indicates that local people inhabited most of the site and that only its northwestern side (or possibly its entire western side) functioned as a military-administrative quarter. The comparison also helps explain the extramural quarter erected north of the fortress. It seems that, in its late stage, the fortress was densely populated, and the local inhabitants were forced to settle on the slope of the hill, near the fortress. The vicinity of the fortress guaranteed a military umbrella in times of peace and a refuge in times of war. A similar picture is observable in the fortress of Arad, the entire area of which was inhabited; the local population built their houses on the eastern slope near the fortress (Goethert and Amiran 1996). The findings from Ḥorvat ʿUza are quite meager and include, in addition to the pottery and ostraca, a few weights (Kletter 2007a), fragments of animal and bird figurines (Kletter 2007b), a few stamp seals (Ziffer 2007), and a Neo-Assyrian bulla (Beck 2007). Neither anthropomorphic nor horseback-rider figurines have been discovered in the place, unlike the findings in all other sites in the Kingdom of Judah (see below).

The Midianite-Kenite Hypothesis of the Origins of Yahwism Thirty-five inscriptions have been discovered in the excavations of Ḥorvat ʿUza, two of them in the extramural quarter (Beit-Arieh 2007b). Except for one stamp seal and two inscriptions written on a complete jar, all other inscriptions are ostraca 3. The ostracon was published by Beit-Arieh and Cresson 1985; see also Beit-Arieh 2007b: 133–37. Lines 3–6 of the Edomite ostracon may be translated as follows: ‘And now, give the grain that is with Aḥiummīh [. . .]. And may Uzziʾil lift (it) in the store[house of . . . , x] ḥomer of the grain’ (for the translation, see Misgav 1990: 215–16; Becking and Dijkstra 2011: 112–14).

Nadav Naʾaman

175

written on jar fragments. All ostraca are written in Hebrew script, except for one, which was written in Edomite script (Beit-Arieh 2007b: 133–37). A look at the distribution of the inscriptions reveals that, evidently, all of them were concentrated in the eastern side of the fortress and in the gate area, whereas no inscription was discovered in the partially excavated western side (see distribution map of the ostraca in Beit-Arieh 2007b: 180). The distribution indicates that at least some (or even most) of the inscriptions were written by the local inhabitants who lived in the domestic quarter. The religious-historical question that emerges is whether the data extracted from the ostraca fit the hypothesis that the Kenite families who settled in the Negev of Arad in the early Iron Age and inhabited the fortress of Ḥorvat ʿUza in the late monarchic period participated in the introduction of the cult of Yhwh to other neighboring tribal groups. According to a well-known and extensively discussed hypothesis, the cult of Yhwh first developed among Midianite-Kenite groups who wandered in the area south of the Dead Sea, east and west of the Aravah up to the Gulf of Eilat, and was later introduced to other tribal groups who settled in the hill country on the two sides of the Jordan (Rowley 1950: 149–56; de Vaux 1969; see the extensive references cited by Blenkinsopp 2008: 131–33 nn. 1–6). Blenkinsopp (2008) recently examined this hypothesis in detail and concluded that it “provides the best explanation currently available of the relevant literary and archaeological data” (2008: 151). Reexamining the hypothesis is not necessary for the present discussion, which deals with the origins of Yahwism among the pre-Israelite and early Israelite tribal groups. Rather, presenting some details of the hypothesis as a sort of introduction to the analysis of the epigraphic material from Ḥorvat ʿUza will suffice. The tradition of Yhwh’s origin from the southern periphery of Canaan rests on some fragments of early Hebrew poetry (Deut 33:2; Judg 5:4–5; Hab 3:3a). In biblical historiography, the introduction of Yahwism to the people of Israel is connected to the figure of Moses. Yhwh revealed himself to Moses when he stayed with Jethro, also called Reuel, his Midianite father-in-law, who was a priest of Midian (Exod 3:1). The Mountain of God was located in a place where the Midianites used to take their flocks out to pasture (Exod 3:1, 12, 18; 18:5). These and other data led to the hypothesis that Moses received Yahwism from the Midianites. Some biblical texts connect the Midianites to the Kenites. Like the Midianite Jethro, Hobab the Kenite also appears as the father-in-law of Moses ( Judg 4:11; see 1:16). He is described as a son of the Midianite Reuel and Moses’ father-in-law (Num 10:29). The close relationship of the Midianites and Kenites is indicated by their similar lifestyle, their wandering in the southern Canaan desert, the assumed original residence of Yhwh in their territories, and their close ties with Moses. When combined, these elements formed the basis of the hypothesis that MidianiteKenite groups held a decisive role in the introduction of Yahwism to the early Israelites.

176

The “Kenite Hypothesis” in the Light of the Excavations at Ḥorvat ʿUza

Comparisons made between epigraphic documents and biblical-historiographical texts always involve enormous difficulties. In the case under discussion, we have, on the one hand, original sources written as part of daily life in a marginal Judahite site in the late First Temple Period; and on the other hand, a hypothesis that was formed on the basis of various biblical texts that are literary, ideological, and multilayered—written long after the events they describe, apparently in Jerusalem, which is far away from the arena where the events took place. The problems involved with the combination of two so markedly different sources into a linear historical line are self-evident. Hence, we should be very careful when trying to draw conclusions from one set of sources regarding the other.

Personal Names as an Indication of Devotion to YHWH Let me open the discussion with an analysis of the personal names registered in the ostraca. To arrive at the exact number of persons, I carefully checked all names that are mentioned in the texts more than once (for a provisional list of names, see Beit-Arieh 2007b: 183–84). 4 Different individuals with identical names were each counted in the numbering of names, whereas names that appear more than once but relate to the same person were omitted. In reality, because no archive was discovered in the site, and the ostraca were distributed across many rooms, the number of people who appear more than once is minimal. I also omitted from the count of names the sender of the Edomite letter (ostracon no. 5) and people who originated from other places (ostracon no. 10). According to my calculation, the corpus of names from Ḥorvat ʿUza includes 89 different people who belonged to two generations. Of the 89 secure names, 54 names (approximately 60%) include the theophoric component yhw either as the first or the last element of the name. Seven of the names (nearly 8%) include the theophoric component ʾl. 5 Three different people each bore these, the most-popular names: Elishama, Gedalyahu, Hoshaʿyahu, Hiṣilyahu, Yaʾzanyahu, and Neriyahu. Two different people each had been given the names Uriyahu, Elyashib, Hodavyahu, Nehemyahu, Semachyahu, and Shelemyahu. All other names appear only once. The actual percentage of yhw and ʾl names may be slightly lower than the above statistics, because names with these theophoric components are easily identified even in fragmented texts, whereas the decipherment of less-well-known names— unless they also appear undamaged—is more difficult. Due to the problem of decipherment, some of these fragmented less-well-known names may have escaped the reconstructed name list. 4. The list of personal names from Ḥorvat ʿUza should be corrected in many places. Explaining these corrections requires a detailed discussion of many texts, which is far beyond the scope of this article. 5.  For a general comparison of the theophoric components yhw and ʾl in Hebrew epigraphic sources, see Pardee 1988: 126.

Nadav Naʾaman

177

The inscription lʿbḥkm ʿzwl appears on a stamp seal discovered at Ḥorvat ʿUza (Beit-Arieh 2007b: 178–79). The 2 names are non-Hebrew, but possibly the first component of the first name was shortened and should be restored as ʿb(d); thus, the name ʿb(d)ḥkm may perhaps be translated ‘the Servant of the Wise’. In this theory, ‘wise’ was the title of an unknown god, and since the name ʿzwl is non-Semitic, the title ‘the Wise’ probably referred to a foreign god. It is also possible that the theophoric name Baʿal appears in two names: bʿlʾm[r] (no. 5:1) and [. . .]bʿl (no. 9:1). However, the restoration of the two fragmented names remains uncertain. How should we interpret the high percentage of Yahwistic names in the ostraca from Ḥorvat ʿUza? It is self-evident that a high percentage of names referring to a god in a certain population group indicates his popularity among the members of this community. But scholars have demonstrated that the distribution of theophoric elements may have been influenced by factors other than mere popularity. 6 To clarify the onomastic situation at Ḥorvat ʿUza further, let me present an illuminating analogous case recently presented by Beaulieu (2011). A religious-cultic reform was conducted in the 5th century BCE in the city of Uruk, at the center of which was Anu, the sky god, who was raised to the head of the local pantheon (Beaulieu 1992; 2011: 256–58, 260–61). Following the reform, a dramatic rise took place in the number of names that included the god’s name. This is a good analogy with Josiah’s reform, which must have resulted in the increased popularity of Yhwh. However, the Uruk documents came from the temple and reflect the names of persons attached to the administration of the temple and city, as well as those whose livelihood was dependent on the temple (Beaulieu 2011: 257–58). We may assume that Josiah’s reform promoted the popularity of Yhwh in the urban centers of the Kingdom of Judah, especially in the capital city of Jerusalem. However, the inhabitants of Ḥorvat ʿUza lived far away from the center of Jerusalem, and it is doubtful that the reform, however broad its historical scale, directly influenced this remote site. Furthermore, the ostraca reflect the overall population of the site, not just the elite and middle classes, which are usually represented in ancient Near Eastern documents. Thus, the popularity of Yhwh as reflected in the ostraca should be attributed to the religious devotion of the local inhabitants and only secondarily (if at all) to the influence of religious actions taken by the royal court of Jerusalem. In this context, we may also examine the onomasticon of Arad, a fortress that, like Kinah, is located in the district inhabited by Kenites (Negev of Arad). The calculated number of names of different persons in the fortress of the 7th–early 6th

6. For the difficulties involved in the forming of lists of theophoric elements and in evaluating the official status of gods in the cult of a kingdom, see Pardee 1988, with earlier bibliographical references. For Yahwistic names in the Diaspora as markers of self-identity rather than as an expression of devotion to God, see Beaulieu 1997; 2011; Pearce 2006; 2011.

178

The “Kenite Hypothesis” in the Light of the Excavations at Ḥorvat ʿUza

centuries (strata VII–VI) is 81, and 49 of them include the component yhw (60.5%). 7 Only 3 names (3.7%) are constructed with the theophoric component ʾl. The identical percentage of Yahwistic names at Arad and Kinah is remarkable, indicating the similarity of their respective Kenite inhabitants’ devotion to Yhwh.

The Absence of Anthropomorphic Figurines as an Expression of Aniconism Whereas the fashion of name-giving at Arad and Kinah was almost identical, a marked difference appears in their respective attitudes toward anthropomorphic figurines. No figurine was discovered at Ḥorvat ʿUza, in contrast to the 23 pillar figurines that have been discovered at Arad in strata of the 8th–early 6th centuries BCE (X–VI). Kletter (1996: 41–42) has shown that a remarkable decline took place in the number of 7th-century BCE securely dated pillar figurines in the overall area of the Kingdom of Judah (24) compared with their number in the 8th century (127). To compare the two sites, we must first establish the number of anthropomorphic figurines in strata VII–VI of Arad. According to Kletter’s catalog (1996: 95–96, 147, 210b–212a, 213b), 9 pillar figurines discovered at Arad are securely dated to the 8th century BCE, 3 to the 7th century, and the 11 additional figurines unearthed at the site have not been dated. 8 Some of the undated figurines may well have belonged to the 7th-century strata. As for other sites in the Beer-sheba valley, 5 pillar figurines were discovered at Tel Masos, a small site that, like Ḥorvat ʿUza, was constructed in the 7th century BCE (Crüsemann 1983: 130–32; Kletter 1996: 95–96, 174, 196b). Twenty-one anthropomorphic figurines (13 of which are pillar figurines) were discovered in the excavations of Tel ʿAroer. Three of the latter pillar figurines are securely dated to the 8th century, 5 to the 7th century, and the rest are undated (Thareani 2011: 188–93, 203–4). Six pillar figurines were discovered in the excavations of Tel ʿIra. Two of these figurines are securely dated to the 8th century, 2 to the 8th–7th centuries, and the rest undated (Kletter 1999: 374–78). 9 We may conclude that the absence of anthropomorphic figurines (including horseback riders) at Ḥorvat ʿUza, where most 7.  For a list of the personal names at Arad, see Aharoni 1981: 199–200. The list includes names from all the strata, and for the sake of calculating statistics, it was necessary to separate the early (strata IX–VIII) and late (strata VII–VI) lists of names. Moreover, in light of recent advances in the decipherment of some texts, the list requires some additions and corrections. Explaining these changes would greatly exceed the bounds of this article. 8.  Although the last excavation season at the fortress of Arad was conducted in 1966, the final report of the excavations, including the list of all the figurines, has yet to be published. 9.  The results of the excavations at Tel Malḥata are as yet unpublished. Many Edomites settled in the place, and the various kinds of anthropomorphic figurines unearthed in the site are markedly different from those of all other Judahite sites in the Negev. I therefore exclude these figurines from the discussion. I would like to thank Ms. Liora Freud, who is currently working on the publication of the pottery from the site, for sending me Kletter’s unpublished manuscript, which discusses the figurines discovered in the place.

179

Nadav Naʾaman

of the area has been excavated, is exceptional among all other major 7th-century BCE sites excavated to date in the Beer-sheba valley. In light of this discussion, we may cautiously conclude that a general accord exists between the commonly held view of the origins of Yhwh in the southern periphery of the land of Canaan—possibly among the Kenite (and Midianite) pastoral groups wandering there—and the findings from Ḥorvat ʿUza, where groups of Kenites settled in the 7th century BCE. The personal names as reflected in the ostraca uncovered at the site are an indication of the devotion of the inhabitants to Yhwh, and the absence of anthropomorphic figurines (and figurines of horse riders) points to an avoidance of making figurative representations in the place. Furthermore, the absence of anthropomorphic figurines at the site is exceptional in comparison with other sites all over the Kingdom of Judah (see the distribution map in Kletter 1996: 96) and may reflect the aniconic tendency of the Kenites who lived at Ḥorvat ʿUza. One serious limitation to this conclusion, however, is the fact that the documents and artifacts on hand reflect only the situation in the last century of the Kingdom of Judah, while a “black hole” exists in our knowledge of the long time span between the early Iron Age and the 7th century BCE. Nevertheless, the ostraca and figurines apparently reflect the cultic practice and religious beliefs of the Kenites who lived in Ḥorvat ʿUza in the late First Temple Period and who may have maintained the inherited traditions of their ancestors who wandered in this area hundreds of years before their time.

References Aharoni, Y. 1967 The Land of the Bible: A Historical Geography. Philadelphia: Westminster. 1981 Arad Inscriptions. Judean Desert Studies. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. Barthélemy, D. 1982 Critique textuelle de l’Ancien Testament, vol. 1: Josué, Juges, Ruth, Samuel, Rois, Chroniques, Esdras, Néhémie, Esther. OBO 50/1. Fribourg: Éditions Universitaires / Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Beaulieu, P.-A. 1992 Antiquarian Theology in Seleucid Uruk. Acta Sumerologica 14: 47–75. 1997 The Cult of AN.ŠÁR/Aššur in Babylonia after the Fall of the Assyrian Empire. SAAB 11: 55–73. 2011 Yahwistic Names in Light of Late Babylonian Onomastics. Pp.  245–66 in Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context. Edited by O. Lipschits, G. N. Knoppers, and M. Oeming. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Beck, P. 2007 A Neo-Assyrian Bulla. Pp. 194–96 in Beit-Arieh 2007a. Becking, B., and Dijkstra, M. 2011 Some Remarks on an Edomite Ostracon from Ḥorvat ʿUza. Journal of Northwest Semitic Languages 37/1: 113–20.

180

The “Kenite Hypothesis” in the Light of the Excavations at Ḥorvat ʿUza

Beit-Arieh, I. 1995 Ḥorvat Qitmit: An Edomite Shrine in the Biblical Negev. Monograph Series of the Institute of Archaeology of Tel Aviv University 11. Tel Aviv: Emery and Claire Yass Publications in Archeology. 1999 Tel ʿIra: A Stronghold in the Biblical Negev. Monograph Series of the Institute of Archaeology of Tel Aviv University 15. Tel Aviv: Emery and Claire Yass Publications in Archaeology. 2007a Ḥorvat ʿUza and Ḥorvat Radum: Two Fortresses in the Biblical Negev. Monograph Series of the Institute of Archaeology of Tel Aviv University 25. Tel Aviv: Emery and Claire Yass Publications in Archaeology. 2007b Epigraphic Finds. Pp. 122–87 in Beit-Arieh 2007a. 2011 Excavations at Tel Malḥata: An Interim Report. Pp.  17–32 in The Fire Signals of Lachish: Studies in the Archaeology and History of Israel in the Late Bronze, Iron Age, and Persian Period in Honor of David Ussishkin. Edited by I. Finkelstein and N. Naʾaman. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Beit-Arieh, I., and Cresson, B. C. 1985 An Edomite Ostracon from Ḥorvat ʿUza. Tel Aviv 12: 96–101. 2007 Stratigraphy and Architecture. Pp. 15–76 in Beit-Arieh 2007a. Blenkinsopp, J. 2008 The Midianite-Kenite Hypothesis Revisited and the Origins of Judah. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 33/2: 131–53. Burney, C. F. 1918 The Book of Judges with Introduction and Notes. London: Rivingstons. Cogan, M., and Tadmor, H. 1988 II Kings: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. Anchor Bible 11. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Cohen, R., and Yisrael, Y. 1995 The Iron Age Fortress at ʿEn Haṣeva. BA 58: 223–35. Crüsemann, F. 1983 Die Kleinfunde. Pp. 130–33 in Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen auf der Ḫirbet el-Mšāš (Tel Masos) 1972–1974. Edited by V. Fritz and A. Kempinski. Abhandlungen des Deutschen Palästi­navereins. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Goethert, R., and Amiran, R. 1996 A Salvage Excavation on the Eastern Slope of Tel Arad. Eretz-Israel 25 (Aviram Volume): 112–15. [Hebrew] Israel, F. 1987 Supplementum Idumeum I. Rivista Biblica Italiana 35: 337–56. Kletter, R. 1996 The Judean Pillar-Figurines and the Archaeology of Asherah. BAR International Series 636. Oxford: Tempus reparatum. 2007a Stone Weights. Pp. 205–10 in Beit-Arieh 2007a. 2007b A Group of Clay Figurines. Pp. 188–93 in Beit-Arieh 2007a. Lemaire, A. 1973 L’ostracon “Ramat Negeb” et la topographie historique du Negeb. Semitica 23: 11–26. Lindenberger, J. M. 2003 Ancient Aramaic and Hebrew Letters. 2nd ed. Leiden: Brill. Lissovsky, N., and Naʾaman, N. 2003 A New Outlook at the Boundary System of the Twelve Tribes. UF 35: 291–332.

Nadav Naʾaman

181

Mazar, E. 1985 Edomite Pottery at the End of the Iron Age. IEJ 35: 253–69. Misgav, H. 1990 Two Notes on the Ostraca from Ḥorvat ʿUza. IEJ 40: 215–17. Mittmann, S. 1977 Ri. 1,16f und das Siedlungsgebiet der kenitischen Sippe Hobab. ZDPV 93: 213–35. Möller, C., and Schmitt, G. 1976 Siedlungen Palästinas nach Flavius Josephus. Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des Vorderen Orients B/14. Wiesbaden: Reichert. Montgomery, J. A. 1951 A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Books of Kings. International Critical Commentary. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. Naʾaman, N. 1980 The Inheritance of the Sons of Simeon. ZDPV 96: 136–52. 2001 An Assyrian Residence at Ramat Raḥel? Tel Aviv 28: 260–80. 2008 Sojourners and Levites in the Kingdom of Judah in the Seventh Century BCE. Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte 14: 237–79. Pardee, D. 1988 An Evaluation of the Proper Names from Ebla from a West Semitic Perspective: Pantheon Distribution according to Genre. Pp. 119–51 in Eblaite Personal Names and Semitic Name-Giving. Edited by A. Archi. ARES 1. Rome: Missione Archeologica Italiana in Syria. Pearce, L. E. 2006 New Evidence for Judeans in Babylonia. Pp.  399–411 in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period. Edited by O. Lipschits and M. Oeming. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. 2011 “Judean”: A Special Status in Neo-Babylonian and Achaemenid Babylonia? Pp. 267–77 in Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context. Edited by O. Lipschits, G. N. Knoppers, and M. Oeming. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Rowley, H. H. 1950 From Joseph to Joshua: Biblical Traditions in the Light of Archaeology. London: Oxford University Press. Singer-Avitz, L. 2004 ‘Busayra Painted Ware’ at Tel Beer-sheba. Tel Aviv 31: 80–89. Thareani, Y. 2007 Ancient Caravanserais: An Archaeological View from ʿAroer. Levant 39: 123–41. 2010 The Spirit of Clay: “Edomite Pottery” and Social Awareness in the Late Iron Age. BASOR 359: 35–55. 2011 Tel ʿAroer: The Iron Age II Caravan Town and the Hellenistic–Early Roman Settlement. Annual of the Nelson Glueck School of Biblical Archaeology / Hebrew Union College–Jewish Institute of Religion 8. Jerusalem: Nelson Glueck School of Biblical Archaeology. Tsafrir, Y.; Di Segni, L.; and Green, J. 1994 Tabula Imperii Romani—Maps and Gazetteer: Eretz Israel in the Hellenistic, Roman and Byzantine Periods. Jerusalem: The Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities. Ussishkin, D. 2010 ʿEn Haṣeva: On the Gate of the Iron Age II Fortress. Tel Aviv 37: 246–53.

182

The “Kenite Hypothesis” in the Light of the Excavations at Ḥorvat ʿUza

Vaux, R. de 1969 Sur l’origine kénite ou madianite du Yahwisme. Eretz-Israel 9 (Albright Volume): 28–32. Ziffer, I. 2007 Stamps and Stamp Seals. Pp. 197–204 in Beit-Arieh 2007a. Zwickel, W. 1988 Das ‘edomitische’ Ostrakon aus Ḫirbet Ġazza (Ḥorvat ʿUza). BN 41: 36–39.

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited Peter Machinist

I. Introduction As has often been remarked, Assyria is a phenomenon whose presence permeates, indeed suffocates, the book or materials of the First Isaiah. 1 The most notable example is the section dealing with the campaign of the Assyrian emperor Sennacherib—his third campaign, as marked in his annals—against Judah and its ruler, Hezekiah, presented in chaps. 36–37, with 38–39 as related episodes, and with 36–38 more or less duplicated in 2 Kings 18–20 and then abbreviated and reconfigured in 2 Chronicles 32. But among the other, smaller passages about Assyria is one almost equally well known: the oracle against Assyria in Isa 10:5–15, which begins: “Ah, Assyria, the rod of my anger.” Many commentators have grappled with these texts, myself included (Machinist 1983). Here, I would like to return to Isa 10:5–15 for further examination and reflection. I will begin by looking at the text itself, asking whether it qualifies as a coherent literary composition with a discernible structure, and what an internal examination of it suggests that it is saying. The borders of interpretation will then be widened in two directions: to the connections of 10:5–15 with other passages in the Isaiah book; and to its Assyrian connections—the latter not only broadly with the course of Neo-Assyrian history in the 8th–7th centuries BC but, more specifically with the language, imagery, and ideology of the Assyrian sources for this history. These external connections of chap. 10 along with the internal examination of the text will allow us, as a fourth point, to speculate about the date(s) and setting(s) of our chapter and its possible audience(s), and this in turn will necessitate some revision in our discussion of the structure of 10:5–15 and its connections with the other Isaianic passages. From here, we will move to a fifth and final point, namely, an assessment of the significance of this chapter as a window on the experience of a subject population, ancient Judah, in the imperial setting of Neo-Assyria. In this regard, as we will see, the experience of another group of subjects in a modern Author’s note:  To Mario, with deepest respect and admiration. Salute! 1.  Henceforth, unless explicitly indicated otherwise, Isaiah will refer to the First Isaiah and the chapters of the book of Isaiah generally assigned to this prophet in modern scholarship—that is, chaps. 1–39 with exceptions, such as chaps. 24–27 and 34–35.

183

184

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited

empire may have something to say about the ancient intent and resonance of the Isaiah situation. Some of the territory we will traverse in this essay—even a fair amount of it—will be quite familiar, well-trodden by other scholars, older as well as more recent. But in traversing or re-traversing, I hope some new features and patterns will emerge as well.

II.  Structure and Coherence To the text itself, then. Fortunately, its Tiberian Masoretic form as this appears in standard printed Hebrew Bibles is relatively sound, text-critically speaking, though with a few minor grammatical problems and a few minor variants, as indicated by the ancient manuscripts and versions (vv. 5b, 12b, 13b and c, 15b), that do not affect our discussion. 2 This Masoretic Text may be divided, in terms of content, into seven parts. Part 1, in the opening v. 5, is a call by Yahweh, the God of Israel—not explicitly named—to Aššur, whom he calls his rod and staff—that is, his agent, to carry out his wrath. The mission to which Yahweh calls Aššur is then described by Yahweh in part 2, v. 6: to conquer an ‘ungodly nation’ (gōy ḥānēp), taking their spoil and putting them under full force. But in part 3, v. 7, Aššur, the agent, does not execute the mission as Yahweh has assigned it to him; rather, he seeks to extend it beyond the one nation to many nations. This leads directly into part 4, vv. 8–11, which could be understood as an elaboration of part 3, because here, instead of Yahweh’s speaking about the agent Aššur, Aššur himself speaks, describing in boastful fashion the several nations he has conquered, the culmination of which is Jerusalem, whose conquest he talks about as being underway or in the future. Part 5, v. 12, is the reaction of Yahweh to what Aššur, here identified as the ‘king of Assyria’ (melek ʾAššûr), has said. The speaker in v. 12, however, is not Yahweh, and of course neither is he Aššur, as in the preceding verses back to the beginning in v. 5, but the biblical author—that is, the prophet Isaiah, who says that after ‘my Lord’ (ʾădōnāy) winds up ‘his deed’ (maʿăśēhû) on Jerusalem/Zion, he will punish the Assyrian king for his haughty boasting about conquests. Part 6, vv. 13–14, underscores the point, because it offers another—or, perhaps better, the continuation of the—boastful speech of Aššur in vv. 8–11, where now the focus is on the quality of the boasting itself. This boasting emerges as defiant hubris, with Aššur claiming in essence, I have conquered all by myself, that is, without reference to any god, including Yahweh. This speech elicits, in turn, yet another reaction, in the final part 7, v. 15, where again Isaiah is the speaker, here castigating the Assyrian for put2.  See the commentaries on Isaiah, e.g., Wildberger 1972, ad loc. For v. 5b in particular, and the apparent break in parallelism between it and 5a, there is a range of opinions, concisely summarized in Chan 2009: 720–21 n. 10. I believe it possible to keep the Masoretic Text for v. 5b and to translate: ‘As for the staff, it is my anger in their hand’ (ûmaṭṭeh-hûʾ bĕyādām zaʿmî ). That is, Yahweh’s anger is embodied in the staff that “they,” the Assyrians, hold. The break in parallelism with 5a is then deliberate in order to highlight the word ‘my anger’, which in the Hebrew comes at the end of the verse line.

Peter Machinist

185

ting himself as an agent of a higher authority or, as he described it, as a tool in the hand of its user, in place of the authority or user himself. The seven-part structure just outlined on the basis of content is not without its difficulties. Let us look at the major ones. The first has to do with the very boundaries of the text: where it begins and ends. The problem is not with the beginning. All interpreters agree that v. 5 marks something new, over against the previous verses, with its initial word hōy (e.g., Childs 1967: 41; Beuken 2003: 277–78; Wildberger 1972: 392; Sweeney 1996: 198). This is well known as a cry of lament or mourning (e.g., 1 Kgs 13:30; Jer 22:18); in the biblical prophetic literature, it regularly introduces passages of condemnation of a particular person or group, for whom then the hōy signifies condemnation and coming downfall. 3 In fact, one such passage is the preceding verses, 10:1–4, which are also introduced by hōy. Yet these verses do not deal, at least not directly, with Assyria and its conquests, as in 10:5–15, even though there are some linguistic echoes between the two. 4 Isa 10:1–4, therefore, must have been brought together by an “editor” as a related, even parallel passage to 10:5–15, but it is not part of the latter. The end of 10:5–15, however, is another matter. Here, there is much scholarly disagreement, with some accepting v. 15 as the end (e.g., Childs 1967: 39–41; Wildberger 1972: 390–92, 406), others v. 14 (e.g., Blenkinsopp 2000: 252, 254, 255; Seitz 1993: 93), and still others arguing that there must be something after v. 15, because 15 is not a satisfactory end to the whole (e.g., Gray 1912: 199–200). But what this something after might be does not command any consensus. Among the variety of answers, three may be mentioned: (1) the immediately following verses in the text, namely, vv. 16–19, which indeed form a unit introduced by the particle lākēn ‘therefore/consequently’; (2) the unit 10:24–27, also introduced by lākēn; and (3) moving farther away, 14:24–27, which has no introductory particle like lākēn. 5 We cannot discuss these various options in full here nor, finally and decisively, settle the matter. But two sets of observations can be made. The first is that, if the choice for the ending is between 10:14 and 15, it is much more likely to be 15. 3. On hōy, see besides the commentaries on our passage, e.g., Jenni 1971: 474–477; Zobel 1977: 382–88. 4. Thus, when vv. 1–4 condemn apparently members of the local ruling elite (‘those who issue decrees’ haḥ-ḥoqĕqîm–v. 1), the latter are described as ‘despoiling’ and ‘plundering’ the helpless (šālal and bāzaz in v. 2; cf. v. 6), against whom Yahweh’s ‘anger’ still burns (ʿap in v. 4; cf. v. 5). 5.  For these three options, see: for 10:16–19, e.g., Gallagher 1999: 75, 86 and n. 55; Hom 2012: 36, 44; Machinist 1983: 734, though in n. 93, the option of 10:5–15 is mentioned; also Machinist 2000: 161 and n. 27. For 10:24–27, see the citations of K. Budde, O. Procksch, and B. Renaud in Vermeylen 1977: 1.253 n. 2. For 14:24–27, e.g., Kaiser 1983: 233; 1973: 42; Blenkinsopp 2000: 289, with a question; Vermeylen (1977: 1.253–54), who also mentions other scholars of this opinion (1977: 253 n. 3). Among other options proposed for the definition of the unit are: 10:5–34 (e.g., Beuken 2003: 277–81, with subunits; Chan 2009); 10:5–12:6, in which 10:5–11 and 12–19 form subunits (Sweeney 1996: 196–239).

186

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited

If we stop at v. 14, we end with the Assyrian king’s boast but no riposte to it that would make clear Isaiah’s attitude toward Assyria. With v. 15, we have this riposte and clarity, which thus give Isaiah the last word, even as they pick up and develop the criticism of Assyria already made in vv. 7 and 12. But there is something more. Verse 15b mentions the same two words, in the same order of pairing, with which v. 5 begins—namely, šebeṭ and then maṭṭeh. With this pairing in place, one can then understand, as John Kselman has insightfully noted (oral communication), the use of the Hiphil construct hānîp in v. 15b in the phrase kĕ-hānîp šebeṭ, as a deliberate play on ḥānēp in v. 6, in the phrase gōy ḥānēp. Put into English, it is that we should hear in v. 15b, “when a rod wields/lifts up (hānîp) those/him who would raise it,” an echo of v. 6, where the rod or staff (maṭṭeh) that is Aššur is sent by Yahweh against the ‘ungodly nation’ (gōy ḥānēp). In other words, the ungodliness of the nation against which the rod or staff had been sent comes around at the end to manifest itself in the ungodly or unnatural behavior of a rod controlling its user— that is, acting as a ḥānēp by hānîp-ing it. Verse 15, in short, offers a nice symmetrical closure to the poem that begins in v. 5. The second set of observations about the conclusion of our passage has to do with whether it ended, not in v. 15, but further on in another group of verses. The interpreters who support this solution argue that v. 15 does not resolve the issue posed by the poem, 6 for in the poem, Assyria is eventually criticized and condemned because of its hubristic behavior and boasting, but no punishment is described, even though it is forecast in v. 12. This, say our interpreters, is all the stranger since a normal part of the biblical prophetic hōy passages, including 10:1–4 itself (see vv. 3–4), is an announcement, even a description of the punishment of the individuals whom the passages condemn. However, the case for additional verses, beyond 15, as an original concluding section for 10:5–15 is not so clear. To be sure, the three groups of verses suggested as possibilities, namely, 10:16–19, 10:24–27, and 14:24–27, do describe punishment in one way or another and show a few particular echoes of 10:5–15. Yet they all pose problems for a view that would make any one of them an integral, original part of 10:5–15. Let us take a brief look at each of them. Isa 10:16–19 does not continue any of the themes of vv. 5–15. Rather, it introduces a new thematic complex: of sickness among the enemy army; and of Yahweh’s destruction by fire of the enemy’s brush, forest, and land (cf., however, 9:17). And the enemy is left unnamed. 7 6.  For example, Gray (1912: 199–200), though he judges that the present form of vv. 16– 19 cannot be original; Berges 2012: 110. 7. For other comments and criticisms on 10:16–19, see, e.g., Wildberger 1972: 406; Vermeylen 1977: 1.252, 259–60; Barth 1977: 17–18, 34. Berges (2012: 110) argues that the mention of ‘wood’ (ʿēṣ) in vv. 15 and 19 serves to connect vv. 16–19 with 5–15 but, while this is indeed a tie, it seems to me trivial, not fundamental, since ‘wood’ is not really used in the same way in both sets of verses. The tie would thus speak to the secondary attachment of vv. 16–19 to 5–15, not to its being an original part.

Peter Machinist

187

Isa 14:24–27 looks more relevant to 10:5–15, because here Assyria is mentioned explicitly in the statement that Yahweh plans to break the Assyrian in Yahweh’s land—referring implicitly, perhaps, to the Sennacherib attack—and to stretch out his hand to control all the nations—again, perhaps, an implicit reference to the Assyrian king’s boast in 10:13–14 that with his hand he conquered all the peoples. Similarly, the verb in 14:24 for Yahweh’s ‘planning’ (dimmâ) is the same as that imputed to the Assyrian king in his strategy of conquest in 10:7 (Vermeylen [1977: 1.254 n. 1], who points out other parallels in vocabulary). Yet even these verses of 14:24–27 do not explicitly pick up the major themes of Assyrian boast and conquest of nations announced in 10:5–15, and in any case, it is a challenge at the very least to explain how and why the verses were separated from the rest of 10:5–15 and placed so far away from them in the organization of the Isaiah book. 8 Finally, regarding 10:24–27, we do find a number of echoes of 10:5–15. So the Assyrians, named explicitly in 10:24, strike Zion/Jerusalem with their rod and staff, using the same words and in the same order in 10:24 as in 10:5 (šebeṭ and maṭṭeh; cf. maṭṭeh also in v. 26). The striking, moreover, could easily allude to the Sennacherib attack, all the more because, like 10:11–12, it is described in 10:24 as about to begin or already underway but not complete; similarly, Yahweh’s punishment of the Assyrians is announced in 10:25 but not yet carried out. In addition, 10:24–25 appears to depict Yahweh, again as in 10:5–15, shifting his angry punishment from Judah to Assyria, and then from Assyria as his agent against Judah to Assyria as the object of his wrath. Indeed, the same two words for ‘anger’ and ‘wrath’ used in 10:5, ʿap and zaʿam, appear, though in reversed order, as a pair in 10:25. All of these features suggest that of the three proposed final components to 10:5–15, 10:24–27 is the best choice. Once more, however, there are two critical themes of 10:5–15 that are not present in 10:24–27: the list of conquests and the boasting of the Assyrian king about his conquests. Moreover, the final verses, 26 and the first part of 27—in comparing Yahweh’s announced punishment of Assyria with what he did against Midian and Egypt—could fit in with 10:5–15 and then 24–25 as a way of confirming Yahweh’s promise to destroy Assyria. Yet here also, in the mention of Midian and Egypt, are new themes that do not directly pick up what is in 10:5–15, although they do echo other passages in the First Isaiah (9:6; 11:15). Isa 10:24–27, therefore, might be accepted as the conclusion to 10:5–15. But it is not quite as tight a fit as one might prefer. Perhaps, then, along with 10:16–19 and 14:24–27, it should be considered as a subsequent addition to the themes, language, and problems with which 10:5–15 dealt, all as part of a kind of rolling composition and edition, a Fortschreibung, that eventually led to the entire book of Isaiah—a process that cannot be examined in full here. 9 8.  For attempts to explain the separation, see, e.g., Vermeylen 1977: 1.253–54, 261–62, 282–83, 296–97, 303; Berges 2012: 109–10. 9.  Among the various larger efforts here are Barth 1977; and Vermeylen 1977.

188

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited

While the case for these three proposed conclusions to 10:5–15 is at the least very unclear and at the most quite improbable, we have one final consideration for v. 15 as the original ending. It is that not every prophetic hōy passage in the Hebrew Bible has an explicit punishment (e.g., Amos 6:1–3; Isa 45:9–13). The reason may be that the hōy particle itself portends, from its meaning and usage elsewhere in the Bible, that something bad will happen to the addressee of that word. In fact, this something bad is implied by the continuing criticism of Assyria’s actions throughout the text (vv. 7, 13–14, 15). And it is confirmed, if v. 12 is accepted as original or early in the history of composition (on this, see below), for in this verse, as we have seen, there is at least an announcement, however brief, of a coming punishment. The point, in sum, is that it just may be that our passage, construed as 10:5–15, did not in fact have a punishment section beyond the implication of hōy in v. 1 and the brief mention in v. 12. Its focus may instead have been, indeed appears to be, on the character and behavior of the figure of Aššur and why he must be condemned. In this regard, it is perhaps more than a little significant that the earliest attested Hebrew manuscript of our passage, namely, the Great Isaiah Scroll from Qumran, 1QIsaa of probably the 1st century BC—marks off vv. 5–15 as a unit, as George Brooke of the University of Manchester observes (oral communication), by spacing it apart from what precedes and what follows—which anticipates the system of petuḥah and setumah in much later biblical manuscripts. 10 If we can, in sum, operate with 10:5–15 as a unit, the question now is how does it work literarily? Is there a coherent progression of thought and language that would entitle us, in fact, to consider it a unified composition? Or are there breaks and inconsistencies that suggest a complicated history of composition that never yielded full coherence? Two facets of our text are critical here: the depiction of Aššur and the identification of the gōy ḥānēp ‘ungodly nation’ mentioned in v. 6. The word ʾAššûr, introduced in the opening verse, 5, designates in its original Assyrian context, as is well known, the god dAššur; the oldest capital center, Assur (uru dAššur), which remained the religious and cultural center of the realm; and the ‘land of Assyria’ (māt dAššur(ki); see, e.g., Lambert 1983). The Assyrian king, in turn, is the šar māt dAššur(ki) ‘king of the land of Assyria’ along with various other titles connected largely with his relationship to the national, imperial god Aššur. This use of one word, Aššur, to express the nexus of relationships among god, city, and state is, again, as is well known, different from Babylonia, indeed unique in Mesopotamia and arguably the ancient Near East as a whole. It is reflected in the biblical usage of ʾAššûr but only in part. That is, ʾAššûr for the biblical authors can represent the land (e.g., Gen 2:14; 10:11), the people of Assyria (e.g., Isa 19:23–25, there also the land; Mic 5:4; Ps 83:9), and the eponymous ancestor of Assyria (Gen 10:22). Indeed, the preceding three usages tend to blend into each other. The king 10.  See Ulrich and Flint with Abegg 2010: 1.20, col. X, line 2, with facing pl. 10. This is the most recent and fullest publication of this Great Isaiah Scroll, 1QIsaa. On petuḥah and setumah, see the essential study of Oesch 1979.

Peter Machinist

189

of Assyria is normally designated melek ʾAššûr in the Bible (e.g., Isa 8:4; Jer 50:17–18; 2  Kgs 15:19). But there is no evidence anywhere in the Hebrew Bible that ʾAššûr stands for the god or the old capital city. What, then, is the situation in Isa 10:5–15? A straightforward reading of the text suggests that the ʾAššûr of v. 5 refers to the empire and people/army 11 of the Assyrians and also the king, who are sent to conquer a gōy ḥānēp but who go on to conquer other lands as well. The identification as king comes through in the boastful speaking given to ʾAššûr in vv. 8–11, where he refers to himself in the first person and to ‘my officials’ (śāray) as ‘kings’ (mĕlākîm). This is confirmed explicitly in v. 12, where melek ʾAššûr appears and is then said (vv. 13–14) to utter more boastful statements in the first person. But Walter Houston (oral communication) wonders whether at least in vv. 5–11 the reference might also be to the imperial god Aššur, who would then be singled out by Isaiah as the ultimate authority and director of the Assyrian conquests. This is a most interesting point and does conform to the ruling Assyrian ideology, which made the god Aššur the ultimate authority, especially in imperial expansion as carried out by his servant, the Assyrian king (see Liverani 1979; Tadmor 2011a, b, c). But given the lack of any other clear case of ʾAššûr as god in the Hebrew Bible plus the fact, as we will see, that the boastful speech-ifying in vv. 8–11 and 13–14 is full of language and imagery otherwise attributed to the Assyrian kings in their official inscriptions and, finally, the explicit identification of the speaker at one point in our text, v. 12, as melek ʾAššûr—for these reasons, ʾAššûr as god in Isaiah 10 does not seem likely. At the most, one could say, the merging of several meanings of ʾAššûr by Isaiah and other biblical authors, following or muddying the original Assyrian context in some sense, could perhaps have included a notion of ʾAššûr as god. But, if so, it is deeply buried and obscured. However much, then, the word ʾAššûr is packed with meaning in our Isaiah text, even more evident is how thoroughly it dominates the text and how complicated the prophet’s orientation is toward this ʾAššûr. This complication is a problem that is not unique to Isaiah but that bedeviled all the biblical writers who had to deal with Assyria in the period of its imperial glory, preeminently the 8th–7th centuries BC, when Israel and Judah were among its vast subjects. So in our text, ʾAššûr is presented in two ways: first, in vv. 5–6 as the designated agent of Yahweh, the God of Israel, sent to punish by despoiling and destroying a gōy ḥānēp; then, as someone who does not follow his mission and is thus criticized, condemned, and finally, from the hints we have discussed, slated for future punishment. The burning issue for the Isaiah text, I suggest, is to explain how one can move—how “our” God could move—from one view of ʾAššûr to the other. The answer the text offers, in turn, is bound up first with the identification of the gōy ḥānēp in v. 6. This group is not immediately identified in v. 6. But, if we look backward to passages preceding 10:5 in the present book of Isaiah, it becomes clear that the gōy 11.  See the phrase ‘in their hand’ (bĕyādām) in v. 5b; see above, n. 2.

190

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited

ḥānēp is northern Israel, that is, the kingdom of Israel proper. Thus, in 9:16, ḥānēp is connected explicitly with Israel as part of the passage that begins in 9:7 (e.g., Blenkinsopp 2000: 253). The connection is made again in 9:20, where it is applied to the constituents of northern Israel, Manasseh and Ephraim, which are said to be hostile to their southern neighbor, Judah. In our own passage, northern Israel re­ appears in 10:9 as, apparently, the conclusion of a list of Levantine cities conquered by Assyria. To be sure, the term ‘Israel’ is not used but, rather, ‘Samaria’ (šōmrôn), the capital and core northern city; but this must refer to the northern kingdom, particularly in its final, reduced state centered around its capital city, Samaria, before its Assyrian conquest, as is reflected also in Assyrian usage (e.g., Kelle 2002; cf. 2 Kgs 17:24, 26, which refer to the cities of Samaria). Yet, if Samaria as the concluding and climactic member of the conquered cities seems to be the gōy ḥānēp, this identification is quickly challenged by the following three verses, 10:10, 11, and 12. They introduce (vv. 10–11) Judah and its capital, Jerusalem, as the focus of Assyrian military attention, contrasting their future conquest by Assyria with the conquest of Samaria already accomplished, and then go on (v. 12) to predict that, having allowed the conquest of Judah, 12 Yahweh will turn to punish the conqueror, Assyria itself, for boasting about its conquests and other achievements. Isa 10:5ff. thus appears to move from (northern) Israel to Judah as gōy ḥānēp, and finally (if we may infer from the condemnation of Assyria in v. 12) to Assyria, which seems by implication to receive the ḥānēp mantle. But the movement here is a tricky one, for it poses problems of coherence regarding the literary structure and thematics of our passage. In structure, the problem may be put directly: Is the apparent shift to Judah and then to Assyria in 10:10–12 a later, editorial interpolation or series of interpolations into an original text that identified only northern Israel as the gōy ḥānēp? Or can this shift be understood as part of the original design of the text? Exegetes, not surprisingly, are divided on the question. Let us look at their principal arguments. For exegetes who favor 10:10–12 as editorial additions in whole or in part (e.g., Wildberger 1972: 392, 401–3, 404; Vermeylen 1977: 1.255–56; Barth 1977: 23–24; Kaiser 1983: 230–31), this would eliminate the difficulty—theological as well as literary—of a switch in attitude by the same biblical author toward Assyria. With 10:10–12 eliminated, the original text would have dealt with Assyria just as Yahweh’s agent to punish a sinful northern Israel, the gōy ḥānēp. There would be no 12.  Note the verb biṣṣaʿ in v. 12, ‘to complete a task; fulfill a word/directive’; compare with its occurrences in Lam 2:17; Zech 4:9, as in Wildberger 1972: 402. In the same verse, maʿăsēhû is apparently a specific term for Isaiah, referring to the dreaded possibility that Yahweh might allow his special city, Jerusalem, to be conquered by a foreign enemy; see Isa 28:21. This foreboding is in tension with the confidence otherwise expressed by Isaiah that (in the end) Jerusalem will be protected by Yahweh: see 2:2–3; 14:32; 18:7; 24:23; 31:5, 9; 37:33–38 // 2 Kgs 19:35–37. The confidence is part of what has come to be called in modern scholarship the Zion theology or tradition, on which one may consult Levenson 1992; and Roberts 2003a: especially p. 163 n. 1 for bibliography of his other publications on the topic.

Peter Machinist

191

problem of how Yahweh could change his mind and decide to punish Assyria for the very same mission of conquest that he had sent him to perform. The change, rather, would be due to a later editor, facing presumably changed circumstances, for example, the (pending) collapse of the Assyrian state at the end of the 7th century BC, about which other biblical texts, such as Nahum, speak with words condemning Assyria. In addition, if one supposes a separate author/editor for 10:10–12, some exegetes have argued that he was, at least in vv. 10–11, an excessively pious one, Yahwistically speaking. For in these verses, the matter of ‘idols’ (ʿĕlîl, pĕsîl, ʿāṣāb) is introduced to describe the religious behavior of the city-states that are listed as conquests of Assyria, a list that includes Samaria/Israel and Jerusalem/Judah as well as other states of the Levant. In other words, that these states worshiped idols becomes a/the reason for condemning them and justifying their conquest, and this applies in particular to Samaria and Jerusalem, which in their idolatry act just like the other city-states listed. The point, then, for modern exegetes favoring editorial interpolations is that the presence of “idols” makes no sense as an original part of the text. The verses preceding 10–11, after all, do not mention “idols” in talking about Assyria’s divine mission to conquer, and for our exegetes it seems little short of ridiculous to put into the mouth of the “idolatrous” Assyria pejorative remarks about other states having “idols.” Such reasons suggest, therefore, that the “idols” were introduced by a later, Yahwistically pious editor, who was concerned to mark the conquered states, Samaria, Jerusalem, and the rest, as deserving punishment at the hands of the iconoclastic Yahweh, who would have been understood to use Assyria as his vehicle for carrying out such punishment. One more argument for an editorial hand in 10:10–12 needs to be noted. This focuses on 10:12 and what a number of exegetes have observed is its “prosaic” character (e.g., Gray 1912: 198; Seitz 1993: 93); here, Isaiah is evidently the third-person narrator, in contrast to the “poetic” symmetry of the first-person speeches of ʾAššûr both preceding and following this verse. For these exegetes, the stylistic break that 10:12 represents with its surrounding context marks it as the work of a later editor. But the above three arguments for 10:10–12 as editorial additions 13 can be countered by others, who point to the fit of these verses in the structure of 10:5–15 and, thus, in the design of the text. In the first place, labeling 10:10–12 as an addition does not really solve the problem of Yahweh’s changing his mind about Assyria. It would still be something that the original author of the text had to face. The reason is twofold. First, in 10:7–9 (thus, already earlier in our passage but after Assyria had been named as Yahweh’s agent in v. 5), we find the condemnation of Assyria for its strategy of conquest—a strategy that goes well beyond just one gōy in order to take on, as made explicit in 10:7–10, a whole list of gōyîm, including 13. These, in my judgment, are the most salient arguments, but commentators have introduced others: e.g., Wildberger 1972: 402–3; Barth 1977: 23–24, 26–27; Kaiser 1983: 230–31.

192

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited

northern Israel. Second, in 10:13–15, Assyria is again condemned, this time for its boastful attitude about this strategy. In short, vv. 10–12 are not the only indication in 10:5–15 that Yahweh had changed his mind about Assyria; the whole passage is permeated with the tension of this change, and it cannot be eliminated without destroying the literary shape of the passage altogether. But there is more—namely, a larger point—that the tension over Yahweh’s change of attitude must be connected with the historical conquest and expansion of the Neo-Assyrian empire, especially in the late 8th and 7th centuries, which engulfed Israel and Judah, among many other states. How could the elites of Israel and Judah and the other affected states explain the power of Assyria in a way that did not diminish the worth of their local society and its god(s)? The solution, in time-honored Near Eastern fashion, would need to involve the divine world and human sin against the divine but, also, the hope that something might lie beyond the sin: thus, the twists in charting Yahweh’s attitude toward Assyria. The problem of explaining Assyria, in sum, was not something that first appeared to Israel and Judah later or at the end of Assyrian history; it was present from the beginning of Assyrian imperial expansion and conquest, and so 10:10–12 does not need a later biblical editor in order to be explained. As for the argument about the “idols” in 10:10–11, this too does not need to indicate a later editorial addition. As is well known, the defeat of an enemy in Near Eastern antiquity (and elsewhere!) often involved taking away its “gods” in the form of removing the physical images of those gods. Indeed, this was a common theme in Neo-Assyrian art and royal inscriptions and in actual Neo-Assyrian practice; 14 and it should be this to which the “idols” of Samaria/Israel, Jerusalem/ Judah, and the other nations in 10:10–11 refer. In other words, we would have here the biblical author’s effort, based in some way on the historical reality of Assyrian practice, to suppose what an Assyrian king might say about the gods of his victims. To be sure, the terms used in our verses for ‘idols’—ʿĕlîl, pĕsîl, and ʿāṣāb—are pejorative, not neutral descriptions in the Biblical Hebrew lexicon, and thus should indicate the biblical author’s criticism of the religious behavior of the conquered states, above all Samaria and Jerusalem—a criticism essential to calling the latter two, as argued above, gōy ḥānēp. But this criticism could have been made by the original author of our text and, in any case, does not contradict our author’s effort also to represent an authentic Assyrian practice. Thus, the mention of “idols” in vv. 10–11 is not in itself sufficient to make these verses an editorial addition. 14.  See Machinist 2013: 221–23, which summarizes (with Cohen’s gracious permission) an important unpublished paper and the sources cited therein by Yoram Cohen of Tel Aviv University: “Acceptance and Rejection: Two Strategies for Representation of the Divine in Mesopotamia.” More recent discussions, which demonstrate the practice also in other periods of Mesopotamian history besides the Neo-Assyrian, are May 2014 and May 2012, the latter a wide-ranging conference volume on Iconoclasm and Text Destruction in the Ancient Near East and Beyond.

Peter Machinist

193

What about, then, 10:12 as an addition to our passage because it is in “prosaic,” third-person style? Here, too, the argument is not probative. In the first place, as we have seen, this verse makes explicit what other verses of Isaiah, verses not generally regarded as additions (viz., 10:7, 13–14, 15) 15 indicate indirectly: that Assyria’s excessive violence and arrogant behavior will have its response from Yahweh. Moreover, the placement of v. 12 between the speeches of the Assyrian king that manifest his reprehensible behavior (namely, in vv. 8–11 and 13–14) does not “stick out” as an addition or intrusion. Rather, it may be seen as an artful interruption between the speeches, or better, between two parallel parts of the same speech, each introduced by the same phrase, ‘For he says’ (kî yōmar). For, so positioned, our verse allows us to see how nicely balanced the two parts are: the section before v. 12 focuses on the Assyrian king’s boastful description of his violation of Yahweh’s mission by conquering more than one nation, not just the gōy ḥānēp, while the section after v. 12 exacerbates this violation by focusing on the Assyrian’s boastfulness itself, with its implicit denial of Yahweh’s authority over him. In short, both parts, before and after v. 12, serve to explain and justify this verse and its statement that Yahweh will punish the Assyrian king after he first lets him punish Jerusalem. If 10:10–12, then, is retained as part of the text of 10:5–15, a deliberate design, a dramatic movement emerges in this text. The movement, as already suggested, is a gradual development in the definition of who the gōy ḥānēp is or, put otherwise, a gradual coming into focus of this gōy as one moves from its first appearance in v. 6 through a first climax in the mention of Samaria in v. 9c on to a second climax in v. 11 with Jerusalem, and then the shift to the condemnation of the Assyrian king for his boastfulness about Samaria, Jerusalem, and the other Levantine states in vv. 12ff. In other words, the verses of our passage appear to keep their auditors or readers in deliberate suspense as they move toward the disclosure of Jerusalem as the gōy hānēp and then turn around to pin the label, implicitly, on the Assyrian king himself. The suspense I am suggesting is not unknown elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible. Hos 2:4–25 furnishes a good analogy, because the identity of the husband and his straying wife begins with Hosea and his spouse/partner, Gomer (2:4–5), but gradually is revealed to be Yahweh, the betrayed husband, and Israel, his betraying wife (made explicit in 2:15). In sum, keeping vv. 10–12 as part of 10:5–15 yields a text that is dramatically and thematically coherent, as well as subtle and sinuous in its treatment of Assyria and its Levantine conquests. This does not mean, of course, that the text could not have been composed from pieces, or even that an earlier stage of composition could not have preceded the present, Tiberian Masoretic form. Indeed, we will have to revisit this matter below when we consider the date of the text and the historicity of the events mentioned in it. Nor does it mean that the other verses of chap. 10 have no linkages to 10:5–15; we have seen that they do but that the linkages are 15.  Some have considered v. 15 or a part of it as an addition—see, e.g., the discussion in Kaiser (1983: 232), who decides against this, as have I in my discussion above, pp. 185–186.

194

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited

not so close as to indicate that one or more was a fundamental part of our unit. Rather, they were the result of later editorial activity. In short, the text of 10:5–15 as we presently have it can stand alone, not as a hodgepodge or without the need for additional verses, but offering an integrated and significant statement about the Assyrian impress on Israel. Let us consider what some of the wider ramifications of this significance are when we place our text within the larger dimensions of the literature of the First Isaiah.

III.  The Isaianic Context Isa 10:5–15, as we observed at the beginning, is not the only passage in the First Isaiah that deals with Assyria. Having examined three of these other references, explicit and implicit—10:16–19, 24–27, and 14:24–27—we may note more. The explicit passages are: 7:18–20; 8:1–8; 11:11–16; 19:23–25; chap. 20; 23:13; 30:29–33; 31:8–9; and chaps. 36–38. As for implicit references, they seem to abound, even if they cannot all be deemed entirely certain; thus, for example, 1:7–9; 5:26–30; 14:4b–21, especially 16–20 (?); 29:1–8; and 33:1. In all of these references, Assyria stands out as the powerful conqueror that could not be resisted by Judah or the other smaller states it marched against (e.g., 5:26–30; 7:18–20; 8:1–8; 36:1–37:35). But there is also the opposite perspective, which ironically complements the first, of Assyria as a power that is not without its limits, because it will eventually be smitten and punished or otherwise neutralized at the behest of Yahweh (e.g., 14:16–20[?], 24–27; 30:29–33; 33:1; 37:36–38//2 Kgs 19:35–37). These two perspectives, of course, are precisely those of our passage, 10:5–15. Note, for example, 33:1 which shares the view of 10:12, that when Assyria’s pursuit of destruction comes to an end, it will itself be destroyed. Of all these other passages, however, it is chaps. 36–37 (and the corresponding 2 Kings 18–19) that provide the greatest and most detailed counterpoint to 10:5–15. This has been noted by a number of scholars, William Gallagher providing an especially helpful comparison (Gallagher 1999: 75–87). Of the many points of contact between the passages, one will be noted here, which is arguably the most striking and important. It has to do with the Assyrian speeches that make up the backbone of both passages: (1) for 10:5–15, note vv. 8–11, 13–14, apparently from an unnamed Assyrian king; and (2) for chaps. 36–37, note two places: 36:4–10, 13–21, a two-part harangue from the mouth of one of the king’s principal officers, the rab šāqēh; and 37:10–13, where the words are those of King Sennacherib, communicated as a written letter through unidentified messengers. The speeches of chaps. 36 and 37, as is well known, seem to be duplicates, 16 even though in their present setting, they are arranged as successive messages de16.  They were labeled B1 and B2 by Bernhard Stade, who seems to have been the first to propose this (Stade 1886: 172–86). Since, then, there have been a superabundance of studies, many approving and extending his analysis, like Childs 1967: 69–103 and Naʾaman 2000, but others opposing it, like Seitz 1991, Smelik 1992, and Evans 2009. See the review and

Peter Machinist

195

signed to reinforce each other. Their audience, moreover, is specified: in the case of the rab šāqēh, it is the high officials of Hezekiah, king of Judah, who are told to take the message to Hezekiah himself (36:4–10) and then, it appears, to the population of Jerusalem at large (36:13–21); in the case of Sennacherib, the audience is Hezekiah directly (37:10–13). In 10:8–11, 13–14, however, the audience is not specified, and indeed, the wording suggests that the speech here is construed more as a soliloquy on the part of the Assyrian king than as a message to a particular group. On the other hand, like the speech in 10:5–15, those of 36–37 are designed to parade the overwhelming character of Assyrian military power and the necessity of Judahite submission to it, and among the justifications of this power offered is one familiar from 10:5–15: that Assyria is Yahweh’s agent, which he has sent against Judah to punish it (36:10). Another justification of Assyrian power in chaps. 36–37 is also familiar from 10:5–15—namely, that Assyria has already conquered a whole list of (city-)states, so why should Judah imagine itself to be special and exempt? The connection here is reinforced by the fact that the two lists of cities conquered in the speeches of chaps. 36–37 (36:19–20; 37:10, 12–13) share some common elements with the speech in 10:9–11: Hamath, Arpad, and Jerusalem among the three, and Samaria, in addition, between 36:19–20 and 10:9–11. 17 Furthermore, in their speeches in chaps. 36 and 37, the rab šāqēh and Sennacherib boast about their power over the gods of the cities they list: that, just as the gods of these other cities could not protect them from Assyria, so the gods (as the Assyrians understand them) of Samaria and Jerusalem could not or will not save them (36:18–20; 37:10–13). This is very much like the military boasting in 10:8–11, 13–14. More specifically, it echoes and so reinforces 10:10, where the unnamed Assyrian king proclaims that, just as he conquered cities with great divine images, so he conquered or will conquer Samaria and Jerusalem with lesser divine images—the implication being that, as in chaps. 36–37, the images were not or will not be able to protect the cities listed. If, then, the Assyrian speeches in 10:5–15 and chaps. 36–37 form an important link between them, there is yet a difference—an important one—that concerns the reactions to the speeches. In 10:12, 15, as we have seen, the speech is condemned by a third-person narrator—implicitly but undoubtedly the biblical author/Isaiah— as hubristic boasting. In 37:21–35, the speeches are condemned for the same sort of boasting by Isaiah explicitly, and that in a speech which for the prophet represents the words of Yahweh himself. Here Yahweh’s coming repulse of the Assyrian forces evaluation of previous scholarship in Evans 2009: introduction, especially pp. 3–15, and chaps. 1–2. I believe that the Stade analysis is basically sound and have tried to fortify and build on it in Machinist 2000. 17. To be sure, all three lists are not fully identical with one another: Calno and Damascus of chap. 10 are not in chaps. 36 and 37, while Sepharvaim of 36 and 37 is not in 10. Furthermore, 37 has in its list names that are neither in 10 nor in 36: Gozan, Haran, Rezeph, Eden in Telassar, Lair, Hena, and Ivvah. For the historical significance of these differences between chaps. 36 and 37 and their importance for dating the two speeches therein to two different periods, see Naʾaman 2000.

196

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited

against Jerusalem is predicted specifically (37:29, 33–35) and is then followed by the fulfillment of this prediction, with not only the withdrawal of the Assyrian army but the assassination of King Sennacherib after he returns home (37:36–38). In other words, what is promised for Assyria in 10:12 is in chap. 37 brought to a specific completion—one that appears largely to be borne out by history, as made evident in other, nonbiblical sources. 18 In comparing 10:5–15 with chaps. 36–37, I have not considered the complex matter of their intertwined compositional history—that is, how and when they were composed vis-à-vis each other and with the corresponding form of chaps. 36– 37 in 2 Kings 18–19. I have doubts, in fact, that this can be fully unraveled; but in any case, a study of it here would take us too far afield. 19 Nonetheless, the connections between the two passages, we have seen, are close enough to suggest that, whenever and however these passages entered the corpus of the First Isaiah and then of the book of Isaiah, they were intended, once they were placed in the larger whole, to be read in light of each other and in their present literary sequence. That is, the promise that Yahweh would change his relationship to Assyria from agent to punishable sinner, made in chap. 10, is reiterated, elaborated, specified, and finally realized in chaps. 36–37. Put another way, in chap. 10 Assyria’s conquests of the city-states through Samaria are all described in the past; only Jerusalem is a conquest for the future or, at most, a conquest that may be underway but not yet finished and thus not yet clear. Clarity about Jerusalem and about the Assyrian king responsible—namely, that he was Sennacherib, that he was not allowed by Yahweh to take Jerusalem, and that in the end he was assassinated—all this is revealed only later, in 36–37. Chapters 36–37, thus, are the completion of 10:5–15, and as such, these two passages, in the literary corpus of the First Isaiah, are meant to stand as the twin peaks of Judah’s confrontation with Assyria: the prism through which this confrontation is to be understood in the Isaianic corpus and beyond.

IV.  The Assyrian Context As many scholars have observed, Isa 10:5–15, particularly the speech of the Assyrian king, is replete with echoes of the actual royal inscriptions of the NeoAssyrian Period and the ideas and practices they reflect. We have already touched 18.  See briefly Frahm 2011: 274–75. Note that the impression given by Isa 37:37–38 // 2 Kgs 19:36–37, that Sennacherib was assassinated shortly after he returned to Assyria from his Judahite campaign, is not correct. If he returned, as seems to be the case, in 701 BC, Mesopotamian sources make it clear that he was not killed until 20 years later, in 681 (see Leichty 2011: 2, 6; Frahm 1997: 18–19; 2002: 1121). And yet a close look at the biblical verses in question shows that they do not explicitly date the assassination right or soon after the return to Assyria. They only say explicitly that the assassination came after the return. 19.  For a summary of recent efforts to relate chaps. 36–39 to the rest of First Isaiah, see Sweeney 2008: 113–16, though in his summary he does not mention 10:5–15; also Kim 2008: 132–33. For Isaiah 36–39 in relation to 2 Kings 18–20, see, among many other studies, Sweeney 1996: 454–511.

Peter Machinist

197

on one of these echoes, the Assyrian capture of the “idols” > divine images that belonged to its enemies in battle, mentioned in Isa 10:10–11. Without laying out an exhaustive catalog—the most recent and arguably most extensive have been the works of William Gallagher and Michael Chan—let us consider three more examples, and then our passage as a whole (Gallagher 1999: 75–87; Chan 2009, with references to other scholarly literature). The first echo is expressed in two statements: one by the biblical author/Isaiah about the Assyrian king’s military objective (10:7b); the other by the Assyrian king himself in his speech, boasting about his success in this objective (10:13b). Thus, 10:7b: ‘For it is in his mind to destroy and to cut off not a few nations’ (kî lĕ-hašmîd bilbābô û-lĕ-hakrît gōyîm lōʾ mĕʿat); and 10:13b: ‘And I removed the boundaries of peoples’ (wā-ʾāsîr gĕbûlōt ʿammîm [reading wā-ʾāsîr with BHS, ad loc., instead of the standard Masoretic Text’s wĕ-ʾāsîr]). Both statements deal with the territorial expansion that was so fundamental to the ideology of the Assyrian royal inscriptions. 20 The latter is addressed most dramatically in the Assyrian coronation ritual, where expansion is a duty of the Assyrian king mandated by his imperial lord, the god Aššur: ‘With your just scepter, enlarge your land’ (ina ešarte gišḫaṭṭīka mātka rappi[š]; Machinist 2006a: 157–59). As the two verses in our Isaianic passage suggest, Assyrian expansion often involved the rearrangement of the boundaries of the captured territories, and the Assyrian texts themselves indicate that this arrangement could proceed in two ways. The first was for the king to remove all or part of a territory of a (re)conquered state and make it part of Assyrian territory, presumably in the form of a province or part of a province. Thus, Sennacherib reported: ‘I cut off (the cities of Siṣ(ṣ)irtu and Kummahlum and the land of Bit-Barru) from his land and added (them) to the boundary of Assyria’ (ultu qereb mātīšu abtuqma eli miṣir māt Aššur uraddi; Grayson and Novotny 2012: 53, no. 3.31 and passim). The second involved the king’s cutting off part of a territory of a (re-)conquered state and assigning this to another state, which functioned as an Assyrian vassal. Again, Sennacherib’s inscriptions furnish an illustration, in this case his third campaign report, which describes the king as removing settlements from the western territory of the conquered Judah and assigning them to the vassal rulers of Ashdod, Ekron, and Gaza (Grayson and Novotny 2012: 65, no. 4.53 and passim). The question remains: why does our Isaianic passage consider this territorial expansion and rearrangement a sin against Yahweh? It is not, apparently, because this action per se is being condemned; after all, our text makes clear at the beginning that the Assyrian king is being sent as Yahweh’s ‘rod’ (šebeṭ) / ‘staff’ (maṭṭeh) to despoil and conquer a gōy ḥānēp, which presumably must entail the capture of the gōy’s territory. The Assyrian’s sin, rather, appears to involve two issues, which 20. On these verses, see Wildberger 1972; Machinist 1983: 725; Gallagher 1999: 80; Wazana 2003: 110–21. For the larger issue of borders in ancient Near Eastern history, see Wazana 2013.

198

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited

we have already noted: he decides to conquer not just the gōy but other states as well that are not in Yahweh’s mandate (10:7b); and he does so hubristically, on his own, with no regard for Yahweh as his lord (10:13–14). The point is that what in the Assyrian royal inscriptional tradition is represented as a divinely approved widespread enlargement of territory is here in Isaiah 10 understood as a willful disregard of Yahweh’s more limited command. In other words, the Assyrian king, to appropriate the insight of Hans Wildberger (1972: 399), is depicted as arrogating to himself the right to determine terrestrial borders, which instead belong to Yahweh to fix (cf., e.g., Deut 32:8–9; Ps 74:16–17), and so the king violates the very order of the cosmos that Yahweh has decreed. The second Assyrian inscriptional echo to be examined in 10:5–15 is in v. 8: ‘Are not my officials all together kings?’ (hă-lōʾ śāray yaḥdāw mĕlākîm). Clearly, these are disparaging words on the part of the Assyrian king, intended to illustrate his unrivaled power by arguing that even his own officials have the power of kings. In the light of the Assyrian inscriptions, this sort of disparagement appears to work in two ways. On the one hand, it reflects the historical reality, laid out in the inscriptions, that Assyrian royal officials could be appointed as local kings of conquered states or, conversely, that the kings of the conquered states would become vassal rulers and, thus, officials in the Assyrian empire. An illustration of the latter phenomenon is the stela of Adad-ithi, the native ruler of the Syrian/Aramean citystate of Guzana in the mid-9th century BC. In the stela’s bilingual inscription, the version in Akkadian, the official imperial language, identifies Adad-ithi as a šaknu, one of the Assyrian imperial terms for ‘governor’ (AHw 3.1141, s.v. šaknu(m); CAD Š/1 180a–88b, s.v. šaknu; Henshaw 1967–68); but the version in Aramaic, the local language of Guzana, labels him as a melek ‘king’ (Abou-Assaf, Bordreuil, and Millard 1982: 18–22, 69 [Akkadian text]; 28–29 ad 2–3; 30–31 ad 6; 74–75 [Aramaic text]). As for the case whereby Assyrian officials function as local “kings,” we may cite an epithet of Tiglat-pileser III: ‘the one who removes their kings and sets (in their stead) his governors’ (munakkir malkīšunu mukinnu šaknūtīšu, CAD M/1 167b.1′, s.v. malku A = Tadmor and Yamada 2011: 96, no. 39.4). The issue here is elaborated in an inscription of Aššurbanipal concerning his father’s, Esarhaddon’s, conquest of Egypt and Nubia: ‘The lands of Egypt and Kush he conquered. . . . All this land he ruled over in its entirety and incorporated it into the territory of Assyria. . . . His servants he installed there over these cities as kings and governors’ ([māt] Muṣur māt Kūsu ikšudma. . . . [māta šu]ātu ina siḫirtīša ibêlma. . . . ardānīšu ana šarrūti šaknūti [eli alāni šu]nūte upaqqidu ina libbi, Streck 1916: 155, 10, 12, 16–17). But the question in 10:8 is more than simply a reflection of actual Assyrian administrative practice in relation to a conquered state; it aims to reinforce Assyrian domination by a word-play—more specifically, an interlinguistic pun between Hebrew and Akkadian. 21 On the Hebrew side are the two nouns in our verse, śar, 21.  H. W. F. Saggs (1969: 5) and Hans Wildberger (1972: 397) appear to have been the first to recognize this. Earlier (Machinist 1983: 734–35), I cited Wildberger but neglected to men-

Peter Machinist

199

here in the plural with suffix, śāray; and melek, here also in the plural, though without a pronominal suffix, mĕlākîm. The verse intends to equate these two nouns, but clearly the equation is between two different terms. Śar here has its usual meaning in the Hebrew Bible, namely, ‘official’: an official subordinate to a ruler, such as a king. Melek, similarly, is what it is everywhere in the Bible, ‘king’. But this is only the beginning of what the verse conveys. The two nouns appear to echo, respectively, Akkadian šarru ‘king’ and Akkadian malku ‘king’—the latter used especially by the Neo-Assyrian kings to designate foreign rulers, who are understood not to have the status or power of the Assyrian monarch and are often, indeed, ruled by him (CAD M/1 166b–68b, s.v. malku A). Compare the epithet cited above, of Tiglath-pileser III, munakkir malkīšunu mukinnu šaknūtīšu. Thus, in the case of śar ~ šarru, we have a phonological likeness but a semantic opposition, while for melek ~ malku, there is a likeness both phonological and semantic. Isa 10:8, it may now be seen, brings all of this together, as it plays with the tensions involved. That is, the question in our verse means: “Are not my ‘officials’ (śāray) the equivalent in power and function of what other, usually lesser states call ‘kings’ (mĕlākîm)?” And the expected answer is: “Yes, not only because this is the actual Assyrian administrative practice, as the Assyrian inscriptions make clear, but also because linguistically ‘my śārîm’ (śāray) are really acting like šarrū.” Isa 10:8, thus, functions performatively: because the Assyrian king can utter this word-play, his śārîm really are šarrū in the ways that they functioned within the Assyrian empire. The semantic point here, it may be noted with Gallagher (1999:76), is not confined to 10:8; it is also to be found in another verse of Isaiah, 36:9 (2 Kgs 18:24), where, however, it is expressed more straightforwardly, without the brilliant wordplay of 10:8. This other verse comes from the speech of the Assyrian rab šāqēh to the Jerusalemite officials, a speech whose relationship to 10:5–15 we have already discussed. Indeed, like 10:8, the rab šāqēh’s remark in 36:9 is phrased as a question: ‘And how can you repel (even) one governor of the minor servants of my lord?’ (wĕ-ʾēk tāšîb ʾet pĕnê paḥat ʾaḥad ʿabdê ʾădōnî haq-qĕtannîm). 22 tion Saggs, to whom I am now referred by Paul (2005: 151). Paul himself not only endorses the recognition of the pun in Isa 10:8, but solidifies (2005: 147–51) earlier suggestions of another biblical instance of Hebrew śar = Akkadian šarru—namely, the epithet melek śārîm in Hos 8:10, which is to be taken as a calque on the well-known Akkadian royal epithet, šar šarrāni ‘king of kings’. My own discussion here gratefully builds on these scholars, particularly Wildberger, but in my own way. 22.  There may be one further play at work in our verse, 10:8, for the noun śar and its verbal form, śārar, while they normally refer to an ‘official’, may perhaps denote in two instances a king or equivalent ruler. The first is biblical, arising from what look like two parallel verses, Judg 9:6 and 22, as pointed out by Gitin, Dothan, and Naveh 1997: 11 n. 31. So 9:6: ‘And they (the ruling elite of Shechem) went and made Abimelech king’ (wāy-yēlĕku wāy-yamlîkû et ʾăbîmelek lĕ-melek); and 9:22: ‘And Abimelech ruled over Israel for three years’ (wāy-yāśar ʾăbîmelek ʿal Yiśrāʾēl šālōš šānîm). Given that the subject in both verses is the same, Abimelech of Shechem, they appear to describe the same phenomenon, Abimelech’s rule.

200

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited

We move now to the third and final example of the Assyrian echoes in Isa 10:5–15 (briefly in Machinist 1983: 734). It is the Assyrian king’s boast in v. 13 by which he confirms the third-person condemnation of him in the preceding v. 12: ‘By the power of my hand I have done it, and by my wisdom, for I have understanding’ (bĕ-kōaḥ yādî ʿāś îtî ūbĕḥokmātî kî nĕbunôtî ). The claim of wisdom is one, as Gallagher has shown (Gallagher 1999: 79–80), that appears in the inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Sargonid kings: in Sargon II and especially his son, Sennacherib. Thus for Sargon: ‘the king, endowed with wisdom, capable in all crafts, the equal of the primeval sage [= Adapa], who has become great in counsel and sagacity, has grown in discernment’ (šarru pīt hasīsi lēʾê inî kalāma šinnat apkalli ša ina milki nēmeqi irbûma ina tašimti išêḫu, Gallagher 1999: 79, citing Fuchs 1994: 37, 292.38). But what is particularly interesting here is the claim of the king to have carried out, in his putative wisdom, his conquests all by himself—that is, without the help of the divine. This claim is also frequent in the Assyrian royal inscriptions, but it is applied to the enemies whom the Assyrian king conquers as one explanation for why they can be conquered. So, for example, from Sargon II: ‘This Iamani, their king, who had put his trust in his [own] po[wer] and did not b[ow] to my rulership’ (šū IIamāni šarrušunu ša ina e[mūq ramān]īšu ittakluma ul i[knušu] ana bēlūtī, Winckler 1889: 188–89, lines 40–42; Winckler and Abel 1889: pl. 44, frag. D, 37–39; Luckenbill 1927: 105 §195). Or, from Aššurbanipal: ‘Tirhakah (Egyptian Pharaoh) thought little of the might of Aššur, my lord, and put his trust in his own power’ (danān dAššur bēlīya emêšma ittakil ana emūq ramānīšu, Streck 1916: 158–59, line 3). But there is a difference. The verbal and nominal forms of the root melek in 9:6 are used to describe the act of Abimelech’s becoming king, but in 9:22 the verbal form śārar depicts the period of Abimelech’s ruling service. Śar in 9:22, therefore, need not be a specific verbal synonym of himlîk/melek ‘(to become) king’ in 9:6 but, instead, may be a more general word for ‘to rule’ (cf. Num 16:13), of which kingship may be one manifestation. In sum, śar or śārar as king does not appear to be very certain at all from this parallel pair in Judges 9. The second possible instance of śar as king, as discussed by Gitin, Dothan, and Naveh 1997, may be clearer. It appears in their publication of an inscription from their excavations of the Philistine site of Ekron (Tel Miqne), and I am grateful to Gershon Galil (oral communication), who kindly referred me to this text in connection with the present study. The text appears to date to the period of Assyrian overlordship of Ekron in the 7th century BC and was found in the temple complex, where it had been deposited as a dedication to the temple deity. Written in a West Semitic script and language related to but not identical with Biblical Hebrew, this is a dedicatory inscription from the ruler of Ekron, ʿakyš/ś (= Ikausa?), who calls himself ‘śar of Ekron’ (ʿeqrōn; Gitin, Dothan, and Naveh 1997: 9–10, lines 2–3). Gitin, Dothan, and Naveh ask why śar is used here: “Is this an expression of the vassal’s loyalty to the Assyrian king, or does śar mean ‘king’ in the Philistine-Canaanite dialect?” (Gitin, Dothan, and Naveh 1997: 11). They do not answer their question, but the answer may well be a combination of both possibilities—that is, that śar was the local title for king but was regarded by the Assyrian administration as a diminutive label, such as “kinglet.” This would be exactly like the Assyrian treatment of the term malku discussed above. If so, then Isa 10:8, besides playing on Hebrew śar ~ Akkadian šarru, would also play on Hebrew śar ~ local West Semitic śar, in the sense that: “my śarîm are equivalent in status and power to your śarîm, and even more, because they are my šarrū!”

Peter Machinist

201

In light of such Assyrian proclamations, Isa 10:13 is striking because it uses the same motif of trusting in one’s own power but applies it in the opposite direction: not to an Assyrian king’s enemies but to the king himself. And since the Isaianic passage purports to be a statement from the Assyrian king, it is easy to conclude that this passage stands as a deliberate reversal of the Assyrian usage. Put another way, in Isa 10:13, it is now the Assyrian king who becomes the enemy and is destined to be punished and destroyed by Yahweh for his blasphemous arrogance, exactly as are Iamani, Tirhakah, and others in the Assyrian texts. If the three examples just discussed reflect the language and imagery of the NeoAssyrian royal inscriptions, they indicate that what is at stake in our Isaiah poem is not a simple borrowing from these inscriptional conventions, but a deliberate inversion of them. Indeed, one may go further to suggest that it is an inversion, not only of individual conventions, but of the Assyrian royal inscriptional tradition as a whole. 23 To be sure, Isa 10:5–15 is not fully, in structure and content, an Assyrian royal inscription, which regularly exhibits in the first-person speech of the Assyrian king an introductory section with the name of the king, his genealogy and epithets, and then an account of his military campaign(s), followed by a description of his (re)constructing an official building, and finally, a list of curses and/or blessings on those who react to the inscription and/or the building. Yet of this format, at least two major elements are also evident in Isaiah, namely, the military exploits of the Assyrian king and the fact that these exploits, in fact (virtually) the whole passage, are narrated by him in the first person. In both inscriptions and Isaiah, moreover, the exploits are the central feature. Altogether, therefore, it appears that in some way our Isaianic author had knowledge of the Assyrian inscriptional tradition—a knowledge that, as the pun in 10:8 suggests, seems to have involved an awareness of the Akkadian in which this tradition was written. 24 23.  For discussions of this tradition, see especially Grayson 1980: 150–59. Of the Assyrian inscriptional types that Grayson discusses, the model for Isa 10:5–15 appears to be IA2a, annalistic accounts of several military campaigns (Grayson 1980: 151). The similarity of Isa 10:5–15 to this inscriptional tradition has been observed, though briefly, by such scholars as Childs 1967: 43, and Kaiser 1983: 236–37. The latter, referring to the annals of the Assyrian Esarhaddon as an example, talks about them as “almost a mirror-image of the role assigned to Assyria in v. 5 [of Isa 10:5–15]: the only difference is that his own god, Assur, has taken the place of Yahweh” (1983: 237). Of course, the polarities here should be reversed: it is the Isaiah passage that is the mirror-image of the Assyrian inscriptions. 24.  The channels whereby knowledge of this and other Assyrian traditions were transmitted to Israel and Judah are still being debated and will not be discussed here. The main point is, however, that there must have been multiple channels: written, in the form of Akkadian and other languages, increasingly and especially in the west, Aramaic; and oral, especially when the subjects had contact with Assyrian officialdom, whether in their local areas or as tribute-bearers to the Assyrian capital cities. See, e.g., Machinist, 1983: 729–34; Levinson 2008: 295–306; Aster 2007; Morrow 2011; and Hartenstein 2011: 84–90. On the other hand, Frahm (2011: 281) raises doubts about whether echoes of Assyrian language and imagery in the Hebrew Bible were due to contact with written Assyrian royal texts.

202

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited

V.  The Date and Setting of Isaiah 10:5–15 Given this connection with the Assyrian inscriptional tradition and with the broader network of Assyrian references in the text of the First Isaiah, what date and setting can we suppose for 10:5–15? Three assumptions are reasonable here. First, our text appears to have such knowledge of, such impassioned concern with Neo-Assyrian history and its official literary culture that it is very difficult to date its origin after the Neo-Assyrian Period, when this sort of concern and knowledge in Israel/Judah would have declined or dissipated. 25 Second, it would not be wrong to suppose that the text was, in its initial stages, delivered orally, as suggested especially by the hortatory element in it (v. 5). But this does not mean, of course, that there was no written text or that as a written text it was not edited, transmitted to, and read by later generations, as in fact Isa 8:1–2, 16 (cf. 29:11–12) attests. Third, the audience who first heard and perhaps read our text was probably not the Assyrian king and his imperial administration (note that, despite the emphasis on the king speaking in the first person, he is not addressed directly but spoken about in the third person). Rather, our text appears to focus on groups in Judah, probably ruling elite groups where Isaiah was positioned as a member or at least as a person with access. 26 We must assume, moreover, that these ruling elites were divided in their attitudes toward their Assyrian overlords: some pro-Assyrian (that is, they were willing to collaborate with these overlords to ensure peace and prosperity at home) and some anti-Assyrian (that is, those who came increasingly to feel, goaded perhaps by neighboring states which were also Assyrian subjects, that they wanted their own sovereignty back—that they had had enough of the yoke of Assyrian rule, in taxation, exploitation of the local population for larger imperial needs, and the like—and so opted for resistance, military and otherwise). 27 25.  This does not mean that the passage was not transmitted and read or otherwise heard in post-Assyrian times, for, of course, it was—eventually as part of the Hebrew biblical canon. But clearly, post-Assyrian biblical texts do not appear to focus exclusively on Assyria as a present, living reality, as our composition does; if they refer to Mesopotamia, it is Babylonia or Babylonian culture that they include, representing the Neo-Babylonian dynasty, although Assyria can be mentioned alongside it: see, e.g., Jer 50:17–18. In this regard, I do not understand Kaiser (1983: 236–37), who, having closely associated the depiction of the Assyrian king in our text with the depiction in the Neo-Assyrian royal inscriptions themselves, then goes on to say that our text is “not concerned with ‘Assyria’, but with those world powers that have taken its place”—suggesting, it appears, that our text is post-Assyrian! 26. For Isaiah with Kings Ahaz and Hezekiah of Judah, see Isaiah 7–8 and 37–38, respectively. 27.  Ahaz, king of Judah, is one example of those who wanted to collaborate with their Assyrian overlords: and against Ahaz, Isaiah represents a critical voice: see 2 Kings 16; Isaiah 7. In the northern kingdom of Israel, as is well recognized, internecine conflict and assassination within the ruling elite prevailed in the last decades of Israelite independence (2 Kings 15; Hosea, especially 7:1–7), and it stands to reason that, with a forceful Assyrian presence all around, this internecine struggle included pro- and anti-Assyrian factions.

Peter Machinist

203

Putting the focus on the local Judahite elites and the pro-/anti-Assyrian tension among them fits well with and explains the effort in our text deliberately to reverse and so to undermine the ideological power of the Assyrian inscriptional tradition, since it would have been these elites who had primary access, in some way, to that Assyrian tradition and who needed persuasion that Assyrian power was not all-encompassing. We may imagine the situation, then, to be something like a counterpoint to the messages of the Assyrian rab šāqēh and his king, Sennacherib, to the Judahite elite gathered at the wall of Jerusalem and to their king, Hezekiah (Isa 36:2ff. and 37:9ff.), which were designed as psychological warfare to break the back of Judahite resistance. But if the focus of Isa 10:5–15 was on the Judahite elites, we must not imagine that texts like this were of no interest to their Assyrian masters. As a number of scholars have made clear, most recently and comprehensively Peter Dubovský (2006; 2014), the Assyrians were definitely concerned to monitor what their subjects were saying and doing, and they developed, particularly by the Sargonid period of the late 8th–7th centuries BC, a structured intelligence apparatus to carry out this goal. Assuming, then, this Neo-Assyrian context and the primary audience as one of Judahite elites, can we be any more specific about the setting of 10:5–15? Here, the main index is the list of Levantine city-states in vv.  9–11 that were subject to Assyrian conquest. Each of them, indeed, was conquered by Assyria at specific points in the Neo-Assyrian Period, as made clear in Assyrian sources (for a brief survey, see, e.g., Wildberger 1972: 397–98). In our poem, they are listed in a geographical order from north to south that, as we have seen, ends in Jerusalem, the literary and chronological climax of the present Masoretic form of the text. Let us look at this chronological issue in more detail. Thus: Carchemish (v. 9a), after a couple of decades in the latter 8th century BC seesawing between dependence on Assyria and independence (the latter being encouraged by Midas, king of the central Anatolian state of Phrygia) was finally conquered and made part of the Assyrian Empire by Sargon II in 717 BC (Hawkins 1976–80a: 445; Radner 2006: 58b, no. 49; Fuchs 1994: 435, s.v. Gargamiš/Karkemiš, with reference especially to Annals 72–76 on pp. 93–94, 316). Calno (v. 9a), now virtually unanimously recognized as the Syrian city of Kullani (~ Kinalua and minor variants) in Assyrian sources and recently identified as the site of Tell Tayinat, was conquered by the Assyrian king, Tiglath-pileser III, in 738 BC and incorporated as a province into the Assyrian realm (Gelb 1935: 189–91; Hawkins 1976–80b: 597–98; Hawkins 1980–83a: 305b–6a; Hawkins 1980–83b: 363 and n. 36; Radner 2006: 61a, no. 52; Harrison 2014). Arpad (v. 9b) was besieged by Tiglath-pileser III beginning in 743 BC, in his initial move to the west; he then conquered it in 740 BC and made it into a province. A couple of years later, ca. 738 BC and thus approximately at the time of Calno/Kullani, Hamath (v. 9b) fell also to Tiglath-pileser: its core, however, was kept as a vassal state, while other parts were made provincial. Arpad and Hamath later rebelled against Assyrian rule in 720 BC, but the two, together with other

204

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited

Levantine subjects of Assyria, were apparently quickly reconquered by Sargon II after he came to the Assyrian throne (Radner 2006: 58a, no. 46 [Arpad]; Lipiński 2000: 195–219, especially pp. 218–219 [Arpad]; 249–318, especially pp. 313–17 [Hamath]; Hawkins 1972–75: 68b–69 [Hamath]). As for Damascus (v. 9c), it was conquered by Tiglath-pileser III in 732 BC and made the capital of a province. The importance of this conquest and the subsequent deportation from it are echoed elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible: in 2  Kgs 16:9; Isa 17:1–3; and, apparently, Amos 1:5 and 9:7 (Radner 2006: 58, no. 48; Pitard 1987: 186–89; Lipiński 2000: 347–407, especially pp. 406–7). The last two conquered sites in Isaiah’s list take us south of Syria to Palestine. Here, Samaria (vv. 9c–11)—the name, as we have seen, for the rump state of (northern) Israel, centered around its capital, Samaria—must refer to the conquest, perhaps a double one in 722 and 720 BC, under Shalmaneser V and then Sargon II. 28 The mention of Jerusalem, in turn, and the attack on it (vv. 10–11–12) must be that of Sennacherib in his third campaign of 701 BC (Grayson and Novotny 2012: 65–66, no. 4.49–58, and passim)—the only Assyrian attack on Jerusalem known. It is crucial, however, to underline the differences posed by the mention of Jerusalem. First, the attack against it, being in 701, comes 16 years after the last conquest of the other cities listed, that of Carchemish in 717 BC. And, again as opposed to these other cities, all of which are described as having been conquered, the Jerusalem attack is described in the imperfect form ʿeʾĕśeh, thus as in the future or, more likely, as being underway—in any case, still incomplete. How to make sense, then, of the chronological data offered by this list of conquered cities in Isaiah 10? The most immediate observation is that the data fall into two groups: cities conquered by the Assyrians ca. 740–717 BC (vv. 9, with 10–11: Carchemish, Calno, Arpad, Hamath, Damascus, and Samaria), 29 and the one still 28.  So, for example, Tadmor (2011d: 239–319), who made the most impressive case for the double conquest. Among the later scholars, not all of them in agreement with this view, see Becking 1992; Tappy 2007; Dever 2007; and Park 2012. A summary and evaluation of a number of proposals, including Tadmor and Becking but also others, is given by Bergland 2011. 29.  Note that, while the list of cities is arranged geographically from north to south, ending in Samaria and then Jerusalem, it is not largely chronological in terms of a final conquest by Assyria. In particular, the cities of Carchemish, Calno, Arpad, Hamath, Damascus, and Samaria, listed as such in Isa 10:9 seem, rather, to require a chronological order, on the basis of the discussion above, of something like: Calno (738), Damascus (732), Arpad, Hamath, and Samaria (720), and Carchemish (717). If these final dates are correct—and there is some question here about what constitutes a “final” date—then two conclusions may be drawn. The first is that our biblical author(s) had limited knowledge of these dates of conquest and absorption into the Assyrian realm, knowing only that they all belonged somewhere from the late 740s to the early 7teens BC, thus from Tiglath-pileser III to early Sargon II. So he did his best with the knowledge he had. But second, he was less interested in the exact dates of Carchemish, Calno, Arpad, Hamath, and Damascus than those of Samaria and Jerusalem,

Peter Machinist

205

to be conquered, in 701 BC (vv. 10–12): Jerusalem. The period of 16 years between these two groups is striking, all the more so because within it another Assyrian campaign against the southern Levant did occur—a campaign that is omitted here and also in the related lists of Assyrian conquests that are put in the mouths of the Assyrian rab šāqēh and Sennacherib, in Isaiah 36–37. The omitted campaign is that against the Philistine city of Ashdod by Sargon II in 711 BC, but the troubles involved go back to Philistine resistance to Assyria already in the beginning of Sargon’s reign in 720 BC. 30 Why Ashdod should have been left out of Isaiah 10, 36, and 37 is unclear, and the omission is the stranger because Isaiah elsewhere does mention it (14:28–31; 20). Certainly, Ashdod experienced an actual Assyrian reconquest after the local population had revolted against Assyrian rule, just like several of the conquered sites that are mentioned in 10, 36, and 37: Carchemish, Arpad, Hamath, and Samaria. And that the rebellion in Ashdod had implications for adjacent Judah is made clear in the other references to Ashdod in Isaiah just cited, which stress the danger to Judah of joining the Ashdod rebels. Indeed, Ashdod appears to have learned its lesson out of this episode, because in 701 BC, when the next southern Levantine rebellion against Assyrian rule broke out—the one that brought Sennacherib’s army to the walls of Jerusalem as intimated in our Isa 10:10–12—Ashdod was not a participant. It had proclaimed its loyalty to Assyria with public obeisance and tribute (Grayson and Novotny 2012: 64, no. 4.36–38 and passim); and the decision paid off: Sennacherib awarded to Ashdod and to two fellow Philistine cities, Ekron and Gaza, settlements that had formerly belonged to the defeated rebel, Judah (Grayson and Novotny 2012: 65, no. 4.53 and passim). If, thus, it is so difficult to find a historical reason for the absence of Ashdod in Isaiah 10, 36, and 37, a literary consequence suggests itself. It is that this absence, by heightening the gap in our text between Sennacherib’s attack on Jerusalem and the earlier conquests, isolates the Jerusalem attack and focuses attention on it as the climax of all these earlier Assyrian conquests. Here, however, we return to a question discussed above: should this isolation be taken to indicate that the mention of Jerusalem in 10:10–12 really does not belong in the original composition of 10:5–15? Our previous discussion offered some strong arguments for retaining these verses as part of the original. But the chronological gap that we have come to discern forces us back to the issue. So, what if we eliminate these verses and which were, obviously, a direct part of his world. The non-Israelite/Judahite capitals served thus as a backdrop for him to his focus on Samaria and Jerusalem, where he was clear about the chronological sequence. Here, chronology was reinforced by geographical sequence to give climactic prominence to these two cities in our list. 30.  For a recent interchange about the nature and wider context of the Ashdod episode, see several articles by James Hoffmeier (2003: 226–29; 2003b), K. Lawson Younger Jr. (2003: especially pp. 242–44), and J. J. M. Roberts (2003b; 2013: especially pp. 390–92).

206

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited

thus any reference to Jerusalem? Elimination would have two advantages. First, it would remove the problem of the chronological gap and, more importantly, of the absence of Ashdod that is part of it. Second, it would more directly juxtapose what we have already seen as the two parallel sections of the Assyrian king’s boasting about his conquests, 10:8–9 and 13–14, both introduced by the identical phrase ‘For he says’ (kî yōmar). We must, in short, reconsider our earlier discussion of the status of 10:10–12. A reasonable case, it appears, can be made for an original text of 10:5–15 without 10–12, wherein the climax to the list of earlier Assyrian conquests in vv. 8–9 would be Samaria (722–720 BC) at the end of v. 9. If apart from eliminating vv. 10–12 we make no emendations to vv. 8–9, then all of these conquests, including Samaria, would be described in our text as having occurred in the past, and the original poem of 10:5–15 could be seen as a reflective statement—in a period of Assyrian dominance following Sargon II’s Samaria and Carchemish victories—that offered some kind of hope to the elites of Judah that this dominance would one day (a day unspecified and even vague) be punished because of the arrogance that accompanied it. Verses 10–12, thus, would be a later addition to this original composition to bring it up to date in its application to the Sennacherib invasion of Judah and the southern Levant in 701. Four aspects of this reinterpretation with vv. 10–12 may be emphasized, all of which we have touched on before. First, the updating would involve making Jerusalem the climax of the Assyrian conquests and thus a new gōy ḥānēp ‘ungodly nation’, which supersedes Samaria in this role, the two being linked in vv. 10b– 11 as idolaters who need, even more than the idol-worshiping nations of vv. 8–9, to be punished by Yahweh through his Assyrian agent. As the climax, moreover, Jerusalem fits geographically at the end of the list of Assyrian conquests arranged from north to south, as we have seen. Second, the redactor would more directly confront the question of the ambiguous role of Assyria in its military activity: how to understand Assyria’s dominance over Israel and Judah as the work of Yahweh, using Assyria as his agent to punish Israel and Judah for their idolatry, and yet hold out hope that Assyria will itself be punished by Yahweh for this dominance. The original form posited for Isa 10:5–15 (that is, without vv. 10–12) may be seen to have hinted at this reversal for Assyria, but the addition of v. 12 now makes the reversal and the reason for it explicit, and this explicitness, once articulated, reverberates through the whole of vv. 5–15. In other words, Yahweh is now clearly identified as the one who will move Assyria from divine agent to divine delinquent once Assyria has completed Yahweh’s work against Jerusalem/Zion, and Yahweh is now quoted as explaining he has done this because of the Assyrian king’s overweening arrogance. Third, with Yahweh making this explicit shift in Assyria’s role, the very identification of gōy ḥānēp also shifts—yet again!—for, if in v. 11 the gōy became Jerusalem, it was Jerusalem as the last in a series of “ungodly nations,” all punished by Assyrian conquest. Now in v. 12, it is Assyria itself that becomes the gōy, whose

207

Peter Machinist

punishment by Yahweh constitutes the final stage of the whole sequence. And a fourth point here: the explicit explanation in v. 12 is, with the other addition of vv. 10–11, to be found exactly between the two parallel sections, 8–9 and 13–14, that describe the Assyrian arrogance, and this placement must be deliberate. 31 The four changes introduced by the addition of vv. 10–12, it should be observed, have been neatly executed by our updating redactor. The transition from Samaria to Jerusalem as the next gōy ḥānēp is smooth, and the explanation of Assyria’s role reversal, making it the final gōy, clarifies the hints in the original text, even as it bisects and thus frames the two parallel passages that substantiate the explanation. Overall, this looks like an elegant instance of reinterpretation, and takes its place, perhaps as the initial instance, of a process of Fortschreibung, as discussed above: of the attachment of other passages in chap. 10 to our Assyrian core poem, and of this core poem to other Assyrian passages, preeminently chaps. 36–37, in Isaiah.

VI.  Significance: The Search for Mental Space Isa 10:5–15, as we have seen, picks up the genre and language of the Assyrian royal inscriptional tradition and turns it upside-down. In the process, it also inverts the ideology encoded in and transmitted by the inscriptions (on the latter, see the fundamental studies of Liverani 1979 and Tadmor 2011a, b, c). Fundamental to this ideology and its inscriptional expression is the Assyrian king, who operates as the servant/agent of the Assyrian gods, especially of the principal imperial deity and emblem, Aššur. It is at their bidding that the king undertakes his military campaigns: they—more specifically, Aššur—enjoin him, as formulated in the ceremony of royal accession and echoed in the inscriptions that we have discussed, to ‘widen/ increase the land’ (rappušu māta). And it is for Aššur and the other gods that the king undertakes the monumental building operations that often come after the military narrative in the inscriptions. Now in our Isaiah poem, while the center remains the Assyrian king, the god to whom he is a servant/deputy is not Aššur but Yahweh—a Yahweh who, just like Aššur, is able to command the king to undertake widespread and successful military 31.  For a similar view of two stages of composition, the first dated to Sargon II and the second concerning Sennacherib and Jerusalem, see de Jong 2007: 129–30; the present discussion was worked out independently and with differences in argument and formulation. A further note about v. 11 should be mentioned here. In v. 11, Yahweh is given to make a comparison between Jerusalem and Samaria—namely, that what he has done (i.e., in conquering Samaria and its images), he will do to Jerusalem and her idols. But the preceding v. 10, admittedly with difficult syntax, offers a different comparison, between the other cities of Assyrian conquest, listed in v. 9, and their divine images, and Samaria and Jerusalem with their images. To be consistent, therefore, v. 11, succeeding v. 10, should have read: what Yahweh has done to all the other cities and their images, from Calno to Samaria, he will do to Jerusalem and its idols. That v. 11 does not say this, I would suggest, is because it is intended to emphasize the Assyrian impact locally: on Samaria and then Jerusalem—the other cities of conquest being relegated to the background.

208

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited

campaigns. 32 The Assyrian king’s failure to recognize that Yahweh is in charge is construed, then, as a category mistake of the first order, leading to the charge that he will eventually disqualify himself as divine agent because he violates the senior god’s directives—going beyond the conquests commanded—and otherwise trusts in himself alone. The possibility in the poem that the king could trust in Aššur, as affirmed in the Assyrian inscriptions, is never explicitly raised—if it is raised in our poem, it is (as discussed earlier) very deeply obscured in the text—since the foundational assumption is that the structure with Aššur in first or any position is false; the first position can belong only to Yahweh. Isa 10:5–15, in short, is not simply an Assyrian royal inscription in reverse; it is, as Isaiah would doubtless have put it, an Assyrian inscription as it should properly be formulated. 33 What is the point of all of this rhetorical and ideological play? Above, we discussed the likelihood that the audience who first heard and perhaps read this text was the Jerusalem court and its mixture of pro- and anti-Assyrian factions. But what exactly did Isaiah hope to accomplish with such a text? We can never know with certainty, of course, but perhaps an analogy will help to define the situation he faced and his aim in it more clearly. In reaching for this analogy, our focus will be on the present Tiberian Masoretic stage of our text, climaxing in the Sennacherib campaign against Jerusalem; this, as we have seen, is more accessible than the putative earlier stage, lacking vv. 10–12, and presumably from the reign of Sargon II. The analogy would seem on the face of it to lead us astray. For it concerns a phase of modern Soviet Russian history, more precisely, from the 1930s. In this decade, the Soviet leader, Joseph Stalin, undertook increasingly wide and brutal purges of government, party, and military personnel and of multitudes of common people, in the name of the defense of the Soviet state: to rid the state of those who would destroy, or were already supposed to be destroying, its great socialist experiment. One high point of these purges—arguably the highest in terms of visibility— was the public “show” trials in 1936–38 of leading Soviet officials, many of them the so-called “Old Bolsheviks,” who were instrumental among Lenin’s deputies in orchestrating the Bolshevik takeover of power in Russia in 1917–20. 34 They were now accused of being key promoters of a vast conspiracy to undermine the Soviet Union. One of the terms used for them was “wreckers,” part of a whole special32. See Chan (2009: especially pp. 718–20), who wants, correctly, to emphasize that a number of the traits ascribed to Yahweh in chap. 10 and other parts of Isaiah represent adaptations from the Aššur traditions. 33. The above is modified from Machinist 2006b: 298. For the issue in question, see recently, inter al., Levine 2003; 2005; and Thompson 2013: especially chap. 6. The bibliographies in Levine and Thompson furnish references to other scholarship. 34. In what follows, I use the groundbreaking work of Robert C. Tucker and Stephen F. Cohen. See Tucker 1971: 49–86, 288–91. This essay is reprinted from Tucker and Cohen 1965: introduction, which book is their edition of the transcript of the public trial of Nikolai Bukharin and several associates. Also Cohen 1980: especially pp. 376–81.

Peter Machinist

209

ized language employed to characterize the conspiracy and its ramifications. The origins of this language, as Stephen Cohen (among others) observes, went back to the experiences of the Bolsheviks as revolutionaries in Czarist days (Cohen 1980: 277, 359). Called the “language of Aesop,” this was a kind of code in which political and other statements about the state and fellow revolutionaries could be voiced in indirect, obscurantist ways to elude and confuse unwanted outsiders. That there was such a code in the purge trials of the 1930s is illustrated by one exchange in the 1937 trial of the Old Bolshevik Yuri Pyatakov, between him and the State’s Attorney/Public Prosecutor Andrei Vyshinsky. Here, Pyatakov sought to defend himself against the charge of espionage and terroristic activity by describing a conversation with a particular individual as having been carried out only in a “more algebraical formulation,” that is: we made some critical remarks about Stalin but nothing more. To this, the prosecutor Vyshinsky replied: “I know what you mean by algebra, but I must now deal not with algebra but with facts” (Tucker 1971: 290 n. 21). How this algebraic code worked in the purge trials is explained in a contemporary memorandum by George F. Kennan, then second secretary of the United States embassy in Moscow, who was an official observer at the trials: Those who attended the sessions and watched the bearing and faces of the State’s Attorney and the defendants had the distinct impression that they were talking in symbols—that many of the expressions which they used repeatedly throughout the proceedings had different meanings in their minds than in the minds of the spectators—that these expressions, in other words, were algebraic equivalents, behind which the real values were concealed. It seems almost certain, for example, that the phrase “terrorism,” which was used so frequently throughout the proceedings, was understood by all the participants in the spectacle to mean simply illegal opposition activity. (as quoted in Tucker 1971: 290 n. 21)

The defendants in these public trials, of course, not infrequently admitted—though “admitted” should be placed in quotation marks—the crimes of which they were accused, even as they may have tried, like Pyatakov, to diminish before the court the severity and treason-ableness of their actions. But some Old Bolsheviks went further and attempted to turn the proceedings upside-down. Of these, none was more determined and ingenious than Nikolai Bukharin, the most famous intellectual of the original Bolshevik revolutionaries, long-time editor of the government newspaper Izvestia, whose trial in early 1938 was arguably the climax of the whole process. In his public trial and prior interrogations, Bukharin can be heard making some confession of crimes against the Soviet state. But criss-crossing this confession and standing behind it was an elaborate countereffort, as described in a penetrating summary by Stephen Cohen: Bukharin believed it equally important that he challenge the official myth, enshrined at the trial, that Stalin’s regime and Stalinism were the rightful heirs and culmination of the [Bolshevik] revolution. To do this, he simply adopted the

210

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited prosecution’s bizarre terminology for his own purposes. “In my terminology”, he made clear on several occasions, “anti-Soviet bloc”, “counter-revolutionary organization”, or “forces of counter-revolution” really meant the old Bolshevik movement or party; “illegal”, “insurrectionary”, and “conspiratorial” activities meant legitimate opposition to Stalin or merely unofficial meetings. In this way, he had no trouble demonstrating throughout that the real “historical significance” of Stalin’s purge, of which the trial was only the visible tip, was the destruction of the Bolshevik Party—“the internal demolition of the forces of counter-revolution”. (Cohen 1980: 379) 35

As Cohen continues, Stalin, Vyshinsky the prosecutor, and Ulrikh the presiding judge all grasped what Bukharin was up to and, although they threatened to shut him up, they did not in the end completely do so (Cohen 1980: 379). So, while afterwards Bukharin was executed, as he knew he would be, knowledge of his strategy got through to those who were informed and discerning enough to understand the coded language. 36 The point is that the trials of Bukharin and the other Old Bolshevik defendants were fundamentally a semiotic competition between them and their Soviet opponents over who was the master of the Aesopian language of symbolic equivalents: who could prevail in the use of it to defend his particular world view and, in the case of Bukharin particularly, to delegitimize the world view of the opponent. This was, of course, no mere game but a life and death struggle, if not for physical lives, which for the accused had already been decided, then certainly for ideas. It is this sort of struggle, I am convinced, that has relevance to Isa 10:5–15. In this text, the code was that established by the Assyrian ruling elite: its ideology as articulated and then distributed through the royal inscriptional tradition, written and/or oral, to the subject peoples and states and to the elite itself. The proponent of this ideology in Judah, if I am correct about the primary audience of Isa 10:5–15, was the pro-Assyrian group in the Judahite court, thus more or less equivalent to or representative of the Soviet judicial forces arrayed against the Old Bolshevik defendants. Isaiah, in turn, represented the opposition and thus the Old Bolsheviks, particularly Bukharin. And the fight, then, in Judahite terms, was over control of the Assyrian ideology as encoded in the inscriptional tradition: was this inscriptional ideology meant to put Aššur or Yahweh in first position as controller of Assyria’s and Judah’s destiny?—just as the fight in the 1930s was over control of the Bolshevik tradition: was Stalin or were the Old Bolsheviks the proper heirs of Lenin? In both cases, thus,

35.  This summary is part of Cohen’s discussion of Bukharin’s public trial (Cohen 1980: 376–81). See also Conquest 2008: 364–74. 36.  Not all at the time were so informed or discerning. The then American Ambassador to the Soviet Union, Joseph Davies, was apparently one who was deceived, believing that a very real conspiracy was underway to destroy the Soviet Union from within and that the trials, therefore, whatever their excesses, were fundamentally correctly aimed. See Cohen 1980: 475 n. 201.

Peter Machinist

211

the parameters for debate were set by the imperial center, Assyria and Moscow. The question became, then, how to arrange the furniture within. So we must ask, again in both cases, who won? In the short run, it would appear that the victors were Assyria and Stalin. Sennacherib, after all, was successful in his campaign against Judah and the southern Levant, with a large booty and tribute from Judah, which both 2 Kgs 18:13–16 (not in the book of Isaiah!) and his own inscriptions (Grayson and Novotny 2012: 65–66, no. 4.51, 55–58 and passim) describe; and in the decades that immediately followed, Judah appears to have been a dutiful Assyrian vassal. Stalin, correspondingly, had all the accused Old Bolsheviks executed and remained sovereign leader of the Soviet Union until his death in 1953. And yet, the history is not so simple. For one thing, unlike many other cases in Assyrian practice, Jerusalem and its temple were not physically conquered and destroyed, nor was its rebel king, Hezekiah, removed from office—and this was celebrated in the biblical text as a confirmation of Yahweh’s control and protection of his covenant with his people (e.g., 2 Kgs 19:32–37 // Isa 37:33–38; see also n. 12). More important, I suggest, are the very facts of Isaiah’s and the Old Bolsheviks’, especially Bukharin’s, resistance and turning of the tables. These may have been semiotic victories, but at the very least, they demonstrate, and demonstrated, what people subject to a vast governmental power everywhere confront: how to preserve their intellectual independence in the face of difficult, if not impossible chances to resist militarily, politically, economically, or in other ways. In other words, you may think you can control my body, but you cannot control my mind: I have carved out and can defend my own mental space. 37 In this regard, both Isaiah and Bukharin proved successful in the long run, did they not? The Assyrian Empire did come to an end, violently, and what we know about it was for a long time only what outsiders, principally the Hebrew Bible and the Greeks, told us; its own sources had largely to be recovered millennia later through archaeology. Isaiah, on the other hand, left a legacy that can be followed, as we have tried in part to do, in the continuing transmission of chap. 10 within the rest of the Isaianic book. Put another way, if for a while after Sennacherib’s campaign, pro-Assyrian elements were in control in Judah, they did not eliminate antiAssyrian feeling and expression. Isaiah’s legacy, in turn, was one piece of the larger legacy that Israel/Judah, albeit in altered form, transmitted through the Hebrew Bible, without the kind of long break that separated Assyria from its modern archaeology. And Russia? Well, despite recent developments, what it is today is not the Soviet Union of Stalin, and the voices of Nikolai Bukharin and his compatriots, officially muffled after their trials, have been rediscovered and, at least occasionally, heard again. 37.  On this strategy, evident especially in would-be totalitarian states in many ways and forms, see briefly Lebow (2003: e.g., pp. 326–27), who refers to the classic work of Czeslaw Miłosz 1990 (1953): 54–81.

212

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited

References Abou-Assaf, A.; Bordreuil, P.; and Millard, A. R. 1982 La statue de Tell Fekherye et son inscription bilingue assyro-araméenne. Études assyriologiques. Cahiers de Recherches sur les civilisations. Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les Civilisations. Aster, S. Z. 2007 Transmission of Neo-Assyrian Claims of Empire to Judah in the Late Eighth Century B.C.E. HUCA 78: 1–44. Barth, H. 1977 Die Jesaja-Worte in der Josiazeit. Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament 48. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. Becking, B. 1992 The Fall of Samaria: An Historical and Archaeological Study. SHANE 2. Leiden: Brill. Berges, U. F. 2012 The Book of Isaiah: Its Composition and Final Form. Hebrew Bible Monographs 46. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix. Bergland, K. 2011–12  Analysis and Assessment of Chronological Explanations of the Fall of Samaria. Spes Christiana 22–23: 63–84. Beuken, W. A. M. 2003 Jesaja 1–12. Herders Theologischer Kommentar zum Alten Testament. Freiburg: Herders Verlag. Blenkinsopp, J. 2000 Isaiah 1–39. Anchor Bible 19. New York: Doubleday. Chan, M. 2009 Rhetorical Reversal and Usurpation: Isaiah 10:5–34 and the Use of Neo-Assyrian Royal Idiom in the Construction of an Anti-Assyrian Theology. Journal of Biblical Literature 128: 717–33. Childs, B. S. 1967 Isaiah and the Assyrian Crisis. Studies in Biblical Theology 2/3. London: SCM. Cohen, S. F. 1980 Bukharin and the Bolshevik Revolution. 2nd ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cohen, Y. n.d. Acceptance and Rejection: Two Strategies for Representation of the Divine in Mesopotamia. Unpublished paper. Conquest, R. 2008 The Great Terror: A Reassessment. 40th Anniversary Edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dever, W. G. 2007 Archaeology and the Fall of the Northern Kingdom: What Really Happened. Pp. 78– 92 in ‘Up to the Gates of Ekron’: Essays on the Archaeology and History of the Eastern Mediterranean in Honor of Seymour Gitin. Edited by S. W. Crawford et al. Jerusalem: Albright Institute of Archaeological Research / Israel Exploration Society. Dubovský, P. 2006 Hezekiah and the Assyrian Spies: Reconstruction of the Neo-Assyrian Intelligence Services and Its Significance for 2 Kings 18–19. Biblica et Orientalia 49: Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute.

Peter Machinist

213

2014 Sennacherib’s Invasion of the Levant through the Eyes of Assyrian Intelligence Services. Pp. 249–91 in Sennacherib at the Gates of Jerusalem: Story, History and Historiography. Edited by I. Kalimi and S. Richardson. CHANE 71. Leiden: Brill. Evans, P. S. 2009 The Invasion of Sennacherib in the Book of Kings: A Source-Critical and Rhetorical Study of 2 Kings 18–19. Vetus Testamentum Supplement 125. Leiden: Brill. Frahm, E. 1997 Einleitung in die Sanherib-Inschriften. AfO Beiheft 26. Vienna: Institut für Orientalistik der Universität Wien. 2002 Sīn-ahhē-erība. Pp. 113–27 in The Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire, vol. 3/1: P–Ṣ. Edited by S. Parpola et al. Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project. 2011 Mensch, Land und Volk: Aššur im Alten Testament. Pp. 267–85 in Assur—Gott, Stadt und Land 5: Internationales Colloquium der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft, 18.–21. Februar 2004 in Berlin. Edited by J. Renger. CDOG 5. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Fuchs, A. 1994 Die Inschriften Sargons II. aus Khorsabad. Göttingen: Cuvillier. Gallagher, W. R. 1999 Sennacherib’s Campaign to Judah: New Studies. SHCANE 18. Leiden: Brill. Gelb, I. J. 1935 Calneh. American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures 51: 189–91. Gitin, S.; Dothan, T.; and Naveh, J. 1997 A Royal Dedicatory Inscription from Ekron. Israel Exploration Journal 47: 1–16. Gray, G. B. 1912 A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Isaiah, I–XXXIX. International Critical Commentary. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. Grayson, A. K. 1980 Assyria and Babylonia. Or n.s. 49: 140–94. Grayson, A. K., and Novotny, J. 2012 The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704–681 BC), Part 1. RINAP 3/1. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Harrison, T. P. 2014 Recent Discoveries at Tayinat (Ancient Kunulua/Calno) and Their Biblical Implications. Pp.  396–424 in Congress Volume: Munich 2013. Edited by Christl M. Maier. Vetus Testamentum Supplement 163. Leiden: Brill. Hartenstein, F. 2011 Das Archiv des verborgenen Gottes: Studien zur Unheilsprophetie Jesajas und zur Zions­ theologie der Psalmen in assyrischer Zeit. Biblisch-Theologische Studien 74. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. Hawkins, J. D. 1972–75  Hamath. Pp. 67–70 in vol. 4 of RlA. 1976–80a  Karkamiš. Pp. 426–46 in vol. 5 of RlA. 1976–80b  Kinalua. Pp. 597–98 in vol. 5 of RlA. 1980–83a  Kullani(a). Pp. 305–6 in vol. 6 of RlA. 1980–83b  VII. Amuq. Pp. 361–63 in vol. 6 of RlA. Henshaw, R. 1967–68  The Office of Šaknu in Neo-Assyrian Times. JAOS 87: 517–25; 88: 461–83. Hoffmeier, J. K. 2003a Egypt’s Role in the Events of 701 B.C. in Jerusalem. Pp. 219–34 in Vaughn and Killebrew 2003.

214

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited

2003b Egypt’s Role in the Events of 701 B.C.: A Rejoinder to J. J. M. Roberts. Pp. 285–89 in Vaughn and Killebrew 2003. Hom, M. K. Y. H. 2012 The Characterization of the Assyrians in Isaiah: Synchronic and Diachronic Perspectives. Library of Hebrew Bible / Old Testament Studies 559. London: T. & T. Clark. Jenni, E. 1971 ‫ הוי‬hōj Wehe. Pp. 474–77 in vol. 1 of Theologisches Handwörterbuch zum Alten Testament. Edited by E. Jenni and C. Westermann. Munich: Chr. Kaiser. Jong, M. J. de 2007 Isaiah among the Ancient Near Eastern Prophets: A Comparative Study of the Earliest Stages of the Isaiah Tradition and the Neo-Assyrian Prophecies. Vetus Testamentum Supplement 117. Leiden: Brill. Kaiser, O. 1973 Der Prophet Jesaja: Kapitel 13–39. Das Alte Testament Deutsch 18. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. 1983 Isaiah 1–12. 2nd ed. Old Testament Library. Louisville: Westminster John Knox. Kelle, B. E. 2002 What’s in a Name? Neo-Assyrian Designations for the Northern Kingdom and Their Implications for Israelite History and Biblical Interpretation. Journal of Biblical Literature 121: 639–66. Kim, H. C. P. 2008 Recent Scholarship on Isaiah 1–39. Pp. 118–41 in Recent Research on the Major Prophets. Edited by A. J. Hauser, with S. Kaufman. Recent Research in Biblical Studies 1. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix. Lambert, W. G. 1983 The God Aššur. Iraq 45: 82–86. Lebow, R. N. 2003 The Tragic Vision of Politics: Ethics, Interests and Orders. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Levine, B. A. 2003 ‘Weihe, Aššur, Rute meines Zorns!’ ( Jesaja 10,5): Der biblische Monotheismus als Antwort auf die neue politische Realität des assyrischen Weltreiches. Pp. 77–96 in Der eine Gott und die Götter. Edited by M. Oeming and K. Schmid. Zurich: Theologischer Verlag. [Revision of Ah, Assyria, Rod of My Rage’ (Isa 10:5): Biblical Monotheism as Seen in an International Political Perspective: A Prolegomenon. EretzIsrael 27 (Hayim and Miriam Tadmor Volume): 136–42. (Heb.)] 2005 Assyrian Ideology and Israelite Monotheism. Iraq 67: 411–27. Levenson, J. D. 1992 Zion Traditions. Pp. 1098–1102 in vol. 6 of The Anchor Bible Dictionary. Edited by D. N. Freedman et al. New York: Doubleday. Levinson, B. 2008 ‘The Right Chorale’: Studies in Biblical Law and Interpretation. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 54. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008. Lipiński, E. 2000 The Aramaeans: Their Ancient History, Culture, Religion. OLA 100. Leuven: Peeters. Liverani, M. 1979 The Ideology of the Assyrian Empire. Pp. 297–317 in Power and Propaganda: A Symposium on Ancient Empires. Edited by M. T. Larsen. Mesopotamia: Copenhagen Studies in Assyriology 7. Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag.

Peter Machinist

215

Luckenbill, D. D. 1927 Ancient Records of Assyria and Babylonia, vol. 2. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Machinist, P. 1983 The Image of Assyria in the First Isaiah. JAOS 103: 719–37. 2000 The Rab Šāqēh at the Wall of Jerusalem: Israelite Identity in the Face of the Assyrian ‘Other’. Hebrew Studies 41: 151–68. 2006a 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. Brown Judaic Studies 346. Providence: Brown Judaic Studies. 2006b Final Response: On the Study of the Ancients, Language, Writing, and the State. Pp. 291–300 in Margins of Writing, Origins of Cultures. Edited by S. L. Sanders. Oriental Institute Seminar 2. Chicago: The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. 2013 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. May, N. N. 2014 ‘In Order to Make Him Completely Dead’: Annihilation of the Power of Images in Mesopotamia. Pp. 701–28 in La famille dans le Proche-Orient ancien: Realités, symbo­ lismes et images. Proceedings of the 55th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale at Paris, 6–9 July 2009. Edited by L. Marti. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. May, N. N., ed. 2012 Iconoclasm and Text Destruction in the Ancient Near East and Beyond. Oriental Institute Seminar 8. Chicago: The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Miłosz, Cz. 1990 The Captive Mind. New York: Vintage. [Original publication 1953] Morrow, W. 2011 Tribute from Judah and the Transmission of Assyrian Propaganda. Pp.  183–92 in “My Spirit at Rest in the North Country” (Zechariah 6.8): Collected Communications to the XXth Congress of the International Organization for the Study of the Old Testament, Helsinki 2010. Edited by H. M. Niemann and M. Augustin. Beiträge zur Erforschung des Alten Testaments und des antiken Judentums 57. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang. Naʾaman, N. 2000 New Light on Hezekiah’s Second Prophetic Story (2 Kgs 19,9b–35) Biblica 81: 393– 402. Revised in: Updating the Messages: Hezekiah’s Second Prophetic Story (2 Kings 19.9b–35). Pp. 200–220 in ‘Like a Bird in a Cage’: The Invasion of Sennacherib in 701 B.C.E. Edited by L. L. Grabbe. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament: Supplement 363. London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2003. Oesch, J. M. 1979 Petucha und Setuma: Untersuchungen zu einer überlieferten Gliederung im hebräischen Text des Alten Testaments. OBO 27. Fribourg: Academic Press / Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Park, S. J. 2012 A New Historical Reconstruction of the Fall of Samaria. Biblica 93: 98–106. Paul, S. M. 2005 ‫משא מלד שרים‬: Hosea 8:8–10 and Ancient Near Eastern Royal Epithets. Pp. 145–54 in Divrei Shalom: Collected Studies of Shalom M. Paul on the Bible and the Ancient Near East, 1967–2005. SHCANE 23; Leiden: Brill. [Original publication: Pp. 193–204 in Studies in Bible. Edited by S. Japhet. Scripta Hierosolymitana 31. Jerusalem: Magnes, 1986.]

216

“Ah, Assyria . . .” (Isaiah 10:5ff.): Isaiah’s Assyrian Polemic Revisited

Pitard, W. T. 1987 Ancient Damascus: A Historical Study of the Syrian City-State from Earliest Times until Its Fall to the Assyrians in 732 B.C.E. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Radner, K. 2006 Provinzen. C: Assyrien. Pp. 42–68 in vol. 11 of RlA. Roberts. J. J. M. 2003a Solomon’s Jerusalem and the Zion Tradition. Pp. 163–70 in Vaughn and Killebrew 2003. 2003b Egypt, Assyria, Isaiah, and the Ashdod Affair: An Alternative Proposal. Pp. 265–83 in Vaughn and Killebrew 2003. 2013 “The Rod that Smote Philistia”: Isaiah 14.32. Pp. 381–95 in Literature as Politics, Politics as Literature: Essays on the Ancient Near East in Honor of Peter Machinist. Edited by D. S. Vanderhooft and A. Winitzer. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Saggs, H. W. F. 1969 Assyriology and the Study of the Old Testament: An Inaugural Lecture Delivered at University College, Cardiff Tuesday, December 3rd, 1968. Cardiff: University of Wales Press. Seitz, C. R. 1991 Zion’s Final Destiny: The Development of the Book of Isaiah. A Reassessment of Isaiah 36–39. Minneapolis: Fortress. 1993 Isaiah 1–39. Interpretation: Louisville: John Knox. Smelik, K. A. D. 1992 King Hezekiah Advocates True Prophecy: Remarks on Isaiah xxxvi and xxxvii / II Kings xviii and xix. Pp. 93–128 in Smelik, Converting the Past: Studies in Ancient Israelite and Moabite Historiography. Oudtestamentische Studiën 28. Leiden: Brill. Stade, B. 1886 Miscellen. 16: Anmerkungen zu 2 Kö. 15–21. Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 6: 156–89. Streck, M. 1916 Assurbanipal und die letzten assyrischen Könige bis zum Untergange Nineveh’s, vol. 2: Texte. Vorderasiatische Bibliothek 7/2. Leipzig: Hinrichs. Sweeney, M. A. 1996 Isaiah 1–39. The Forms of the Old Testament Literature 16. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. 2008 Re-evaluating Isaiah 1–39 in Recent Critical Research. Pp. 93–117 in Recent Research on the Major Prophets. Edited by A. J. Hauser with S. Kaufman. Recent Research in Biblical Studies 1. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix. Tadmor, H. 2011 “With My Many Chariots I Have Gone Up the Heights of the Mountains”: Historical and Literary Studies on Ancient Mesopotamia and Israel. Edited by M. Cogan. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. 2011a Propaganda, Literature, Historiography: Cracking the Code of the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions. Pp. 3–24 in Tadmor 2011. 2011b History and Ideology in the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions. Pp. 25–46 in Tadmor 2011. 2011c World Dominion: The Expanding Horizon of the Assyrian Empire. Pp.  87–102 in Tadmor 2011. 2011d The Campaigns of Sargon II: A Chronological-Historical Study. Pp. 239–319 in Tadmor 2011. Tadmor, H.; and Yamada, S.; with Novotny, J. 2011 The Royal Inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser III (744–727 BC), and Shalmaneser V (726–722 BC), Kings of Assyria. RINAP 1. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.

Peter Machinist

217

Tappy, R. E. 2007 The Final Years of Israelite Samaria: Toward a Dialogue between Texts and Archaeology. Pp. 258–79 in “Up to the Gates of Ekron”: Essays on the Archaeology and History of the Eastern Mediterranean in Honor of Seymour Gitin. Edited by S. W. Crawford et al. Jerusalem: Albright Institute of Archaeological Research/Israel Exploration Society. Thompson, R. J. 2013 Terror of the Radiance: Aššur Covenant to Yhwh Covenant. OBO 258: Fribourg: Academic Press / Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Tucker, R. C. 1971 The Soviet Political Mind. Rev. ed. New York: Norton. Tucker, R. C., and Cohen, S. F. 1965 The Great Purge Trial. New York: Grosset & Dunlap. Ulrich, E.; and Flint, P.; with Abegg, M. G., Jr, eds. 2010 Qumran Cave 1. II: The Isaiah Scrolls. 2 vols. Discoveries in the Judaean Desert 32. Oxford: Clarendon. Vaughn, A. G., and Killebrew, A. E., eds. 2003 Jerusalem in Bible and Archaeology: The First Temple Period. Atlanta Society of Biblical Literature. Vermeylen, J. 1977 Du prophète Isaïe à l’apocalyptique, vol. 1: Isaïe, I–XXXV, miroir d’un demi-millénaire d’expéri­ence religieuse en Israël. Études Bibliques. Paris: Librairie Lecoffre / Gabalda. Wazana, N. 2003 ‘I Removed the Boundaries of Nations’ (Isa. 10.13): Border Shifts as a Neo-Assyrian Tool of Political Control in Hattu. Eretz-Israel 27 (Hayim and Miriam Tadmor Volume): 110–21. [Heb.] 2013 All the Boundaries of the Land: The Promised Land in Biblical Thought in Light of the Ancient Near East. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Wildberger, H. 1972 Jesaja, vol. 1: Jesaja 1–12. Biblischer Kommentar: Altes Testament. NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. Winckler, H. 1889 Die Keilschrifttexte Sargons nach den Papierabklatschen und Originalen, vol. 1. Leipzig: Pfeiffer. Winckler, H., and Abel L. 1889 Die Keilschrifttexte Sargons nach den Papierabklatschen und Originalen, vol. 2: Texte, autographiert von Dr. Ludwig Abel. Leipzig: Pfeiffer. Younger, K. L., Jr. 2003 Assyrian Involvement in the Southern Levant at the End of the Eighth Century B.C.E. Pp. 235–63 in Vaughn and Killebrew 2003. Zobel, H.-J. 1977 ‫ הוי‬hôj. Pp. 382–88 in vol. 2 of Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Alten Testament. Edited by G. J. Botterweck and H. Ringgren. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer.

Measuring Middle Assyrian Grain (and Sesame) J. N. Postgate

To judge from their written output, Middle Assyrian scribes were very concerned to give precise metrological details of the grain they recorded, but these details are often obscure to us. Mario Liverani, in a number of seminal articles, has demonstrated his concern to penetrate the realities behind the strenuous scribal activities, which have left us copious but often difficult details of the agricultural regimes of early Mesopotamian states. This is a small gesture in the same direction.

The Old Babylonian scene It will help to begin with a passage from an Old Babylonian document from Sippar cited by Veenhof: 1 220.2.0.5 s ì l a še g u r ša-bu-lum 12.2.0 š e g ur d u r u5 232.4.0.5 s ì l a š e gu r gišba. rí. g a du t u ši-iq me-še-qí-im ka-ab-ri-im ša a-di-ni ta!-bi-il-šu la ha-ar-ṣú

220.2.0.5 dried grain 12.2.0 damp grain (Total) 232.4.0.5 grain (measured by) the parsiktum of Šamaš (using the) dragging of the “fat” strickle, (for) which its drying(-loss) has not been deducted. (Goetze 1957: 31–32, no. 21)

This document mentions three variables: 1. the condition of the grain—is it fresh or dry? This could affect the volume, it seems, because in the final phrase cited we are told that a proportion has not been deducted to allow for the loss from drying out 2. the identity of the measuring container—here, the bariga / parsiktum (= 6 sūtu) 3. the measuring technique—involving the implement known in English as a “strickle” (see below, §4) Author’s note:  I would like to express my warmest thanks to Lin Foxhall, Jonathan Barnes, and Mark Jackson for their help with locating classical evidence, and to Jaume Llop-Raduà for kindly accepting a preliminary version of this paper at the 56th Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale in Barcelona, and to Adam Stone for reading it on my behalf. This essay is part of a wider research project on Middle Assyrian administration, undertaken with the benefit of a Major Research Fellowship from the Leverhulme Trust, for which I am deeply grateful. 1.  Veenhof 1985.

219

220

Measuring Middle Assyrian Grain (and Sesame)

In addition, from other Old Babylonian texts we meet a fourth variable, whether or not the product had been sieved, in the phrase ša ne-ḫi-il-šu la ḫar-ṣú ‘whose sieving(s) have not been deducted’. This term is also attested in YOS 12 203, where the “sieving(s)” apparently amount to 2 sūtu per gur, that is, 15% (Veenhof 1985: 289–90). These may all affect the estimation of the volume of the grain, either in reality or as described in metrological terms, and therefore, in interpreting what the Assyrian scribes recorded, we find at least four variables that may be referred to: 1. the condition of the substance being measured, 2. the stage of processing (e.g., sieved or not), 3. the identity (and therefore capacity) of the measuring vessel, and 4. the technique used when filling the vessel.

We will take these in turn as we look at the Middle Assyrian sources.

1.  The Condition of the Grain—Wet or Dry? As the Babylonian sources tell us, the volume of a load of grain could depend on whether it was damp or dry. In the Middle Assyrian texts, I have not come across any clear examples of “dry” or “wet” applied to grain being measured (although we occasionally hear of “old” grain, e.g., MARV 3.4 rev. 3′). The signs ŠE UD (e.g. MARV 5.84:1; also ŠE UD.A(.MEŠ), ŠE-am.MEŠ UD.A) are not “dry grain” but must be understood as BABBAR-a ‘white’ because of the occurrences of ŠE-um.MEŠ BABBAR-ú and ŠE-am.MEŠ BABBAR-e. This has recently been confirmed by syllabic writings pa-ṣi-a and pa-ṣa-a in MARV 9.32.

2.  The Processing Stage 2.1. Sieving Sieving or sifting may take place at various stages of crop processing, but the most obvious stage is immediately after the winnowing, when the grain is collected into heaps. Thus in Palestine 100 years ago, “The grain, after being separated from the straw and chaff, is cleaned from earth, etc., by sifting in a sieve, and then piled in a heap on the floor” (Wilson 1906: 211). Middle Assyrian scribes did not normally record whether grain had been sieved or not, or specify a proportion by which the volume was reduced in the process of sieving. As in Old Babylonian, the Middle Assyrian for ‘to sieve’ is presumably naḫālu, not yet attested as a verb but giving us maḫḫulu ‘a sieve’ (e.g., 5 gišmaḫ-ḫu-lu ra-qu-tu ‘fine sieves’, KAJ 125.2; 1 ma-aḫḫu-lu GAL-ú ‘big sieve’, MARV 3.16 rev. iii 11 as a container for offerings). Recently, however, Freydank (2010: 63) has suggested restoring the word naḫlu ‘sieved’ in a text from the Aššur Temple offerings archive. The word itself is unfortunately badly damaged and is therefore uncertain, but the proposal is undeniably attractive. The passage in question, and the succeeding lines read as follows:

J. N. Postgate

221

[1] MARV 1.25  1i+na ŠÀ 1 ANŠE ŠE-im.MEŠ i+na GIŠ.BÁN From out of 1 homer of grain measured  2ša pi-rík rit-te šiḫ-ṭa?! ma-di-i [d] a-na in the pirik ritte sūtu, in the šiḫṭu (mode),  38BÁN 4 ½ SÌLA ŠE-am.MEŠ na-a [ḫ-l]a?!(-)[(x)] to 0.845 homers of sieved grain  4it-tal-ka it came,  51BÁN 7 SÌLA SAḪAR.MEŠ 1! ½ SÌLA ⸢x x x⸣ 0.17 homers dust, 0.015 homers [excess?]  6ša 10 ANŠE ŠE-im.MEŠ For 10 homers of grain  7ša 1aš-šur-MU-SUM-na 1 ANŠE 6BÁN [( )] of Aššur-šuma-iddina, 1.6 homers  8LÁ.MEŠ-šu ma-ḫír his deficit, received.  9KIMIN-ma 1ŠEŠ-la-a-mur Ditto, Aḫu-lamur 10KIMIN-ma 1DUMU-ṣíl-lí-ia Ditto, Mar-ṣilliya 11KIMIN-ma 1.dTIŠPAK-ia Ditto, Tišpakiya 1212 ANŠE 3 BÁN 1ša-aš-šur-SI.SÁ 12.3 homers, Ša-Aššur-lešir 134 ANŠE 1a-na-aš-šur-tàk-lak 4 homers, Ana-Aššur-taklak, 146BÁN 4 SÌLA LÁ.MEŠ-šu ma-ḫír 0.64 homers his deficit, received. 15PAB 54 ANŠE 5BÁN ŠE-um.MEŠ Total: 54.5 homers grain, 16gi-na-ú ša urui-di regular offering of Idu.

If Freydank’s restoration of naḫla is correct, it is the sole instance known to me in the Middle Assyrian corpus where reference is made to a metrological difference occasioned by the sieving process. In any case, this text is also of interest because these lines seem to be a metrological preamble to the following sections of the text. The correct interpretation is not obvious, and pace Freydank, a slight emendation seems necessary in line 5: the arithmetic in lines 3–5 gives 0.845 + 0.17 = 1.015, and this suggests that in place of 1BÁN 1⁄2 SÌLA (as Freydank reads in agreement with the copy), we should take the horizontal of “1BÁN” as the final wedge of MEŠ, allowing us to read here 11⁄2 SÌLA. This is then the amount by which the sieved grain + dust exceed 1 homer, and since the traces copied at the end of line 5 do not really agree with Freydank’s restoration of LÁ.MEŠ-šu (as he concedes), the word lost here must be the opposite of “deficit,” because it expresses the excess. That we should not restore LÁ.MEŠ-šu here also follows from a consideration of lines 6–14. In lines 13– 14, the text clearly states that the deficit on 4 homers is 0.64, which means 0.16 per homer. This confirms that in line 7 the deficit on 10 homers is given as 1.6 homers and that the term “deficit” should not apply to the final figure in line 5 but to the 1.7 homers of “dust” mentioned in line 5: what the scribe has done, in view of the inconvenient fact that the measurement of the sieved grain plus the “dust” came to more than 10 homers, is to ignore the half qû (0.005 homer) in line 3 and assume for the purposes of the ensuing calculations that the sieved grain yielded from 10 homers amounts to 0.84, and the “dust” or “deficit” amounts to 0.16 (rather than the 0.17 actually recorded). In other words, what was happening here is as follows: a delivery of grain had arrived from Idu. A sample of 10 homers was sieved (perhaps because it was

222

Measuring Middle Assyrian Grain (and Sesame)

unusually contaminated), and the resulting amount of sieved grain noted, as 84.5% of the initial volume, with the “dust” when also measured coming to very slightly more than the expected 15.5%. For the purposes of the accounting process, it was decided to fix the proportion of sieved grain recoverable at 84%. Amounts of 10 homers of this grain, unsieved, were then issued to four of the receiving staff (probably all or most of them alaḫḫinu working for the Aššur Temple), and different amounts to two others, usually with an accompanying note of the 16% loss to be allowed for when they, in due course, must account for the amount they received. Thus the opening lines (lines 1–5) are there to give the basis for the subsequent calculations, and presumably each separate issue of the Idu grain was not sieved and remeasured, but the “deficit” purely calculated using these figures. Unfortunately, this reconstruction leaves the final total unexplained. The figure of 54.5 homers is obviously too low to be the sum of the amounts issued before deduction of the “deficits” (that would be 4 × 10 = 40 + 12.3 + 4 = 56.3). On the other hand, it is too high to be their sum after the deficits have been deducted (4 × 8.4 = 33.6 + 12.3 + 3.36 = 49.26). Nevertheless, it must somehow represent the scribe’s attempt to total the six entries. The only way to achieve a better match for his 54.5 seems to be to take the unsieved amounts for the first four and the final entry, but to take 84% of the single figure of 12.3 homers for Ša-Aššur-lešir. This would give a figure of about 10.33 homers and a total of 54.33 (40 + 10.33 + 4); or if we went for 84.5% (using the amount recorded in line 3), 10.39 homers and a total of 54.39. None of these solutions is satisfactory, but at least it seems clear that the scribe must have been calculating in his head the amounts remaining after deduction and then adding them (rather than using actual measurements of the sieved grain in each case). This then is an example of the creation of a mathematical coefficient to be used in converting one observed measurement into another figure, a procedure that will also be encountered in the following sections.

2.2.  “Release of the Grainheaps” In a letter from the Ubru archive (see Llop-Raduà 2010), we meet the verbal phrase karuʾa pašāru, literally, ‘to release the grain-heap’: ‘within 5 days I shall come to you to release the grain-heap’ (anāku ka-ru-a a-na pa-ša-ri allaka, KAJ 316.6 = MARV 1.22:6). This procedure, and also the resultant product, would be referred to as pišerti karuʾe, a phrase that qualifies barley (written ŠE) in a variety of texts (e.g., passages [13] and [14] below) and has been discussed, among others, by Freydank, Llop, and most recently by Röllig. 2 While one cannot object to the literal rendering ‘Auflösung des Getreidehaufens’—that is, ‘release of the grain-heaps’ (Freydank 1997: 134, followed by Llop and Röllig)—it is safe to say that this cannot convey its full implications. 3 Röllig has made the following clear statement: “Der 2.  Freydank 1994; 1997; Llop 2005: 46; 2006; Röllig 2008: 20. 3.  I do not want to get embroiled in a technical discussion of the meaning of pašāru at this stage (see comments on another Middle Assyrian usage of the verb, Freydank 1997:

J. N. Postgate

223

Ausdruck. . . . bezeichnet das Stadium der Ernte, in dem das gedroschene und geworfelte Getreide, das zur Taxierung in Haufen aufgeschüttet worden war, registriert und zur Verwendung für die verschiedenen Bedürfnisse abtransportiert wird.” I find little to disagree with in this description, although it reaches certain conclusions that can only indirectly be derived from the simple phrase pišerti karuʾe. In my view it should also refer to the measurement of the crop, and we might amend the definition to “. . . had been piled into heaps, is measured and assigned to any interested parties.” This recognizes that the process of “releasing the heaps” is the stage at which the completed harvest, which has been grown and processed by the person actually cultivating the land, becomes a fungible commodity, ready for distribution among any persons with a claim on it. This could indeed include the tax man, but there is surprisingly little evidence for agricultural taxation in the Middle Assyrian sources, and it seems likely that it would also be the moment when partition of the claims between joint cultivators, or even more frequently, between landlord and tenant would be settled. 4 Equally, it is wise not to assume that the harvest was necessarily physically divided; this could perhaps have been the result, but it is also possible that the procedure needed simply the measurement of the entire crop in the presence of those with a claim on it, as well as possibly witnesses, and that the distribution need only have taken place “on paper.” The amount due to each party could then be calculated mathematically as a proportion of the total, and there may often have been situations in which it was convenient to keep the grain together and merely record the amounts due to each party. Thus, when in KAJ 316 Erib-Aššur wrote to Diglaeriš to say that he was coming to “release the heaps” (above), it certainly sounds as though he has a supervisory role to play, but we need to keep an open mind—he might be coming as a landlord to settle the season’s accounts with his tenant, or as an official to extract some kind of contribution or tax, or even as a neutral third party to oversee a bilateral process between Digla-eriš and another. For the Assyrian word karuʾu, CAD K 226 gives the meaning ‘pile of barley (prepared for storage)’; AHw 452 has ‘Getreidehaufen, Speicher’. The meaning 136ff.); suffice it to say that the concept of “releasing” could be taken to refer to a material action, if steps had been taken by the cultivator to secure his winnowed grain from human or animal depredations out in the fields. The precise meaning of karūʾu is not known to me (see below), but it seems at least possible that the “heaps” in question could have been covered over, for example, by a mud and straw plaster coating that could be sealed (I have seen straw heaps plastered over in modern Iraq). Note that in Middle Babylonian texts we have a case where criminals “cut into” a grain heap and stole barley (HS 108:34 cited in CAD K 227a: sarrūtu ša GUR7 ša GN ikkisūma ŠE.BAR imšuʾū), and see CAD N/2 223 for a charge called nikis karê ‘cutting (open) the grain heap’. In any case, I resist the urging of Freydank to make this usage identical with other occurrences of the verb, which I think may have a more abstract nuance. 4. Similar procedures, sometimes involving the presence of a divine symbol, are well attested in the Old Babylonian Period.

224

Measuring Middle Assyrian Grain (and Sesame)

Fig. 1.  Tomb of Menena: measuring the grain heap (after threshing and winnowing; Wreszinski 1923–42: 234). Note size of measuring vessels.

‘heap (of grain)’ is generally accepted and is supported by similar words in other languages, 5 but as noted by Jakob (2003: 328), Sassmannshausen (2001: 173) believes that the karû in Kassite Babylonia was a building: “Meines Erachtens ist karû in mittelbabylonischen Verwaltungstexten stets ein Gebäude, wohl nie ein loser Getreidehaufen.” It is rash for Assyrians to meddle in Babylonian affairs, so I will confine myself to two points. First, as Sassmannshausen points out (2001: 174), the texts themselves differentiate a karû from a karû-house (“man scheint zwischen einfachem Speichergebäude [karû] und Speicherhaus [bīt karê] zu differenzieren”). Indeed, bīt karê does sound like a building in which the processed grain heaps might be stored rather than out in the fields; but this also suggests that, where a building is not explicitly mentioned, it may just have been a heap. Second, more generally, Sassmannshausen comments that one can be indebted to a person or an institution but not to a grain-heap: “Eine Schuld kann man gegenüber einer Person oder Institution haben, aber nicht gegenüber einem Getreidehaufen.” This is à propos of BE 15 30, which concerns ‘1 GUR of grain’ reḫti ḫubulli (ÍB.TAG4 UR5. RA) ša karî (GUR7) ‘the remainder of the debt of the karû’, but his objections are misplaced. If one views the opening and measurement of the grain-heap as the moment when claimants establish their claims, it is perfectly easy to understand that one may have a “debt of the grain-heap.” I therefore remain unconvinced that karû by itself means more than a ‘heap’ in Babylonia either. What then happened when the “grain-heap” was “released”? Approximately contemporary Egyptian tomb paintings are suggestive. The Tomb of Menena (fig. 1) shows threshing, with four cattle trampling on clearly represented spikelets, followed on the left by winnowing, and then beyond the supervising official, the heap of threshed and winnowed grain being measured, with four workers at a time filling their bushels, and a multitude of scribes recording. The point to make here is that the measuring and recording is associated with the dispersal of the heap of processed grain: this is the stage at which the scribes appear on the scene. The 5.  Hebrew and Aramaic derivatives noted by von Soden in AHw 452a; Kaufman 1974: 63, “common Semitic word rather than a loan from Sum.”; earlier, Zimmern 1915: 41.

J. N. Postgate

225

Fig. 2.  Tomb of Thotnofer: measuring and recording the grain-heaps (Wreszinski 1923–42: 261).

measuring of a grain heap is shown in the same manner in the Tomb of Thotnofer (fig. 2): the owner or cultivator sits on the heap himself, and in this case there are just two men wielding the measuring containers, which seem to be about the size of a 10-liter bucket, with a single scribe on each heap. 6 Dalman (1933: 134) tells us about practices in 20th-century Palestine. Christian farmers collected the grain after winnowing into heaps called ṣalībe, so called because they were protected by a cross erected in the middle of the heap. In earlier times, the heap would be blessed by a priest, or Muslims would stick the five prongs of a winnowing fork into the middle of the heap. On Lake Tiberias, every evening a board with the name of god or of the owner would be pressed into the ground all round the heap, after it had been used to smooth off the top. Watchmen often slept by the grain heap. Dalman also has details from the Bible and the Mishnah. He gives the technical term for the heap of grain after winnowing as kerī, kārī, or karjā and comments that, after it has been prepared it is smoothed flat, probably to enable recognition of theft (“wohl um Diebstahl erkennbar zu machen”). And significantly, he adds that “the law mentions it, because with this smoothing, which signifies the completion of the grain-heap, the legal obligation of the tithe and the priest’s cut is activated” (“Das Recht erwähnt es, weil mit dieser Streichung, welche die Vollendung des Körnerhaufens bedeutet, die gesetzliche Pflicht des Zehnten und der Priesterabgabe aktuell wird,” Dalman 1933: 135–36). The parallels are striking: quite apart from the lexical identity with Akkadian karuʾu/karû, we note that the karjā is specifically the final stage in grain recovery, after winnowing; that the heap is carefully smoothed off to signify its completeness and betray any interference; that it is further protected by human guardians and symbolic acts; and that it is a condition of the harvest recognized in law. 7 This may all seem tangential to the topic of measurement, but it is helpful to realize that the “release of the grain-heaps” is likely to have involved measurement 6.  Compare the similar size of the Roman measuring containers in fig. 5. 7. For 20th-century AD Palestine, Wilson (1906: 212) also notes that the heap of threshed, winnowed, and sieved grain is the point at which it is measured. However, it is worth noting that the same author records that piles of harvested grain were measured before threshing, “to estimate the amount each farmer has to pay towards the total sum at which the village tithes are assessed, and no-one is allowed to begin threshing until this is settled” (Wilson 1906: 208).

226

Measuring Middle Assyrian Grain (and Sesame)

of the crop. Although Freydank and, tacitly following him, Llop see pišerti karuʾe as a primarily abstract action affecting the ownership or administrative status of the grain, I believe the scribes use the phrase in these contexts to refer to the physical state of the grain when the grain-heap was “released.” At this stage, it may well have occupied a greater or lesser volume than at a different stage of the processing or after a period of storage, and it is therefore relevant when recording its volume. And indeed, if we now look at the contexts in which the phrase pišerti karuʾe is used, it becomes apparent that, while Röllig and others are right to describe it as a “stage of the harvest,” it refers to a condition of the grain as measured, rather than to an administrative procedure. This is clear because, at its simplest, it may be followed by the word madid ‘measured’. Most telling is one example from Dur-katlimmu (Röllig 2008: no. 89): here, the three words pi-šèr-ti ka-ru-e ma-di-id must belong closely together because the scribe has placed this single phrase as an afterthought on the left side of the tablet with the date; but it also clear that the same applies in the more usual formulation: [2] Röllig 2008: no. 60.7–9 200 ANŠE 3BÁN ŠE i+na GIŠ.BÁN ša ḫi-bur-ni pi-šèr-ti ka-ru-e ma-di-id te-li-⟨it⟩ BURU14 ša 150 IKU 1 ANŠE 3BÁN 5 SÌLA ŠE.TA.ÀM it-tal-ka 3BÁN ŠE ut-ru ša ŠU PN. 8 200.3 homers grain (measured) by the sūtu of the ḫiburnu, measured in the “release-of-the-heaps (state),” harvest yield of 150 iku, it comes to 1.35 homers (per iku) (with) 0.3 homers over; in the charge of PN. The point to stress here is that madid is part of the description of the grain: the scribe is not telling us that the grain ‘was measured’— this is surely self-evident; what he is recording is in what condition it was measured. We are (as usual) told the identity of the sūtu in use, but we are also given the information that the grain was pišerti karūʾe. Like ḫiṣna or šiḫta (see below), the phrase pišerti karuʾe acts as an “internal accusative” or accusative of respect before madid ‘measured in the release-ofthe-grain-heaps (state)’. If this phrase were merely an administrative technicality, it would not come between the figure stating the volume of grain and the word madid but outside this “metrological parenthesis.” Even in the cases where pišerti karuʾe stands alone, without madid, as it often does in the Dur-Katlimmu texts (perhaps more often in smaller and less formal documents), 9 it is clear from the context that it is used in the same way, as a metrological statement. This is not to deny that the procedure of “releasing the grain-heaps” may have had a role in administrative terms but merely to point out that in these contexts it is mentioned as a way of specifying the physical state of the grain for metrological purposes and not in order to define its administrative status. 8. The math is a little wobbly—1.35 × 150 = 202.5. Many other examples from DurKatlimmu appear in Röllig 2008; see also Llop 2006. 9.  Thus it is present in Röllig 2008: nos. 65, 73–76, 78, 81, 84–88, but omitted in nos. 63–64, 69–71 and some of 82; also in MARV 3.10:13′, 20′.

227

J. N. Postgate

3.  The Measuring Vessel 3.1. Different sūtus The Middle Assyrian homer contained 10 sūtu, and the sūtu contained 10 qû. 10 However, the sūtu itself could vary, and when recording amounts of grain, the scribes were very diligent in specifying the measure in use, so we must conclude that it did make a significant difference. The list of variants of the sūtu (invariably written GIŠ. BÁN) has grown since Saporetti first addressed this issue (Saporetti 1970): 11 • eššutu? (GIBIL) [‘new’] • labertu (SUMUN) [‘old’] • rabītu (GAL) [‘big’] • ṣaḫartu (TUR) [‘small’; probably new in reign of Tukulti-Ninurta I] • ša gišallāni [‘of oak’ Giricano] • (ša) (bēt) ḫiburni [traditional norm] • ša endāte [‘of the impositions’; cf. Llop 2010c: 352] • ša gināʾē [‘of regular offerings’; offerings archive] • ša iškārāte [‘of work-assignments’] or iškāri • ša kablātemeš [‘with feet’] • ša kāri [‘of the quay’] • ša ki-zi-ti [‘of . . . . .’] • ša kurummat ili (ŠUKU-at DINGIR) [‘of the god’s ration’; offerings archive] • ša malāḫi [‘of the boatman’] • ša mār a-pi-e [‘baker’s son’ or PN?] • ša nakkamte [‘of the storehouse’] • ša namḫirti [‘of commerce?’] • (ša pî) GIŠ.5BÁN(-ú)-te [reading? cf. Freydank 1992: 301, “recht unklar”] 12 • ša pirik ritte [meaning? offerings archive] • ša PN • ša šibše [‘of grain-taxes’] This list suggests a bewildering variety, but at any one time or place the situation may not have been too complicated: some terms define the social context or the purpose of the measuring, others simply refer to the physical characteristics of the vessel, and in the Aššur Temple offerings archive more than one term may be found describing a single sūtu vessel. These combinations include: [3] GIŠ.BÁN ḫi-bur-ni ša ŠUKU DINGIR MARV 9.86:2 [4] GIŠ.BÁN ḫi-bur-ni pi-rík ri-te MARV 3.60 (= Freydank 1992: no. 17):2–3 10.  Powell 1989–90. Note a couple of points in need of correction in Powell 1989–90: 501, §IV A.4b: the sūtu ‘of the palace’ probably does not exist, since ša É.GAL-lim in MA usually denotes the ownership of the item borrowed; and the relationship given as: 8 “old” sūtu = 5 “little” sūtu = 4 ḫiburnu sūtu should be corrected following Freydank 1991. 11.  See also in particular Freydank 1992: 282. 12.  See also GIŠ.BÁN 6 BÁN-te (MARV 7.7:24).

228

Measuring Middle Assyrian Grain (and Sesame)

[5] GIŠ.BÁN ša ŠUKU-at DINGIR pi-rík ri-te MARV 3.42 (= Freydank 1992:    no. 23):2–3 [6] GIŠ.BÁN ša ŠUKU DINGIR ša É na-kám-te MARV 3.50 (= Freydank 1992:    no. 26):4 [7] GIŠ.BÁN ša pi-i 5BÁN-ú-te ša gi-na-e MARV 3.44 (= Freydank 1992:    no. 21):2 It seems perfectly possible that combinations [3]–[5] all refer to the same container, which could be described by any or all of the three categories ḫiburni, kurummat ili, and pirik rite, referring to capacity, function, and a technical feature, respectively. For the 5 sūtu vessel, see below. Here, I want to concentrate on a significant question expressed by Veenhof (1985: 302): “Another question is what ‘by the bariga of 60, 64, etc. sila’ actually means. Does it imply the existence and use of measuring vessels of these sizes or is the reference only to units of measure used for accounting?” Or, in other words, were these different sūtu physically used to carry out individual measurements, or are they merely intended to denote a volume in the abstract that is fixed in relation to other norms?

3.2.  Conversions from One sūtu to Another Part of the answer comes from the cases where a scribe gives us a conversion from one sūtu to another, some examples of which are cited here. [8] MARV 1 (= VS.19) 1 i 54′–57′ (cf. Freydank 1985) 54′–55′: 60 ANŠE ŠE i+na GIŠ.BÁN TUR a-na 48 [AN]ŠE ŠE a-na GIŠ.BÁN ḫibur-ni ta-u [r] 57′: 9 ANŠE ŠE i+na GIŠ.BÁN TU[R a-n]a 7 ANŠE 2BÁN ŠE a-na GIŠ.BÁN ḫibur-ni ta-u [r] Both ratios 60:48 and 9:7.2 give TUR:ḫiburni = 1.25:1. [9] MARV 4.31:2–3 10 ANŠE 5BÁN ŠE-um i+na GIŠ.BÁN TUR a-na 8 ANŠE 4BÁN ŠE a-na GIŠ.BÁN ša ḫi-bur-ni ta-ur Ratio 10.5:8.4 gives TUR:ḫiburni = 1.25:1. [10] Röllig 2008: no. 72.8–9 20 ANŠE 8BÁN ŠUKU-at šiluḫli i+na GIŠ.BÁN SUM[UN] a-na 16 ANŠE 6BÁN ⟨⟨10⟩⟩ 4 SÌLA i+na GIŠ.BÁN ḫi-bur-n [i ta-ur] Note: if the apparent 10 sign is omitted, 16.64 is exactly 4/5 of 20.8. For restoration of ta-ur at the end of the line, see passage [11]. Ratio 20.8:16.64 gives SUMUN:ḫiburni = 1.25:1

J. N. Postgate

229

[11] Röllig 2008: no. 75.19 ⟨blank⟩ ŠE i+na GIŠ.BÁN TUR a-na 95 ANŠE 6BÁN 4 SÌLA a-na GIŠ.BÁN ḫibur-ni ta-ur First measurement omitted! [12] MARV 9.112:6–7 7 ANŠE i+na GIŠ.BÁN ša DUMU-a-pi-e a-na 8 ANŠE 8BÁN i+na GIŠ.BÁN ša ŠUKU-at DINGIR it-tu-ar MARV 9.112:6 (note that the same text also uses the GIŠ.BÁN ša pi-i GIŠ.5BÁN-ú-te MARV 9.112:8). Ratio 7:8.8 gives Mar-apie:kurummat ili = 1:1.257 The clear example [8] from MARV 1.1 was presented in Freydank 1991: here we learn that 5 “little” sūtu were equivalent to 4 ḫiburnu sūtu, or conversely, 1.25 “little” sūtu equals 1 ḫiburnu sūtu, making the ḫiburnu sūtu 25% bigger. This text also mentions the “old sūtu,” and it was largely on the basis of this text that I suggested that the “old sūtu” was a short way of referring to the “sūtu of the (bēt) ḫiburni,” a suggestion that was tentatively accepted in Freydank 1991. Now, however, the contemporary Durkatlimmu texts show that this was mistaken. Passage [10] (after slight emendation) gives us the equivalence: 20.8 homers in the “old sūtu” = 16.64 homers in the ḫiburnu sūtu, which is precisely a ratio of 5:4, or 1.25:1, the same as between the ḫiburnu sūtu and the “little sūtu” in MARV 1.1. This seems to show, therefore, that it is the “little” and the “old sūtu” that had the same capacity. This is slightly surprising, since it appears that the “little sūtu” was first in use during the reign of Tukulti-Ninurta—but perhaps it is none other than the “old sūtu” renamed. With all these conversions, the first point to resolve is which of the two amounts was the original measurement, and which is the converted amount. Does “X is converted to Y” mean that X or Y is the initial measurement? 13 In passages [8]–[10] the direction of the text suggests that the larger figure is being converted to the smaller (meaning that the second measurement refers to a larger container), and the obvious assumption is that the original actual measurement is mentioned first. In this case, in passage [11] we would need to assume that the scribe had a note 13.  For this usage of tuāru D, see Freydank 2010, reading ta-ur. In this context, this is to be preferred to ta-lik, despite the occurrence of forms of alāku in similar contexts, both because there is no obvious justification for a feminine form and because we would expect a perfect not a preterite form in a positive main clause (ta-ur is also perhaps to be preferred in Röllig 2008: no. 71.19, despite the feminine subject reḫtu). The usage of ittalka in a different context—found in texts [1] above (MARV 1.25), MARV 3.4, and 3.10:22′ and regularly in the Durkatlimmu harvest texts (e.g., passage [2]), where it describes the sowing rates calculated for the amounts of grain used per iku—does not involve two different ways of measuring and is clearly an abstract description of a mathematical procedure; as Freydank notes (2010: 64 n. 5), Röllig translates ittalka ‘sich belaufen auf’, and in English we can idiomatically say ‘comes to’.

230

Measuring Middle Assyrian Grain (and Sesame)

Fig. 3.  MARV 7.46, obverse (courtesy of Dr. Helmut Freydank).

of the converted amount but had forgotten or mislaid the original measurement. With passage [12], on the other hand, it seems that a smaller measurement is being converted to a larger (meaning that the sūtu of the “god’s rations” was the smaller container), but here also the scribe uses a form of tuāru (ittuar ‘turned into’).

3.3.  Conversions from One Measurement Mode to Another This usage of tuāru has already been noted by Freydank 2010 in the context of a few passages where we are given a similar conversion, from one mode of measurement to another. [13] MARV 3.10.13′–15′ 13′210

ANŠE 5BÁN ŠE pi-šèr-ti ka-ru-e te-l[i-it ebūri . . . .] 5BÁN ½ SÌLA ŠE ši-iḫ-ṭí ta-u [r . . . . . 

15′ a-na

221 ANŠE

Ratio 210.5:221.505 gives pišerti karuʾe: šiḫṭi ~ 1:1.05 (1.0522803) [14] MARV 5.83:22′–25′ 22′ŠU.NÍGIN

4532 ANŠE 5BÁN 8? SÌLA ŠE pi-šèr-ti k[a-ru-e] . . . . . ANŠE 1BÁN 5 SÌLA ŠE a-na ši-iḫ-ṭí ta-ur

24′a-na

4759

Ratio 4532.58:4759.15 gives pišerti karuʾe: šiḫṭi ~ 1:1.05 (1.049987) Thus, here also, when a smaller volume is described as converting into a larger, the verb used is tuāru, either taʾur (passages [13–14]) or ittuar (MARV 9.95:26, amounts

J. N. Postgate

231

Fig. 4.  Sarcophagus of P. Nonius Zethius (after Moritz 1958: pl. 7), showing different-sized measuring vessels (modii) and a strickle (rutellum).

lost). However, these examples (which are fully discussed by Freydank 1997a) are not dealing with different-sized measuring containers but with a difference caused by measuring in two different “modes.” Freydank showed that the difference between the volume of grain designated pišerti karuʾe (453,258 qû) and its volume when converted to šiḫṭu mode (475,915 qû) is almost exactly 5% (giving a ratio of 1:1.05). As Freydank comments, these passages do not tell us whether the difference in volume is to be attributed to a change in the condition of the grain or to a different measuring procedure: “Es bleibt zu fragen, ob es die Beschaffenheit der Gerste oder die Art des Messens ist, die zu der höheren Maßzahl führt” (Freydank 1994a: 26). It is self-evident that, where two stages in crop-processing are involved, the earlier stage will tend to occupy more volume than the later, since the different processes—threshing, winnowing, pounding, sieving, and other cleansing methods—are all aimed at removing components from the crop. However, the idea (which I supported, among other scholars) that šiḫṭu and other terms used in these contexts (ḫiṣnu, riḫṣu) refer to stages in the processing is now called into question by the evidence of MARV 2.8 (see passage [15] below). Instead, it is more likely that all the scribes were doing was converting a volume recorded in one “mode” into the same volume when a different mode was used, using an agreed ratio, and that only one measurement took place.

3.4.  The Measurement Process Nevertheless, we should not ignore the existence of a variety of competing physical containers, some of which were surely used to carry out the measuring process on site, as illustrated by the Egyptian tomb paintings (fig. 2; note the distinctive profile narrowing to the top, also seen in the Roman period, see fig. 4). In Assyria, the critical text that demonstrates the physical use of one specific measuring vessel is MARV 7.46 (fig. 3). Here, the top of the obverse is taken up with groups of 10 wedges formed of three rows of 3 crossed by a 10th wedge at the base. For anyone who has kept a tally by making a series of four strokes crossed by a fifth, it is obvious that this is the scribe’s mechanism for keeping a running count. After the 10s

232

Measuring Middle Assyrian Grain (and Sesame)

come 6 wedges, and we can work out from the total of 83 homers in the third line that there must have been three groups of 10 lost in the broken first line, making a total of 166, which is exactly twice 83. Proof that this is right comes from the end of the third line, where we read that the grain was measured “in the 5 sūtu measure”: in other words, it was a container holding half a homer at a time, which must have been much more convenient than measuring large volumes with a vessel holding only 8 or 10 liters. Even these half-homer vessels were not very large—if we accept 1 qû = 0.8 liters for the sake of argument, the sūtu would contain 8 liters, equivalent to a cube with sides of 20 cm, and the 5 sūtu measure would hold 40 liters, giving a cube with sides of 34.2 cm. One can easily see that measuring large amounts of grain with a 40-liter as opposed to an 8-liter vessel would have saved much time!

4.  The Measuring Technique 4.1.  Different Techniques By “technique,” I mean how the container is filled. This may sound obvious and simple, but it has been a matter of contention and confusion throughout history. Kula 1986 demonstrates this in detail for Poland and France in the 16th– 19th centuries AD, and his work illustrates the scope of disagreement and the way in which certain measuring techniques would be favored by certain social groups (e.g., peasants, merchants, and government officials). At least in Mesopotamia, we do not need to worry about the rival attractions of volume-measurement versus weight, which occurred in both Hellenistic Greece and France and Poland. 14 But other variations could well be relevant: these could include different techniques or containers for different crops (in Europe, oats seem often to have been treated differently from wheat). How and when a container is deemed to be “full” is particularly variable. While there are two simple major alternatives—filling the container till the grain is horizontally flush with the rim, or heaping it up into the highest possible conical mound—there are plenty of minor variations in the technique of measurement. In the first case, you fill the vessel to its rim and then scrape any excess away, leaving the contents smoothed flat, level with the rim. This was apparently a regular Old Babylonian practice, which could be carried out with the hand or with an implement as shown by the phrases šīq qāti and šīq mešēqim (kabrim, biruyim, etc.) ‘smoothed flat with the hand’ or ‘smoothed flat with the mešēqum’. 15 For the word mešēqum, Wilcke convincingly suggested ‘GlattstreichHolz’ on the basis of the Sumerian equivalent šu . . . ùr for the cognate verb šêqum ‘to level, smooth off’. 16 This implement is known in English as a ‘strickle’, and Veenhof (1985: 303 n. 47) gives the Demotic as gst and the Greek as skutálē. It was also used by the Romans: two are shown on a grain merchant’s funerary relief 14.  Stroud 1998: 54–56; Kula 1986: 53, 67–69. 15.  Veenhof 1985: 301 with n. 39. 16.  Wilcke 1983: 55–56, ad no. 2.

J. N. Postgate

233

Fig. 5a (top).  Relief on sarcophagus from the Sepolcro degli Scipione (after Ciancio Rossetto 1973: fig. 33). Fig. 5b (bottom).  Drawing: Elizabeth Postgate.

alongside his measuring containers: “Ruler-like wooden bars, like the two shown on the relief, were used for levelling off the grain in the measure” (Moritz 1958: 90; see fig. 4); the Latin is thought to be rutellum. For the strickle in use, see fig. 5, which is also from a sarcophagus: here we see one measuring container (modius?) being filled from a sack, while a second one is being smoothed flat with the slightly curved strickle before the grain goes to the rotary mule-driven quern on the right. 17 While to the uninitiated it might seem that this was a foolproof method of achieving a consistent result, the evidence cited by Kula from Poland and France indicates that the precise nature of the strickle can make a significant difference, and this explains why the Old Babylonian scribes sometimes specified which strickle was being used, ‘fat’ (kabrim), ‘medium’ (biruyim), or ‘thin’ (raqqim). 18 17.  From Ciancio Rossetto 1973: 46, fig. 33; reference from Corbier 1984: 74. Many thanks to Jonathan Barnes and Mark Jackson for their help in tracking down these two publications. 18.  Veenhof 1985: 304. Kula (1986: 51) cites a Polish statute of 1764 requiring the use of “an ordinary, broad wooden strickle, and not a cylindrical one” and also (1986: 62) comments that “a heavy cylindrical strickle could cram into the measure a goodly amount of extra grain.” Compare Lambert 1960: 132, 113: ṣābit sūti ina ṣil[ipti] nādin šīqāti ina biriyi

234

Measuring Middle Assyrian Grain (and Sesame)

Alternatively, one could heap as much as possibe into the vessel: this was reportedly the practice in 20th-century Palestine, where the vessel was also shaken vigorously to allow the grain to settle. Before storing the corn it is measured, which is done in the following manner: The man who does it squats down on the ground beside the heap of corn, with the measure between his legs; then, filling the measure about three-quarters full, he gives it a vigorous shake with a rotatory motion, making the grain settle closely down; next, filling it to the top, he gives it another shake, and then proceeds to press the corn down with both hands, using all his strength in doing so. This done, he piles up a conical mound of wheat or barley, gently patting it the while to press it together, and from time to time making a small hollow at the top, into which he pours the corn till it can literally not hold a grain more. This is the way corn is always measured, and to give less would not be good or full measure. (Wilson 1906: 212)

Already in 1st-century AD Palestine, we learned that the generous will give “good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over” (Luke 6:38). It is plain that, even after opting for one or the other of the two principal alternatives, there was room for variation, which could be exploited by the unscrupulous. For Hellenistic Greece, Stroud (1998: 59) writes of specifications on such important matters as (1) whether the measures of grain were to be heaped up or levelled off, (2) was the grain shaken, stirred, or stuffed into the containers? (3) from what height was the grain poured into the sekoma either from a sack or shoveled in from a heap on the floor and with what force? (4) . . . . . (5) what was the shape . . . . . and height of the container into which the grain was poured? Some of these factors can affect the weight and capacity of a standard container of wheat or barley to a significant degree, perhaps as much as 25 percent. 19

In 18th–19th-century Poland, Kula (1986: 48) reports that a prohibition on “compression” is found in many village judicial records, while in 17–18th-century France, he comments, “‘Shaking down’ by the buyer was regarded as dishonest, but by the seller as generous” (1986: 300 n. 28). How much grain could be persuaded into the container could also be affected by the height from which it was poured— dropped-arm or shoulder height, for instance (1986: 47), and of course if the shape of a container is changed so that it is lower but wider, it will support a larger mound above the rim. To sum up, then, the possible variables to bear in mind in the next section include at least the following: 1. flat or heaped 2. proportions of measuring container 3. type of strickle 4. height from which poured 5. compressed or not 6. shaken or not 7. running over or not mušaddin atra ‘one who holds the sūtu dishonestly, selling levelled (measures) with the medium (strickle), but collecting with the large one’. 19.  Many thanks to Prof. Lin Foxhall for guiding me to this work. For Rome, see Corbier 1984: 72–74.

J. N. Postgate

235

4.2.  ḫiṣnu and šiḫṭu The Old Babylonian mešēqum clause is absent from Middle Assyrian texts, but there are some phrases that must refer to measuring procedures. These principally involve the three words ḫiṣnu, riḫṣu, and šiḫṭu. Although they all have clear metrological relevance, being found in what I have called “metrological parentheses,” for each word we need to establish whether this refers to the state of the grain or to a measuring technique: the decision is not easy, and each term needs to be treated individually. There are certainly corrections to be made to what has been suggested in the past, not least to my own attempt in NABU 2006, but it may be that we still do not have enough varied contexts to provide the solution. First, as already indicated, we may note that in virtually all cases the terms in question are found in the context of measurement. We do not meet them, or cognate forms, in other contexts, where they might apply to a processing stage in the grain—for example, sieving or crushing. 20 Of the three rather similar terms, two, ḫiṣnu and šiḫṭu, are found in identical contexts and seem to be mutually exclusive alternatives, while riḫṣu behaves differently and is discussed later, below. Both ḫiṣnu and šiḫṭu are found in the accusative, governed by a following madid ‘measured’. As was already clear to Deller, this is an accusative of state and expresses the condition of the grain: “measured in the ḫiṣnu/šiḫṭu mode.” 21 The most informative context for ḫiṣnu remains MARV 2.20, first discussed briefly by Deller, edited in Jakob (2003: 505), and recently also summarized in Freydank (2010: 66–67). On the obverse of this tablet, grain is listed in two parallel columns. The left-hand column is headed: ŠE-um ḫi-iṣ-na ma-di-id / a-na É.GAL-lim ma-ḫi-ir ‘Grain measured in the ḫiṣnu mode, received for the palace’. The right-hand column is headed: ŠE-um ḫi-iṣ-nu LÁ.MEŠ i+na ŠU LÚ.MÁ.LAḪ4.MEŠ ‘Grain ḫiṣnu, deficits in the charge of the boatmen’. In line 11, the amounts of these boatmen’s deficits are totaled and described as ŠE-um ḫi-iṣ-na ma-di-id. In lines 17–18, the total amounts are summarized: [ŠU.NÍGIN]-ma 1089 ANŠE 6BÁN ŠE ḫi-iṣ-na ma-di-id maḫi-ir ⸢20⸣ ANŠE 4BÁN ŠE ḫi-iṣ-na um-ta-ṭí la-a ub-la ‘[Total:] 1089 homers 6 sūtu grain measured in the ḫiṣnu mode, received. 20 homers 4 sūtu grain ḫiṣnu he underpaid and did not bring’. It is clear that the two variant phrases here and in the heading mean the same thing; the use of ḫiṣnu without madid is a shortened version of the phrase, so ŠE ḫiṣna madid = ŠE ḫiṣnu. 22 20.  It is true, however, that we do not have many texts dealing with grain processing. 21.  Deller 1987. The scribes are punctilious about the case endings, and as I wrote (2006: 10): “The final -a is consistently used here and is certainly intended as an accusative. . . . This must therefore be an accusative of state, and specifically express the state in which the grain was measured: ‘in the ḫiṣnu state.’” I now prefer the word “mode” in place of “state” to avoid implying that the term refers to the condition of the grain rather than the measuring technique. 22.  The first to discuss this passage was Deller (1987: 58), and following him Jakob (2003) translated ḫiṣna madid ‘in Bezug auf Schwund abgemessen’, ‘measured in respect of loss’, and ŠE ḫiṣnu as ‘Gerste-Schwund’, ‘grain loss’. However, Deller’s remark is very brief; he merely describes the two halves of the first line as “the accountants’ allowance for the ‘loss’

236

Measuring Middle Assyrian Grain (and Sesame)

More recently, ḫiṣnu has turned up in the late Middle Assyrian texts from Giricano, north of the Upper Tigris. One grain loan there reads as follows: [15] Giricano 1.1–4 8 ANŠE 7BÁN ŠE-um.MEŠ i+na GIŠ.BÁN ša

gišal-la-ni

ri-iḫ-ṣu ḫi-iṣ-nu ša PN.

Radner (2004: 79) connected ḫiṣnu with the implement ḫaṣṣinnu and identified it as crushed grain or bulgur/burghul. In NABU 2006: 10, I attempted to amend her interpretation of the term, and like Jakob (2009) suggested a link to the verb ḫaṣānu ‘to protect’. That this etymological connection is correct is made virtually certain by the text MARV 2.8, to which none of us has paid sufficient attention. This is a letter to the offerings overseer Izbu-lešir about a delivery of sesame for the Aššur Temple, and it uses the verbs raḫāṣu and ḫaṣānu together in a way that obliges us to compare the coupling of riḫṣu with ḫiṣnu in Giricano 1 (passage [16]). The relevant lines read: [16] MARV 2.8:3–10 36

ANŠE ŠE.GIŠ.IÀ gi-na-a 4 1ḫu-ra-da-iu 5LÚ.MÁ.LAH5 6a-na UGU EN-ia 7ul-tebi-la 81 qa a-ta-ḫa-az 9i+na GIŠ.BÁN i-ra-ḫi-iṣ 10la i-ḫa-ṣi-in . . .

Grammatically, we must assume that the subject of the two verbs iraḫḫiṣ and iḫaṣṣin is the 1 qû (it cannot be the sesame, which is a plural noun). There do not seem to be any other candidates. My tentative translation would therefore be: ‘I have made Huradayu the boatman transport to my lord the 6 homers of sesame, regular offering. I have taken 1 qû, it was overflowing from the sūtu(-vessel), it was not being contained(?)’. In other words, I suggest that the author of the letter explains and justifies his retention of 1 qû of the sesame (only 0.167% of the total) for himself on the grounds that it would have been lost en route because it was escaping from its container. As for the meaning of the two verbs, my suggestion (2006) to connect riḫṣu with raḫāṣu B ‘to wash, bathe’ (CAD R 73) must be abandoned because that is an a/u verb: it should belong to raḫāṣu A, the present tense of which is iraḫḫiṣ. 23 A meaning ‘to overflow’ is reconcilable with von Soden’s ‘überschwemmen’ (AHw 942); this seems preferable to CAD’s meanings (R 69) ‘to trample, to kick, to destroy, to devastate’, which miss the verb’s regular association with flooding from Adad’s rainstorms. In Assyrian, ḫaṣānu is well attested, meaning ‘to protect, shelter’. This in the course of transport of large amounts of barley” (“die buchhalterische Bewältigung des ‘Schwunds’ beim Transport großer Gerstenmengen auf dem Wasserwege”; Deller 1987: 58), and his interpretation does not seem to fit with the text in general or to give any reason for understanding ḫiṣnu as ‘Schwund’. In any case, this meaning is abandoned in Jakob 2009: 91; see below. 23.  There is no reason to suppose that the Assyrian dialect differed from the Babylonian in this respect.

237

J. N. Postgate

will not exactly work here, but as a pure guess from the context, perhaps with a substance as its subject it could mean intransitively ‘to be kept in place’, that is, the opposite of ‘to overflow’. In other words, one might render ḫiṣnu ‘retention’, that is, a technique in which the sesame (or indeed grain)  24 was retained within the vessel, perhaps by scraping the top flat with a strickle. In any case, whether or not these precise interpretations of the two verbs prove right, this passage associates them with the way the substance measured behaves in relation to a sūtu as measuring vessel and, hence, with the technique of measurement, and this must mean that the cognate words riḫṣu and ḫiṣnu also refer to measuring technique (and not to a stage in crop processing). Note further that the substance being measured here is not a cereal with glumes or awns but sesame, which makes it difficult to accept Jakob’s most recent suggestion for ḫiṣnu of ‘grain still with its glumes (Spelzen)’. 25 It is admittedly attractive: it would offer a good explanation for the term ḫuṣa(n)nu, now well attested in the Durkatlimmu harvest accounts in the phrase adi ḫuṣani-šu (Röllig 2008: 192). One would take ḫuṣa(n)nu as the portion of the plant providing “protection,” hence the glumes, which once removed become “chaff.” Likewise ḫaṣunu, found once qualifying barley in Röllig (2008: no. 93.2) might be none other than the D-stem adjective (‘sheathed’). It would also provide an easy contrast to šiḫṭu (if this could refer to ‘stripped’ grain; see below), but despite these temptations it does not seem permissible to ignore the MARV 2.8 passage, where sesame rather than a cereal is being described, and the two verbs clearly refer to the behavior of measured grain, not a stage of crop processing. Turning then to šiḫṭu, this term is found in contexts similar to ḫiṣnu, as noted above. In MARV 2.20, after the opening section where amounts of ḫiṣnu grain are reported, another part of the shipment is recorded in the shape of amounts of grain from four of the boatmen, who are listed as bringing the grain in the first section to an official who issued it “to the workforce who kept the boats”: [17] MARV 2.20:25–26 25[x

x (x)] 7 ANŠE 8BÁN ŠE i+na GIŠ.BÁN ša ḫi-bur-ni ši-iḫ-[ṭ]a ma-di-id 1ki-din-dsîn i+na ŠU LÚ.MÁ.LAḪ .MEŠ im-ḫu-ru-ni 5

26ša

24.  Freydank (1992: 281) has pointed out that the various sūtu measures are not as frequently specified for sesame as they are for other ‘Schüttgut’ (barley, wheat and flour, also figs); that they are not used at all for honey and oil is presumably because they are both liquids, and some of the possible techniques used for grain (e.g., heaping, shaking, compressing) would not apply. 25.  Jakob (2009: 91) proposes ‘Getreide (, das noch) mit Spelzen (versehen ist)’, which associates the “Grundbedeutung der Wurzel ḫṣn (‘Schutz’ u.a.)” with a state of the grain in which the seed and the glume are still together—presumably, with the idea that the grain is protected by the glume. This sounds attractive, but it will become apparent that I believe it cannot be right.

238

Measuring Middle Assyrian Grain (and Sesame)

[Total] 7.8 homers of grain (measured) by the ḫiburnu sūtu, measured in the šiḫṭu (mode), which Kidin-Sin received from the charge of the boatmen. As already seen with ḫiṣnu, the regular phrase šiḫṭa madid is replaced in some contexts by the single word šiḫṭu qualifying grain (e.g., passages [13–14] above; also at Durkatlimmu and Giricano no. 8). Etymology is not helpful with this word, partly because here also there are two possible verbal stems, šaḫāṭu (a/u) ‘to draw off, strip off’ and šaḫāṭu (i/i) ‘to jump’, and partly because at Giricano the third radical appears not to be emphatic ṭ but a simple t. In 2006, I suggested that the word referred to grain from which the husks had been stripped, and this was accepted in principle in Jakob 2009; but in the light of my revised view of ḫiṣnu, I now think this was mistaken and that the word cannot be taken to refer to a processing stage of the crop. A second reason for rejecting this interpretation of šiḫṭu is the fact that in passages [13] and [14] the figure for šiḫṭu is greater than that for pišerti karuʾe, 26 which is improbable since any dehusking process would be expected to take place after the “releasing of the grainheaps” and to reduce, not increase, the volume of the crop. This difficulty does not exist if the šiḫṭu amounts refer to the same volume of grain, recalculated according to a conversion factor, yielding the figure estimated for the šiḫṭu mode of measurement. That this was a purely arithmetical procedure agrees with the fact that in both cases the figure for the šiḫṭu mode is precisely 1.05 times the figure for pišerti karuʾe, a result that would be unlikely if there were in fact two different measurements of the crop. In other words, the probability is that the grain was physically measured only once, at the “releasing of the grain heaps,” and that the šiḫṭu value was derived by adding 5% to that figure.

4.3.  riḫṣu In the context of measuring grain, the word riḫṣu is so far only attested in two Giricano texts, and it was first treated by Radner (2004: 76–79). She not unnaturally associated the word with raḫāṣu ‘überschwemmen; spülen’ (2004: 76) and commented that interpreting riḫṣu as floated grain (aufgeschwemmtes Getreide) poses no philological problems (2004: 77). 27 This contributes to her reconstruction of a bulgur-production line, which unfortunately founders on her association of ḫiṣnu with the implement ḫaṣṣinnu. In NABU 2006, I also associated raḫāṣu with a washing process and suggested that it refers to the “cleaned product,” in the same way as ḫiṣnu referred to a “stored product”; but, as already discussed, close consideration of MARV 2.8 (passage [16]) appears to invalidate both of these proposals. This passage seems to require us to understand both riḫṣu and ḫiṣnu as modes or techniques of measurement but, since ḫiṣnu and šiḫṭu are in a complementary distribution, most clearly in MARV 2.20 (see above in §4.3 and passage [17]), they must refer to two 26.  As pointed out in Freydank 2009: 21 n. 33. 27.  Though I am unclear how this fits with the translation of riḫṣu as ‘gedärrtes Getreide’ in Radner 2004: 76.

239

J. N. Postgate

mutually exclusive modes applying to the same aspect; whereas, since Giricano 1 has ri-iḫ-ṣu ḫi-iṣ-nu, and Giricano 8 has ri-iḫ-ṣu ši-iḫ-tú, these must be references to two different aspects of measurement. Though we must keep in mind the possibility drawn from its lexical value in other contexts that raḫāṣu in passage [16] could mean ‘to overflow’, it would be a neat solution if riḫṣu referred to a technique of filling to overflowing, which could obviously be used where either of two different techniques (ḫiṣnu and šiḫṭu) applying to a different aspect had been employed. What this aspect might be eludes me and is not transparent from etymology: hardly ‘shaken’ versus ‘unshaken’ or ‘loose’ versus ‘compressed’. A different route might be to assume that raḫāṣu referred instead to pouring the grain from an accepted height, in which case one of ḫiṣnu and šiḫṭu could refer to a sūtu filled only horizontally flush with the rim, and the other to a conically heaped container. Neither of these solutions is very convincing. Yet more uncertainty is introduced by yet another pirsu form, sikru, attested in an Aššur Temple offerings text from the beginning of Tiglath-pileser I’s reign: [18] MARV 7.7:15 30 ANŠE i-na GIŠ.5BÁN-te-ma 1ÌR-dgu-la LÚ.ŠIM si-ik-ra ma-di-id. 30 homers (grain) also (measured) in the 5-sūtu container, Urad-Gula the brewer, measured in the sikru mode. I have no idea what sikru means here, though one must suspect a connection with sekēru ‘to block’, which obviously could refer to some physical action in the measuring process.

5. (In)conclusions This leaves us with some rather inconclusive results: 1. ‘The release of the grain-heap’ (pišerti karuʾe) can be used to define the state of the grain when measured at the threshing floor, and this acts as a metrological statement. 2. At a later stage, there are two mutually exclusive measuring techniques referred to as ḫiṣnu and šiḫṭu. Their meaning remains uncertain (as does that of the once attested sikru). From passages [13–14], it emerges that at times the šiḫṭu mode yielded a figure 5% higher than the volume recorded when the grain was in pišerti karuʾe state. 3. The term riḫṣu seems to refer to still another variable, possibly a technique of pouring the grain so that it overflows, which can be used in association with either of the others. 4. In most cases where two different volumes are given, it is because the unit of measurement is different, not because the crop itself has been processed. The likelihood is that the volume was only physically measured once and that the scribe obtained the second figure mathematically by using a known coefficient expressing the relative contents of the two units or measuring techniques.

Note that neither ḫiṣnu or šiḫṭu is found in the same “metrological parenthesis” as pišerti karuʾe, so one might be tempted to see in pišerti karuʾe yet another measuring

240

Measuring Middle Assyrian Grain (and Sesame)

technique. While I prefer to think that it explicitly only refers to a stage in the crop processing, it may well be that the measuring procedure used when “releasing the grain-heaps” was sufficiently standardized and well accepted that the phrase implicitly conveyed the technique employed and therefore functioned as a metrological statement. As mentioned at the beginning, these metrological issues were obviously important to the Assyrian bureaucrats, and it is frustrating not to be able to offer more-convincing explanations. It is to be hoped that more texts or wiser heads will soon be able to resolve some of the outstanding obscurities.

References Ciancio Rossetto, P. 1973 Sepolcro del Fornaio Marco Virgilio Eurisace a Porta Maggiore. Rome: Istituto di Studi Romani. Corbier, M. 1984 Résumé des discussions. Pp.  72–74 in Les Mesures et l’histoire: Table Ronde Witold Kula, 2 mai 1984. Edited by B. Garnier and K. Pomian. Cahiers de Métrologie. Numéro Spécial. Paris: CNRS. Dalman, G. 1933 Arbeit und Sitte in Palästina, vol. 3: Von der Ernte zum Mehl: Ernten, Dreschen, Worfeln, Sieben, Verwahren, Mahlen. Schrifte des Deutschen Palästina–Instituts 6. Gütersloh: Bertelsmann. Deller, K. 1987 Review of MARV 2, by H. Freydank. AfO 34: 58–66. Freydank, H. 1974a Zwei Verpflegungstexten aus Kār-Tukultī-Ninurta. AoF 1: 55–89. 1985 Anmerkungen zu mittelassyrischen Texten. 2. OLZ 80: 229–34. 1991 Anmerkungen zu mittelassyrischen Texten. 3. AoF 18: 219–23. 1992 Das Archiv 18764. AoF 19: 276–321. 1994 Drei Tafeln aus der Verwaltung der mittelassyrischen Kronlandes. AoF 21: 13–30. 1997 Noch einmal zum Vorgang pišerti karūʾe. Pp.  129–43 in Ana šadî Labnāni lū allik: Festschrift für Wolfgang Röllig. Edited by B. Pongratz-Leisten, H. Kühne, and P. Xella. AOAT 247. Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker / Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. 2009 Kār-Tukultī-Ninurta als Agrarprovinz. AoF 36: 16–83. 2010 Nochmals zu den Gerste-Qualitäten šiḫṭu und ḫiṣnu in mittelassyrischen Texten. AoF 37: 63–67. Goetze, A. 1957 Old Babylonian documents from Sippar. JCS 11: 15–40. Jakob, S. 2003 Mittelassyrische Verwaltung und Sozialstruktur: Untersuchungen. Leiden: Brill. Kaufman, S. A. 1974 The Akkadian Influences on Aramaic. Assyriological Studies 19. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Kula, W. 1986 Measures and Men. Translated by R. Szreter. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Lambert, W. G. 1960 Babylonian Wisdom Literature. Oxford: Clarendon. Reprinted Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996.

J. N. Postgate

241

Llop(-Raduà), J. 2005 Die königlichen “großen Speicher” (karmū rabiʾûtu) der Stadt Assur in der Regierungszeit Salmanassars I. und Tukultī-Ninurtas I. MDOG 137: 41–55. 2006 Eine Bearbeitung der mittelassyrischen Urkunde Aula Orientalis Supplementa 1, Nr. 106. Pp. 275–81 in Studies Presented to Joaquín Sanmartín. Edited by G. del Olmo Lete, L. Feliu, and A. Millet Albà. Aula Orientalis Supplement 22. Rome: AUSA. 2010 Mittelassyrische Verwaltungsurkunden aus Assur: Texte aus den “großen Speichern” und dem Ubru-Archiv. Keilschrifttexte aus mittelassyrischer Zeit 7. WVDOG 124. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Moritz, L. A. 1958 Grain-Mills and Flour in Classical Antiquity. Oxford: Clarendon. Postgate, J. N. 2006 riḫṣu hiṣnu and šiḫṭu but Not Bulgur. NABU 2006: no. 12. Powell, M. A. 1989–90  Maße und Gewichte. RlA 7: 457–517. Radner, K. 2004 Das mittelassyrische Tontafelarchiv von Giricano/Dunnu-ša-Uzibi. Subartu XIV. Brepols. Röllig, W. 2008 Land- und Viehwirtschaft am Unteren Ḫābūr in mittelassyrischer Zeit. BATSH 9. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Saporetti, C. 1970 Emāru, sūtu e qaʾu nei documenti economici medio-assiri. RSO 44: 273–83. Stroud, R. S. 1998 Athenian Grain Tax Law of 374/3 BC. Hesperia Supplement 29. Princeton, NJ: American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Veenhof, K. R. 1985 SAG.ÍL.LA = s a g gi l û, “Difference Assessed”: On Measuring and Accounting in Some Old Babylonian Texts. Pp. 285–306 in Miscellanea Babyloniaca: Mélanges offerts à Maurice Birot. Edited by J.-M. Durand and J.-R. Kupper. Paris: ERC. Wilcke, C. 1983 Nachlese zu A. Poebels Babylonian Legal and Business Documents from the Time of the First Dynasty of Babylon Chiefly from Nippur (BE 6/2) Teil 1. ZA 73: 48–66. Wilson, C. T. 1906 Peasant Life in the Holyland. New York: Dutton. Wreszinski, W. 1923–42  Atlas zur altägyptischen Kulturgeschichte. Leipzig: Hinrichs. Zimmern, H. 1913 Akkadische Fremdwörter als Beweis für babylonischen Kultureinfluß. Leipzig: Delmann.