The Birth of History: From the Third Millennium to Herodotos (Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta, 311) 9042946563, 9789042946569

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O R I E N TA L I A L OVA N I E N S I A A N A L E C TA The Birth of History From the Third Millennium to Herodotos

by RONALD T. RIDLEY

P E E T ERS

THE BIRTH OF HISTORY

ORIENTALIA LOVANIENSIA ANALECTA ————— 311 —————

THE BIRTH OF HISTORY From the Third Millennium to Herodotos

by

RONALD T. RIDLEY

PEETERS LEUVEN – PARIS – BRISTOL, CT 2022

A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. © 2022, Peeters Publishers, Bondgenotenlaan 153, B-3000 Leuven/Louvain (Belgium) All rights reserved, including the rights to translate or to reproduce this book or parts thereof in any form. ISBN 978-90-429-4656-9 eISBN 978-90-429-4657-6 D/2022/0602/71

For Thérèse, who has lived fifty-seven years of history with me, and who knows quite a lot about what follows.

CONTENTS

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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1. Pharaonic Egypt

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2. Mesopotamia: Sumer, Akkad and Babylonia .

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3. Assyria .

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4. The Hittites and the Persians

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5. Hebrew Historiography .

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6. Herodotos

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Conclusion .

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Bibliography

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Index .

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

1. The Palermo Stone (recto) (Palermo)

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2. Senwosret I (Cairo Museum) .

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3. Thutmose III (Luxor Museum)

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4. The location of Thutmose’s annals in the temple of Amon-Re at Karnak (Baedeker, Egypt, 1929) . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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5. Eanatum leads the army of Lagash against Umma (the ‘Stele of the Vultures’: Louvre, from Lagash) . . . . . . . . . . . .

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6. The bronze head of an Akkadian king (Sargon?) from Nineveh (Baghdad Museum) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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7. The Sumerian King-List (the Weld Blundell prism: British Museum)

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8. Hammurabi’s Code: Hammurabi presents the laws to Shamash (Louvre, from Susa) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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9. The obelisk of Tiglath-Pileser I (British Museum, from Nineveh) .

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10. Ashurbanipal’s campaign against the Arabs (British Museum, from Nineveh) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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11. Ashurbanipal’s lion hunt (British Museum, from Nineveh)

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12. A Hittite war-chariot in action (Ankara Museum, from Carchemish)

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13. The Behistun Inscription of Darius (on site) .

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14. A marble bust, reputedly the portrait of Herodotos (Naples Museum) 131

INTRODUCTION

There are few words more important in world culture than ‘history’. This English word is derived from the Greek word historia, meaning ‘enquiry’. This is the origin also of French histoire, Italian storia, and Spanish historia, and even Russian istorya. Its route into English is, therefore, indirect, via the Norman Conquest. The influence in this case of Greek-speaking Europe (the other side of that great divide, the Adriatic) on western Europe, where languages often derive from Latin, is striking. Outside the Latin sphere, German preferred Geschichte, for which German etymological dictionaries can go no further back than Old German. It is the fundamental meaning of the word, however, which is vital. History is an enquiry; that is, a search for answers. One of the most basic human qualities, curiosity, is on high show. One begins with a question (or questions), to which the answer (or answers) is not already known, and all possible leads are followed until such answers can be discovered. History, by definition, cannot be the reproduction of set answers, or the repetition of matters already known. That has not always been the case. Here, then, is the answer to an objection that many will easily raise: that I am somehow imposing on the ancient world a modern definition of history, and thereby committing a fundamental error, that of anachronism or the imposition of cultural superiority—as if to ask questions, and seek answers and explanations are things understood only by the modern world. This would, indeed, be to insult ancient cultures in an amazing way. The fact remains, as will be shown in the following chapters, that the preclassical world did not have the freedom to seek true narratives of events, or, more importantly, to attempt to explain those events in a rational way. One can easily prove that there is nothing anachronistic about this analysis. We are dealing with societies where otherwise two and two made four, and their achievements in a scientific sense were truly remarkable. The ancient Egyptians were capable of architecture which still amazes us, where the four sides of a pyramid could be aligned with the four points of the compass to within a few degrees,1 and where doctors understood the fact that the pulse indicated the state of the heart, and could carry out trepanning on the skull to relieve pressure on the brain.2 There is nothing anachronistic about asking questions: curiosity is one of the very foundations of our human nature. The above 1 2

Eiddon Edwards, The pyramids of Egypt, 4th ed. 1991, 100. See the Edwin Smith Surgical Papyrus (c.1600 BC), ed. James Breasted, 2 vols, Chicago 1930.

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INTRODUCTION

achievements prove that seeking rational answers to problems seems to be equally fundamental. We ‘moderns’ do not, indeed, have any reason for feelings of superiority. It must be admitted that throughout history, including especially our own times, the vital definition of history as enquiry has been trodden underfoot. History has again been abused in order to become a way simply to reinforce dominant ideologies. It is striking that such abuse is usually the mark of tyranny. An indispensable condition of history, therefore, is freedom: freedom of enquiry. It is reassuring that regimes which have attempted to stifle such free enquiry have usually been short-lived—despite their infantile pretensions. There are conceptual problems here. No one has raised them as directly as Jacob Finkelstein.3 He laid great stress on the possibility—for him the certainty—that Western assumptions now dominate our concept of history, so that we do not give due credit to that concept in the great civilisations which are the subject of this book. That accusation must be addressed. Finkelstein, like many others, cites the famous definition of history enunciated by Johan Huizinga: ‘History is the intellectual form in which a civilisation renders account to itself of the past.’4 That is a fine example of the genius of this Dutch historian. Accepting this definition, how must we judge pre-classical historiography? Finkelstein asserts that ‘all civilizations (and primitive societies as well) are as aware of the past … as our own.’ That is debatable, to say the least. The main question remains, however, how they rendered an account of the (or their) past to themselves. In other words, how did they explain the past. It will become clear in the following chapters that often the motive of the preclassical ‘historians’ was anything but an explanation of the past. There was, obviously, some kind of record, but it usually served simply the most powerful section of human society, and that group was anything but loath to appeal in general to divine sanction of events, if any explanation were needed. It is sad to relate that a serious examination of the birth of history has long been rejected by very eminent historiographers. Edward Hallett Carr magisterially pronounced: ‘Like the ancient civilizations of Asia, the classical civilization of Greece and Rome was basically unhistorical.’5 This was unforgivable, given that Robyn Collingwood’s path-breaking book on history had been published sixteen years before. He defined history as answering questions about human actions in the past, by means of the gathering of evidence. Collingwood, professor of philosophy at Oxford, and an eminent archaeologist, knew how to investigate this history. He cited the Lagash-Umma war, and found that the account was not really history, but something resembling history. The Sumerians 3 4 5

Finkelstein 1963. Huizinga 1936, 9. Carr 1962, 145.

INTRODUCTION

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did not attempt to answer questions, but provided ‘merely a record of something the writer knows for a fact’. The subject was ‘not certain actions on the part of human beings, but certain actions on the part of gods’. In short, this was not history, but theology, for the information of worshippers. He also quoted the Creation Myth, the Moabite Stone, the annals of Esarhaddon, and Hebrew ethnography. It was thus Herodotos and Thucydides who take us into a new world.6 Closer to home, there is the cri de cœur of Omar Carena concerning the lack of understanding of historical method by modern historians of Egypt and Western Asia, because they are mainly philologists, or dazzled by archaeological discoveries.7 The birth of history had a long period of gestation. The indispensable requirements for creating some kind of record are twofold: a confidence that important things are taking place, and sufficient self-awareness to desire to preserve their memory for posterity. This book surveys some two and a half millennia in which records of various genres which are generally termed ‘historical’ were produced. They are ‘historical’ accounts in two ways: they are the ways in which the cultures of the past tried, in Huizinga’s words, to keep a record or make sense of what had happened for themselves, and they allow us to reconstruct that past. In the fifth century, however, a whole new world opened, in a society which was enjoying an explosion of enquiry on many fronts, and which, not without relevance, found itself located between the great empires of the East and the bustling, competitive world of the Hellenes, where at least one state was forging, for all its faults, the most complete democracy ever known. History was born.8 Note on names: 1. Ancient names are given, for the preclassical, in the standard form, an agreed transliteration, given the nature of the pre-alphabetical writing systems. When we come to Greece, however, with an alphabet, Greek names must be given in Greek form, instead of their holders masquerading as Romans— an historical nonsense. 2. Modern names will be given with both forename and surname in the first citation in the chapter, after that only by the latter. This is both a matter 6

Collingwood 1946, 9-17. Carena 1989. His bibliography is (necessarily) highly selective, and he does not give enough attention to ideological distortions, notably German scholars during the Nazi era. 8 The original nature of this present study may be indicated by the fact that, for example, Gerald Press, The development of the idea of history in antiquity, 1982, despite the title, will be found, in fact, to be restricted to Graeco-Roman and Christian historiography! And Ernst Brejsach, Historiography, ancient, medieval and modern, Chicago 1983, 2nd ed., 2007 is entirely misnamed: the word ‘western’ should be inserted at the very beginning. 7

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INTRODUCTION

of courtesy, and a matter of necessity; otherwise how will one know the appropriate gender of pronouns? There are two further points which should, in fact, be otiose: 1. The bibliography is substantial, but cannot satisfy experts in any of the half a dozen specialist fields traversed—but this book is not for them. I will be content if my analysis of the modern scholarship is representative. The texts are the thing. And if any of the specialists in the pre-Herodotean period are discomforted by the negative conclusions, it is to be noted that I follow the guidance of many of those specialists. 2. In the course of the survey of that modern scholarship, many scholars are cited who wrote more than five minutes ago. The value of any such scholars is determined not by the date at which they wrote, but by their sense and contribution. Historians, of all people, should not disdain their predecessors, on whose shoulders they stand.

CHAPTER 1

PHARAONIC EGYPT

Pharaonic Egypt was one of the most extraordinary cultures in the history of the world. The length of its existence alone renders it remarkable. After a long ‘prehistory’ of several millennia, the various smaller local communities (later known by the Greek name of nomes, meaning ‘sections’) had already been gathered into two kingdoms, Upper (south) and Lower (north) Egypt, so called by the flow of the Nile. Unity was suddenly achieved, for reasons which are still debated, by the conquest of Lower Egypt by Upper, led by its king ‘Menes’. He thus became the first king of the First Dynasty. The Greek Manetho, high priest at Heliopolis in the early third century, divided Egyptian history into thirty-one dynasties,1 followed by the Greek Ptolemies, until the conquest of Egypt by Rome in 30 BC. The classical history of Egypt is divided into three broader sections: Old Kingdom (dynasties 3-8, regarding as separate the first two, known as the ‘archaic’ period), Middle Kingdom (dynasties 11-13), and New Kingdom (dynasties 18-20). In her subsequent history, Egypt suffered various foreign invasions: the Persians (dynasty 27) and the Macedonian Ptolemies (dynasty 31). Given the enormous time spans involved, we shall consider Egyptian ideas of history under the three main kingdoms. The geography of Egypt is very special. There is no longer, narrower country. What used to connect it together was the free-flowing Nile, which provided another vital benefit: the annual fertilization of the narrow strip of agriculture along both banks. The speed with which solid government was established in Egypt is remarkable, and the cultural achievements of the Old Kingdom are astonishing, especially in art and architecture. The vital condition, matters to celebrate, is thus fulfilled. Another stimulus of importance to a complex government such as Egypt was the need for bureaucratic records. And yet the Egyptians had no word for history, and no history survives from the dynastic period. Ludlow Bull goes so far as to suggest that the Egyptians do not seem to have thought in terms of cause and effect.2 John van Seters, on the other hand, stressed that the Egyptians had ‘a great interest in, and reverence for, the past’. They were ‘at pains to record important historical events for posterity’, 1 This is the schema created by the third century Greek priest, Manetho, which we still use, despite knowing its total artificiality. For the many problems with Manetho’s dynasties, see Thomas Schneider in Adam 2008, 181-196. 2 Bull 1955, 3, 20, 32.

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and Herodotos was highly impressed with their records.3 Donald Redford is more direct: the search for a pharaonic historiographic text according to our understanding is futile.4 One of the most important analyses was provided by Eberhard Otto.5 It is rich in insights. He pointed to anti-historical acts, such as duplications of records in the Libyan campaigns of Sahure and Piopi II. There were ‘silences’ (censorship) in the record, about matters such as the uncertain succession in the Fourth Dynasty, the death of Amenemhet I (see below) and, worst of all, the obliteration of the Amarna period from history. There were, in fact, taboos in texts in Egypt, as in art. History had, in short, to obey ‘given truths’ and bring these into step with reality. There were ‘lasting reciprocal relations’ between history and religion. The concepts of repetition, or duration and perpetuity, were also dominant in Egyptian thinking. Each king on accession became Osiris’ son, Horus; each king on death became Osiris. And on accession, each king re-enacted the act which symbolized the foundation of the Egyptian monarchy, the unification of the Two Lands. On his thirtieth anniversary each king celebrated (or underwent) the Heb Sed, the ceremony of rejuvenation. The king as the upholder of Maat (right order) was regarded as responsible for daily repeated phenomena, such as night and day, and annual phenomena, such as the Nile flood. The whole history of the monarchy was thus cyclic. And for each Egyptian, death was regarded as a rebirth. In sum, we may be able to use certain Egyptian records to reconstruct the past, but that was not their purpose for the Egyptians. Two of Otto’s examples are most telling. He proves, in fact, that the Egyptians moved backwards in terms of historical understanding. In the Old Kingdom annals (see below), before the First Dynasty is a line of predynastic kings. In king-lists of the Empire, these rulers are converted into gods! Second, there could not be a more flagrant way of making nonsense of history than the common practice of the usurpation of one king’s monuments by another. It is as if Colin St John Wilson were to chisel off Sir Christopher Wren’s name on one of his churches and replace it with his own! OLD KINGDOM (DYNASTIES 3-8), c.2700-2180 Egypt created multifarious genres of literature. Much of it in the Old Kingdom was religious, most notably the Pyramid Texts, the spells used by the kings to ensure their survival of the many tests before they attained a blessed 3

Van Seters 1983, 127-128. Redford 1986, xv. I place in a special category Pascal Vernus, Essai sur la conscience de l’histoire dans l’Égypte pharaonique, Paris 1995. Vernus posits a ‘pharaonic ideology’ which rejected any idea of historical events, being fixated on the ‘First Time’, the origin of the world. 5 Otto 1966. 4

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afterlife. There was also cosmogony: the ‘Memphite Theology’.6 On a more human level, in a society which was conservative and valued decorum, ‘didactic literature’ provided the necessary guidance. The most widespread historical genre, however, is provided by the (auto)biographical accounts of the dead in their sepulchral inscriptions. Of these the best known is the Biography of Weni (Sixth Dynasty).7 This is a characteristic tomb inscription. It asks no questions. Its primary purpose is self-justification, to explain the many services rendered in this life to the king (in this case three of them), and to claim, therefore, the right to continue such service in the afterlife. Weni was, in fact, buried at the important cemetery of Abydos, burial place of Osiris himself, ruler of the dead, and cemetery of the kings in the first two dynasties. It contains at the same time for us a wealth of historical information—but this was, it must be noted, anything but Weni’s purpose! Weni’s career was long and glorious, and he tells us of the many offices held. We already have examples of a theme in such autobiographies: that the honours bestowed were unprecedented. One has to outdo one’s predecessors and contemporaries. His special relationship with Piopi I is proven by the way the king provided him with a fine sarcophagus. He also entrusted him with the most delicate affairs, an investigation of some trouble in the royal harem, an accusation against Queen Weret-Yamtes (we may note that harems have always been notorious for providing more trouble than pleasure: they are always the centres of intrigue). The most notable historical events described are a major expedition against the ‘Asiatic Sand-dwellers’. Troops were drawn from both Upper and Lower Egypt (the administration retained the basic predynastic division of south and north, because the country was too ‘long’) and even from Nubia and Libya. It is unfortunate that the geographical indicators provided by Weni do not allow precision about the object of the obviously major expedition: perhaps Sinai or Palestine. No motive is suggested. The results are reported in a triumphal manner: massacre and destruction. Then there is a fundamental admission: the army had to be led five times, ‘as often as the Sand-dwellers rebelled’. Weni was so carried away by his anxiety to boast of ‘success’ that he did not realize that he was providing a ‘counter-narrative’.8 Under Merenre, Weni became governor of Upper Egypt. He seems to have conducted two censuses (see below). His indispensability and closeness to this king are shown by the crucial part he played in bringing the king’s sarcophagus 6

The Pyramid Texts are translated by Richard Faulkner, Oxford 1969; the ‘Memphite Theology’ is translated by John Wilson, in Pritchard 1969, 4-6. 7 Translation by Miriam Lichtheim 1973, 1.18-23, Nigel Strudwick 2005, 312-327. Weni’s name used to be read Uni. The genre of tomb autobiography did, of course, change over the long centuries: Nicolas Grimal 1992, 82. 8 It is therefore not true to claim that the text is entirely positive.

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from its quarry at Ibhat, granite fittings from Yebu, and an alabaster altar from Hatnub, all for the king’s pyramid at Sakkara. In addition, five canals had to be cut, and many boats built with wood provided by ‘foreign chiefs’ in Nubia, in order to convey the granite blocks for the pyramid. These complicated expeditions, requiring skills about which Weni boasts (and we may well forgive him), provide fascinating evidence for the building of such a royal pyramid and the vast investment of national resources in their construction. The subject of this text is Weni; it was surely composed by him, prepared against his death. It is designed to serve his main purpose of attaining eternal afterlife. He must therefore stress his unique services to the king, in whose continuing service he hopes to accomplish that. There is no trace of an historical enquiry here—but that has never been the purpose of such epitaphs. They are full of confident assertions. They point to ideal types, even stereotypes.9 It is the modern historian of Egypt, however, who can convert even a self-justifying funerary text to serve the purposes of history. The great expedition into Asia was caused by a quarrel with the Bedouin over the mines of Wadi Maghara.10 The size of the army is exaggerated, but its composition is noteworthy. Weni’s expedition was ‘a full scale invasion, highly successful, far from base’.11 The office of governor of the south becomes important, to control the nomarchs, and exact labour and taxes.12 The enemy is called the ‘Sand-dwellers’ (heriu-sha), by way of denigration, but the threat they represented indicates that they occupied a ‘considerable part of Southern Palestine’.13 There is a remarkable—but enigmatic—Old Kingdom text, surviving only in fragmentary form, which is the closest from this period to an historical record in its own right. These are the Old Kingdom ‘annals’, otherwise known from the main fragment as the ‘Palermo Stone’, because the major fragment has found its final resting place in Sicily! There are also four smaller fragments in Cairo, and another in London (UCL).14 In their original form the annals covered from the predynastic kings to the Fifth Dynasty. They presumably were compiled then, but by that time were looking back more than eight centuries! The detail included, however, indicates that the compilers believed that they had accurate records of the names of 9

Grimal 1992, 83. Rosalie and Anthony David 1992, 101 provide only a summary. Étienne Drioton and Jacques Vandier 1952, 207. 11 Jean Bottero 1971, 360-361. 12 Drioton and Vandier 1952, 207-208, 212. 13 Alan Gardiner 1961, 98. As Roland de Vaux 1971, 226, 236, pointed out, their location must be Palestine, given the importance of figs and vines. 14 The earliest edition is by Heinrich Schaefer 1902. A first translation was provided by James Breasted 1906, 1, pp. 51-72. The four Cairo fragments were published by Henri Gauthier 1914, the London fragment by Flinders Petrie 1916. Translation of the entries for the Fourth and Fifth Dynasties by Strudwick 2005, 65-74. 10

PHARAONIC EGYPT

Fig. 1: The Palermo Stone (recto).

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kings, of the lengths of their reigns, of some important events in the early dynasties, and much greater detail from the Fourth Dynasty, as well as of the height of the Nile inundation each year from the First Dynasty. On reflection, this amounts to an historical record which demonstrates a consciousness of the importance of events from the earliest times.15 The one element of obvious administrative value is the record of the inundation, since its vagaries could have serious consequences: flooding or drought. For comparable texts, one will have to wait until the Nineteenth Dynasty: the Turin King-List and the Abydos King-List (BM), but these are, as the name indicates, simply lists of king’s names, with, in the case of the former, a total of each king’s years of rule. The formatting of the stone shows great attention to detail. There was obviously nothing known about the predynastic kings: only their names are given, first of Upper, then of Lower Egypt, with indications, it seems, of an early unification of the Two Lands (some kings wear the Double Crown).16 From the First Dynasty, each king’s reign is identified by his cartouche and name above the annual compartments, in the centre of the span of his years. In this case, if we can number any surviving year, we can calculate the length of that king’s reign. In the main section of each register, each yearly compartment is clearly divided by the symbol for a year (renpet) from those on either side. When a king died, the line indicating the end of the year was extended to the register above, and the fractions of the year under the old and new king were recorded (2.2-3, 5.7). Within each annual compartment are listed major ‘events’. Under each annual compartment, finally, is the height of that year’s inundation, measured in cubits, palms and fingers. The height, registered obviously at a central location (Nilometers survive), varied between 1 and 8 cubits (1 cubit = 53 cms).17 These annals confront one of the most fundamental problems of ancient chronology: how to identify years in history. With a monarchy, such as most of the pre-classical cultures, the obvious answer was: by the number of the regnal year of each king. It was helpful in this case to have a full list of kings and totals of years for their reign: the annals provided these. The Egyptians were also fond of king-lists, and many survive, but it must be emphasized that they were instruments of propaganda and ideology.18 The annals go further, 15

Helmut Freydank 1984, 385-386 relies on these annals to state that the Egyptians knew nothing of history: the ‘description of history was dictated by Maat’, the stereotypical reassertion of order with each new reign, or dynasty. 16 It is striking that by the time of the Turin king-list, history has gone backwards: the predynastic kings have become divine or mythical, and a divided country is claimed to be already unified! Van Seters 1983, 135-136. 17 This may now all seem so clear and so simple, but our understanding is the product of a century of close and ingenious analysis by leading scholars: Ridley 1979. 18 The Abydos list, for example, omitted dynasties 9-10 and the early Eleventh, the Second Intermediate Period (dynasties 14-16), and the Amarna period (late Eighteenth), clearly meaning that these rulers were illegitimate in some sense.

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gaining an additional advantage: they name each year after a major event.19 This allows for advertisement, and could enrich the bare record. The complexity of the Egyptian calendar, however, raises the question what year is being used here. Alan Gardiner proved that it is the civil year, of three seasons, not the regnal year, dating from each king’s accession, which was used in the New Kingdom. That this is the case is proven by the above-mentioned ‘divided’ years, when the old and new kings shared the year.20 The original stone in its entirety has been calculated to have measured some two metres in length, and sixty centimetres in height, with text on both recto and verso, so that it had to be free-standing.21 On the important question of its original location, Gardiner is undoubtedly right: in some temple.22 This is confirmed by its predominantly religious nature, as will be shown. The location of that temple unfortunately eludes us.23 Only one fragment has a sure provenance: Memphis.24 Most of the early kings’ names are lost: surviving for the first three dynasties is King Neterimu (Second Dynasty), in register 4. On the Cairo fragment, a complete reign of nine years is preserved, but again the king’s name is lost! Then by register 6, Sneferu (Fourth Dynasty) is obvious. This means that most of the recto was taken up with the first three dynasties: the kings of the First and Second Dynasties were numerous and long-lived. This is a most puzzling document. It seems to be in four distinct sections. The predynastic kings are listed only by name. The ‘events’ of the early dynasties (second section) seem to be artificially reconstructed: there are recurring religious festivals down to the mid-Second Dynasty (‘worship of Horus’, ‘feast of x’, ‘birth of x [a deity’s name]’: apparently the creation of a cult image), but also the all-important ‘Sed jubilee’ (3.3), the ritual of rejuvenation celebrated traditionally after thirty years’ reign. By register 3, however, we seem to have events: ‘smiting of the Troglodytes’ (3.2), ‘stretching of the cord for the house of x’ (3.7, 4.2, 5.11), that is, measuring the foundations, and ‘hacking up of the city x’ (4.8), obviously a military operation. From the Second Dynasty occurs what appears to be a biennial ‘census’ (‘occurrence of the numbering’). The accession of a king is registered by an evocative formula: ‘Appearance of the King of Upper Egypt. Appearance of the King of Lower Egypt. Union of the Two Lands. Circuit of the Wall’ (5.8). This records the accession rituals, always 19

This system was widely used: in Old Kingdom Egypt, and in Babylonia c. 2400-1600. Gardiner 1945. 21 Ian Shaw and Paul Nicholson 1995, 218; Walter Emery 1961, 22-23 may be their source: he gives 7’ × 2’. The annals are used by him throughout his epoch-making book, and he values them at ‘beyond price’. 22 Gardiner 1961, 62. 23 Shaw and Nicholson 1995, 218. 24 Drioton and Vandier 1952, 156. Bull 1955, 4 suggested the capital, Memphis. No provenance was suggested by Astorre Pellegrino 1890: it was inherited in the family; or by Schaefer 1902. 20

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re-enacting the unification, in a symbolic circuit of the walls of Memphis by the king. By register 6 of the recto, the reign of Sneferu, founder of the Fourth Dynasty, was reached. The nature of the record here changes dramatically. This is the third ‘section’. Four annual compartments occupy the whole fragment. Listed are ship-building, expeditions against Nubia, importing of vast amounts of cedar, presumably from Lebanon (6.2), and construction of more large ships, one of cedar wood (6.3), and of a double royal palace (6.4). The Fifth Dynasty (the fourth ‘section’) occupied, it seems, almost the whole of the verso, but what a disappointment! The annual compartments of events are entirely taken up with grants of land and offerings to temples, with one exception: the importation of precious metals and spices (verso 4.1). Gardiner most skilfully alerted us to a fundamental question over the difference in details between dynasties 1-3 and 4-5: ‘either the happenings of the more remote centuries had passed into oblivion or else they were deemed of little importance in comparison with the signal successes of recent times’.25 More concerning is the possibility that the former were a creation of the two later dynasties, for their own purposes. The fundamental question, therefore, is the sources available to the compilers in the Fifth Dynasty, and their reliability. Patrick O’Mara has listed a number of worrying elements.26 On the recto, registers 4-5, two-thirds of the ‘events’ are repetitive (such as ‘festivals of Horus’ and censuses). Nearly half the Nile heights on the recto are duplicates. There is often disagreement among the various king-lists over the identity and order of kings. This would be strange if there were a canonical list kept from the beginning. Redford observed that the transition from naming one event for each year to recording a number of important events has its origin in tablets of the Early Dynastic Kings. The Old Kingdom did not, in fact, publicize the achievements of individual kings, because of theories regarding the monarchy, such as the alternation Horus/Osiris and the focus on order (ma’at). The full concealment of the individual king is achieved by the Fifth Dynasty, recording not events but grants. We are left with the paradox that historical detail declines as we progress!27 25

Gardiner 1961, 63. O’Mara 1996. As often with such critical approaches, however, mathematical fantasy can be used to prove anything: the ‘bloc’ of thirty-six years at the end of the Third Dynasty (6, 6, 24 years) is taken to be invented as a reflection of the thirty-six weeks of the civil calendar! O’Mara’s imagining of the process of compilation is his most fantastic contribution: the scribes were ‘arranging manifold bits of pottery, wood and ivory gathered from dilapidated tomb areas or from royal collections.’ He asserts that there is no parallel for such authentic records with other people at the same stage, such as the Romans of the early republic: on the contrary, we do have the consular fasti, not entirely reliable though they may be. Royal dynasties tend to keep lists of themselves. And we know that the Egyptians kept records of the Nile floods: this was not a matter of self-consciousness, but of basic administration with an eye to avoiding disaster, and essential from earliest times. 27 Redford 1986, 86, 127f. 26

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If these ‘annals’ had survived entire, however, what would we have had? We would have had an exact sequence of the kings of the first five dynasties, and the total years of each of their reigns, and therefore the total for the first five dynasties.28 This is a period where there has been great controversy over ‘long’ and ‘short’ chronologies. Gardiner, however, put his finger on it precisely: the real answer is that the complete ‘annals’ ‘would have taught us as much about the achievements of the past as the Pharaohs of Dynasty V wished posterity to learn.’29 We can go further. We would have had this Fifth Dynasty selection of annual events, but it is a selection without internal connection—a list of unconnected events. That may serve economic, administrative or legal purposes, and may constitute a precursor of history. They are the raw materials of history30—but that is not history. A final, fundamental and very difficult question remains. What was the purpose of these records? It is fascinating that this, one of the earliest ‘historical’ such records, is already arranged in annalistic form, and that the calendar is not the regnal year but the civil year. It would also have been one of the earliest attempts at ‘year naming’, had the events been real and discrete. The ‘events’ of the first three dynasties, however, apart from being often repeated formulae, are overwhelmingly religious, and therefore presumably were meant simply to demonstrate the kings’ piety and their observation of recurring ritual and maintenance of normality. There are, however, two elements which are in quite a different category: the seemingly exact lengths given for each reign, and the recorded heights of the annual Nile flood. If these are to be trusted, the latter was clearly of value to later administrators. The purpose of the Fifth Dynasty verso has been discussed, and is clear: these records were obviously designed to prove the piety of these kings.31 The modern historian is able, of course, to turn the ‘argument’ on its head: here is proof of the coming collapse of the Old Kingdom, as massive tracts of Egypt were handed over to the control of the priesthood. In sum, we have here an ‘overview’ of the first five dynasties which is anything but what it seems: a simple précis of rulers with dates and events. It was a heavily weighted interpretation of the Old Kingdom, obviously serving very important purposes, which we now struggle to untangle, but a document of high propaganda. 28 The ‘Turin Canon’ (a king-list of the Nineteenth Dynasty), does provide a most important total: 955 years Dynasties 1-8. 29 Gardiner 1961, 63. It is no surprise that such annals should be found later in Egypt, in the Middle Kingdom; for example, the more recently discovered fragment of annals of Amenemhet II: Malek and Quirke 1992, and of such detail that two part-years require forty-two columns. 30 Otto 1966, 174 again. 31 Burr Brundage 1954, 204-205 saw the annals, indeed, as created ‘as an instrument of royal power in a revolutionary period—the Re crisis of the fifth dynasty’. The priesthood of Re of On (Heliopolis) was disputing the ‘divine primacy’ of the pharaoh. The annals reasserted the kings’ piety.

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THE MIDDLE KINGDOM (c.2050-1650) After a brief fragmentation of the country, breaking up under the control of strong local rulers (nomarchs), unity was re-established by Monthotep at the end of the Eleventh Dynasty at Thebes. The total upheaval that followed the end of the Old Kingdom must not, however, be underestimated. Another major change occurred when that dynasty was replaced by the Twelfth. We can only conjecture about the reason, but here was a case where such a dynastic transition marked a real break: Amenemhet was the vizier of the last Monthotep. It is no wonder that the famous literary productions of the Twelfth Dynasty can be demonstrated to serve political purposes.32 A major source for the history of the time remains, as during the Old Kingdom, the records of high-ranking individuals. The funerary spells of this period are now known appropriately as the Coffin Texts, signifying that they could be used by all classes on their coffins, not only kings in their pyramids. Didactic or ‘wisdom’ literature remained important, where the wise shared their wisdom with those less wise, but now featuring even kings’ advice to their successors. There were prophecies, naturally invented post eventum, and highly political. It is, however, as we shall see, the entertaining ‘story’ which is most characteristic of this monarchy. The founder of the Twelfth Dynasty, Amenemhet I, purported to leave instructions for his son and successor Senwosret I.33 It is a very short text, and again it is one of the most revealing for historians, who are able to penetrate behind its main purpose. This is remarkable enough in itself: a celebration of the king’s successful and generous rule. ‘I gave to the beggar, I raised the orphan, I gave success to the poor as to the wealthy’. ‘None hungered in my years… I had assigned everything to its place’ (fundamental to good rule was good order, but it had particular potency here in the transition from one dynasty to another). Egypt’s peace was protected against hereditary neighbours: ‘I repressed those of Wawat (Nubia), I captured the Medjai, I made the Asiatics do the dog walk.’34 A grand palace was built with every precious material: gold, silver, lapis lazuli, acacia wood, copper, and bronze. Here is a clear picture of an ideal ruler by Egyptian canons of this time.35 Amenemhet was not, 32

The fundamental study of this literature in its political context remains Georges Posener

1956. 33 Translation by Lichtheim 1975, 1.135-139; and again, in COS 1 (1997), 66-68, Richard Parkinson 1991, 49-52. Foster 1981 reconstructed the missing conclusion, especially relying on Chicago ostracon 13636, and preferring the title ‘testament’. Compare the ‘Instruction for king Merikare’ by his father (translation by Lichtheim 1975, 1.97-109), but Amemenhet is far more autobiographical: Posener 1956, 64. 34 Making the Asiatics ‘walk like dogs’ is found also in Sinuhe and the Amarna Letters (60-61). 35 The text was a ‘political blueprint’—if one read selectively!—and very popular from the reign of Thutmose, and notably in the case of Senenmut, who was buried with copies of both this

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however, a good story teller, because he inverted the dramatic order. Before this he had already made a stunning revelation: he had been assassinated!36 The ‘instruction’ to his son or testament allows us to recover some of the history. ‘Beware of subjects who are nobodies’. ‘He who ate my food raised opposition’. ‘He whom I gave my trust used it to plot’. There is class conflict here, and the king has been betrayed. Amenemhet later refers enigmatically to women, along with ‘rebels in the palace’. Then comes the dramatic account of the king’s death: ‘It was after supper, night had come. I was taking an hour of rest… As my heart began to follow sleep, weapons for my protection were turned against me … it was a combat of the guard. Had I quickly seized weapons, I would have made the cowards retreat, but no one is strong at night; no one can fight alone.’ (tr. Lichtheim)

The crux of the king’s loneliness is that his son Senwosret was absent. That part of the story is taken up by Sinuhe (see below). This text is, as usual, even despite the quite extraordinary situation, full of statements of fact. It raises no questions, however, most obviously, why Amenemhet was assassinated. It seems to offer answers, but they constitute, in fact, a paradox. The king had done all he could for his subjects, but had been betrayed by those he trusted, even his guard, within the palace at a time of rest, when he was most defenceless, and with his son absent. The purpose of the text is most commonly taken to be to justify the king, and advise his son so that he might avoid a similar fate, or, if it is a ‘testament’, it is to ensure the succession of his son Senwosret.37 One might expect the advice to result in a cynical, paranoid successor and unpleasant conditions for his subjects, but there is no evidence for that. The modern historian, however, can use this text for a quite different purpose, to reconstruct the death of Amenemhet. The main problem is that, if Amenemhet was assassinated, he could hardly have written this for his son. The dead were imagined in Egypt as being capable and Sinuhe: Grimal 1992, 163, 211. Amenemhet was, however, ‘both an embittered old man and an ideal ruler’: Parkinson 1991, 48. Posener 1956, 65 preferred to emphasize bitterness as the king’s main sentiment (‘trust not a brother, know not a friend’)—but this is also the most human image of the king in the whole of Egyptian literature. 36 This was so unexpected a revelation, that many Egyptologists claimed that there was only an attempt on the king’s life! Assassination is accepted: Posener 1956, 66-75; Gardiner 1961, 130; Hayes 1971, 498; Foster 1981, 46: he was attacked in his bed, ‘probably at the instigation of female members of the royal circle’; Grimal 1992, 161; Nathalie Favry 2009, 34. The text was composed by a ‘talented scribe’ Achthoes under Senwosret (Hayes); cf. by a scribe named Khety: after the death of Amenemhet, as stated in Pap. Chester Beatty IV: Posener 1956, 66; Foster 1981, 36, Parkinson 1991, 48, 150. It is therefore ‘pseudo-autobiographical’. 37 Wolfram Grajetski 2006, 33 thought that the story was to justify co-regency. To the contrary, Amenemhet states that his death was ‘before the courtiers had heard that I would hand over to you’, and, as Foster 1981 stressed, Amenemhet was dead (he had ‘ascended into the bark of Re’), but Senwosret was not yet king. There is therefore no evidence here for co-regency. A testament was therefore necessary.

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of having letters written to them,38 but this text is more obviously explained as a composition dating to the reign of Senwosret to ‘justify’ his assassinated father and his own accession.39 It is, in short, a piece of propaganda, albeit very clumsy, because it has at the same time made the most amazing admissions. Given its political importance, it must have been widely circulated, but we can only surmise the means. The text is preserved in various Eighteenth Dynasty sources: papyri, wooden tablets, and ostraca, showing that it was popular by then as a scribal exercise. Posener suggested that it might have been inscribed at the king’s tomb at el-Lisht40—but that seems unlikely. The details here, in fact, dovetail perfectly with the most famous so-called ‘story’ of this era: the Tale of Sinuhe.41 He was a servant in the royal harem, especially serving Senwosret’s wife, Princess Nefru. Then disaster struck: the death of Amenemhet, in his thirtieth year of reign. This is first depicted simply as the cause of intense grief. The details become much darker: Senwosret was, in fact, absent, at this time on an expedition in Libya. Messengers reached the prince, and the situation was so serious that he departed post-haste with only a few attendants, without letting his army know. Sinuhe was on the campaign,42 as were other sons of Amenemhet, and he overheard one of them speaking. He then behaved in a way which was to compromise him deeply: he fled. He first went south, then crossed the Nile, before turning north to cross the border into Asia, hiding on the road he travelled. ‘I believed that there would be turmoil’. If the succession were assured, why should there be turmoil? There would be if the king had been assassinated, and, even worse, if there were a plot to kill also Senwosret.43 The precise route of Sinuhe until he reached the border (the ‘Walls of the Ruler’) has been one of the most discussed aspects of the story,44 but it not germane to our purpose. Suffice to say he tells us that he had to move south from Libya, cross the Nile, then turn north across Sinai. He hid by day and moved by night, until he reached the land of the ‘Asiatics’. Here he was, remarkably kindly received, taken in by the ruler of ‘Upper Retenu’ (Palestine-Syria). This, it transpires, is because there were Egyptians there already, who recommended

38

Parkinson 1991, 142. Posener 1956, 83. 40 Posener 1956, 81. 41 Translations in Lichtheim 1975, 1.223-235, and again in COS 1 (1997), 77-82; and Fermat 2009 and James Allen 2015, 55-154 (hieroglyphic text, translation and commentary). Gardiner’s edition of 1916 is exemplary, with parallel texts for the four main copies. 42 Favry 2009, 31-36, is unsure whether Sinuhe was at the Residence, or one of the messengers. 43 The full implications of this point in the text were brilliantly elucidated by Gardiner 1916, 13-14. He concluded: ‘It is not the least attractive point about this fascinating tale that its very mainspring is so elusive.’ Favry 2009, 36 stresses that Senwosret had no need to act: Amenemhet was old (he also believes that he was already designated as his heir): see above, n. 37. 44 See Michael Green 1983. 39

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Fig. 2: Senwosret I (Cairo Museum).

Sinuhe. The tale then takes advantage of an enquiry about Egypt to indulge (it is no thoughtless digression!) in a prolonged eulogy of the new king, Senwosret. Its centrality and importance require some extracts: ‘He is a god without peer, No other comes before him; He is lord of knowledge, wise planner, skilled leader, One goes and comes by his will… He is a champion who acts with his arm, A fighter who has no equal, When seen engaged in archery,

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When joining the melee… Lord of grace, rich in kindness, He has conquered through affection; His city loves him more than itself, Acclaims him more than its own god.’ (tr. Lichtheim)

The local king married Sinuhe to his daughter and gave him land, rich in figs and grapes, barley and emmer, and cattle. His children grew up. What is most interesting is the note then that ‘the envoy who came north or went south to the Residence [Itj-tawy, capital of the Twelfth Dynasty] stayed with me’; in other words, there was a lively exchange of ‘diplomats’ or messengers between Western Asia and Egypt, and Sinuhe was a focal point. He even acted as a troop commander, one moment opposing Asiatics, the next vanquishing hill tribes. These actions earned him a reputation which culminated in the central episode of the story, single combat against the ‘hero of Retenu’, in front of the assembled army. Sinuhe eluded his opponent’s arrows, and when his enemy charged with his battle-axe, he shot him with an arrow. He gave praise to Mont (god of war), but it was the ‘god’ (that is, Senwosret) who showed mercy to him. His situation was entirely reversed: the fugitive was now rich and famous, and his thoughts—as those of any true Egyptian—turned to home. The real reason was the prospect of death: ‘what is more important than that my corpse be buried in the land in which I was born’. The way to eternal life could only be burial in Egypt with Egyptian rites. Sinuhe had powerful advocates with the queen, whom he had served, and her children. The text then incorporates a full copy of Senwosret’s decree of forgiveness and recall. This in turn incorporates a most detailed description of an Egyptian funeral, with an oxen-drawn hearse and musicians and dancers. Sinuhe’s reply is even longer. It is a celebration of the gods’ protection of the king, and the total dependence of his land in turn on him (‘The sun rises at your pleasure’, he even dared assert). Subsidiary to that is Sinuhe’s apology for his flight, which he can only ascribe to the will of an (unspecified) god. Hidden in the reply is also a list of allies of Egypt created by Sinuhe: the prince of Meki from Qedem, the mountain chiefs from Keshu, the prince of Menus from the Fenkhu lands, and Retenu ‘which belongs to you like your hounds’. Sinuhe was escorted to the border (‘Horusways’), where he was met by an Egyptian escort. He finally reached the court, and there was the king on his throne. Sinuhe was so overcome he fell into a death-like state. He was saved by the appearance of the queen and her daughters, who were hysterical with excitement.45 The king appointed him a Royal Companion, and gave him a fine house, but most importantly, he was able to become Egyptian again: free 45 In the account of Sinuhe’s return, ‘we come closer to reality than perhaps in any other piece of ancient writing’, was Gardiner’s enthusiastic response 1961, 142.

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of sand, shaved, clad in linen, anointed with oil, sleeping on a bed, and above all, provided with a fine tomb and mortuary priests. One can see at a glance the richness of this splendid story, rivalling similar themes in world literature. It was the Egyptians’ own favourite.46 The author ‘has equal facility with prose and poetry.’47 It contains many exotic elements. Its main purpose, however, is clear: the celebration not only of the rule of Senwosret, and his benevolence and forgiveness—to those who deserve it— but also of Egypt’s international standing.48 It is pure political propaganda, not history. The two keys are the eulogy of Senwosret by Sinuhe and his reply to Sinuhe’s petition for forgiveness.49 And yet Sinuhe remains the central character: during his time abroad, ‘he continued to consider himself a loyal servant of the Egyptian king.’50 Not to be overlooked, as well, as a central theme is ‘the contrast between the ideal order of Egyptian life and the unstructured existence of the Palestinian tribesman’. 51 The story aimed to entertain, but above all to instruct. Despite cautions, however, namely the blatant propaganda and claims of fantasy, this story features prominently in any modern history of the early Twelfth Dynasty. It begins, after all, in a precise historical context, which is exactly dated: the death of Amenemhet I (Year 30, third month of Inundation, day 7), and so many details seem to provide historical evidence.52 The modern debate, therefore, is fierce, given that its propagandistic purpose is at odds with history. The text is known simply as the ‘story’ of Sinuhe. Many scholars have suggested that it recalls most basically a tomb inscription, although it has grown

46

Wilson, in Pritchard 1955, 18 saw the key to its popularity: every Egyptian ‘wished the assurance that he would close his eyes on the banks of the Nile’. 47 Van Seters 1983, 167. 48 Posener 1956, 101; he also draws attention to the contradictions with Amenemhet’s Instructions: trust no one etc.; the Davids 1992, 142-143. 49 Grimal 1992, 162. Posener 1956, 94 calculates that two-thirds of the story relates to the king and his court. He denied, however, that it was, ‘strictly speaking’, a work of political propaganda, because of the writer’s sincerity [sic], but admitted that it highlighted the theme of the king’s generosity, that the writer came from court circles, and that when the text was transferred from a tomb autobiography onto papyrus, its ‘usefulness’ became apparent, and its diffusion may have been assisted (115). 50 Hans Goedicke 1965, 34. 51 Parkinson 1991, 36. 52 Wilson in Pritchard 1955, 18 stated that ‘if this was fiction, it was based on reality’. According to Drioton and Vandier 1952, 265, the text is ‘basically historical’. For Posener 1956, 92 it was a mixture of fact and fiction; he continually calls it a roman (novel). For Parkinson 1991, 36 it is fiction. In a special class is Anton Rainey 1972, who defines the text as ‘an historical novel’ (371, 381), but then shows in detail after detail, notably about Asia, that it is entirely accurate. He even compares the ‘Execration Texts’ in technical matters such as the distinction between ‘Asiatics’ and ‘Bedouin’.

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far beyond this.53 There are many elements which support a funerary inspiration.54 It begins with the titles held by Sinuhe at the end of his life, gives a ‘formulaic declaration of virtuous acts’ in Asia and his achievements abroad, and at the end describes his tomb and the favours of the king. These basic details suit a funerary text, but it goes far beyond that standard form and contains elements which are most naturally described as an historical novel, as the most specialist analyst, Posener, called it. Crucial is the matter of date of composition. The earliest surviving text is late Twelfth Dynasty, but the earliest possible date of composition might have been not a great deal earlier, since the story relates the return of Sinuhe in about the last decade of Senwosret’s reign.55 If we accept that the circumstantial details are accurate in order to lend plausibility to the basic narrative, we learn a number of important things. Senwosret was absent on a military expedition in Libya when his father ‘died’;56 that the succession came at a very tense moment; that the eastern frontier was highly guarded; and, most importantly, that there was, however, frequent interchange between Egypt and Asia, with Egyptians present even in Upper Palestine/Syria, and much coming and going of ‘envoys’. There is already allusion to the ‘rulers of foreign countries’ (heka khasut): was this the first stirrings of the Hyksos?57 Not to be overlooked, is the fact that the story concerns two royal contexts, separated by about twenty-five years: the death of Amenemhet, and the court of Senwosret. The story therefore illustrates the development of Egypt during Sinuhe’s absence.58 The text is also rich in information relating to political and social matters which were deeply relevant to the reader: the god-like position of the king, and what defined Egyptians’ identity in contrast to their neighbours.

53

‘The analogy of [its] beginning with that of the autobiographical inscriptions found in the tombs is very striking’: Gardiner 1916, 8; Posener 1956, 91; Hayes 1971, 499; Parkinson 1997, 43-53. There is, however, no customary prayer for offerings: van Seters 1983, 165. 54 ‘It follows the model of older and contemporary tomb-biographies, but is purely a work of literature; there is no evidence for an historical individual corresponding to the story’s hero’: Allen 2005, 56. 55 Posener 1965, 101-102. 56 Grajetski 2006, 32 rightly asks what Senwosret was doing in Libya: simply looting, or making a preventative attack, or conducting reprisals? There is no indication of annexation of territory. 57 On Eastern relations, diplomatic and economic, merchants and couriers, see Gardiner 1961, 132, Posener 1971, 544-545. Wilson 1951, 134 called this ‘the chief Egyptian document about Asia’; he mentions the Hyksos. Posener 1956, 105-112 asserted that the Asian section of the story lacked ‘local colour’ but then proceeded to show how exact the details were: the authentic names, the political condition of Asia, the positive attitude of the Asiatics to Egypt (confirmed by the Sinai inscriptions), the lively ‘diplomatic’ contacts, even a list of loyal princes to be summoned to Egypt. 58 This is the insight of Posener 1956, 102-103.

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NEW KINGDOM EGYPT (c.1550-1070) Annals, as we have seen, were drawn up as early as the Old Kingdom. This form of historical record reached new heights in the very different political conditions of the New Kingdom. A much greater trauma than the brief collapse at the end of the Old Kingdom occurred on the collapse of the Middle Kingdom. Egypt again fragmented, but far worse was foreign invasion from Western Asia, the famous Hyksos, who established their rule in the Delta (traditionally the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Dynasties). By the late Seventeenth Dynasty, the south had been reunited under Theban leadership, and a campaign of national liberation began, which led to wars with Asia throughout the New Kingdom. These wars had a crucial influence on the mentality of the Eighteenth Dynasty, because they transformed Egyptian society. Military valour became a highly prized royal virtue; the Egyptians imagined that they had conquered an ‘empire’ in Asia; Amun-Re, the patron of the monarchy and empire, became all powerful; and untold wealth flowed into Egypt. Here was a rich soil for the flowering of royal annals. A potent addition was the fact that Thutmose III had been kept out of power by his aunt Hatshepsut for twenty-two years! His solution was simply to number his first year of reign as his twenty-second, thus obliterating her from history, in the same way as he smashed and buried every monument of hers which he could find.59 The annals of Thutmose III60 are the closest approach to an historical source from the New Kingdom. They describe a total of seventeen campaigns, but we need to discriminate. Drioton and Vandier have catalogued them: five real campaigns (1,5,6,7,8), punitive expeditions (9,10,14), tours of inspection (2,3,13), lists of tribute (15,16); others are lost (4,11,12).61 Thutmose’s texts fail, of course, to alert the reader to any such distinctions. The most important campaign was the first, in Year 23, culminating in the battle of Megiddo, where Thutmose crushed a large eastern alliance.62 In Year 33, he repeated the feat of 59 Excavations were conducted around Deir el Bahri for the Metropolitan Museum by Herbert Winlock 1911-1931, and the fragments of these works of art have been painstakingly reconstructed as treasures in that museum. Thus are the intentions of tyrants thwarted. 60 Translation by Breasted 1906, 2. §391-572. One cannot sufficiently praise Breasted for this monumental, single-handed work, never equalled, reading texts under all conditions of difficulty and danger, the length and breadth of Egypt, much of it on his honeymoon. More recent translations are by Wilson in Pritchard 1969, 234-242, and by James Hoffmeier in COS 2 (2000), 7-13. Famous analyses of the topography and tactics are by Harold Nelson 1913 and Faulkner 1942. Van Seters 1983, 147-152 draws attention to the fact that this form of ‘annals’ had a very brief history in Egypt, used only by Thutmose and his son Amenhotep II, for his seventh and ninth years. 61 Drioton and Vandier 1952, 399. A note on geographical terms will not be amiss: SyriaPalestine at this time was divided by the Egyptians into three overlapping regions: Djahy (Palestine), Remenen (Lebanon), and Retenu (Palestine): Diamantis Panagiatopoulos in Cline and O’Connor 2005, 373-374. 62 A good example of a topos. Mario Liverani 1990, 115-125 detected in Egyptian, Hittite and Assyrian records that the king was always fighting against overwhelming odds.

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Fig. 3: Thutmose III (Luxor Museum).

Thutmose I by invading Naharin: the king of Mitanni, Egypt’s principal enemy before the Hittites, was crushed, Carchemish was captured, and the Euphrates was crossed. A final campaign in Year 42 crushed a rebellion involving all of northern Syria, and culminated in the capture of Kadesh. We return to the most famous first campaign. The Egyptian army crossed the frontier at Tjel/Sile in Year 22, fourth month of Winter, day 25, and reached Gaza in Year 23, first month of Summer, day 4 (nine days later). From there it reached Yehem on day 16 of the same month. It was here that a famous setpiece of Egyptian royal literature is told.

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The king favours a bold but dangerous move, his officers are cautious, the king prevails and wins through. The approach is a narrow pass of Aruna. The king’s lieutenants caution that the enemy could attack at the exit while the rear-guard was still entering the pass. There were two longer roads around, one to the north, one to the south, which were therefore preferable. The king replies that he trusts the gods, and scorns to think that the enemy might consider him a coward.63 The officers concur. The king leads the way, then waits for the whole army to come through—which it does safely. The great battle was fought at Megiddo, the king in the centre leading his army. The most astonishing feature of the narrative is that there is, in fact, no account of the battle: ‘then his majesty prevailed over them at the head of his army’.64 The enemy fled to Megiddo, but its gates had been closed. The enemy therefore had to be hauled up the walls by their clothing! This highly amusing account at the expense of the enemy is then undercut by an amazing admission: the enemy were in terror and powerless, and the city could have been captured—but the victorious Egyptian troops turned aside to plunder. The result was the need to besiege Megiddo for seven (!) months (as the Barkal/Napata stele reveals). When it fell, the spoil was enormous: 340 prisoners, more than nine hundred chariots, many suits of armour, more than 2,000 horses, and tens of thousands of sheep, goats and cattle.65 Thutmose then marched into southern Lebanon, where three important cities were captured. Everything of value was plundered, not only anything of gold or silver, but also furniture of precious woods, every kind of utensil, and significantly, as well as nearly two thousand slaves, leading men and their families, numbering more than one hundred persons. Not least valuable—or damaging as a loss to the enemy—was the plunder of nearly half a million bushels of wheat. The first question is where these annals were inscribed. They were set up inside the temple of Amun at Karnak in the so-called ‘Hall of the Annals’, where they were copied by Richard Lepsius,66 among others. At the very back of the temple, after Pylon VI, built by Thutmose, in the ambulatory around the shrine of the bark he built a granite hall twenty-five by twelve metres. The texts begin at the north-east corner and run around the wall to the door on the west. 63 Margaret Drower 1973, 448 is not alone in thinking that the impatient, proud words of the ‘small but lion-hearted’ pharaoh might well be recorded here. Gardiner 1961, 190 described this section as ‘the earliest full description of any decisive battle’, and van Seters 1983, 150 comments on the details of the course of the battle. 64 As Liverani 1990, 150 noted, in these Egyptian and Western Asiatic texts: ‘We have no real battles, only flights and massacres’. 65 Drower 1975, 450 rightly points out that the most valuable booty was the horses, rare in Egypt at this time, when Egypt was beginning to confront the aristocracy of the Mitanni with their chariots. 66 Lepsius, Denkmäler 3.30-32.

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This in turn determines the answer to another question: the intended audience. Answer: those who could penetrate here. This was a very limited and discriminating audience. It obviously included the priests of Amun, but the simplest answer is that the account was meant simply for Amun himself. He was the one who commanded the expeditions, and he was the one to whom the booty was dedicated in thanksgiving. The annals show, as Breasted noted, that ‘careful, systematic records were made and preserved in the royal archives’. Thutmose, in fact, is precise: all that his majesty did ‘was recorded each day by its (the day’s) name … recorded on a roll of leather in the temple of Amun’.67 This is proven by the frequent citing of dates, day by day,68 and one is of the highest importance: Thutmose left Gaza on the anniversary of his coronation, the day on which his regnal years began (first month of Shomu [harvest/summer], day 4), in April.69 The excerpts from the daybook were, in fact, first published in year 40, almost twenty years after the battle of Megiddo. It is not surprising that the time-lag has resulted in ‘distortion and perhaps fabrication’.70 As history this account is most perplexing. The campaign at the beginning of his independent reign was to lead to twenty years of unending warfare. The causes of such momentous events must be examined. The relations between Egypt and western Asia were complicated, not least because of the endlessly fractured political nature of the latter (to be fully revealed four generations later in the Amarna Letters). For Thutmose, it is sufficient to refer to ‘the command which his father Amon-Re had given him.’ There is also a passing reference to a ‘victorious campaign to extend the boundaries of Egypt’, and most significantly, the standard Egyptian justification, reference to ‘revolts against his majesty’.71 The truth is that Egypt’s boundaries were not extended, as the rest of the history of Thutmose’s reign demonstrates; he had to spend the remaining 67 Breasted 1906, 2. §433. We know, indeed, the name of a military scribe: Tjaneny, sometimes read Thanouny, who served three kings from Thutmose III to Thutmose IV. His career is set out in his tomb inscription (TT 74). Gardiner 1961, 192 points out, however, that since he served for two more reigns, he could hardly have been at Megiddo! Redford 1986, 123 prefers to see Tjaneny not as the keeper of the diary, but the inscriber of the texts in Year 42. Betsy Bryan 1991, 279-280 makes no mention of Thutmose’s annals in his connection. 68 Brundage 1954, 211 draws attention to this as a ‘humanization of the royal dogma’: ‘A new secular time sense is allowed to appear before the public view, in decided contrast to the timelessness of the god’s time’. 69 Redford 1986, 184 points out that Thutmose usually left Egypt late in a regnal year (in spring), and therefore most of each campaign was in the first months of the next year, and commonly dated by this latter. 70 Redford in Cline and O’Connor 2005, 325, 326, 335. 71 Wilson 1955, 235. Goedicke 2000, 9 prefers ‘the first forceful campaign [against those plotting to attack] Egypt’s borders’; in other words, it was preventative. This reminds us that the text is highly lacunose, that Sethe’s emendations have been universally accepted, and that Goedicke radically re-edits the text. As for revolts, Liverani 1990, 126-134 again alerts us to a topos in Egyptian, Hittite and Assyrian records.

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Fig. 4: The location of Thutmose’s annals in the temple of Amon-Re at Karnak (Baedeker).

years of his reign in endless further campaigns, which were mostly punitive or plundering. Any action in Asia is always described in Egyptian sources as a ‘revolt’. There was an attempt at control: mention of the appointment of princes in each town. This was the standard Egyptian method, control in absentia through client rulers. The enemy is never referred to without a derogatory epithet: ‘wretched’ (hwrw).

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It would have been interesting in the first place to know how large a force Thutmose was commanding—but such details were obviously—but strangely— unimportant. Modern scholars are therefore reduced to the crudest guesses: 10-20,000.72 No questions are raised: only answers are given, and they are utterly selfconfident. The reason is that the king is acting as the agent of Amun, and is protected by him and other deities. Success is therefore assured. One telling result of this confidence and assurance is that the real achievements of the expedition are even underplayed: the first was a nine days’ march to Gaza, across 200 kms of desert, then another eleven days to Yehem, a further 130 kms.73 The third day after Yehem the army reached Aruna. An obvious question is how the large army on such distant campaigns was supplied. In the early expeditions, it lived off the land and booty.74 Only then came the famous transit through the pass, about nine metres wide at its narrowest. We rely on modern reconstructions: after reveillé about 5 a.m., the army began entering about 7.30. Thutmose reveals that the van exited at noon, the rear by 7 p.m.75 The army came through the pass on day 19 of the month, the battle was fought on day 21.76 A day’s rest would seem wise, but would the two armies have stood watching each other for a day? There is a suggestion that Thutmose was waiting for the new moon as an auspicious sign. Some moderns think, alternatively, that day 21 is a mistake for day 20. 77 Megiddo was the site of the battle because it was important not only as a strategic location, but also as a source of food.78 Another crucial question is how the Egyptians won the battle of Megiddo and against what forces. That determining victory, extraordinary to relate, is passed over in a few words, as we have seen, without any detail whatsoever. At the outset, the enemy in Megiddo is described as formidable: present were ‘the princes of every foreign country’. It must be admitted that Thutmose faced a ‘well organized resistance’, under the ‘powerful city’ of Kadesh, which was perhaps the vassal of Mitanni.79 The ultimate objective was the Euphrates and 72

Nelson 1913, 6. Faulkner 1942, 2, and Drioton and Vandier 1952, 399 bring this to our attention. 74 Redford in Cline and O’Connor 2005, 327. Sometimes even individual soldiers were allowed to keep booty (328). The chronology indicates that the campaigns were in spring and summer, to capture the Asiatic harvest. 75 Faulkner 1942, 10. Nelson 1913, 41 suggested rather that the transit took seven hours, so that Thutmose left at 5 a.m. That would put great stress on his troops. When did they breakfast? Liverani 1990, 175 suggested that the purpose of the vanguard was to check that the pass was clear—only then could the main army advance. 76 This is accepted by Nelson 1913, 51. 77 Gardiner’s 1961, 191 suggestion. Graeco-Roman sources would reveal the concern for omens. Faulkner 1942, 11 argues for a mistake. 78 Redford in Cline and O’Connor 2005, 330. 79 Drower 1975, 444. 73

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the Mitanni (they are first mentioned in the eighth campaign).80 Modern reconstructions suggest that the Egyptian line was extended under cover of darkness from the Aruna road to the west of Megiddo, and that the enemy attempted to cover this, but were then caught during the counter-move.81 The annals reveal that enemy resistance must have been slight: only eighty-three severed hands of the enemy casualties.82 The whole account of this campaign, it must be realized, hinges on the account of the king’s council and the choice of the most dangerous route. Everything else is subordinate in importance and drama to this demonstration for all to see of the king’s bravery. ‘The style is clear and succinct, in third-person narration, and not as bombastic as is typical of most pharaonic inscriptions’.83 This is not history, however, and especially not military history—because nothing of what we need to know is told—but a drama in which the king plays the leading role.84 The one blot on Thutmose’s record is the total breakdown of discipline in the army when it turned greedily to plunder. It is hard to imagine that the scribe did not understand how revealing this was. Megiddo was finally captured, but it could have been achieved with minimal effort. Modern archaeology allows us to understand the imposing nature of Megiddo. The mound measures 315 by 230 metres, the walls were ten metres high and six metres thick, with a projecting glacis. There were gates only on the north and south. The city commanded the trade-routes between Phoenicia and Mesopotamia.85 The siege employed earthworks and wood, but the relationship between the two is not clear: was the wood used for a palisade or to provide ‘walls’ for the earthworks? The city did not lack water: it capitulated from starvation. A month is thought to have been sufficient.86 Moderns find the enemy’s incompetence ‘astounding’ throughout the campaign:87 that they failed to block the Egyptian advance from as early as Gaza, failed to send scouts to reveal the route of the Egyptians to Megiddo, that they failed to adjust their positions during the hours that it took the whole Egyptian army to emerge fully from the pass, and that they were caught unprepared by the Egyptian dispositions before the battle.

80

Drioton and Vandier 1952, 399. Faulkner 1942, 13. All this bespeaks a high level of incompetence by the Syrians. Compare Nelson 1913, 44-52 (mind you, he thinks that the Greeks charged downhill at Marathon!). 82 It was the Egyptian custom to cut off a hand from each enemy corpse as a ‘body count’. 83 Van Seters 1983, 147. 84 Brundage 1954, 210 declared the campaign annals ‘the most self-conscious and possibly the most inaccurate of historiographical genres’. 85 Nelson 1913, 17. 86 Nelson 1913, 58. 87 Nelson 1913, 37. 81

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It is the detailed listing of booty which is one of the most striking features: the offerings to Amun. For modern historians they are highly revealing: the objects prized by the Egyptians, the quantity and quality of foreign goods coming into Egypt, especially to the benefit of the temples, the influx of foreign slaves, and highly placed prisoners, presumably hostages. One gruesome matter is that out of ‘hundreds of thousands’, even ‘millions’ of enemy88 only eightythree severed hands are counted: that is the tally of the fallen, and there are only 340 prisoners. The record was mainly interested in booty, because this was the main result visible in Egypt, in the temples. Breasted went so far as to state that the military campaigns are included only to explain where the booty originated.89 Lists are, in fact, a feature of the annals: those of conquered eastern cities are meant to be impressive (119 in the first campaign), and are repeated: lists of booty, lists of feasts and offerings. Few deities are mentioned out of the vast Egyptian pantheon: Re,90 with whom Amon was conjoined (Amon-Re), once Hor-akhty (Horus of the Horizon), and in the battle Thutmose is like Horus and Montu, but Amun ‘made strong his arms’. Amun is always centre stage. Thutmose’s favouritism to, and his part in the elevation of, Amun to supremacy are on high show. The record was meant for Amun. He was presumably flattered—or too busy contemplating his booty. Our journey through Egyptian sources has brought us across one and a half millennia, and could be taken as far again. It is clear that Egyptians were perfectly well aware of their long history and attempted to record aspects of it. The main examples of this are the Old Kingdom annals and the annals of Thutmose. The first are literally that, recording seven centuries, identified year by year. The Egyptians had already solved the problem of how to distinguish one year from any other by a more historically interesting method than simply regnal years. The record is, however, to our eyes at any rate, anomalous; for real events are recorded only for the Fourth Dynasty. The document was compiled by, and therefore for, the Fifth Dynasty. It obviously had a purpose, but it is not easy for us to divine. Where it was set up is unknown. The Eighteenth Dynasty annals are, on the other hand, set out, in fact, day by day, following a military diary. The purpose here is blatant: to commemorate the bold and victorious king, supported by the gods. The only causation admitted is the command of Amun and the need to crush ‘revolts’. The audience, moreover, for this grand text in the inner recesses of a temple was obviously extremely limited. Apart from these major examples, on a private level all Egyptians who had played a public role in their lives left an autobiography, which obviously was

88 Redford in Cline and O’Connor 2005, 327 surmises that the opposing sides at the battle had each about 10,000 men. 89 Followed by van Seters 1983, 148. 90 Goedicke 2000, 9 suggests that Re is the relic of an earlier edition.

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a record of major events in their lives. The purpose, however, was justification in the eyes of the gods, in order to ensure an after-life. It was the Twelfth Dynasty which brought traditional genres, such as instructions and stories, to a new literary height. They are, at the same time, firmly embedded in contemporary events, of which they leave the most vivid account. History is not, however, their prime purpose, but rather high propaganda, a justification of the usurping new line. None of these records, therefore, was without an ‘ulterior motive’. They were not designed primarily as an attempt to reconstruct and record the past, but to control and use it. And, of all things, in the most recognisably ‘historical’ genre, the royal annals, such as of Thutmose, Liverani has alerted us to the presence already of topoi, writing according to formulae. There could be nothing less characteristic of true history than a failure to recognize the discrete nature of historical events.91

91

He finds the presence of topoi not only in Egyptian texts, but also in Hittite and Assyrian.

CHAPTER 2

MESOPOTAMIA: SUMER, AKKAD AND BABYLONIA

The history of the lands to the north-east of Egypt could not be more different. Egypt, despite its most inconvenient, but essentially benevolent and protected geography, knew united, settled government for millennia. The area primarily of modern Iraq, known graphically as ‘the Land of the Two Rivers’ (the Tigris and Euphrates), Mesopotamia (‘between the rivers’), or Babylonia (from its most famous city), was a much harsher environment and had a turbulent history of rival city-states fighting over precious resources which then fell prey to a series of imperial states. The Early Dynastic Period, especially from c.2700, was dominated by famous cities such as Lagash, Kish, Ur, and Uruk. The empire of Agade ruled c.23702230, but was overthrown by the invasion of the Gutians. Ur (the so-called ‘Third Dynasty’) was then the dominant power for a century (2100-2000), to be succeeded by Babylon (1900-1600). At this time, to the north-east, are recorded the first stirrings of Assyria. One of the very founders of Sumerology, Samuel Noah Kramer, was crystalclear in his judgement: ‘The Sumerians, it is safe to say, produced no historiography in the generally accepted sense of the word.’1 They saw their world as unchanging, so that no processes were in play. They were notorious for their obsession with the compilation of lists, but did not understand definitions or generalisations. That is not to say that the great epics and lamentations do not make use of historical information and that the votive inscriptions do not afford such data, but that, as Kramer observed, was ‘merely a by-product of the urge to find favour with the gods.’ Ephraim Speiser also explained the absence of true history in Mesopotamia as the result of their view of the world.2 Civilisation was, in the first place, a gift from the gods, and ‘things on earth were directed from heaven, therefore history was necessarily theocratic history.’ The most singular proof of that is the attention to omens, demonstrating rulers’ ‘abject dependence in all matters on the will of the gods.’ When historical events were narrated, ‘sequence was construed as consequence.’ The paradox was that the main feature of the gods was their unpredictability. This was because the gods themselves, like humans, were totally insecure, subject to the whims of the divine assembly! The limitations on history in this part of the 1 2

Kramer 1953, 217. Speiser in Dentan 1955.

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world were explained by Burr Brundage by its origins: ‘written history in the ancient Near East was first an instrument of rule and appeared prominently when there was a specific need to strengthen or celebrate kingship.’3 Jacob Finkelstein, on the other hand, issued a very serious warning against the assumption that pre-modern historiography should be judged by modern Western definitions, and therefore found wanting.4 His own defence of Mesopotamian historiography against modern superiority is, however, bizarre: he cited the Babylonian omen texts.5 These records were based on the fundamental assumption that events repeated themselves, and to illustrate that, they relied on astrology and extispicy. Finkelstein gives an example: there was once a north wind and there was snow, and a king went to war, and was killed. The omens would record this sequence and state that, if the same circumstances occurred ever again, in other words north wind, snow and war, the same result, the king’s death, would necessarily ensue, not only once, but forever after. His amazing comment is that it is ‘evident that we are dealing with a realm of intellectual activity that, absurd as its sense of causality appears to us (my italics), was a profoundly serious matter to its participants.’ It cannot be doubted that the Mesopotamians took this seriously; equally, it cannot be doubted that any modern historian would find this absurd. The simple question has nothing to do with ‘superiority’: which view accords with reality? In other words, is this hocuspocus or is it history? For Finkelstein it ‘bespeaks objectivity and scholarly attitude’ on the part of Mesopotamian historians. There is every likelihood that these omen texts originated in the record of real people and real events, but that record has then been totally misunderstood. Even if such a sequence of events had once occurred, the obvious question would be what explanation can be given. That was never asked. Finkelstein went far to undercut himself, however, by admitting that there is ‘conflation in the tradition’, meaning that the omens for a number of kings are suspiciously the same! He concluded by dismissing all other genres of Mesopotamian literature dealing with the past, save omens and chronicles, as ‘motivated by purposes other than the desire to know what really happened’. He singled out for criticism the Sumerian and Assyrian king-lists. The omen lists constitute, indeed, a major puzzle in Mesopotamian culture. These peoples reached a brilliant level in subjects such as mathematics and astronomy, yet could be entrapped in such cognitive dissonance. As John van Seters observed, ‘such a superstitious attitude, which turns astronomy into astrology, can hardly be expected to develop the historical consciousness that leads to historiography.’6 We can go much further: there is nothing that more

3 4 5 6

Brundage 1955, 200. Finkelstein 1963. Translated by Ann Guinan in COS 1 (1997), 423-426. Van Seters 1983, 77-78.

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convicts the Babylonians of having not the slightest idea of history than these omen texts, which convert unique events into paradigms, endlessly repeatable. We turn to a common misunderstanding. Kirk Grayson asserted that the Babylonians (and Assyrians) were ‘abundantly interested in the past’.7 An ‘interest in the past’ does not necessarily produce history. The problem is what they did with that past. Grayson was clear. A common motive was ‘propagandistic or didactic’, even in the case of epics. A related motive was chauvinism. Another was the celebration of the ‘superhero’, such as Sargon, or the teaching of caution, in the case of the ‘anti-hero’, Naram-Sin. There were also practical needs: calendars (king-lists, date-lists). There could be no interest in causation: ‘all things were ordered by the gods’, Grayson admitted, and events for record were selected in order to focus always on the king. Interest in the past, in fact, was concentrated in Babylonia c.1000 BC, when ‘momentous religious developments were taking place and a need was felt for historical justification’. In short, when Babylonian ‘interest in the past’ is analysed, it turns out to be anything but real history. Every text is bent to serve a purpose. This same line of argument is proposed by Jean-Jacques Glassner: ‘The interest the Mesopotamians felt in their past undeniably arose from a historical way of thinking.’8 Whether he goes on to illustrate the former or the latter is not clear: copying of official texts, study of royal correspondence, compilation of chronological lists, and collection of omens.9 The first two, at any rate, may be simply for scribal practice and matters of style, lists are not history (there is no better proof of that than the ‘Sumerian king-list’: see below), and collections of omens are the most anti-historical activity imaginable. Glassner then goes on to cut the ground out entirely from under his feet, although he then lurches to the other extreme: ‘We should not be misled by these premises. The Mesopotamians had no profession of historian as we understand it today [!], nor its methods or perspectives. As they saw it, the problem was not critical assessment of sources, nor was the question, fundamentally, knowing how and in what causal sequences events considered unique had occurred. The primary task was to choose, according to a definite focus of interest, among the carefully collected data from the past, certain facts that, from that point of view, had acquired universal relevance and significance.’ A little earlier he had noted that ‘no Mesopotamian historian ever compared or even mentioned different versions of the same event. Moreover, he never cited his sources.’ He went on to describe historical narratives as ‘works in which no dates were required… The writing of history relied on a theology of sin and punishment, the impious king being punished

7

Grayson 1980, 189-193. Glassner 2004, 21. 9 Glassner 2004, 18 had earlier described divination as ‘a science of the real’, with ‘its own logical schemes’! 8

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by defeat. In Babylonian texts, even at the price of certain anachronism, the supremacy of Marduk was everywhere prevalent.’10 THE EARLY DYNASTIC PERIOD As in Old Kingdom Egypt, early Mesopotamia produced a fascinating array of genres of texts. The earliest are inscriptions of ownership or dedication. These are of inestimable value to the modern historian, confirming names and titles, such as ‘Mesalim, king of Kish’, or ‘Aanepada, king of Ur, son of Mesanepada, king of Ur, built the temple to Ninhursag’. The literary texts come next, including epics, and laments.11 The most famous text concerning the Early Dynastic period is the Epic of Gilgamesh, king of Uruk,12 the world’s oldest epic, referring (at least) to events a millennium before Homer’s Trojan War, let alone ‘Homer’. It remains a universal treasure and eternally enthralling, but is essentially a cosmological text, explaining the place of humans in the universe. It is, in fact, simply the grandest of many epics focusing on Gilgamesh. Another much shorter one, Gilgamesh and Agga, only one hundred and fifteen lines, tells, however, of historical city-states: Uruk and Kish, when Aka (or Agga), son of the en (lord) Mebaragesi, ruled in the latter.13 In this epic, Aka sent messengers to Kish with a demand. Gilgamesh laid this before his ‘city elders/fathers’ (abba uru). It is only indirectly, then, through their answer, that we learn the demand made by Aka: Let us not submit to forced labour, digging wells! To the king’s14 presumed surprize and displeasure, however, the elders tamely proposed submission. Gilgamesh thereupon turned to the ‘young men’ (gurush) of the city, the men of fighting age. Again he proposed that they not submit and have to build wells. Their minds concentrated rather on the fatiguing nature of military service under a foreign king. 10

Glassner 2004, 15, 19. Brundage 1955, 201 insightfully notes that epic did not exist in Egypt, because that genre is characteristically about heroic leaders being tested. In Egypt all was controlled by the pharaoh, who established ma’at, and did not suffer any tests until the afterlife—which he was assumed to pass! 12 Biblical Erech, Arabic Warka. 13 Translation in Thorkild Jacobsen 1987, 345-355. This translated anthology is one of the monuments of twentieth century Humanist scholarship. At the beginning of the century the Sumerians were unknown. Through the work of Kramer and Jacobsen, a whole literature has been splendidly restored, work comparable to Leonard Woolley’s archaeological discoveries at Ur. Another translation by Dina Katz is in COS 1 (1997), 550-552. For the tortured intellectual journey to reconstruct this small epic, and the constitutional deductions drawn from it, Ridley 2000. 14 Royal titles varied in Mesopotamia. Lugal (king) was used at Kish and Ur, and in the special title lugal kalamma (king of the land, that is, Sumer). The most common title was ensi/patesi, in Nippur, Lagash, Umma and Shuruppak. The rulers of Uruk used the particular en (lord) of Kullab, a special, elevated district of the city which stood for the whole. 11

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‘Let us not submit’ was their ringing answer. This resolution they supported by a eulogy of their king, protector of the city: Uruk, ‘the handiwork of the gods’, Eanna (the temple of Anu) ‘which has descended from heaven’, and the great wall. The enemy will flee at the sight of him. Gilgamesh’s plans, however, did not go so smoothly: Uruk was besieged. Gilgamesh called for a volunteer, to ‘go against’ Aka. Lusag, the armourer of Uruk, stepped forward, but it seems that it was his slave, Girish-Hurdura, who made the sortie. Despite his apparent valour, it was not a success: not unexpectedly, he was not able ‘to tumble the myriads in the dust’, nor did he ‘cut through to the barge’s prow’; that is, of the enemy warships, moored at Uruk’s quay. Gilgamesh was next seen upon the wall. His ‘awesome glory overwhelmed the elders and young men of Kullab’, as well it might, but still the great hero did not move. Next Enkidu, Gilgamesh’s famous companion, sallied forth. As though several tablets are lost, there is suddenly a total change of fortune, and (presumably) Gilgamesh does ‘tumble the myriads in the dust’, but, best of all, captures Aka. A remarkable episode in the hero’s early life is then revealed: Aka had once been his captain, his general, who restored him to health when he was a fugitive (from Uruk?). Gilgamesh even seems to accept his overlordship once again, but in fact he dismisses him free to return to Kish. The favour has been repaid. This is not a myth, but an epic, belonging to the age of heroes. The characters are all human—or partly so! The situation is real: Aka of Kish attacks Uruk, sailing up the canals with a large fleet of warships, and lays siege to the city. When presented with a demand for surrender, Gilgamesh consults two bodies: the city elders and the fighting men. The elders not unexpectedly advise submission, but the young men have more heart. This element has given rise to some of the most fantastic imaginings about the ‘constitutional history’ of these early states, positing a ‘bicameral’ arrangement, and proceeding to claim that the gurush could override the elders. To undermine all this, it is sufficient to realize that we have only one out of four possible results of the king’s consultation of the two groups: what, for example, would have happened if the elders had approved resistance, but the gurush had favoured submission? It is, on the other hand, well known that there is a wealth of reference to assemblies in early Mesopotamia, and that they can still be found in Hammurabi’s Code. The epic finally reveals a debt which Gilgamesh owed to Aka, which he now repays. In sum, the story has, at least in its basic elements, ‘good claim to be considered historical’.15 No motive is offered, nevertheless, for the attack by Kish on Uruk, except that which would be instantly comprehensible to any Sumerian: the incessant warfare for resources among the city-states. And once again the turning-point in the whole story, Gilgamesh’s defeat of Aka, is subsumed in a litany of 15

Cyril Gadd 1971, 111.

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Fig. 5: Eanatum leads the army of Lagash against Umma (the ‘Stele of the Vultures’: Louvre).

repeated ‘choruses’. These are, of course, simply a proof that the text was originally presented and preserved in an oral form. It is the kings of Lagash, however, who alone at this time provide substantial historical texts, including a very early narrative, and it is, revealingly, a history of the war between Lagash and Umma. King Urnanshe (c.2490) provides the earliest account in what is essentially an account of building.16 He went to war against the leader of Ur and the leader of Umma, and defeated both of them, and captured the latter, Pabilgaltuk. From the reign of Eanatum (c.2450) comes the famous ‘Stela of the Vultures’ (in the Louvre), so called from its depiction of these birds of prey.17 Although the text is lacunose, what can be reconstructed is telling. Eanatum begins by recalling the war between his father Akurgal, son of Urnanshe, and the leader of Umma, fought over the Guedina (‘the edge of the plain’), but the text is too broken to reveal more. Other inscriptions of Eanatum, however, reveal that it was Ush who broke Mesalim’s stela and invaded Lagash. The main narrative then begins. Eanatum boasts about his divine birth and patronage: born of Ninhursaga, called by Ningirsu, named by Inana. The prince of Umma (unnamed) has been raiding the grain of Ningirsu’s fields, the Guedina. In a 16 The Early Dynastic texts can be found translated in Edmond Sollberger and Jean-Robert Kupper 1971, Jarrold Cooper 1986, and Douglas Frayne 2008, with texts. The best detailed discussion of these texts remains Cooper 1983; for Urnanshe’s text, 44. 17 The Stele of the Vultures is translated by Cooper 1983, 45-47.

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characteristic dream, Ningirsu informs Eanatum that Kish will not take Umma’s side. He can therefore act. A battle was fought,18 obviously in Lagash’s favour, the boundary was measured again (although note that some land was left under Umma’s control), and twenty burial mounds were heaped up. The Guedina was restored to Ningirsu. The prince of Umma, covered by the ‘great battle net’ of each god, took an oath to each of six deities never to violate the frontier again. The most interesting part of the oath is that Umma ‘may exploit the field of Ningursu as an interest-bearing loan’. The exact repetition of the six oaths takes up most of the text. It concludes with an enumeration of other far-reaching victories of Eanatum, over Elam, Subartu, Susa, Urua and Ur. Prince Entemena (c.2400) traced the story back two centuries before his own time.19 There was a dispute between Lagash (represented by its deity Ningirsu) and Umma (represented by Shara) over borders.20 What was at stake, the origin of the whole war, is not revealed, incredible to say. Resort was had to ‘international’ arbitration: Mesalim, king of Kish (c.2600), surveyed the boundary, and set up a stele to mark it. Umma refused to abide by this judgement. Ush, its prince,21 overthrew the stela and marched on Lagash. The defeat of Umma was not by human hands: Ningirsu, on the orders of Enlil (‘Lord Storm’, the chief executive of Anu), ‘threw his great casting net over the enemy and set up their burial mounds in the plain.’ The next generation re-established the accord, in the time of Eanatum of Lagash and Enakale of Umma. Important details were repeated: some adjustment of the border with a strip of land left under Umma’s control, as a kind of no man’s land, with also an allowance of barley as an interest-bearing loan for Umma from the Lagash side. Mesalim’s stela was re-erected, and Eanatum erected the chapels of various gods on the boundary as a further guarantee. Enakale was succeeded by Urlumma; he was unable to pay the considerable accumulated interest on the barley,22 and so began diverting water in the canals; he destroyed the banks of the frontier canals, burned and threw down the stelae, and invaded Lagash. A fascinating detail is that he employed ‘foreigners’ in his army. Enanatum of Lagash, Eanatum’s brother, was perhaps rather old by 18 Cooper 1983, 25 believes that there were at least two battles here described against Umma, one early in Eanatum’s reign, the other towards the end of his reign. It is certainly hard to distinguish two in the broken text of the stela, and Cooper, 27 admits that Entemena mentions only one battle under his uncle. 19 Translation by Cooper 1983, 49-50. 20 In contrast to Egypt, where there every town had its patron deity and there were also more universal or cosmic gods (such as Re, Osiris, and Horus), but there was no religious conflict because of the united government of the country, in Mesopotamia each town had its patron god, and the supreme god was Anu (heaven), but the deities formed a council, and human political upheavals were explained by conflicts within that divine council (closer to Greek ideas of Olympos). 21 For the genealogy of the dynasty of Umma, Glassner 2004, 105. 22 Cooper 1983, 28 suggested that figure given would be compound interest at 33-50% over forty or fifty years.

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now; for his son Eanatum led the Lagashites in victorious battle; Urlumma escaped to Umma, but was killed there. His army numbered sixty soldiers (!), all of whom seem to have perished, and were buried in five burial mounds. The Ummaites would never learn. Yet another ruler, Il, described as a priest (not unusual in the Early Dynastic Period), seized power in Umma (he was in fact Urlumma’s nephew). He again diverted water in the canals, again destroyed the frontier banks, and would not repay the loan on the barley. By this time Entemena had succeeded as prince. Conciliatory messengers were sent in vain; they received only arrogance as an answer from Il, relying on the support of his gods, about his intention to move the boundary—but ‘Enlil and Ninhursag did not allow him to do this’. There the story peters out, to be concluded by lists of Entemena’s benefits at the hands of the gods, and his pious foundations. His protectors were Enlil, Ningirsu and his consort Nanshe, and even Enki (god of wisdom), but he was primarily the ‘great vicar’ of Ningirsu. Here is the earliest recorded war in history.23 It is recorded on a variety of objects from stone slabs (Urnanshe), boulders and vases (Eanatum), an inscription from the temple of Hendursag (Enanatum), a clay cone (Entemena), to the most famous of all, Eanatum’s Stela of the Vultures, set up appropriately in the temple of Ningursu, the author, as the king saw it, of his victories. The war was fought between two neighbouring city-states in ancient Mesopotamia. They were less than thirty kilometres apart.24 Once again, the cause of the war is not expounded. It may easily be inferred: many times in the story barley and canals are mentioned.25 This was a harsh landscape, where food and water were the two essentials. As for the causes of the series of victories in the subsequent war over several generations, the Lagashite accounts regarded it as sufficient to say that the prince of Lagash had the support of Ningirsu. The prince of Umma, however, also had his divine support, and indeed even the Lagashite inscriptions mention deities such as ‘the great Enki’, and Shara (the patron deity of Umma). The authors of these texts create another problem in this connection: they ‘constantly interweave the deeds of men and gods, and often fail to distinguish between them’, so that the narrative has to be extracted and filled in from other sources.26 The Lagash bias is manifest in other ways. This is a triumphalist account, and modern scholars suspect that not every clash was initiated by a criminal neighbour, and not every generation saw a Lagash victory. Enanatum I seems 23 Harry Saggs 1962, 45 is too restrained in calling it ‘one of the first substantial historical narratives’. 24 Gadd 1971, 118 stated that Umma was thirty miles from Ur; cf. the two cities were 18 miles (29 kms) apart: Georges Roux 1980, 135. 25 It is notable that Urnanshe, author of the earliest text, makes no mention of such matters: Cooper 1983, 23. 26 Kramer 1953, 221.

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to have been unsuccessful, given the way the narrative rushes on to Entemena.27 Perhaps the settlement of Entemena and Il was not by arms: ‘Enlil and Ninhursag did not allow this’, that is, Il’s taking over of the boundary canals.28 Each of the two states was controlled by a single ruler, who seems to act alone,29 but we know from many other contemporaneous sources that such men at this time relied on popular assemblies of their warriors, in the same way as, following that model, the gods were imagined to be governed by their assembly. The most interesting episode in the story is the calling in of ‘international’ arbitration: Mesalim of Kish. The title ‘king of Kish’ belongs naturally to the ruler of that city, but was also the title of a king with importance beyond his own city, ruler over all Sumer. Kish is, in fact, the first city listed after the flood in the so-called Sumerian King-List (see below). What is amazing is that in this arbitration, the king of neither city is named. From an inscribed macehead of Mesalim, we know that the ruler of Lagash at the time was Lugal-shaengur.30 It is also interesting that at the time of Urnanshe, Umma was linked with Ur.31 The king of Ur is referred to only as ‘leader’, but the king of Umma was the otherwise unknown Pabilgaltuk. By the time of Eanatum, Kish was also somehow involved. Eanatum’s account is striking for its avoidance of the name of the ruler of Umma. That could be revealed by his nephew Entemena: he was Enakale. The cause of the war is given as the invasion of the Guedina, but after the heaping up of twenty burial mounds, Eanatum could boast that he had restored it to Ningirsu. One of the most interesting matters is the terms of the various agreements. Entemena reveals that Eanatum left a considerable amount of Ningirsu’s land to Umma, perhaps a lease, with grain as rent. Cooper suggested that the Stele of the Vultures at the broken beginning mentions such an interest-bearing loan with payments in grain, and that this went back to the original (Mesalim) settlement. He further suggests, however, that this was a ‘rationalization’, ‘a theoretical construct’.32 It is a basic step in the recording of history to understand that the origins of a story may go back before one’s own time. This is the case here, and Entemena realised that he had to go back at least two generations.33 He in fact goes 27

Gadd 1971, 119. Did he die in battle: Cooper 1983, 30? Kramer 1953, 224; Cooper 1983, 33: did Il simply withdraw, or did he die? 29 Glassner 2004, 8: ‘The accent was put not so much on the chronologoical progression of events, as on the names of the protagonists’. 30 Cooper 1983, 22. For the macehead, Cooper 1986, 19. 31 Cooper 1983, 23 suggests that Uruk was also part of an anti-Lagash coalition. 32 Cooper 1983, 22-23. 33 Cooper 1983, 15—even further, perhaps to his great-grandfather, Urnanshe, who claimed victories over Umma, but made no mention of a border dispute. But Cooper knows that the ruler of Lagash when Mesalim famously arbitrated was Lugalshaengur, so that is at least four generations. 28

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back to Mesalim’s arbitration, without any introductory explanation. He then paradoxically names Ush of Umma, who invaded Lagash but was defeated by Ningirsu. Incredible to relate, he does not name the king of Lagash. It was Akurgal.34 After Eanatum’s wars, related by himself (above), conflict broke out again between his brother Enanatum and Ulumma. Regarding the cause, it is stated only that it was harvest time and Urlumma wanted the barley. Cooper suggests that, in fact, he was unable to pay the rent, which was in barley. This was a war that went on for centuries. Urukagina, the great reformer at Lagash, listed endless crimes by Umma, again by an unnamed rival: Lugalzagesi, who also ruled Uruk. These included destroying the barley in Lagash’s fields and even sacking the city. It is a long and complicated story, on which the Lagash accounts throw only fitful gleams of light. There is, however, a basic understanding that to comprehend the account of this struggle, one had to go back some generations to what appears to be its origin. Here is the oft-evoked ‘interest in the past’, but this text is an outstanding example of the fact that such interest does not of itself produce ‘history’. In the last analysis, these texts are not history, because they are so one-sided.35 And the difficulties of following the chronology, with so many names missing, show that a reliable and intelligible narrative was not the purpose of the Lagashite scribes. Their aim was rather a celebration of the god Ningirsu. THE AKKADIAN DYNASTY (c.2370-2230) After the classic age of the Sumerian city-state (the Early Dynastic) in Mesopotamia, the land came under the control of the first empire in this region, the Akkadian-speaking Dynasty of Agade (a capital not located), led by the first figure to bear the famous name Sargon (Sharrukin, ‘True King’: the unmistakable proof that he was a usurper!). The dynasty comprises only five kings, but is attested by a generous range of texts: inscriptions on objects such as seals, vases or statues, date formulae (a list of a king’s years, naming each year), chronicles, religious texts such as omens and prayers (a famous one by Sargon’s daughter, the priestess Enheduanna), and literary texts such as epics and laments. Sargon is the subject of various chronicles or legends. The first relates the birth of Sargon, and is in the first person. Copies date from the Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian periods.36 As befits the founder of a new dynasty, his birth 34

Cooper 1983, 24. Cooper 1983, 36. 36 Translation by Speiser in Pritchard 1969, 119, but with a crucial problem: he understood Sargon’s mother to be a ‘changeling’: now read as high priestess; Brian Lewis 1980, 24, with analysis 30-85; Joan Westenholz 1997, 36-49, with introduction and notes; and Benjamin Foster 2005, 912. 35

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Fig. 6: The bronze head of an Akkadian king (Sargon?) from Nineveh (Baghdad Museum).

was mysterious: his mother was a high priestess (enetu), but his father he knew not. He stated that his city was Azupiranu (‘Saffron Town’), on the Euphrates.37 His mother bore him in secret, and placed him in a bitumen-sealed basket on the river. He did not drown, but was found by Akki (‘I poured out’), the appropriately named drawer of water, who reared him as his son, and made him a gardener. Then ‘Ishtar granted me her love’ (meaning, he was raised to the kingship)!38 The number of years he reigned is uncertain. His achievements are rendered 37

For Gwendolyn Leick 2001, 94 this is not a real city. Lewis 1980, 57-60 wickedly notes that Ishtar had a weakness for gardeners: Dumuzi and many others. 38

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metaphorically by the image of scaling mighty mountains, traversing the lower ranges, and circling the sea three times. He captured Dilmun, and went up to Der. He calls upon later kings to imitate his deeds. This text purports to tell of his origins and achievements. The former are, significantly, given more attention than the latter. The text looks more suitable for the presentation of a legendary rather than a human figure. Some elements are highly suspicious: the casting adrift of the baby in a boat—but here we have the earliest example of a motif taken over for Moses, and Romulus and Remus—and his being reared by a peasant, until he, in some way not explained, became king, illustrating the common motif of the coming great leader reared in the humblest circumstances who finally can reveal his capacities.39 Foster provocatively raises the possibility that the main point is that Sargon’s mother was, in fact, a high priestess, which would mean that his origins were anything but humble!40 The text is dated to the first millennium, and Lewis suggests that its instigator may be his namesake, Sargon of Assyria.41 What is told here may also be compared with the note in the ‘Sumerian king-list’ (see below), that his father was an unnamed gardener, but that Sargon became cup-bearer to Ur-Zababa of Kish, with the assumption (unstated!) that he overthrew him!42 It is Burr Brundage’s attractive suggestion that, as an epic figure, Sargon ‘may well have provided just that focus of historical interest necessary to tip the king list over into literary channels—in this case, the chronicle.’43 Bilingual tablets in Sumerian and Akkadian tell more of Sargon’s rise to power. One44 seems to have been his own summary of these events: the defeat of Uruk and the capture of Lugal-zagesi, its king, who was brought in a neckstock to the gate of Enlil; the defeat of Ur and destruction of its wall; the conquest of E-nin-kimara and destruction of its wall; the conquest of Lagash up to the sea; the conquest of Umma and destruction of its wall. Enlil gave him the Upper and Lower Sea (from the Mediterranean to the Persian Gulf), and ‘citizens of Akkad’ served as governors: an interesting key to control. Mari and Elam (obviously thought of as two extreme markers, north and east) treated him with respect. In contrast to the above destructions, he restored Kish and its citizens, or (an alternative translation), united two parts of the city in one. 39 Yet Gadd 1971, 419 was willing to suggest that there was ‘an appropriate dash of legend, but with little that need be untrue’. 40 Joan Oates 1979, 32, on the other hand, took the more obvious path: it is possible that he was the illegitimate son of a priestess of Kish, and was raised by a water-carrier. If his mother were a priestess, she may have offered herself for ritual prostitution. 41 Lewis 1980, 104: Sargon was possibly a usurper, and thus sought legitimacy through his namesake. The Assyrian Sargon also had connections with Dilmun and Der: Donald Luckenbill 1926/27, 2. § 41,78. 42 Accepted by Oates 1979, 32; Harriet Crawford 1991, 25; Frayne 1993, 7; Leick 2001, 94. 43 Brundage 1955, 202. 44 Philadelphia (CBS 13972) and Istanbul (Ni 3200): translation by Leo Oppenheim in Pritchard 1969, 267; Frayne 1993, 10-12.

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This boastful and exaggerating inscription was inscribed on a statue of Sargon45 in the Ekur, the temple of Enlil at Nippur; its message was therefore meant for that god, but it also mentions Inanna and Anu. It allows us, however, to extract many important historical matters: the cities crushed by him in order to establish the Akkadian Empire, including the name of two kings whom he defeated (Lugalzagesi was originally king of Umma, but controlled also Uruk and Ur),46 his restoration of Kish, and his policy of employing Akkadians, that is, Akkadianspeakers, as governors. This last claim is contested.47 He does not tell us why he set out to conquer all these cities: had they offended him, or was he simply overwhelmed with lust for conquest? He does not explain why, on the other hand, he acted as benefactor at Kish. We have to guess: one of his titles was ‘king of Kish’, meaning overlord of Mesopotamia. The city therefore had an ideological significance. The most glaring absence for any historical account, however, is the total lack of chronology.48 Everything is a statement of self-evident fact—but the gods, of course, would understand, and, Sargon hoped, be grateful. Another inscription of Sargon on a statue in the same temple, recorded on the same bilingual tablet,49 begins by mentioning Enlil, who ‘gave him no rival’, but adds a great deal more. This text begins by summarizing his career as victor in thirty-four battles. It then suddenly turns its focus to the city and its waterfront: ‘He moored at the quay of Akkad the boats of Meluhha, the boats of Magan, and the boats of Tilmun’. The text then makes another sudden turn, moving to Tuttul (at the junction of the Euphrates and Balikh rivers), to pay special honour to its patron god Dagan: he gave Sargon the ‘upper land’, that is, Mari, Yarmuti, and Ibla, up to the Cedar Forest and the Silver Mountains. Sargon concludes with a boast about the size of his entourage: ‘5,400 men took their meals in his presence every day’. This text appears in every modern historical account of Akkad. The fascinating description of the quay is to stress Akkad’s international importance, in the diplomatic and presumably commercial spheres. The identification of the three chosen famous partners of Akkad is the subject of some debate: Meluhha is India—or Ethiopia; Magan is Oman, Tilmun is Bahrein.50 The discovery that Dagan of Tuttal is a patron of Sargon is a surprise. The identity of the Cedar Forest and the Silver Mountains is also intriguing: the Amanus mountains and the Taunus.51 The identification of goals by their products (cedar and silver) 45 So ends this and the next inscription, but Frayne 1993 suggests they were on ‘triumphal stelae’ in the courtyard. 46 Leonard Woolley 1982, 123. Gadd 1971, 420, 422 noted that the general at Ur is not named, and there is reference only to the ‘man of Umma’. 47 Earlier rulers continued as his governors: Meskigal (Adab), even Lugalzagesi, perhaps Uru’inimguna (Lagash): Marc Van de Mieroop 2004, 60. 48 Gadd 1971, 420. 49 Ibid.: translation by Oppenheim in Pritchard 1969, 268; Frayne 1993, 27-29. 50 Michael Roaf 1990, 97; Van de Mieroop 2004, 63. 51 Gadd 1971, 425-426; Oates 1979, 32.

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explains the motives for the expeditions.52 The geographical knowledge is interesting in its extensiveness. The number of his entourage finally seems exaggerated, but it is not an obvious sexagesimal ‘round figure’. We may supplement these epigraphic sources on Sargon with an epic featuring the king, known as ‘The King of battle’ (Shar Tamkhari).53 It is preserved, to our amazement, in fragments from Amarna and Assur (the Assyrian capital), and in Hittite translation. It is in very bad condition, so that only the main outline is discernible. Sargon addresses his troops. There is reference to the difficulty of the road to Purushanda.54 Sargon is addressed by the leader of the merchants. It seems that they are troubled by Nur-Dagan. Sargon commits himself to aid them. Someone knows the way to Purushanda, divided into seven beru (double-hour march) sections.55 The scene shifts to the city of Nur-Dagan (Purushanda?), where the king, surrounded by his fifty-five strongmen, is boasting that Sargon cannot reach him. To the contrary, Sargon has already arrived! His mere appearance compels his rival’s submission (it is interesting that there is, for example, no heroic combat pitting king against king). Sargon and his troops then seem bewitched by the strange land with its sweet food. The army finally demands to be led back home. There is much here which is romantic and wonderful, especially the great distance and difficulty of the journey. Purushanda, on the other hand, is the name of a real city, away in the west.56 It can be argued that this text contains historical meaning, the memory of a campaign by Sargon to the west in support of merchants who appealed to him. Such texts often elaborate on real people, places and events, but the purpose of the epic as we have it is simply entertainment and wonder—even awe—for the ancient listener.57 One of the most prominent themes in Sargonic texts is his far-flung control and influence. It is interesting that modern scholarship tends to find these references convincing as historical evidence: ‘claims of conquest ranging from Elam to Anatolia are substantiated by statues, stelae and temples from the places conquered: Susa, Ashur, Nineveh, Diyarbekir and others’.58 His claims to vastly 52

Oates 1979, 32. Fundamental remains Hans Güterbock 1934, 86-91. Translation by Westenholz 1997, 108-139; Foster 2005, 107-114, 338-343. 54 Or Burushkhanda (in Asia Minor): Saggs 1962, 50. 55 One beru = 7 miles (11 kms): Gadd 1971, 431. 56 In Cappadocia: Gadd 1971, 427; south of Tus Gölü: Oates 1979, 32: tablets from Ebla confirm merchant colonies in Anatolia—but these date to the Old Assyrian period; Asia Minor: Roux 1980, 148. 57 Leick 2001, 96, on the other hand, dates the text most likely to the time of Shamsi-Adad, seven centuries later (!), reflecting trade connections between Upper Mesopotamia and the copperproducing centres in central Anatolia. 58 Speiser 1955, 54. Abraham Malamat 1965 argued that Sargon’s claims are echoed by Assyrian geographical treatises—but they date from the eighth and seventh centuries; Sargon’s inscriptions are ‘authentic sources’: Roux 1980, 147. 53

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further-flung conquests outside Mesopotamia are, on the other hand, sometimes treated with caution: it is interesting that their extent is accepted, but they are now regarded as raids for booty, as attested by inscribed vessels.59 Life in Babylonia was such a struggle for human beings that it is not surprising that they invented a literary form which was most apposite for reacting to historical events of a disastrous kind: the lament. The end of the dynasty of Agade was commemorated, however, by a text of its own genre, what Thorkild Jacobsen calls ‘admonitory history’. It takes the form of a curse, and the text is known as the Curse of Agade.60 Enlil had given Sargon ‘kingship from south to north’. Inanna was building her main temple in Agade and was furnishing the city with everything needed. The list is interesting: dwellings, superb food and water, festivals, and the wide streets full of animals, such as monkeys, elephants, water buffaloes, goats and long-haired sheep. Such were the ideal desires of ordinary Mesopotamians. The king at the time was Naram-Suen. Prosperity is signalled, as by Sargon (above), by distant contacts: the Mardu Bedouin exchanged bulls and goats for grain; the Meluhhans from the ‘black mountains’, the Elamites to the east, and the Subareans (northern Iraq, eastern Syria) also brought goods. All this prosperity is brought to a disastrous halt by Naram-Suen’s treatment of the Ekur, the temple of Enlil at Nippur, a kind of national shrine, to which many kings contributed. Doom was obvious: Inanna fled, Ninurta removed the symbols of kingship (crown and throne) from Agade, and other deities removed other assets. Naram-Suen had seen the disaster in a dream, and therefore dressed himself in mourning and was penitent for seven years. Omens showed that he was not to rebuild Enlil’s temple in Nippur. His reaction was to demolish the temple! The description of that operation is one of the most memorable parts of the poem. All valuable metals were plundered and shipped back to Agade. Enlil’s revenge was to bring down the Gutians out of the mountains. Like locusts, they devastated the entire land. Dearth and death resulted, the population cried woe. The great gods added their curses— and the terms are fascinating as a list of the worst things that could happen to society at that time. The purpose of this text is to explain the fall of Agade (c.2230). History knows that the dynasty was overthrown by the Gutians. This poem places the responsibility on the shoulders of its fourth king, Naram-Suen. He was shown in a dream (a common form of divination) that he would not be allowed to rebuild the temple of Enlil, as he had intended. Perhaps it was only natural that he should then become insane, and destroy what he was not allowed to rebuild. It was Enlil who then brought the Gutians into Mesopotamia, and all the other gods utterly cursed Agade. 59 60

Van de Mieroop 2004, 63. Translation by Jacobsen 1987, 359-374.

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There are two features here which recur frequently in ancient historiography: the personalization of historical processes, and the decisive role played by the gods. More precisely, the crux is Enlil’s ‘silences’, which are never explained. And there is no evidence that Naram-Suen sacked the Ekur.61 His faults are made, however, to overthrow the whole dynasty and state.62 A modern historian would seek signs of weakness in a city like Agade to explain its fall, would analyse the evidence for the rule of Naram-Suen, and would also try to explain why the Gutians, of all people, should move from the mountains down to the plain at that moment, and bringing such destruction. In short, as Gonzalo Rubio summed up, this text is ‘an a-historical and merely theo-political construct: the Sargonic dynasty survived very well for many years after Naram-Sin’s death, so that nothing he did could have caused its ultimate demise.’63 There is nothing so non-historical as a text which ignores history. In that case, authorship is intriguing. It is agreed that this interpretation of events was invented by the ‘Sumerian renaissance’ under Ur III.64 For the Mesopotamians, human beings were always simply the playthings of the assembly of the gods, and a king was always hostage to omens. Human history is explained by the whims of the gods. Human destiny is inescapable.65 THE ‘SUMERIAN KING-LIST’ In precisely the same way as the Egyptians, the Mesopotamians maintained king-lists. They were required to do so for the same reason: these lists were calendars. One of the simplest dating forms was by regnal years. The situation here, however, was indescribably more complicated. Every city-state had its own rulers, so that one had not only to keep the list for each city, but also to know how to construct and indicate the synchronisms (the same problem faced later by the Greeks). Such a list survives (nam lugal: when kingship (came down from heaven, the first two words). known usually by the modern, but highly misleading name of the Sumerian King-List),66 but the above tasks have proved beyond its compiler. Everything is in a muddle to our eyes, but it provided for its original audience answers to many other questions. 61 Leick 2001, 105, 107. She proposes that the story was invented by Ur III, to provide a favourable comparison between their ‘hubristic’ predecessor and their own patronage of the Ekur. The text seeks to explain ‘the right relationship between the gods and the absolute ruler’. The only trouble is that Ur was ‘smitten with weapons’ in its turn! 62 Compare Tarquin II and Rome in 510. 63 Rubio 2007, 30. 64 Hubert Cancik 1975, 38; Leick 2001, 107. 65 Saggs 1962, 51-52 simply retells the story. 66 The famous pioneering edition was produced by Jacobsen 1939; a modern text and translation (‘Chronicle of the Single Monarchy’) by Glassner 2004, 117-127, 150-154.

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Fig. 7: The Sumerian King-List (the Weld Blundell prism: British Museum).

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This chronology recounts Mesopotamian history from even before the ‘flood’; for it begins with the statement that ‘kingship was lowered from heaven’, and was held by five cities in sequence: Eridu,67 Badtibirak, Larak, Sippar and Shuruppak.68 Eight kings in all ruled for 241,200 years! The transition from on to another is ‘explained’ by the refrain ‘x was defeated (or abandoned)69 its kingship to Y was carried’.70 Then came the ‘Flood’ (amaru), but no details are given (that story was inserted into the main epic of Gilgamesh, where he meets Utnapishtim. Floods and drought were the two main plagues of Mesopotamian life). After the flood kingship had, of course, to be lowered again from heaven. There follows another series of dynasties: Kish I, Uruk I, Ur I, Awan, Kish II, Hamazi, Uruk II, Ur II, Adab, Mari, Kish III, Akshak, Kish IV, Uruk III, Agade, ending in disorder, Uruk IV, the hordes of Gutium,71 Uruk V, Ur III, and Isin. There is a new and again repeated refrain, but in the case of the post-diluvian kings the formula is different and clearer in meaning: ‘X was defeated, its kingship was carried to Y’. A typical dynastic entry (Kish IV) reads: ‘Akshak was defeated. Its kingship was carried to Kish. In Kish, Puzur-Sin, son of Ku-baba, became king and reigned for twenty-five years; Ur-Zababa, son of Puzur-Sin, reigned 400 [sic] years; Simu-dara reigned thirty years; Usi-watar reigned seven years; Ishtar-muti reigned eleven years; Ishme-shamash reigned eleven years; Nanniya, a stonecutter, reigned seven years. Seven kings reigned 491 years. Kish was smitten defeated; its kingship was carried to Uruk.’

The length of life of the post-diluvian kings does not immediately accord with mortal limits. The kings of Kish I each reign in general for 900 years! The first reduction to humanly possible terms comes in the latter part of Uruk I and Ur I, but then impossible longevity resumes in Awan and Kish II.72 This has the bizarre result that the mythical and the historical become intertwined.73 67 Archaeology has identified seventeen levels in the temple here, dating back to 5,000 BC: Leick 2001, chap. 1. 68 In some copies, two kings of Larsa are inserted between Eridu and Badtibira. This has been explained by the fact that Larsa was not added to the end of the list, although it succeeded Isin. Larsan scribes ‘retaliated for this by foisting a king [sic] of theirs among the antediluvians’: Gadd 1971, 182, following Jacobsen 1939, 72. 69 Replacing Jacobsen’s original suggestion of ‘I drop (the topic) x’: Finkelstein 1963, 41-42. 70 Roux 1980, 110 drew attention to the difference in pre-diluvian and post-diluvian terminology for transfer of power. On the ‘Flood’, Roux, 113 is instructive. 71 On the chronology of the mysterious Gutians in the king-list, see Finkelstein 1966, 107-108: they can be allotted domination of the south for only some thirty years. For the very negative concept of the Gutians with the Babylonians, see Glassner 2004, 97-98. Note the total disagreement of the copies of the list on the number, identity and order of the kings. ‘This dynasty was a fiction’. The kings’ names themselves are a satirical invention; for example, Ikukum-la-qaba means ‘oil of an unspeakable stench’! 72 Gadd 1971, 112 is not totally correct in referring simply to Ur I for the change. 73 Van Seters 1983, 70.

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There are, in a few cases, historical notes on individual rulers,74 most simply a patronymic, more frequently a profession: a shepherd: both Etana (Kish I), and Lugalbanda (Uruk I); a metal-worker: Meshe (Uruk I); a fuller: Susuda (Kish I); a boatman: Mamgal (Kish II); a leather-worker: Bazi (Mari); a barmaid: Ku-baba, the only woman in the list (Kish III); a stonecutter: Nanniya (Kish IV); or a cup-bearer (Sargon of Akkad). All of these could obviously not have been of royal descent; indeed the extreme lowness of these professions is striking. How did these people ever attain the kingship? With the exception of Sargon, this question has never crossed the mind of any of the numerous Babylonian editors. Some kings are stated to have also held a priesthood: Meskiaggasher and Gilgamesh (Uruk I). Further notes include local achievements: the ‘one who built Uruk’: Enmerkar (Uruk I); she ‘who consolidated the foundations of Kish’: Ku-baba (Kish III). Some are signalled by military exploits: ‘the one who destroyed Elam’s weapons’: Mebaragesi (Kish I), and perhaps Etana (Kish I), ‘who consolidated all lands’. The fate of one king is specified: ‘who went into the sea, and disappeared’: Meskiagasher (Uruk I). More mythical status is accorded to one: Etana (Kish I), ‘who ascended to heaven’. A major caesura is marked by the fall of ‘Uruk IV’ to the ‘hordes of Gutium’, the eastern mountaineers. This was a foreign invasion and conquest parallel to the Hyksos invasion of Egypt centuries later. The national liberator who drove them out was Utuhegel of Uruk. Such Mesopotamian sources, therefore, could confront defeat and disaster. The list begins with answers, leaving the questions resolutely aside: kingship is such an intriguing institution. In the first place its origins are stated: the gods ‘lowered’ it to mankind. This is explained simply by an assumption. The gods were ruled by a monarchical principle. Anu (the god of heaven) was king of the gods. Agreement was reached regarding the pre-diluvian dynasties, for reasons we cannot explain, but for the Sumerians these five cities were obviously the ones which they thought most important at the very beginning of their history. The ante-diluvian section is now accepted, because of stylistic differences, as a separate composition, added later.75 It should not, however, be set aside too easily. The names and order of the cities are fairly agreed upon, but the names, order and length of reign of the individual kings are given very variously. In short for the ante-diluvian kings there was no canonical tradition.76

74 Güterbock 1934, 3 suggested that this indicated kings who appeared in literature. This can be demonstrated in a few cases: Kish I and Uruk I were rich in myth. Glassner 2004, 101 goes so far as to state that, by contrast, Ur ‘cuts a poor figure in the chronicle’: no epic or historical literature celebrates its past. 75 Jacobsen 1939, 55; Fritz Kraus 1952, 31, 51; Finkelstein 1963, 44; Alan Millard in Bienkowski and Millard 2000, 169; Glassner 2004, 108 (c.1800 BC). Jacobsen 1939, 60 suggested that it originated in Eridu. It is missing in all copies of the list from Nippur. 76 Finkelstein 1963; Glassner 2004, 56-58.

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The extraordinarily long lives of these earliest rulers clearly reveal the same mentality as the accounts of the prophets in early Biblical history: they are a metaphor for a golden age. The Sumerians assumed that one of their many floods had entirely wiped out all civilization, and the world had to start again, an idea that was to have an influential history. The post-diluvian dynasties are then listed in sequence, and each ends with the refrain of its defeat, before attention turns to another city. The key to the whole document lies here. In the first place, the Sumerian king-list ‘reflects a historical approach to political change on the basis of a rotation or turn (Sumerian bala, ‘spindle whorl, rotational device or institution’) of the institution of kingship (nam-lugal).’77 Second, each city is interpreted as holding suzerainty over all of Sumer, until it was defeated. This is the very opposite of the truth: the dynasties were synchronous.78 The purpose of the list is obvious. It is a justification of empire in Sumer, and has distorted its entire history to demonstrate that. Modern historians have spent much time essentially separating the rulers of each city, and then realigning the cities side by side. They are helped in that by the large number of other texts which provide such synchronisms. The Sumerians, in other words, were fully aware of the true chronology. Any Sumerian well knew that such a list was a distortion of history. It made nonsense of such famous tales as the epic of Gilgamesh and Agga, two contemporaries separated here by more than two thousand years! And the compiler knew that Sargon was a contemporary of Ur-Zababa, but separated them in the list by six reigns!79 Modern historians of Mesopotamia are able to cut up the list and re-assemble it, putting the dynasties side by side where synchronisms are known.80 Gadd counted twenty dynasties, with 140 kings. From Ur I to Sargon were eleven dynasties, to which the list assigned 5,000 years, when in fact, they were synchronous with Lagash, where nine kings ruled for 150 years!81 Many moderns have been suspicious of the number of years assigned to individual kings, seeing multiples and squares of six everywhere (the Babylonian mathematical system 77

Rubio 2007, 31. This distortion for Gadd 1971, 106 vitiated the entire document as history. Roux 1980, 109, on the other hand, judged that the list ‘provides an excellent chronological framework’—presumably meaning as rearranged by modern historians. There are, however, internal chronological problems: in the dynasties of Uruk IV and Gutium, most of the kings are given a reign of about six years, that is, in our equivalent, ‘about ten years’. ‘Beyond all reasonable doubt, these figures are completely artificial’: Michael Rowton 1960, 156. The scribe was perhaps attempting to fit twenty-six kings into 120 years. The total is to be retained. 79 Glassner’s 2004, 67 ‘sinusoidal’ scheme for resolving this was hardly available to Babylonians four millennia ago. 80 In this operation, moderns are simply reversing the process of composition; for Jacobsen 1939, 141 argued that the sources were local lists. The first king of Kish IV, for example, is the son of the sole ruler of Kish III (Kubaba), although six kings of Akshak intervene! 81 Gadd 1971, 106, 114. 78

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was hexagesimal).82 And even if one accepts the individual dynasties as reliable, the next difficulty is assigning dates to them. Seton Lloyd suggested: ante-diluvian = Early Dynastic I (2900-2750); Kish I, Uruk I, Ur I, down to Gilgamesh = Early Dynastic II (2750-2650).83 One important feature of the dynastic lists which must not be overlooked is that kingship was hereditary.84 There is no trace of elective monarchy, which was long forgotten by the time of the compilation of this list. There are, however, many other problems. The title of Sumerian (its modern standard title, following Jacobsen) is a misnomer; for there are many Akkadian names, even in Kish I, the first dynasty after ‘the flood’. The list also includes three non-Babylonian cities: Awan in the east, Hamazi in the north, and Mari in the west.85 The repeated mantra, ‘X was defeated’ is repeated nineteen(!) times: this is jejune to say the least, and in no way qualifies as an historical explanation for as important an event as the transfer of hegemonic status in the land. Brundage rightly described the list as a ‘noncausal chronology, a mere accumulation of unembellished data.’86 The list claims to be of the dominant cities or kings— but omits a king universally recognised as such: Mesalim, king of Kish,87 not to mention Lagash, some of whose kings bore the title ‘king of Kish’.88 Omitted also are the kings of Ur attested archaeologically c.2650, through the excavations of Leonard Woolley.89 The most striking omission is perhaps Nippur,90 city of Enlil, and seat of a national Sumerian shrine. The earliest king in the list now attested archaeologically is Enmebaragesi (Kish I), but his primacy could be displaced at any time by further archaeological finds. On the other hand, one woman is included, Ku-baba of Kish, which no one can explain. Are there patterns?91 Uruk rules five times, Kish four, Ur three. Power seems to move from north to south to outside Babylonia, but not always; for example, after the Gutians, power goes and stays north. 82

Dwight Young 1988. Lloyd 1978, 92. 84 Stressed by Glassner 2004, 95. Only eight of twenty-three kings of Kish I are, however, succeeded by sons, for example. 85 Van de Mieroop 2004, 41. On Kish I, most revealing is Roux 1980, 115: twelve Semitic names, six Sumerian, four unknown. Crawford 1991, 21 emphasizes that the king-list proves that Kish was home to a Semitic dynasty from earliest times. 86 Brundage 1954, 205. 87 Saggs 1962, 45. On the known kings of Kish in this sense, Albrecht Goetze 1961. Jacobsen’s explanation 1939, 182 for their omission is a paradox: that they were hegemons, not local kings! 88 Lagash is for us the best known dynasty, but this is simply a chance result of the nature of archaeological excavation, as well as being the lynch-pin of our chronology, because of the certainty of the familial relations. William Hallo 1971, 51 offered a sinister explanation for the omission of Lagash, and Umma: they were defenders of Sumer against Elam. 89 In the list, Ur II duplicates Ur I: Glassner 2004, 102. 90 Noted by Roux 1980, 134. 91 Glassner 2004, 63 suggested this. 83

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The most telling feature relevant to historiography, however, is perhaps the mere mention of ‘the flood’, as the principal marker in the whole document. The transfer of power from one city to another pales into insignificance by comparison. This is simply stated repeatedly as a fact, without one word of explanation. Historical curiosity is entirely non-existent.92 A fundamental question is obviously the date of this remarkable compilation. The key to understanding the list is that these dynasties are understood to be ‘hegemonic’, ruling all of Sumer and Akkad. The purpose of the list is to serve an over-riding ideology: the historical justification of imperial rule. The Early Dynastic Period of the competing city-states is clearly ruled out. An obvious candidate for the date might be the dynasty of Agade, founders of the first empire in Mesopotamia. It is striking that Sargon has caught the compiler’s attention, and much detail is given on the chaos at the end of his dynasty. Alternatively, the list dates from the time of Utuhegel, the liberator and restorer of Mesopotamian unity after the Gutian invasion, and his city claimed, in fact, to have been the hegemon five times, more than any other. The list at present ends with Ur III and Isin, certainly hegemonic states, but perhaps late additions. These two dynasties share two features: their regularity (especially filiation, but lack of any extra notes), and the presence of many rulers claiming divinity. The list cannot, therefore, have been constructed before the dynasty of Agade, but it serves equally well the pretensions of Ur III or Isin.93 BABYLON The great age of Babylon was the first dynasty (1900-1600). The sixth of eleven kings, Hammurabi, is the best known. The problem of a calendar had still to be faced. One could refer to ‘king X, year 1’ and so on, but an alternative solution, as we have seen, was to name the year after an important event. This system of year names had been in use in Mesopotamia earlier,94 but this dynasty is especially known for its use. The calendar of Hammurabi, listing all fortythree years of his reign, is of special interest.95 It begins with his first (full) year 92 Brundage 1954, 205 summed up: the list is ‘a simple non-causal chronology, a mere accumulation of unembellished data’. 93 The oldest copy now belongs to Ur III: Glassner 2004, 107. Every possible date has been proposed by modern scholars: Utuhegal, hero against the Gutians: Jacobsen 1939, 128, Brundage 1954, 205; Ur III: Rowton 1960, Leick 2001, 148; Isin: Guterbock 1934, 2, Kraus 1952, 46, Paul Garelli 1969, 67; only twenty-second century: Glassner 2004, 77, later (95) revealed to be Naram-Sin of Agade, so twenty-third century! 94 Year names were known in the late Early Dynastic Period, then formed the official calendar for the Akkadian empire down to the First Dynasty of Babylon. The Kassites returned to regnal years. A most detailed and revealing study has been devoted to the year names by Malcolm Horsnell 1999. 95 Translation by Oppenheim in Pritchard 1969, 269-270.

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(not the year of his accession, which was the year before), then lists the ‘establishment of justice’ (2), the issuing of an ‘equity edict’ (misharim), including debt relief. The main focus was on building: thrones for Nana (3), Sarpanit (12), Inana (14), Nabium (16), and Adad (200); a wall (4), another of Igi-hursag (19), of the town Bazu (21), and at Sippar (23, 25, 43); canals (9, 24, 33: called ‘Hammurabi spells abundance for the people’, providing water for Nippur, Eridu, Ur, Larsa, Uruk and Isin!); seven statues (15), a huge one of Inana (17), one of himself (22), and of Shala (29); a dais for Enlil (18), and others of gold, unspecified (26); a military standard (27); temples of Adad (28), of Anu, Inanna and Nana (34), restoration of the temple of Zababa and Inanna, and construction of a temple tower (36); restoration of Eshnunna after a flood (38); and embankments on the Tigris and Euphrates (42). We can also, however, trace and date exactly his rise to dominance in Babylonia by conquest: Uruk and Isin (year 7), Malgia (10), Rapiqum and Shalibi (11), Rim-Sin of Larsa (31), Eshnunna, Subartu, Gutium (32), Mari and Malgia (33), and destruction of their walls (35), and Turuku, Kakmu and Subartu (37). He furthermore repulsed an invasion from Elam (30). It is noteworthy that the entries for the first twenty-nine years are single items. Henceforth, the entries for the last fourteen years are much fuller. In one case (42), however, seemingly without anything to celebrate, the year was simply called ‘after the year “Tashmetum”’, which was the year before! This is a remarkable document, seemingly full of history—and dated at that— but we must understand its purpose. It is a calendar, once again harking back to the Egyptian Old Kingdom annals, and the practice of naming each year. That Hammurabi personally was its author in the strict sense depends on whether he was literate, but we can be sure that he had a controlling hand in the choice of events listed. It is a list of events without any context whatsoever, and no attempt at explanation. The second feature is that it is basically a propagandist document, highlighting the events for which Hammurabi wished posterity to remember him.96 Taken at face value the list is intriguing. The early defeat of Isin and Uruk (year 7) is followed by twenty years of irrigation and diplomacy!97 Then come the defeats of Larsa (32), Mari (33), and Eshnunna (38). In the first thirty years, indeed, only three years are named after campaigns.98 This kind of analysis leads to declarations of Hammurabi’s cunning; that is, he made a few early moves, then bided his time until he was strong enough to be sure of victory. 96 This purpose, the desire of Hammurabi to be remembered and thus to gain ‘immortality’, has recently been elegantly set forth by Rosel Pientka-Hinz in Adam 2008, 1-25. She begins with the Gilgamesh Epic and its well-known theme, and ends by noting that it was Hammurabi’s Code and his fame as ‘the just king’ that did, indeed, ensure his undying name. This purpose means, however, that such ‘historical sources’ are to be ‘fundamentally distinguished from the historical writing of classical antiquity’ (5). 97 Millard in Bienowski and Millard 2000, 138. 98 Oates 1979, 62.

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Fig. 8: Hammurabi’s Code: Hammurabi presents the laws to Shamash (top of the Code: Louvre).

There are, however, practical considerations. First, who chose the names? It has often been assumed that the choice lay with the king, perhaps in concert with priests, leading to a grand proclamation on New Year’s day.99 The year names are, however, found not in cultic connections, but rather in administrative, economic and legal documents. Second, there were important limitations on the choice of the name of any year. The event had to be complete,100 and that could hardly be known by the beginning of the year. The result was that often the event chosen was, in fact, reflective of the previous year, or resort was had to double dating, using both the name of the previous year and a provisional name for the current year. 99 There is one such proclamation known: from Samsuditana, year 7 (VAT [the Berlin Tablet Collection] 1250): Horsnell 1999, 185. 100 We have fascinating proof of this from the Mari archives (ARMT 13.27 and 47), where two officials discuss this problem and advise the king.

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The year lists were, in short, a calendar, primarily for the use of scribes who needed to be able to identify years. They may, on the other hand, be regarded as reliable, because they probably derive from contemporaneous records. They were not meant as an historical record, ‘but they allow us [my italics] to reconstruct what may be called the chronological “backbone” for the history of the dynasty’.101 The main sources for Hammurabi’s reign are, in fact, his law-code and contemporary correspondence: his own with his governor of Larsa, and even more importantly, the famous Mari letters. The last show, for example, that he was, indeed, on excellent terms with Rim Sin of Larsa for thirty years.102 They also reveal what the year names do not: that ‘undoubtedly the dominant personality of the age was Shamsi-Adad’.103 One might reply that in the calendar of his own years Hammurabi could hardly give such attention to a foreign and more powerful king—but in Eshnunna a year was named, ‘the year in which ShamsiAdad died’!104 THE NEO-BABYLONIAN PERIOD (747-539) This last resurgence of Babylon saw the flourishing of a form of historical document not unknown in earlier periods, such as the Akkadian and Old Babylonian. This was the chronicle. From the late period so far seven extracts have been found of what was a series. The most important extract covers more than a century, from the reign of Nabu-nasir (747-734) to that of Shamash-shamukin (668-648).105 A characteristic extract runs: ‘For five years Shalmaneser (V) ruled Akkad and Assyria. On the twelfth day of the month Tebet, Sargon (II) ascended the throne in Assyria [721]. In the month Nisan, Merodach-Baladan (II) ascended the throne in Babylon. The second year of Merodach-baladan [720]: Humban-nikash (I), king of Elam, did battle against Sargon (II), king of Assyria, in the district of Der, effected an Assyrian retreat, and inflicted a major defeat upon them. Merodach-baladan and his army, who had gone to the aid of the king of Elam, did not reach the battle in time, so he (Merodach-baladan) withdrew. The fifth year of Merodach-baladan [717], Humban-nikash, king of Elam, died. For [twenty-six] years Humban-nikash ruled Elam.’ (tr. Grayson) 101

Horsnell 1999, 223. Gadd 1973, 179. 103 Oates 1979, 65; Van de Mieroop 2004, 104. 104 Jorgen Lassöe 1963, 77. 105 Translation by Grayson 1975, 69-87 (incredible to say, his notes do not give any dates!); Glassner 2004, 193-202. The main copy is a tablet (BM 92502), 20 by 16 cms, written on both sides, each of which is divided into two columns, and containing originally 186 lines. There are also, however, two fragments, which often diverge, but Grayson translates a ‘conflated’ version: John Brinkman 1990, 80. 102

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There are striking qualities in this chronicle. It ‘marks the beginning of a new tradition.’106 It is ‘synchronistic’, combining historical notices in Babylon, Assyria and Elam.107 It has been shown by Grayson to be more reliable in its basic statements than Assyrian annals: the prime proof is that it admits Babylonian defeats. In this case, it admits the Babylonians’ failure to reach the battle of Der (720) in time. It had ‘no propagandistic function or use for royal aggrandizement.’108 One can go further: this is not ‘a record of the res gestae of Babylonian kings. What the Babylonians had suffered (the “terror of history”, which as Karl Lowith and Mircea Eliade have told us, men have always done their best to forget) looms very large in the chronicles.’109 A most noteworthy feature is that it is almost secular history: there are occasional references to the movement of cult statues, but this is a far cry from the older ascription to the gods of prime causation of events. Robert Drews provided a convincing explanation: it is assumed that ‘every event was divinely ordained.’110 It is also quite new in its attention to precise dating: day, month and year. On the other hand, it is highly selective, covering approximately one year in three. Ephraim Speiser admitted that this was ‘jejune history, to be sure’, but claimed that it was ‘history nevertheless.’111 Burr Brundage stated rather that the historian [sic] ‘did not utilize any consistent criterion of judgement by which he could make a meaningful selection of facts from his data’; ‘the result is a welter of disparate facts’. It was admittedly an advance on Sumerian history, which was ‘a mere bundle of childlike vagaries of gods and men’.112 As Drews emphasized: the chronicles ‘do not record the establishment of any “present phenomenon”; nor, for that matter, do they note the disappearance of phenomena which characterized the past… There is no perspective, whether of foreground or background, and no admission of historical consequence’. The most stunning example is that there is no comment on the burning of Nineveh. The events ‘in no instance link on to one another in narrative (to say nothing of causal) sequence.’113 As everyone stresses, it is, on the other hand, our most useful 106

John Brinkman 1990, 98. The most instructive analysis is by Robert Drews 1975. It is perhaps going too far with Brundage 1954, 208, to call it ‘the first world history of any length’, but the point of his judgement is clear. 108 Van Seters 1983, 82; Glassner 2004, 50. 109 Drews 1975, 41. 110 Drews 1975, 45. 111 Speiser in Dentan 1955, 67. He also claimed (59) that the Weidner Chronicle (Grayson [1975], 145-151) was ‘the first Mesopotamian textbook on the theory of history’, although ‘below the level of the best thought of the time’! This Old Babylonian chronicle rewrites history in the most flagrant way, in order to correlate kings’ success or failure with their dealings with Marduk of Babylon. 112 Brundage 1954, 208-209. 113 Drews 1975, 42-43. Hartmut Gese 1965, 56 claimed that the Babylonian chronicles marked ‘a decisive juncture in the development of human thought: the recognition of a connection between acts and consequence … no longer sequence but rather consequence.’ He was thinking, 107

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foundation for the modern reconstruction of Babylonian history in these centuries—but it is not history: it is a select list of unconnected events.114 ‘[I]n short, the Neo-Babylonian chroniclers offer a dry account, hardly more than a word list, of threats of subversion against the cosmic order… [T]he chroniclers wanted to explain events. However varied, all explanations took up the same thesis, that vagaries of human fortune came about through the retributive will of Marduk.’115 In that case, we must consider its purpose. Drews alone confronts this. He suggested that the ‘events’ themselves were not important. They were simply ‘attributes of the times at which they occurred’. In other words, they fill in something about the year in which they occur. The largest class of ‘events’ is accessions and deaths of kings, omissions of festivals, and the movement of statues. Drews interprets these as a ‘cardiogram’ of Babylon. In that case, it is admitted that it is highly unexpected that there is no interest evinced in omens. He suggested that the chronicles were composed for astrological purposes. Again, as in Egypt, we have in Mesopotamia a wealth of genres which touch upon history. In the Early Dynastic period, the historical epic was very popular, based apparently on historical events, but elaborated in a strong literary guise. This is to be distinguished from other more legendary epics concerning even the same people (such as Gilgamesh). Much more directly historical is the first account of a war from the ancient world, that between Lagash and Umma. This text demonstrates a strong historical perspective, going back generations. On the other hand, there is no attempt to explain the causes of such a long conflict, the account is dominated by divine interventions, and the record (as it is preserved) is seen completely from the side of Lagash. It seems to have been written for the patron god of that city. In the Akkadian period, we find date-lists, a basic example of perhaps the desire to record history. With the greatest king, Sargon, on the other hand, we move backwards into legend, although it must be admitted that this may be the fault of his great Assyrian namesake! No causation or justification (except boasting) is offered. The most elaborate king-list (the so-called Sumerian) is, like its Old Kingdom counterpart, highly mysterious as to its compiler and date. Its chronology is often fantastic; notes are erratic; and modern analysis has shown that it rests upon a gross manipulation of lists from individual cities to promote a totally false interpretation of the political history in the period it covers. It is highly revealing that what is for us the most interesting part of the whole list, the trauma of the Gutian conquest, is left without any attempt at an it seems, primarily of the Weidner Chronicle (n. 111), where the fate of kings depends on dealings with Marduk. Most scholars find this highly manipulated, but the principle goes back to the earliest texts (Lagash and Umma, for example). Also, in general, Glassner 2004, 77-88. 114 A close relative is the Parian Marble: Drews 1975, 43. 115 Glassner 2004, 84, 85.

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explanation (and when an attempt was made in Akkadian texts, to explain things, that attempt was quite unconvincing). By the Neo-Babylonian period chronicles appear, which are synchronistic, and not chauvinistic (an admitted innovation!). On the other hand, they are highly selective, and offer no explanation of the significance of events, and show a bizarre sense of chronology: offering day and month—but no year, except the regnal year of kings, for which you would need a king-list to interpret. All of these texts are useful as historical sources, but they exhibit few of the qualities of history—indeed, that was hardly their intention. From the complicated history of the rival city-states to the succession of empires, these are basically texts of self-justification of the kings, who play the central role. They are also devoted to promoting religious and political dogmas: the political unity of earliest Babylonia (the Sumerian king-list) or later the leading role of the cult of Marduk.116 And the historians who drew up these texts were fully aware of these purposes.117 The accounts are subject to over-riding controls: the relationship of humans to the gods, and a destiny which cannot be eluded.

116 Jana Pecirkova 1975, 33-34. Against these limitations she claimed that the scribes developed a ‘perfect chronological system’, and stressed their ‘characteristic awareness of the continuity between past and present’. 117 Glassner 2004, 3: ‘Mesopotamian historians … were scarcely unaware of the ideologies they were helping to sustain, as shown by their way of writing.’

CHAPTER THREE

ASSYRIA

The Assyrians were known from the third millennium, and had their earliest capital at Ashur, named after their chief god. They were subject to Agade and then Ur III, until the first period of power under the remarkable king ShamsiAdad (1813-1781), brought to light by the Mari Letters. This brief flourishing ended with subjection to the Mitanni for a century. Assyrian history is traditionally divided into three periods, Old Assyria (1813-1366), the Middle Empire from Ashuruballit (1365-1330) until TiglathPileser (1115-1077), and the best known period because of Biblical references, the Neo-Assyrian Empire (934-612), especially under Sargon (722-705), who established another capital at Dar Sharrukin, Sennacherib (704-681), who established another capital at Nineveh, Essarhaddon (680-669) and Ashurbanipal (669-627), before Nineveh fell to the Babylonians and Medes in 612. The records of the Assyrians are not as varied as the Egyptian and Mesopotamian, but are very full and rich. The characteristic historical form of the Assyrians is the royal annals;1 that is, an account based on and identified by the king’s years. These are generally agreed to have first appeared under Tiglath Pileser I (died 1077).2 They are usually in three sections: after the introduction giving the titles of the king, there is an account of his main campaigns, then a record of his building activities. Suffice to say, the fact that the major part of each year was given over to military campaigns means that the world’s view of the Assyrians has been severely skewed. They did, in fact, use diplomacy as well as military force.3 The military emphasis is a marked change from royal records in Mesopotamia which emphasised building activity. The fact that in the Assyrian annals the building comes last might give another false impression: that only after all his campaigns did the king turn to this civil activity.4 1

It would be appropriate here to pay tribute to the pioneering work of Daniel Luckenbill (1881-1927), professor of Assyriology in Chicago, who, in a parallel undertaking to the labours of Charles Henry Breasted and his Ancient records of Egypt, a few years later (1926) issued his Ancient records of Assyria in 2 volumes, which held the field until the great project of Kirk Grayson half a century later, and now the collaborative undertaking at Toronto, Royal inscriptions of Mesopotamia. 2 Hayim Tadmor 1977, 212 suggests that the stela of Shamsi-Adad I (Louvre 2776: Grayson 1972-1976, 1 § 155-158) giving his campaigns in Arrapha, Qabra and Arbela in the first person is an early form of the annals, while the full style was established by Adad-nirari II (911-891). 3 Marc Van de Mieroop 2004, 170. 4 John van Seters 1995, 24-34.

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The records are in the first person, and the language is extravagant. ‘Perhaps their most striking feature is the boastful, even bombastic tone’; they are ‘egocentric in the extreme’, was Ephraim Speiser’s judgement. This egocentrism was not conceit: the campaigns recorded were the gods’ campaigns. ‘The material is voluminous, the language picturesque, the detail abundant, yet the coefficient of reliability is low’.5 There is, however, a major way in which this use of the first person raises the most serious problems for the historian. There were many campaigns in which the king did not lead the operation, but relied on his generals. It then becomes impossible to distinguish the latter case, when everything is in the first person. There is a double regression here: the Assyrians regarded all action as stemming from the gods; the king is the agent of the gods; and his subjects are the agents of the king. After all is said and done, of course, it was the chief scribes (ummanu) who were in fact responsible for the inscription of the texts, albeit under a royal eye—although Ashurbanipal boasts that he was the only literate king. The origin of the annals has been much debated. Most scholars believe that they originated with building inscriptions, which remain as the third element in the annals.6 Some, however, think that the annals derive from letters of kings to the gods, several of which letters survive,7 a rendering of accounts by their agent, the king. A totally different matter is their sources, on which few scholars offer guidance: chronicles, booty-lists, perhaps diaries.8 Modern understanding of the Assyrian annals begins with the essay of Albert Olmstead, Assyrian historiography (1916). He stressed the custom—highly dangerous for the modern historian attempting to reconstruct a king’s reign— of rewriting the existing account when additions were to be made. The earlier years were then usually severely ‘edited’. Olmstead enunciated his famous rule that the later the annals, the less reliable they were. Such a bold assertion was bound to be challenged in the following century. Louis Levine pointed out that ‘later’ editions are not necessarily shorter: they sometimes contain more information. The accounts of the second, third and fourth campaigns of Sennacherib were never shortened. ‘Association’ rather than chronology 5

Speiser in Dentan 1955, 65-69. ‘Formally they are still dedicat[ory] inscriptions’ and indeed still end with a list of the buildings by the king: Burr Brundage 1954, 213; Hubert Cancik 1976, 49; Harry Saggs 1984, 272. 7 So Speiser in Dentan 1954, 64-66. Helmut Freydank 1984, 382, suggests they were also for a king’s successors if placed in the foundations of a building; on the development of these Assyrian royal annals, he seems later to begin with building and dedicatory inscriptions (383). They came to represent the ‘self-awareness of the ruling class’, whom the king represented. See the letter of Sargon reporting his eighth campaign: Luckenbill 1926-1927, 2 § 139, and of Essarhaddon: Eric Leichty 2011, no. 33. 8 Grayson 1981, 42; van Seters 1995, 24-34. Tadmor 1977, 212 suggested logically that the entry on Shamsi-Adad I in the king-list must also come from a chronicle with limmu dating (on which, see below, p. 79). 6

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might be the principle of arrangement (as with Ashurbanipal). The increase in tribute in later versions may represent a real increase in tribute.9 The obvious source for later editions remains, however, previous ones.10 And ‘time and again it can be shown that the figures for such items as booty, conquered cities and troops were increased in subsequent recensions of the same narrative during the reign.’11 It was, in fact, Kirk Grayson who presented the most devastating critique of the annals.12 He examined four ‘problematical battles’. The last two will suffice, being from the Neo-Assyrian period. First was the battle of Der (720), in which no fewer than three powers claimed victory: Sargon, the Elamites (the Babylonian Chronicle)13 and the Babylonians (inscriptions of king Mardukapla-iddina). Sargon admits that this king ruled Babylon for another twelve years, and tries to date the battle down by a decade! The Babylonian Chronicle, by contrast mentions even Babylonian defeats, but states here that the Babylonians did not arrive in time. This is confirmed by Sargon’s failure to mention them. The victors were, therefore, the Elamites. The other battle is Halule (691), between Sennacherib and the Elamo-Babylonians, where again Assyrian annals (the longest description of a battle in Assyrian records)14 and the Babylonian Chronicle disagree. Once again the Babylonian king remained on the throne, indicating that he was the victor, as the usually reliable chronicle states. In short, in these texts ‘a serious military set back is never openly admitted’. It was either omitted or garbled to hide the truth, or resort was had to ‘blatant falsehood’.15 Much depends on the the form of the text: annals are almost exclusively on clay, and in the shape of cylinders or prisms included as foundation deposits in major royal constructions;16 they were not meant, in this case, to be visible to the human eye. Some were set up at the Assyrian borders, where obviously few would have been able to read Akkadian; and some were inscribed on palace walls, visible only to courtiers or visiting foreign dignitaries.17 All in all, they are a total paradox: a vast effort for a tiny audience. 9 Louis Levine 1981, 60, 63, 64. This article is a most important call for more accurate methods of publication of the annals: a musical ‘score’ format, with the various versions of a king’s annals one above another, showing the exact relationship of all editions to each other. The periodic rewriting, often completely changing earlier editions, cannot, however, be denied: Tadmor 1977, 210. He suggested a pattern of five and ten year intervals in the eleventh to ninth centuries. 10 Mordechai Cogan and Tadmor 1977, 77, referring to Ashurbanipal; van Seters 1983, 64. 11 Grayson 1980, 167; Jean-Jacques Glassner 2004, 19-20. 12 Grayson 1965. 13 See above, p. 55. 14 Grayson 1980, 171. 15 Grayson 1980, 171. 16 Levine 1983, 67. 17 Saggs 1984, 272-273.

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The pains involved should be explained. Grayson is one of the few to allude to the mechanics of composition.18 The difficulties of the cuneiform script must be realized. Where the text was impressed on clay, there were few problems: mistakes could be erased easily. Where the text was for a precious object or a vast stone wall, the situation was totally different. Grayson suggested that drafts were prepared on clay. Chronology presents further problems. There were various words for years of reign (palu, šattu). Palu came to imply a campaign, so that there was often need for invention. To emphasize the heroic character of a new king, many victories might be crowded into his first year.19 Matters became complicated when the succession had not been regular. Sargon’s usurpation meant that he was occupied for a year, leading some scribes to move foreign campaigns back from year 2 to conceal the civil strife. There are two sources for his campaigns, and the Nineveh Prisms date them one year earlier than the Khorsabad annals. That pales into insignificance, however, beside usurping other king’s deeds: Sargon transferred the fall of Samaria in 722 from his father Shalmaneser to himself!20 From the time of Shamsi-Adad V (823-811), a new heading appears: ‘campaign’ (girru), which had no chronological peg. We will see it used by Ashurbanipal without any connection to years of his reign.21 This chronological carelessness is selective: the kings claimed to be perfectly capable of calculating the exact number of years elapsed since the building of a temple.22 History in Assyria may be summed up as the achievements of kings, and those kings were the agents of Ashur. The records were therefore ‘not compiled for the edification of posterity’. In reporting his victories, the king is speaking to his god: ‘when we read these texts, we are in fact listening to a conversation on the divine level.’23 The problems remain fundamental and seldom elucidated: ‘We do not know anything of the Neo-Assyrian royal chancelleries. Beyond the most superficial level, we do not understand the historiographic principles operative in these texts. We have little knowledge of what function the inscriptions played in Assyrian society. We have rarely stopped to ask what the message is … and to whom the message was addressed.’24 18

Grayson 1980, 168. Tadmor 1981, 14. This was an old tradition: note Naram-Sin’s nine victories in one year! 20 Luckenbill 1926-1927, 2 §55. Tadmor 1981, 20. 21 Tadmor 1958, 30-32, 36-37. 22 Grayson 1972-1976, 1 § 534 (Shalmaneser I), Leichty 2011, 131 (Esarhaddon), among many examples. Speiser in Dentan 1955, 46 makes much of this. The only trouble is that the calculations are often wrong. 23 Jorgen Laessøe 1963, 160. 24 Levine 1981, 56-57. We have an excellent new biography of one of the last and most important Assyrian kings: Josette Elayi, Sargon II, king of Assyria, Atlanta 2017, based on total control of the very difficult sources, and convincingly solving most of the problems of the reign, but there is no dedicated discussion of the sources and their problems. 19

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THE OLD BABYLONIAN PERIOD The main source of information about Shamsi-Adad, contemporary of Hammurabi, is the Mari Letters,25 but his inscriptions are a forerunner of the most famous genre of Assyrian record, the royal annals. Much that will later be characteristic is already in place. His major inscription26 records the building of a temple to Ashur—also called the temple of Enlil (!)—at the command of the god. The temple, built six generations earlier, had become dilapidated; Shamsi-Adad replaced it. The king emphasizes the skilled work and luxury of the temple: cedar beams and doors, and much decoration with gold and silver and lapis lazuli. Even the mortar was made with cedar resin, oil, honey and ghee! Shamsi-Adad then specifies the limits of his realm (tribute came from the kings of the ‘Upper Land’, and stelae had been set up in Lebanon), before requesting that, when this temple should become dilapidated, his memorials should be restored and preserved. In the case of any successor who damaged his records in any way, the wrath of all the gods was called down on his head, especially denying him victory in battle. Here we already have basic elements of Assyrian royal inscriptions: not the later stress on victory, although there is brief reference to his empire. The focus of this inscription is building activity, and it is from such inscriptions that most scholars derive the later annals. Ashur is the chief god, but Sumerian gods such as Anu and Enlil are honoured, as well as Semitic versions such as Shamash, Adad, Nergal, Ishtar, and Sin. And already a fascinating Assyrian custom is stressed: that kings must not damage or destroy inscriptions of their predecessors, but restore and preserve them. This is in strongest contrast with the behaviour of Egyptian kings, who regarded it as almost a duty to usurp work of predecessors. In sum, the record is a straightforward account of repairs to temples. And it is in the first person: it is the king who is speaking. How far his boasts of conquest should be believed is fundamental. Modern scholars are in general generous in their acceptance. He led armies to the Mediterranean!27 He conquered from Mari (on the Euphrates) to Lebanon,28 but he was blocked to the south by Eshnunna.29 He controlled from the foothills of the Zagros to the Euphrates and from the Adhaim river in Babylonia to the Anatolian plateau.30 His own capital was Shubat-Enlil (‘Residence of Enlil’) on the Khabur. 25 For these see especially Jorgen Lassøe 1963, 46-78. Shamsi-Adad also features in the Assyrian King-List (see below). 26 For translations of royal inscriptions down to Ashur-nasir-apli (883-859), see Grayson 19721976. This of Shamsi-Adad = 1 §122-130. 27 Georges Roux 1980, 179. This was however, ‘one of those short-lived expeditions, more economic than military’: Jean-Robert Kupper 1973, 3. 28 Alan Millard in Bienkowksi and Millard 2000, 265. 29 Paul Garelli 1969, 122. 30 Saggs 1984, 36.

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The fundamental question of where this inscription was set up cannot be answered in detail. It is on ‘alabaster tablets and fragments’. They came presumably from the temple, but whether they were on public show or hidden in foundations is not made clear. In the latter case, the record would be for the god and would also be found when any later repairs were carried out. TIGLATH-PILESER I (1115-1077) Tiglath-Pileser’s reign is the culmination of the Middle Empire, but his records are regarded as the earliest form of the royal annals. One substantial inscription will illustrate the new genre.31 It begins, as usual, with respects to Ashur, Enlil, Sin, Shamash, Adad, Ninurta and Ishtar, and asserts that the king is their select one, chosen by them. There follow his titles, including king of the universe, king of the four quarters, king of kings, and his sobriquet, ‘Deluge in Battle’. The justification for what follows is stated: Ashur and the great gods commanded him to extend the border of their land. The campaigns of his first five years are then detailed. In his first year, Tiglath Pileser operated against the Mushku,32 previously vassals, who descended on Kadmuhu (on the Upper Tigris). He defeated their five kings and 20,000 men, and took 6,000 captive. He then invaded and conquered their lands, and pursued the refugees who had crossed the Tigris, as well as defeating the Paphu33 who came to their aid, and capturing their king and his family. He then moved against the ‘rebellious’ Ishdish, in very mountainous terrain, so difficult that the chariots had to be abandoned, and the king led his troops on foot in looting and burning. Shubaru next is declared guilty of abandoning the payment of tribute and tax, having been taken over by 4,000 Hittites, but they soon submit. It is significant that Kadmuhu required a second intervention. The last survivors had to be pursued to the very ‘peaks of high mountains and perilous mountain ledges where a man could not walk’. And Paphu was also the subject of another campaign, along with Haria. In the high mountains, his soldiers had to carry their chariots on their necks, until a great victory was won at Mt Azu, followed by the conquest of twenty-five cities. The land Adaush then submitted. Saraush and Ammaush are specified as not having known submission from ancient times; they were now defeated at Mt Aruma. Tilglath-Pileser then crossed the Lower Zab and captured the city of Murattash. He defeated 6,000 troops of Habhu at Mt Hirihu. 31

Grayson 1972-76, 2 §5-63. His name means ‘My help is the son of Esharra’. Commonly taken to be Phrygians: David Wiseman 1975, 457, ‘making their way down the Tigris valley towards Nineveh’; Roux 1980, 258; Millard in Bienkowski and Millard 2000, 298. 33 A small Hurrian state on the upper Tigris: J. Margaret Munn-Rankin 1975, 285; Saggs 1984, 60: this was only ‘an exploratory reconnaissance’. 32

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Fig. 9: The obelisk of Tiglath-Pileser I (British Museum, from Nineveh). Tiglath-Pileser receives the homage of the conquered peoples, while Shamash above blesses him and hands him the bow of victory.

At the command of Ashur, Tiglath-Pileser then marched to the Upper Sea, naming sixteen ‘mighty’ mountains that he had to pass. At the Euphrates, bridges had to be built, only for him to confront an alliance of no fewer than twentythree ‘kings’ (all listed by territory, not name) of Nairi.34 They were defeated and all captured alive. They were spared by becoming vassals, but their sons were taken as hostages. Tribute imposed was 12,000 horses and 2,000 cattle. That campaign also involved the submission of Milidia.35 His next objective was the Aramaeans of the desert. He massacred them as far as Carchemish, and crossed the Euphrates on inflated goatskins in pursuit.36 Ashur then commanded him to conquer Musri, which was aided by the Qumanu.37 Bottled up in Arinu, the former surrendered and were spared. Of the latter, 34

Hill peoples west of lake Van: Wiseman 1975, 459; Saggs 1984, 61. Modern Malatya: Wiseman 1975, 459. 36 Tiglath-Pileser defeated the Aramaeans from Tadmor (Palmyra) to Karduniash (Babylon): Roux 1980, 258. According to Saggs 1984, 62, Tiglath-Pileser had to campaign against them in twenty-eight campaigns, twice a year for fourteen years. 37 At the foot of Taurus: Roux 1984, 258. 35

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20,000 at Mt Tala were slaughtered, their cult centres turned into heaps of ruins, and the city Hunusa with its three great walls razed, with a warning not to reoccupy it. The king submitted and himself destroyed his royal city Kipshuna. Here ends the catalogue of the campaigns, which Tiglath–Pileser summarizes as the conquest of forty-two lands from the Lower Zab to the Upper Sea, in Years 1-5. He next turned to his hunting prowess, and his ‘bag’ of four ‘extraordinarily strong wild virile bulls’, ten strong bull elephants, 120 lions shot on foot and another 800 from his chariot. Finally came his buildings: many temples and palaces rebuilt. Grain production greatly increased: ‘I caused ploughs to be hitched up all over Assyria’. The animals he captured abroad were used to form herds at home. Cedar, box and oak, unknown in Assyria, were brought back and planted. ‘To Assyria I added land, and to its people I added people’. As proof of his legitimacy, he traced his ancestry back five generations, to Ninurta-apil-ekur, and then returned to building activities. The temple of Anu and Adad, built 641 years earlier, had been torn down sixty years ago, but not rebuilt. Tiglath-Pileser now accomplished that: foundations were fifty layers of brick deep, with a double ziggurat, and an interior ‘decorated like the interior of heaven’. Another temple of Adad was also rebuilt, and in it were deposited precious stones (obsidian, haematite) from Nairi. Anu and Adad were favourite protectors and the king prays to them at length for their blessing. It was in their temples that these records of his victories were deposited. He asked that any later king restore them if needed, and invoked total destruction on any successor who damaged them: ‘may they terminate his noble line’, ‘make him sit in bondage before his enemies’, and ‘inflict his land with distress, famine, want and plague’! The annals end with the day and month in the eponymous year of Ina-iliyaallak.38 Tiglath-Pileser himself has answered the first question, where these records were set up. They were placed in the temple of Anu and Adad. Not the temple of the chief god Ashur, the king’s protector and stimulus, but in the temple the rebuilding of which after such long neglect was the chief boast of the king’s building programme. There are many notable features of these royal records. The central interest is victorious campaigns, but combined with those is the earliest form of such royal records: building inscriptions. To this Tiglath-Pileser has added records of his hunting, recalling pharaohs such as Thutmose I, III and Amunhotep II. He was the first Assyrian king to do this.39 This was simply another arena in which the king could demonstrate his prowess, against animals, as well as human foes.40 38 39 40

Eponym in Year 3 or 4: Claudio Saporetti 1979, 159. Millard in Bienkowski and Millard 2000, 289. Wiseman 1975, 463.

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The vivid literary style is unlike anything seen before in the ancient world: ‘metaphorical language, poetic comparisons, epic hyperbole’, in the words of Hayim Tadmor.41 The ever-victorious king and his ferocious might are the dominant themes. In the service of these, the Assyrians understood the force of similes: severed heads and corpses are stacked ‘like grain piles’ (repeated often); the enemy ‘flew like birds to ledges on high mountains’ (used twice); the enemy is ‘laid low like sheep’; rough terrain ‘cuts like the blade of a dagger’; with enemy blood he ‘dyed Mt Hirihu red like red wool’. Tiglath-Pileser himself is ‘like a storm demon’, ‘like a storm of the god Adad’. Gruesome detail abounds: I ‘made their blood flow into the hollows and plains of the mountains’(found four times!); their cities ‘I burnt, razed and destroyed’ (a repeated refrain). Tiglath-Pileser is anything but modest: a ‘valiant man, opener of remote regions in the mountains, subduer of the unsubmissive, overwhelmer of all fierce enemies’; ‘rival of all kings’. One of the most insistent themes in these annals of conquest is the difficulty of the terrain; for example, ‘rugged paths and perilous passes’. He acknowledges always the source of his strength: Ashur ‘gave me strength and authority’. In accordance with Mesopotamian custom, he also ensured the approval of the gods by divination. Whatever pretensions the pharaoh had to divine status, the rulers of Mesopotamia were, with few exceptions, agents of the gods. As with Egyptian annals of campaigns, booty is listed: ‘180 copper kettles, five bronze bathtubs’, sixty copper kettles, thirty talents of copper ore, and it is specifically donated to the gods; 120 chariots and extensive herds of horses, mules and donkeys. Such items were to become ever more prominent in the annals, and it has led to suggestions that Assyrian campaigns were essentially for plunder, to provide essential resources.42 Tiglath-Pileser admits (above) that these items of livestock were highly valued as a means to increase herds at home. One item is of great interest, a form of evocation: Tiglath-Pileser ‘brought out twenty-five of their gods’, taken to adorn the temple of Ninlil, wife of Ashur. Were these simply regarded as valuable works of art, or was this indeed an attempt by the Assyrians to placate the deities of conquered enemies and to reconcile them by admission to the native pantheon?43 These annals seem to record an unrelenting series of campaigns, as TiglathPileser himself defined them, from the Lower Zab to the Upper Sea. We have difficulty following in his tracks, and his contemporaries would most certainly have had more. What sense he himself could make of this immense geography is hard to say. He explains his campaigns in most cases as being against rebellious

41

Tadmor 1977, 209. Saggs 1984, 61, for example. 43 According to Wiseman 1975, 459-460, they were carried off as ‘hostages’. From the Akhlamu the gods were carried off ‘as a final disgrace and to mark their reduction to impotence’. 42

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vassals, but was he simply reacting to crises as they arose, or did he have an overall strategy, for example, as he sometimes suggests, for extending Assyrian control?44 He lived in a difficult world. The old powers, Egypt and the Hittites, had gone, and the Aramaeans were threatening Babylon. According to Olmstead, Tiglath-Pileser was attempting to bring order into chaos.45 The last question is central: our understanding of, and response to, the appalling—indeed unprecedented—cruelty celebrated in these annals. The Assyrians have suffered greatly at the hands of the authors of the Old Testament, but they seem to have done their best to provide evidence for their fearful reputation. Their literary skills brought amazing vividness to the narrative. They undoubtedly possessed the most efficient and terrifying war machine of their time; they won bloody victories; they razed cities to the ground; they inflicted horrendous punishments; and they seemed to be insatiable plunderers. It must be remembered, however, that on the most fundamental level these records must be taken ‘with a pinch of salt’. The only thing mentioned is victory and success; there is never a hint of failure or reversal. And the language, for all its vividness—especially at its most vivid—is repetitious to the point of cliché, and exaggerated. The Assyrians cannot have made blood ‘flow into the hollows and plains of the mountains’ every time! There are many places, indeed, where Tiglath-Pileser admits that a conquered king was spared. And beyond mere plunder, there is a totally unexpected ‘scientific’ interest: note the taking back of unknown trees to be planted in Assyria.

ASHURBANIPAL46 (668-633) It would be hard to neglect the annals of Ashurbanipal as an example of the Neo-Assyrian records.47 Cautions and regrets are, however, uttered on all sides. It is stressed that these texts are very complicated, and lack chronology,48 and 44 Wiseman 1975, 457 avers that ‘it would seem that he at least developed and followed an overall strategic plan for dealing with his enemies and extending Assyrian influence’. He also notes (460), however, fatal repercussions: policy had been initiated which could not be reversed, and the cost to Assyria in maintaining control would be very high; half a millennium later these hill tribes would play a role in the destruction of Assyria. Overall, however, Wiseman notes (462) that only rarely were the expeditions exploited: tribute and taxes not regularly collected, prisoners were not employed as manpower, no system of control was established, such as provinces and administrative districts. According to Saggs 1984, 59, on the other hand, Tiglath-Pileser had a ‘clear strategy—each step facilitating that which was to follow’. 45 Olmstead 1923, 62. 46 His name means ‘Ashur has created a son as heir’. 47 Translation by Leo Oppenheim in Pritchard 1969, 294-301; and by James Novotny and Joshua Jeffers 2018. 48 Only a pair of eponyms (see below) have survived: Shamash-daninanni (Prism A), and Belshenu (Prism B).

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Fig. 10: Ashurbanipal’s campaign against the Arabs (British Museum).

Ashurbanipal is usually named as the examplar par excellence of ‘editing’ his annals. It is, however, usually the latest edition, prism A (the ‘Rassam cylinder’ in the British Museum), which is used for the narrative of his reign.49 Even the proper terms are not observed: the so-called cylinders are, in fact, prisms, of varying complexity: hexagons, octagons, even decagons. At least provenance is not a problem: most texts come from Nineveh. The earliest edition is prism E, which is badly broken. Nothing included in it is dated after c.665.50 It is, in fact, an hexagonal or heptagonal prism, and devoted labours, particularly by Millard and Weissert and Onasch,51 have recently been reconstructing it, and we have now two versions E1 and E2. It contains as a prologue Ashurbanipal’s boastful titles (‘the great king, the mighty king, king of the world’ etc.), a list of his patron deities, and very importantly an assertion of his appointment by Esarhaddon as crown prince. Preceding his own conquests, there is a tribute to his father Esarhaddon, in Egypt: the defeat of Taharqa, the total conquest of Egypt, the changing of the names of the cities, 49 Olmstead taught us a century ago about the pitfalls of the annals, an essay republished by Project Gutenberg, yet his account of Ashurbanipal, of all people, is alarmingly uncritical. Even in his path-breaking essay of 1916 he dealt with only the minor case of Kirbit as an example of ‘editing’. For the proper order of the editions, see, for example, Anthony Spalinger 1974, Tadmor 1981, 21. Cogan and Tadmor 1977, 83, comment on the poor historical method of the moderns. 50 On the dating of E, see Cogan and Tadmor 1977, 81-82. 51 Millard 1968 found many unrecognised fragments in the British Museum; Weissert and Onasch 1992.

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and the establishment of his servants as rulers. Ashurnanipal’s own campaign led to Tarhaqa ‘losing his mind’ and fleeing from Memphis. Of the disloyal governors, Necho was spared and reinstated. A second section records the arrival of a messenger (rakbu) whom no one could understand. This was from Gyges of Lydia.52 The second edition is much more complicated. The Cimmerians are descending on Lydia like a swarm of locusts. Gyges has a dream of resorting to Ashurbanipal for help, and he made his submission [668/665]. A third section records the defeat of Tandai of Kirbit by agents of the king [668].53 The campaigns are not numbered in this earliest account.54 Ashurnbanipal finally divided his annals into campaigns, nine in all (prism A, decagonal: the ‘Rassam’: dated by the eponym to 643). This text began with the king’s titles: oldest prince of the harem, destined from the womb by the gods to rule, and appointed by his father at a grand ceremony.55 He was educated in the harem, where he learned writing, bowmanship and horsemanship. When he succeeded, nature responded with excesses such as grain with ears more than thirty centimetres long. The first campaign (girru) was against Taharqa (690-664). who had rebelled in Egypt (667). On the Assyrian march, they were joined by twenty-two kings of the coast, sea and land. An advance Egyptian army was defeated, and Taharqa fled from Memphis to Thebes. Memphis was captured, and Ashurbanipal reinstalled the agents of his father. As soon as the Assyrians left, these vassals rebelled again. They were brought to Nineveh and executed, except Necho (d.664), who was grandly reinstalled in Sais. On Taharqa’s death, he was succeeded by Tandamane (664-656). A second campaign was therefore required (c.663). Tandamane fled from Thebes and the city was captured with enormous booty—precious metals, linen, horses, people, and obelisks—which was removed to Nineveh. In the first place, one can see that the two campaigns were not in successive years. Despite appearances, Ashurbanipal did not command either of these expeditions.56 An obvious gap in the story is the failure to pursue Taharqa to Thebes, where he survived. Moderns suggest that the treachery of the vassals prevented this.57 On Necho’s death (664), the Egyptians appointed his son, Psammetichus (664-610), who succeeded by 650 in expelling the Assyrians. 52

For a brilliant analysis of this whole episode, see Cogan and Tadmor 1977. By Prism B (647), Kirbit will be moved down to the fourth campaign: Novotny and Jeffers 2018, 63. 54 Cogan and Tadmor 1977, 82. 55 He was not the eldest son: that was Shamash-shumukin, as an old courtier protested to Esarhaddon: Olmstead 1923, 396. 56 Saggs 1984, 109; Grayson 1991, 143, 144. This remains a vital question throughout the annals: Ashurbanipal marched against Babylon: Roux 1980, 307, cf. ‘Ashurbanipal sent Bel-ibni with an army’ to Babylonia: Grayson 151; he led the armies against Elam: Michael Roaf 1990, 191; Grayson, 153. 57 Grayson 1991, 144. Frederick Fales 1981 has assembled nineteen passages with similar grammar and expression to suggest that ‘literary and amplification codes’ were in use, but a simpler 53

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The third campaign was against Tyre (662), which was disobedient. It was captured by earthworks. The king’s son was forced to come to Nineveh, then returned to his father. The main ‘booty’ was the king’s daughters and nieces, to serve as concubines. Under the same year, the kings of Arvad (Arados in Phoenicia), Tabal, and Khilakku also surrendered daughters. A new king was installed in Arvad.58 Gyges of Lydia was induced by a dream to send a messenger to Ashurbanipal; he then won victories over the Cimmerians. Later he forgot his allegiance and supported Tushamilki in Egypt, but the Cimmerians then defeated him in battle, and he was killed (c.645). His son [Croesus] swore loyalty to Assyria. The fourth campaign against the Mannaeans (c.660) was at the command of the gods. His cities ‘I captured, I destroyed, I devastated, I burned’. King Asheri was killed by his own people. His son Ualli submitted to Ashurbanipal, gave him his daughter, and paid increased tribute (thirty more horses). The fifth campaign was against Elam, at the command of the gods (653). King Teumann, ‘plotting evil’ was beheaded, the plain was filled with dead as with shrubs, the Ulaya river ‘I dyed red like wool’ with their blood. A pretender in Assyria was established on the throne. The Elamites’ ally, Dunanu of Gambulu, then had to be dealt with. His crime was that he had ‘lamed for me the exercise of sovranty’. His stronghold was captured, the inhabitants ‘I slaughtered like lambs’, and it was flooded. Dunanu was shackled, and with his family members and his father’s bones (!), along with animals, carried off to Assyria. Teumann had, in fact, seized the throne and attempted a massacre of rival princes, who fled to Ashurbanipal. Contrary to the impression given by Ashurbanipal, Teumann ruled for a decade. His head was taken to Nineveh, where it can be seen in the celebrated relief of the royal banquet.59 During the same campaign, a fateful struggle finally broke out with Shamashshamukin, Ashurbanipal’s brother, king in Babylon (652-648).60 He organised a mighty coalition, and his main aim was to take from Ashurbanipal the ‘seat of the great gods’ (Babylon), where he had, in fact, restored the sanctuaries. The sixth campaign was therefore centred on Babylon. Ashurbanipal claims an early crushing victory. Among her allies was Elam, but its king was defeated by one of his own men and fled—to Nineveh.61 Ashurbanipal, ‘the kind hearted, who does not bear grudges, who forgives transgressions’, accepted him. Famine seized on Babylonia: ‘they ate the flesh of their sons and daughters, they explanation is not that the scribes were writing to formulae, but that each new edition was utilizing previous ones. They would hardly be composed ex nihilo. 58 Roux 1980, 306 comments on the ‘astonishing leniency’ with which these kings were treated. 59 Saggs 1984, 112-113. Ashurbanipal did not command in this war. 60 He had been appointed to that throne by his father, but Ashurbanipal’s interference in his realm was incessant. 61 Grayson 1991, 151 attractively suggests that this disruption of the Elamites was the key to Shamash-shamukin’s defeat.

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gnawed leather thongs’. Shamash-shamukin committed suicide; of his supporters, not one escaped. Those who had blasphemed Ashur had their tongues slit, others were slaughtered by the colossi where they had cut down Sennacherib, and their bodies were fed to the animals. Ashurbanipal dutifully purified the shrines and streets. In the seventh campaign Ashurbanipal marched (sent his army) against Elam again (648). Many cities instantly submitted, and an earlier capital Bit-Imbi was captured. Some inhabitants were decapitated, others had their lips pierced and were to be exhibited in Nineveh, the rest of the population was counted as booty. The fugitive Tammaritu was installed as king, then rebelled, but the gods overthrew him. On the return march nearly thirty cities, including Susa, ‘I captured, I destroyed, I devastated, I burned’, and all their goods were carried off. Elam was the object also of the eighth campaign (647). King Khumbankhaltash fled on the capture again of Bit-Imbi, but made his stand at the river Idide. Some fourteen ‘royal’ cities fell to the Assyrians. The king was defeated. More cities were devastated; ‘I smashed their gods’, to pacify the heart of Ashur. ‘His gods, his goddesses, his property, his people great and small, I carried off to Assyria.’ Susa was again captured, and totally looted (but this included booty taken by the Elamites from Babylon), the ziggurat was destroyed, the paraphernalia and personnel of all the deities, and thirty-two royal statues were carried off, the sacred groves were set on fire, and the royal graves were desecrated. And an historical first: the land of Elam was sowed with salt to render it infertile. The land fell silent. The choicest booty was presented to the Assyrian gods, Elamite soldiers were added to the Assyrian army. Khumbankhaltash then suddenly reappears in his devastated capital, and he was sheltering Nabu-bel-shumate, ruler of the Sealands, and ally of Babylon (646). On orders for his surrender, he committed suicide. The Elamite king sent his body in salt to Nineveh, where Ashurbanipal cut off the head and hung it around the neck of his twin brother. King Pa’e in terror made submission and many Elamites were added to the bowmen of the Assyrian army.62 The ninth campaign was the famous one in Arabia (651/650). King Uaite violated his oath, did not come to greet Ashurbanipal, withheld tribute, and supported Babylon. Assyrian armies gained a decisive victory, but the king escaped to the Nabataeans. His nephew was put in a kennel to guard the gate at Nineveh. Uaiate’s brother-in-law, king of Kedar, was also defeated and put in a kennel. The Assyrians’ puppet-king then made cause with the Nabataeans. Ashurbanipal provides a vivid account of the terrain through which the army marched. Between Iarki and Asalla, the Assyrians were victorious; Uaite and 62 Grayson 1991, 153 admits that the might of Elam was destroyed and the state rarely appears in subsequent history. Saggs 1984, 115, however, drew attention to the ‘poor statecraft’ involved: the destruction of Elam opened the area to Persian occupation.

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Fig. 11: Ashurbanipal’s lion hunt (British Museum).

his whole family were captured, and the general who had helped Babylon was defeated and captured on Mt Hukkurina. Those who escaped from here were cut off from all wells, and forced to drink their camels’ blood and urine. Camels captured were so numerous that they flooded the market in Assyria. Famine struck Uaite, his armies revolted, and he was captured: a chain was put through his jaw and he was placed at the gate of Nineveh. As a final note, Ishtar-duri of Urartu made submission to Assyria.63 This last edition of Ashurbanipal’s ‘annals’ concluded, as usual, with his building exploits. Sennacherib’s harim had fallen into ruin. This part of the palace had a special link to the king: he had spent his days as crown prince there, and, it seems, most of his time since his accession; he regarded the harim as a place that provided safety. Many rulers had a different experience! He rebuilt the harim from the foundations up. The bricks were carried on captured Elamite wagons, and ex-kings of Arabia were among the workers, carrying ‘basket and headband’. Ashurbanipal then reveals that the work was carried out to musical accompaniment! The roof was made of cedar, doors were of juniper sheathed in copper, columns were sheathed in bronze (it was the walls of this building which were decorated with the reliefs of Ashurbanipal’s campaigns). The whole was surrounded by an orchard. There follow the usual exhortations to later kings—and curses. 63

Saggs 1984, 115 implies that Ashurbanipal led this campaign.

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One thing is crystal clear: chronology is entirely disregarded. This is paradoxical, given the invention of an eponym system: the Assyrians perfectly understood year by year chronology. The key here is obviously the grouping of campaigns by area. This is, however, not history. These records do not, in fact, deserve the label ‘annals’, a basic fact rarely admitted.64 The true sequence of events is necessary in order to make the most basic sense of them; for example, it was only when the Elamites had been subdued that Ashurbanipal could at last move against his brother in Babylon.65 Few kings have left as vivid an impression through their records as Ashurbanipal. His language is extravagant, although, as usual, much is formulaic: ‘I captured, I destroyed, I devastated, I burned’. He seems to revel in sadistic cruelty: an unforgettable example is his treatment of captured kings, who had a chain passed through their jaw and who were placed in kennels at the gates of Nineveh, not to mention the head of Nabu-belshamate, and the desecration of Elamite royal tombs. There seems no atrocity to which this king would not stoop. The first use of ‘chemical warfare’—the attempt to render land infertile— is noteworthy.66 There are also policies which could be regarded as highly dangerous: the smashing of foreign gods. In the ancient world there was general toleration of foreign cults, which could be absorbed by syncretism. It would seem to make sense to welcome enemy deities, adding their power to your own pantheon, rather than outraging them.67 THE ASSYRIAN KING-LIST (THE ASSYRIAN ROYAL CHRONICLE)68 We are now used to king-lists as a skeletal chronology used by all the preclassical civilisations. To outward appearances, it has a simple purpose: ‘The list is by its nature a linear account of kingship in Assyria. Each king is given his claim to the throne as a result of his connection to predecessors on the list.’ It therefore certainly gives modern scholars an ‘insight into the manner in which the Assyrians regarded their own history.’69 The Assyrian king-list, however, raises problems in comparison with the earlier ones which we have considered which place it in a class of its own.70 64

Cogan and Tadmor 1977, 83. On Ashurbanipal’s constant moving of the order of his campaigns, Tadmor 1981, 21. 65 Grayson 1991, 151. 66 This is the origin of a famous myth: Ridley 1986. 67 On Assyrian interpretation of their imperialism as civilization v. barbarism, see Glassner’s insightful comments, 2004, 90. 68 Translation by Oppenheim in Pritchard 1969, 554-566; text and translation by Glassner 2004, 136-145. 69 Steven Garfinkle 2007, 60. 70 A special place should be accorded to Benno Landsberger’s contribution in 1954, which is always listed in bibliographies, but none of his results are noted. Perhaps the boisterousness of his treatment of those he disagreed with, especially Rowton, is to blame.

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Early kings are not listed individually, but grouped in categories. The first is ‘seventeen kings living in tents’: names without filiation. Then follow ‘ten kings who are ancestors’; these are given filiation. The attentive reader will instantly be aware that something is wrong: Apiashal, son of Ushpiya71 is the last king in both these groups! The second group, the ten ‘ancestors’, is listed in reverse order.72 There follow ‘six kings (mentioned) on brick inscriptions, whose eponym lists have been worn away’, again without filiation—except for the first.73 It is only with the thirty-third king (Erishu I) that the list assumes its standard form: the name of the king and of his father, ‘he ruled as king for x years’. In a very few cases notes are added, most extensively in the case of none other than Shamsi-Adad (39):74 ‘Son of Ilu-kabkabi,75 he went away to Babylonia76 in the time of Naram-Sin (37); in the eponymous year of Ibni-Adad he came back from Babylonia; he seized Ekallate;77 he stayed in Ekallate for three years; in the eponymous year of AtamarIshtar he came up from Ekallate and removed Erishu, son of Naram-Sin (the Assyrian king) from the throne.’ (tr. Oppenheim)

Ashur-dugal (41) was ‘son of a nobody [mar la mamana], without right to the throne’.78 In his lifetime, six kings, also sons of nobodies, each ruled for less than a year.79 The beginning of a settled monarchy is marked by Adasi (47), 71 Ushpiya (16) is mentioned by Shalmaneser I (Grayson 1972-1976, 1 § 534) and Esarhaddon (Leichty 2011, 125). He was the builder of the temple of Ashur, or the city. On the nomadic kings, see Hildegard Lewy 1971, 744-745; Glassner 2004, 71, citing an invocation of names of ancestors by Ammi-saduqa of Babylon. They were ancestors of tribes; compare the twelve sons of Joseph. 72 Yet Arno Poebel 1942, 268 notes that early Assyrian kings could give their descent thus: Ashur-uballit (Grayson 1972-1976, 1 §287). 73 Poebel 1942, 276 noted the difference in the names: the first three West Semitic, the last three ‘genuinely Akkadian’, and from their time, we begin to have surviving inscriptions. Van Seters 1983, 73 sees the different styles for these first three sections of the list as showing their original independence. Silulu (27) in fact begins a new dynasty, down to Erishu II: see Lewy 1971, 746-748, 754-762. Kikkia (28) is mentioned by Shalmaneser III: Grayson 1996, 2.58 (no. 11). He built the city wall, so threw off Ur III. 74 The kings are referred to commonly, and usefully for identification, by number in the list. 75 ‘The express naming of a new king’s [i.e., founder of a dynasty] father always indicates that the latter was of royal status’: Poebel 1942, 286. He was king of Terqa on the Upper Euphrates: Lassøe 1963, 41, Garelli 1969, 122; he ‘ruled over a land bordering on the kingdom of Mari’: Kupper 1973, 1. Compare: his father was not a king: Millard in Bienkowski and Millard 2000, 264. 76 Shamsi-Adad was therefore a ‘protagonist’ of Babylonian culture, although he regarded himself as the heir to the kings of Agade (Lassøe 1963, 82), and later kings acknowledged the cultural superiority of this city, as the Romans acknowledged the cultural superiority of Greece. 77 The ‘palaces’, about fifty kms south of Ashur; on the left bank of the Tigris: Kupper 1973, 1. 78 This and various following examples make it hard to accept Grayson’s view 1980, 179 that the list ‘supported the belief that kingship in Assyria descended in a continuous line with virtually no disruptions’, or Joan Oates’ claim 1991, 163, that the list ‘was designed to perpetuate the concept of an hereditary and uncontested monarchy’! The theory may have been different: ‘officially the living king of Assyria belonged to the same dynasty which ruled without major (sic) interruption from the beginning’: Tadmor 1981, 25. 79 This is a puzzling note, but Ashur-dugal was a usurper; perhaps it is not unexpected therefore that another six arose at the end of his reign: compare Darius and the ‘usurpers’.

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who bears a foreign name. Ishme-dagan (58) is specified as the brother of (55). Ashur-rabi I (65) ‘seized the throne’, while Enlil-nasir (67) removed his predecessor. The name Ashur-nadin-ahhe (66, 71) means ‘Ashur sends a brother’; these should therefore be the brothers, not the sons of the preceding.80 A moment’s attention to the filiation reveals that this was a struggle within the ruling family. Ashur-nadin-apli (79) overthrew his father, but both he and his two successors had short reigns. With Ninurta-apli-ekur (82), there is a change of dynasty. A descendant of Eriba-Ada (72), like Shamsi-Adad, he went up to Babylon, came back and seized the throne.81 His grandsons (84-85) fought over the throne. Finally Shamsi-Adad IV (91) removed his nephew and seized the throne (c.1055). There is no note on the fact that Tiglath Pileser I (87) was murdered. According to the list, after Shamsi-Adad, the succession seems regular. Nothing could be further from the truth. Shamsi-Adad V (103) was opposed by a brother, twenty-seven cities joined him, and it took six years of war to deal with him. His son, Adadnirari III (104) was not the eldest son but was supported by the queen mother.82 And Tiglath-Pileser III (108) was a usurper.83 The succession was, in fact, to become ‘the cardinal problem of the Assyrian monarchy from the middle of the eighth century onward’,84 but that is where the existing king-list ends. In short, the additional notes in the list concern seizure of the throne.85 There may be erratic notes here and there on upheavals, but as well there are cases of most complicated succession; for example, 47-60, where the throne switches from branch to branch of a family without explanation.86 We must return to the first sections. It was the stunning revelation of Jacob Finkelstein that twelve of the first group, the ‘kings living in tents’, were the Amorite ancestors of Shamsi-Adad I, and that they correspond with the list of the ancestors of Hammurabi (BM 80328), also an Amorite. The ‘ten kings who are ancestors’ (17-26) are also Shamsi-Adad’s ancestors! The glaring proof is that the last of them (Amini) was the son of Ilu-kabkabi!87 The ten kings would extend back some four centuries, to the Gutians, and represent the earliest Amorite ‘sheiks’ known to tradition. They had nothing to do with Assyria: their territorial connections were with Mari and Terqa on the Upper Euphrates. These sections of the king-list have been inserted solely to legitimize Shamsi-Adad’s 80 Benno Landsberger 1954, 43. Poebel 1942, 481 went so far as to state that there was an ‘inclination’ of the scribes to ‘extend’ the usual father-son relationship. This is the case with 68 and 70. 81 For this period, see Poebel 1943, 56-61. 82 Tadmor 1983, 53. 83 Tadmor 1983, 38—although a prince of the royal family. 84 Tadmor 1983, 52. 85 Grayson 1980, 179. 86 For an essential family tree at this point, Poebel 1942, 470. 87 Pointed out by Landsberger 1954, 26.

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claims to the throne. It is more amazing that ‘learned circles’ c.1000 accepted these sections as authentic parts of the king-list.88 Landsberger drew attention to a tablet (BM 115688) which listed ShamsiAdad’s son Ishme-Dagan, then his sons Mut-Ashkur, Rimux, and Asinum. This tablet recorded that Puzur-Sin disowned Shamsi-Adad as a foreigner and presumably overthrew his grandson Asinum (the text is broken). Landsberger numbered these missing kings 40a-d. The king-list in other words omitted the ‘wicked’ successors of Shamsi-Adad as well as the ‘blood-stained liberator’.89 The list admits upheaval: Ishme-Dagan is followed by seven ‘sons of nobodies’ (41-47), who ruled for a very short time—and again the length of their reigns is not given. The most important consequence of this is that the list is not complete; it cannot in the early sections therefore be used for dead calculation of chronology. And Arno Poebel rightly noted that Tudiya may not necessarily be the first king, but merely the first known to the later compilers.90 The insertion of lists of Shamsi-Adad’s ancestors is the most shocking interference in the Assyrian king-list, but there are many other problems. There are at least two cases where filiation varies in the different copies: Eriba-Adad I (72) and Eriba-Adad II (90). Far more important, however, are the three cases where the king’s own inscriptions show that the list is in error about his father: Ashur-nirari II (68), Ashur-rim-nisheshu (70), and Adad-nirari I (76).91 It is suspicious that names 38-40 are the same as 56-58. Whatever the problems with an ‘uncontested monarchy’ or a single, uninterrupted dynasty, John van Seters pointed out that the list is based on an evident falsehood: ‘It was a purely nationalistic document which suggested that Assyria had been an independent state from its origins (which is historically untrue).’92 Vital is the question of the sources for this list. The oldest known goes back to the tenth century: the ‘Nassouhi’ text, named after its publisher, found in Ashur and now in Istanbul, which goes down to 746;93 two eighth century copies: one found in Khorsabad (KhKL) in 1932 and now in Chicago, which 88 Finkelstein 1966. An alternative is that the Shamsi-Adad sections were the origin of the list, which was then continued: Grayson 1980, 179. 89 Translation by Grayson 1972-1976, 1 §175. Mut-ashkur is confirmed by the Mari Letters (ARM 2.87), and he married the daughter of Zaziya (2.91). The omissions are confirmed by Lewy 1971, 749. 90 Poebel 1942, 260. The same is true for the lists of archons, ephors and consuls (see eponyms, below). 91 John Brinkman’s cautions 1973, 310 about the general uncritical trust in this king-list as a basis for Mesopotamian chronology 1500-600, despite the revelations of Landsberger and others, are therefore fully justified. Van Seters 1983, 73 states also that Naram-Sin (37) was not the son of Puzur-Ashur, but ‘an invader from Eshnunna’. ‘[T]his chronicle is strewn with erroneous genealogies of rulers’: Glassner 2004, 49. 92 Van Seters 1995, 34-39. 93 Essad Nassouhi 1927. It is not obvious why van Seters 1995, 24-39 seems to date the king-list to the thirteenth century.

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goes down to 738,94 the other (SDAS) from Ashur (date of finding unknown), now in the Seventh Day Adventist Seminary in Washington, which goes down to 722.95 There is also a copy from Nineveh (NiKL), now in the British Museum. The important observation is that the earliest copy is not the most reliable. None of these copies can go back earlier than the Middle Assyrian period: Babylon is constantly called Karduniash.96 A text which alludes to the king-list has been identified, however, from the reign of Tukulti-ninurta I (1244-1208) (BM 98496).97 It is the work of a Babylonian scribe, brought to Assyria by that king. The badly broken text mentions a dynasty (bala) of six kings, seventy-seven names, forty kings with twentyfour filiations, and the dynasty of Sulili. The obvious group of six kings as found in the list is 27-32. Forty kings, many missing filiation, would be the first forty, of whom nineteen have fathers recorded; but Tikulti-Ninurta regarded Sulili’s descendants as a dynasty, so they would make up the twenty-four. The reference to seventy-seven names must be to Nikulti-Ninurta’s predecessors. Modern chronology can easily be applied to the king-list from the NeoAssyrian period, but synchronisms for the earlier sections are more difficult.98 There are four cases where the total years given for a king’s reign vary by a decade: Ishme-Dagan I (40), Puzur-Ashur (61), Ninurta-apli-ekur (82), and Ashur-dan (83). Our major help is that Shamsi-Adad I died in Year 11 of Hammurabi. If we accept, as most do, the chronology established by Sydney Smith, Hammurabi reigned 1792-1750.99 94 First published with an exhaustively detailed analysis by Poebel in 1942. It is a tablet 18 by 13.5 cms, written on both sides and divided on each into two columns. The subscription states that it was copied from a list in Ashur by Kandilanu, scribe of a temple in Arbail. The full entry for each king (after 33) is written across the two columns and requires two lines, and each king’s entry is ruled off. 95 Glassner 2004, 89 shows the connection of the copies with Ashur: ‘only the point of view of Assur was henceforth to be taken into account, the name of other capitals being simply obliterated’. ‘The monarchy never left Assur, the only royal city ever to have existed’. 96 Brinkman 1973, 315: the ‘final redaction’; better, the initial compilation: van Seters 1983, 75. He dates the composition about the reign of Tikulti-Ninurta I (1244-1208). Van Seters also draws attention to the fact that no fewer than three kings return from Babylon to seize the throne (Shamsi-Adad (39), Ninurta-apli-ekur (82) and Shamsi-Adad IV (91)). 97 Wilfred Lambert 1976. 98 Poebel 1942, 260 estimated 150 years as a minimum for the first fifteen nomads (1-15). 99 Poebel 1942, 289 counted in the list 1726 years from Shamsi-Adad I (39) to Ashurnirari (107). A notorious problem is the calculation by the kings themselves of the gap between restorations of a building; for example, Shalmaneser I (77) counted 580 years from Shamsi-Adad I (39) to himself (Grayson 1972-1976, 1 §534), while Essarhaddon calculated the same interval as 434 years (Leichty 2011, 125). For a most complicated attempt to reconcile the differences, Poebel 1942, 290-306. Most useful is Lewy 1971, 740-751. She suggests that a favourite period for temple reconstruction was 350 years or multiples, relying especially on Grayson 1972-1976, 2 §54. She reconciles the above case by Shalmaneser’s mistaken inclusion of the 159 years from Erishum (33) to Shamsi-Adad (39), and variation in counting from the beginning or end of a predecessor’s reign. It is not only moderns who have ‘short’ and ‘long’ chronologies. Tikulti-Ninurta (78) was ‘well acquainted’ with his father Shalmaneser’s king-list (the ‘standard’), but his was eighty-nine

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In sum, the Assyrian king-list is a perplexing and deceitful document. It is basically a list of names, with filiation and lengths of reigns, but often the two latter elements are unreliable. It erratically expands into a summary chronicle, but leaves many places in need of explanation: there were frequently bloody struggles for power. Its main aim is to show that Assyria had been ruled by a single dynasty from the beginning, in strongest contrast with the ‘alternation theory’ of the ‘Sumerian king-list’.100 In common with most ancient near eastern ‘historical’ texts, it also does not distinguish the mythical from later periods. It also implies Assyria’s timeless independence, concealing the periods of its control by Agade and then Ur III.101 And the list has been used for personal ends, most notably by Shamsi-Adad, whom modern archaeology has confirmed as indeed the outstanding figure in early Assyrian history.102 It is a highly ideological document, despite its attempt to appear a simple list. EPONYM LISTS The king-list refers to eponyms (limmu = cycle, rotation).103 This was a remarkable invention of the Assyrians. Since they were ruled by a monarchy, the simple and obvious calendar was a king-list, allowing one to date any year as year x of king y. In addition, however, they invented the idea of eponymity, whereby each year was named after an eminent person. In Assyria the idea is proven to exist as early as the nineteenth century (see the reign of Shamsi-Adad in the king-list).104 The king and his leading officials (the commander-in chief [turtanu], chief cupbearer [rab saqe], palace herald [nagir ekalli] and even the years longer: Grayson 1972-1976, 1 §728, and also Tiglath-Pileser I (87): 2 §54. Jana Pecirkova 1975, 29-30 draws attention to these calculations of ‘distance’ between kings as evidence for the fact that the kings—or their scribes—did have access to ‘relatively reliable information’ on chronology, and prove ‘strong awareness of continuity with the past’, although she thinks that continuity is meant to illustrate royal piety. 100 There are only three cases where there is a break: Shamsi-Adad (30), the seven ‘sons of nobodies’ (41-47, the last of whom, Adasi, founded the new line), and Ninurta Apli Ekur (82), but he was a descendant of Eriba-Adad (72). Glassner 2004, 873, on the basis of two connected names, claimed that the Assyrian king list was highly influenced by its Sumerian antecedent and equally espoused alternation of local dynasties, with power passing from city to city, such as Ekallatum, Ashur and Shubat-Enlil. 101 See the inscription of Zariqum for Amar-Sin: Grayson 1972-1976, 1 §18-20. 102 Glassner 2004, 74 suggested that Shamsi-Adad was the author of the first edition, noting (89) ‘the unparalleled biographical notice dedicated to him’. 103 Lewy 1971, 742, especially for the reign of Shamsi-Adad. 104 Poebel 1942, 280 traced the office back to the foundation of the cult of Ashur, since its function was, in his view, to care for the sanctuary. And indeed, the king-list records that the eponym lists were destroyed for kings 27-32. At Mari from around Shamsi-Adad’s reign has been found a list of between seventy and one hundred limmu: Maurice Birot 1985. This is taken by Birot to be a list focussing on the dynasty of Shamsi-Adad. This text would be the oldest Mesopotamian ‘chronicle’. The authoritative modern study is Millard 2014, with lists.

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chamberlain [mazennu], as well as governors of major cities), took it in turn to have a year named after each of them.105 The idea of naming the year after not an event but a person is most original, and that the king shared this honour is even more extraordinary.106 This system required careful record-keeping. The calendar would be useless unless accurate lists of names were kept, presumably year by year.107 This was the origin of the Athenian archon eponymous (traditionally 684), the Spartan ephor eponymous (traditionally ascribed to the legislator Lykurgos), and the fasti (calendar) of the two Roman consuls (traditionally 509). These later derivations are, however, much less revolutionary than the Assyrian prototype. In the case of the Greek states, the eponymous magistrate was one of the chief officials (one of three in Athens, five in Sparta), while in Rome, they were the two chief magistrates: although only one name was necessary, it is significant that the honour was so valued that it had to be shared. The fragments of the lists have been found at Ashur, Nineveh and Sultantepe. We have lists for almost three centuries (910-612). Absolute dates hinge on a solar eclipse (763: ‘the sun had an eclipse’).108 Of the nineteen manuscript lists, half record, as well as the name, an event (the so-called ‘eponym chronicles’), mostly military campaigns (830: ‘to Uratu’) or building activities (7004: ‘the palace of Kilizi was made’). These notes become more extensive 714-700 BC. What is most remarkable is that, for the reign of Shalmaneser III (858-823), unpleasant events are recorded; for example, ‘revolts’ in each of his last four years. This is quite atypical of the standard royal annals. A neat summation of the Assyrian royal annals is provided by Jana Pecirkova: ‘The inscriptions were not written to record events that occurred during the reign of individual kings, but to glorify the kings and their relation to gods. That is why historical facts are often distorted: defeats are turned into victories, improbable volume of booty and number of conquered lands, captured enemies, etc. are stated, and so on. The events described in the inscriptions do not result from human activities. They are considered to be the deeds of gods, which are realized in the kings’ deeds at the gods’ command.’109

105

Millard in Bienkowski and Millard 2000, 106, 2014, 8. The king appeared as eponym in year 2 from Tikulti-ninurta I (1244) on. The king’s first year was calculated as his first full year; he was eponym in his second year, so that he had time to prepare, in case he succeeded towards the end of a predecessor’s year. The order of the officials is not constant: they were selected by lot (Millard). 106 Contrary to Grayson 1980, 176, it cannot be inspired by early Mesopotamian year names. 107 For the limmu lists’ relationship with the king-lists, Millard 2014, 6-9; Glassner 2004, 49. The limmu ‘calendar’ was, in fact, used; for example by merchants in Anatolia: M. Larsen, The Old Assyrian city-state and its colonies, Copenhagen 1976, 80-84, 192-223, 375-382. 108 Saggs 1984, 273-274. 109 Pecirkova 1975, 30-31.

CHAPTER 4

THE HITTITES AND THE PERSIANS

Centred in Anatolia was the kingdom of Hatti, from which derives the name Hittites, with its capital at Hattusa. Its history is traditionally divided into three kingdoms on a well-known model: Old, Middle and Empire,1 but unlike more famous empires following this model, the Hittite empire lasted less than half a millennium (1650-1200). The Hittites brought the kingdom of Mitanni in their east to an end and vied with the Egyptian empire for control of the Near East in the time of the Ramessids, when they fought the famous battle of Kadesh. Hittite literature was rich, not least in historical records, but ‘there are no king-lists, few royal inscriptions, no native “historical” omen texts, no chronicles in the strict sense, no prophecies and no native epic literature’,2 although the Hittites were very fond of the epics relating to the kings of Agade, which they translated. The most famous texts were the royal annals, which can now be traced back to almost the first king, Hattusili I, in the seventeenth century BC. It is therefore three of these annals on which the present analysis relies, although 1

Despite appearances here, ‘a single royal family—or perhaps clan—ruled Hatti from start to finish’: Gary Beckman 2007, 120. 2 John van Seters 1983, 100. Modern discussions of Hittite historiography are marked by bickering over which of the extensive offering of texts count as historical. Hans Guterbock attempted 1938 to distinguish ‘official history writing’ from works deriving from oral tradition. Annelies Kammenhuber 1958 divided them into chronicles (a hypothetical source!) and royal autobiography. Hubert Cancik 1976 opened a much wider debate, claiming superiority for Hittite historiography, relying on an intriguing set of tests of true history. He praised Hittite and Israelite historiography for their self-consciousness and attention to causality, in contrast to Mesopotamian (a most unjustified dismissal), and suggested that the stimulus to Hittite historiography came from epic (precisely a genre of which no example survives: it will have to be Babylonian epic!); he even posits some influence of Hittite historiography on Greek. The Babylonians and Assyrians are capable of ‘more or less competent compilations’, but the records of the latter are marked by ‘formality and inexactness’. Human players in Hittite history are ‘richer and more plastic’ than in Mesopotamian texts. He also laid emphasis on the ability of Hittite historiography to deal with ‘hypotheticals’. Cancic’s demands sometimes went beyond history: the virtue of Mursili’s texts is the combination of literature and history; they are a composition, with prologue and epilogue. Cancic’s attention, it must be noted, is often concentrated also on Hittite treaties, because they were usually introduced by a (historical) survey of earlier relations between the two signatories. Harry Hoffner 1980 distinguished ‘historical’ texts (dealing with contemporaneous or recent events) from ‘historiographic’ texts (an orderly reconstruction of the past)—but that makes no sense etymologically. Helmut Freydank 1984, 384 simply praises the chronicle-like order of the records of the kings from the earliest times, which lifts them above the ‘stereotypes’ of old Mesopotamian royal inscriptions. The most ingenious analysis of Hittite historiography is by Cancik—but this is stylistic, not historical (a high or complex style does not necessarily indicate history); the most useful analyses are by Hoffner and van Seters.

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there are various other texts which contain historical references, such as treaties, prayers, letters, decrees, and testaments. It is, indeed, this very richness and diversity of texts which has been used to claim for the Hittites a special place in preclassical historiography.3 The standard title of the Hittite annals is pesnatur, ‘The manly deeds4 of king X’. It may be surmised that the purpose of such accounts was to demonstrate that the king was a ‘true’ king because of his courage.5 The earliest annals were surprisingly secular in interpretation, but the participation of the deities in battle was already cited, using the phrase that became canonical: the goddess ‘ran before me in battle’. This is in strong contrast to the later annals, where the gods are the controlling influence in victory (see below). It is a feature of Hittite annals that they often provide historical context, going back some generations to explain causes, albeit in a very simple way.6 On the other hand, ‘the chronological scheme is rudimentary at best, but very often entirely missing. This must be viewed as a serious deficiency in Hittite historiography, just as it was a great strength of Mesopotamian historical thought.’7 It is also striking that there is no mention of defeat in any Hittite annals.8 Van Seters gave a bleak summary: ‘The Hittites were more interested in using the past than in recording it… The fact is that there are no Hittite histories, and there is no indication that the Hittites were interested in simply tracing the course of their past from the earliest king down to later times.’9 3

A striking example is the Telepinu Decree (translation by Trevor Bryce 1983, 132-161; Theo van den Hout in COS 1 (1997), 194-204), of an early king, c.1500, without which we would not be able to give the sequence of early kings: Jorg Klinger 2008, 34. It is therefore necessary to state exactly what this text is. It is a political sermon, distinguished at first by repetitive formulas, stressing that success depends on unity. It then demonstrates the breakdown of that unity, followed by much bloodshed, until the accession of Telepinu. It ends with his laying down rules for orderly succession to the throne in the future. See especially the brilliant essay of Mario Liverani 1977, who roundly castigates the modern historians who accept not only its ‘facts’ but also its assumptions and ideology. It is full of distortions, notably over a new system for the royal succession. 4 Pesnatar means literally ‘masculinity’ (cf. Latin virtus), instantly revealing a fundamental purpose of these so-called annals. Jörg Klinger 2008, stresses that this is not the name of a literary genre, but an indication of contents. 5 Van Seters 1983, 112. 6 As van Seters 1983, 109 stated: ‘Cancik emphasizes such “historical background” as a criterion of historiography, but in this rather limited form it can hardly compare with the aitiai of Greek historiography’. 7 Van Seters 1983, 113. 8 Güterbock 1983, 34. The ‘apologetic’ nature of Hittite historiography had already been stressed by Hoffner 1975, especially the ‘Telepinu Proclamation’ (see n. 3) and ‘Apology of Hattusili III’ (translation by Edgar Sturtevant and George Bechte 1935, 65-83; by van den Hout in COS, 1 (1997), 199-204). 9 Van Seters 1983, 122. Guterbock 1983, 21, 28, 30 argued that the Hittite texts are real historiography. They certainly are akin to other Near Eastern records, and are in annalistic form. He also drew attention to the very uneven survival of royal annals (31). There are many possibilities: that some were destroyed, that they have not yet been found, or that some kings did not, in fact, leave a record.

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The earliest surviving annals are those of Hattusili I (1650-1620).10 They are in first person.11 They demonstrate the survival against all odds, despite his own innocence, the brilliant successes and final accession of Hattisili, owing to the support of Ishtar, who always ‘takes his hand’. He strangely identifies himself not as the son of his father but as ‘the son of the brother of Tawananna’, which has caused much discussion over his family tree. It is now agreed that Tawananna is an office, rather than a name, that of queen, and usually also a priestess. In this case, she seems to have been his aunt. His unnamed father was perhaps not a king. Chronology is limited to ‘in the following year’. These annals, discovered only in 1957, cover six years—usually taken to be the first six, because the first operations were in central Anatolia. Hattusili then moved into Syria (‘year 2’).12 This passage is highly important and characteristic: ‘In the following year I marched against Alalha and destroyed it. Subsequently I marched against Warsuwa, and from Warsuwa I marched against Ikakali. And from Ikakali I marched against Tashiniya. I destroyed these lands. I took possession of their property and filled to the limit my house with their property’ (‘year 2’).

Hattusili has two favourite verbs: ‘I went’ and ‘I sacked’.13 It was not, however, an unsullied victory. In the next campaign against Arzawa, a grave crisis is recorded: ‘In my rear the enemy, the city of the Hurrians, entered my land and all my lands made war against me. By now only the city of Hattusa, one city, remained. I, the Great King Tabarna,14 Beloved of the Sun Goddess of Arinna, she put me in her lap, and took me by the hand and went before me in battle’ (‘year 3’).

Hattusili’s description of the goddess going before him is henceforth standard in all Hittite battle scenes.15 He distinguishes among conquered cities those which he did not destroy from those that he did. He admits that on the site of some defeated cities (Ulma/Ullalama) he sowed weeds (‘year 3’).16 The citizens of Sallahsuwa became his ‘servants’. From Hahha—which he admits that he had to attack three times before taking it—I ‘took the hands of his female slaves 10 KBo X.1, 2: translation with commentary by Bryce 1983, 50-55; Jacques Freu 2007, 79-94. Bryce’s simplified method of transliteration is followed here. 11 Freydank 1984, 384 takes this as evidence that such records were an accounting of his reign to the gods. 12 ‘Not necessarily the first year’: Horst Klengel 1998, 45. Klengel’s history is remarkable for its exhaustive catalogue of sources prefacing the account of each reign. On the significance of this move Klengel 1998, 55: Babylonian scribes were employed, who brought their literature with them; Freu 2007, 1.75-78: it introduced the Hittites to much more sophisticated cultures. 13 Hoffner 1980, 295. 14 Commonly understood as a traditional family name of the kings, derived from the founder of the line (Tabarna/Labarna): Hoffner 1980, 296 (cf. for the Romans, ‘Caesar’). 15 Hoffner 1980, 296. 16 If the translation is technically correct, this hardly qualifies as chemical warfare. Hoffner 1980, 298 translates as ‘cress’.

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from the millstone, and I took the hands of his male slaves from their toil… And I unloosed their belts and I gave them over to My Lady, the Sun Goddess of Arinna’ (‘year 6’).17 He lists many statues of deities which he removed from captured cities which were donated to gods: the Sun Goddess of Arinna, the temple of Ishkur, the goddess Mezzulla, the Storm God, the goddess Katiti, Atalur, and Liluri. When he had exhausted inspiration for gifts to the gods, Hattusili could still find a use for precious metals: ‘in two buildings I had the rear wall plated with silver and gold, and I had the door plated with silver and gold.’ Toward the end of his annals, Hattusili mentions a compelling historical precedent: ‘No one had crossed the river Mala (= Purattu in Akkadian, that is, the Euphrates), but I the Great King Tabarna crossed it on foot, and my army crossed it [after me?] on foot. Sarrugina (Sargon of Akkad) also crossed it.’18 The Hittite kings were already well acquainted with the great dynasty of Agade and pitted themselves against it: it was their exemplar. As historiography, these annals allow modern Hittitologists to reconstruct Hattusili’s reign in some detail19—but only with very great labour and using every fragment of information in their grasp. The first major problem is that the chronology of the annals is only relative. Hattusili could easily have dated by his regnal years, but he does not. It has been argued by some, indeed, that the Syrian campaign of the second year must be later than year 2, because it was too difficult a campaign to embark on so early.20 The second major problem is that the concept of causation is almost non-existent The real motives for these important campaigns can only be speculative. Moderns therefore disagree: it was to protect trade routes into Syria and Mesopotamia (Bryce, Collins), or to the Mediterranean, as well as the prestige from the distribution of booty (Klengel), or it was to take control of tribute-bearing areas and to repel the Hurrians (Freu).21 Jürgen Lorenz and Ingo Schrakamp offer a very useful summary: ‘The Hittites went to war for many reasons. In the north, Kaskan tribes had to be prevented from raiding the border regions, to the west and south-west lay the

17 This represents the king as ‘saviour of the oppressed’: Hoffner 1980, 298—an age-old motif in kingship in this part of the world. 18 This is a strange way to admit that you were the second king to cross the river: claiming to be the first, but at the same time, following in the footsteps of Sargon! Sargon crossed, in fact, in the opposite direction: Klengel 1998, 52. Metin Alparslan 2013, 54-55 makes much of this as proof of the Hittites’ sense of history, which was shown, he claimed, even better in treaties; Freydank 1984, 384 and Hoffner 1980, 311, also mention treaties in this connection, but Hoffner then admits that their ‘historical prologues’ are ‘extremely tendentious’. 19 See Bryce 1998, 64-96, Klengel 1998, 38-59; Freu 2007, 1.79-94. 20 Freu 2007, 1.79, 82. Not every one, however: ‘Hattusili was quick to recognize the importance of Syria in Anatolia’s increasing need for control of the Near Eastern trade routes’: Billie Jean Collins 2007, 37 21 Bryce 1983, 67-70. If tin was the most important commodity being imported, it is strange that it never appears in the booty lists—unlike iron for the Assyrians; Klengel 1998, 46; Freu 2007, 1.78.

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rebellious and reluctant Arzawa states, and to the south-east expeditions had to be undertaken in order to subdue rebellious vassals, where—in upper Mesopotamia and northern Syria—the Hittite kings came in contact and conflict with the interests of the major powers Assyria, Egypt and Mitanni. The main targets of Hittite expansion were the regions to the south-east where the most profitable vassal kingdoms lay, whereas Hittite strategy in the west and the north focused on defensive measures.’22

Bryce offers an explanation for this: ‘We must bear in mind that the Annals are essentially a personal record of Hattusili’s military triumphs, and by their very nature provide little information on the background of the campaigns or the reasons which prompted them.’23

All of these campaigns, furthermore, are listed in the same way, as though all were major undertakings, like the Asian campaigns of Thutmose III. Moderns suggest, to the contrary, that, in the same way as in the Egyptian case, various of them were merely raids.24 And Hattusili gives no indication what happened to conquered territory: was an administration set up to defend the Hittite state towards Syria?25 The most basic question is what was Hattusili’s purpose in constructing this account. Hoffner answered very clearly: ‘In sum, this text … attempts to glorify the Hittite king by the recitation of his titles, the recounting of his military exploits, and the listing of his many gifts of booty to the temples of the principal state deities. It is very boastful in tone and more preoccupied with rhetoric than the better preserved examples of later annals. Credit is given to the gods for their assistance, but in the actual wording of the description of battles much less prominence is given to the gods than, for example, in Mursili II or Hattusili III texts. The king is not quite so helpless a pawn in the hands of the almighty gods: he is robust, active and ready always to seize the initiative.’26

On the question of audience, the main texts were found in Building K on the acropolis. Hoffner later was more explicit: ‘It is not too much to assume that the sun goddess herself was the primary intended audience’.27 Alparslan notes that Hattusili’s will, by contrast, was addressed to ‘nobles, soldiers and important 22

Jürgen Lorenz and Ingo Schrakamp 2011, 127. Bryce 1983, 67. 24 An example would be his campaign against Arzawa in year 3. At the same time, the Arzawan invasion, perhaps in concert with that of the Hurrians, caused considerable upheaval against the Hittites south of the Halys: Bryce 1998, 78-81. The second Syrian campaign (year 6) is similarly distinguished by moderns as much more ambitious than that in year 2: Bryce 1998, 82-84. 25 Klengel 1998, 52: probably not. Since successors campaigned to avenge Hattusili’s blood, Klengel suggests that he may have been wounded (53). 26 Hoffner 1980, 298-299. 78-80. Further enlightenment may be provided by an ancillary text, Hattusili’s Testament (translation by Bryce 1983, 99-130). Klengel 1998, 58 emphasizes the grave instability in the regime revealed by this text, and stresses therefore the need for the king to win prestige in war and loyalty by the distribution of booty. 27 Hoffner 1980, 294, 326. 23

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men’,28 but that makes sense. Guterbock called attention to the extraordinary fact that Hattusili’s deeds also exist in Akkadian (Babylonian) translation. This was not so much in expectation of a Babylonian audience, as a desire to have the texts in the ‘classical language’.29 King Suppiluliuma I (1344-1322), greatest of all the Hittite kings,30 and his son Mursili II are the best known subjects of the Hittite records, both accounts, in fact, written by the son: Mursili composed the ‘Manly Deeds’ (pesnatar) of his father.31 Fragments have been collected and reassembled since 1921 and, although many sections are still in a very damaged state, others are almost complete. We have enough to understand how the Hittite kings preserved and made sense of their past. Annals these records are not;32 for there is not a trace of chronology, save presumably ‘relative’: events seem to be in sequence. There are references to the coming of spring (the beginning of the campaign season) and to the king’s going into winter quarters (frag. 28), which is appropriate for a military account, but it also marks the end of the year. Mursili had, of necessity, to go back as far as his grandfather, Tudhaliya II or III (1360-1344), because he was often ill, and his son Suppiluliuma had to take his place in battle; the latter’s deeds began therefore before he assumed the throne. A refrain is: ‘Since my grandfather was still sick, my grandfather spoke thus: “Who will go?” Thus spoke my father: “I will go!” (So) my grandfather sent forth my father’ (frag. 14).33 Although one can often make out in the fragmentary account only the name of an enemy, the sequence of Hittite campaigns can at least be followed.34 The narrative appears extremely jejune, and there are repeated refrains; for example: ‘And the gods stood by him: the Sun Goddesss of Arinna, the Storm God of Khatti, the Storm God of the Army, and Ishtar of the Battlefield,35 (so that) the enemy died in multitude(s),’ or ‘the gods helped my grandfather, (so that) he smote those Kaskan troops (and they) died in multitude(s).’ The enemy troops always ‘die in multitude(s).’ The outstanding victory of Suppiluliuma, the capture of the Mitannian stronghold of 28

Alparslan 2013, 60. Güterbock 1983, 26. 30 Bryce 1998, 204. 31 KBo 19: translation with commentary by Güterbock 1956, and Hoffner in COS 1 (1997), 185-192. ‘[N]ot a history, but a biography’: Oliver Gurney 1973, 682. It is extraordinary that Gurney reconstructs the history of the Hittites without a single comment on the nature of the sources. Did Suppiluliuma not write his own account, and if not, why? 32 Cancik 1976, 155. 33 Concealed may be the fact that, in order to take the throne, Suppiluliuma had to have an elder brother, Tudhaliya the Younger, assassinated: Klengel 1998, 148-149; Collins 2007, 46-48. Tudhaliya is mentioned in frags. 11-14. Mursili, however, blames the plague and the oath breaking of his father. 34 For his reign, see Bryce 1998, 168-205, Klengel 1998, 135-168; Freu 2007, 2.202-295. 35 It is notable how many Hittite deities are connected with war. 29

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Fig. 12: A Hittite war-chariot in action (Ankara Museum, from Carchemish).

Carchemish, the key to northern Syria, is ascribed to the king’s fear of (that is, respect for) the gods (frag. 28): ‘My father finally conquered the city of Carchemish. He had besieged it for seven days. Then on the eighth day he fought a battle against it for one day and[took?] it in a terrific battle on the eighth day, in one day. And when he had conquered the city—since [my father] fear(ed) the gods—on the upper citadel he let no one in [to the presence?] of (the deities) [Kubaba?] and LAMMA, and he did not intrude into any [of the temples]. But from the lower town he removed the inh[abitants], the silver, gold, and bronze utensils and carried them to Hatti. And the civilian captives whom he brought to the palace numbered three thousand three hundred and thirty, [whereas] those whom the Hittites brought (home) [were beyond counting]’ (tr. Hoffner).

‘For the most part the account uses stereotyped clichés in describing the successive military adventures’.36 36

Van Seters 1983, 111.

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Suppiluliuma often sets a trap for the enemy, into which they inevitably fall (frags 10, 13, 14, 17). There is occasional reference to the chief Hittite corps, the chariotry. It is not true, however, that there is no reference to Hittite defeat—but not of the kings, but their generals: Himuili against Arzawa (frag. 18), and Mammali against the Hurrians (frag. 20). In the later sections of the ‘deeds’ there appear references to the plague (frag. 28), a major preoccupation at this time. As well as Suppiluliuma helping his father, participating in the campaigns were Mursili’s various brothers: Arnuwanda (the crown prince), the ‘Priest’ (Telipinu), installed as king of Aleppo, and Sharri-kusuh, installed as king of Carchemish. The only passing attempt at explanation for this incessant warfare is that there had been an attack by an enemy. Places are made ‘Hittite country’ again, so presumably they had either revolted or been taken over by the enemy. People and booty taken by the enemy are returned to the Hittites. In the same way as the ‘Asiatics’ were the traditional enemy for the Egyptians of the Empire, for the Hittites the unconquerable were the Kaskans, twelve tribal groups to the north-east of Hattusa (frags 10, 13, 14, 28). There is the same stress that we have come to expect from the Egyptian royal annals on booty: cattle, sheep, gold, silver and bronze and prisoners of war.37 There is proud talk of the burning of many towns: ‘My father marched away from there, as[cended] Mount Illuriya, and spent the night in the town of Washaya. He burned down the land of Zina[…]. From there he (went on and) spent the night in (the town of) Kaskilussa, and burned down the lands of Kaskilussa and Tarukka. From there he (went on and) spent the night in (the town of) Hinariwanda and burned down the land of Hinariwanda and Iwatallissa. From there he (went on and) spent the night (in the town of) Sapidduwa, and burned down the land of Sapidduwa’ (a sample of frag. 34, tr. Hoffner).38

As if this were not enough, there is also the sinister reference to deportations, that is, carrying of prisoners of war back to Hatti: 3,330 from Carchemish (above). Of much greater political significance was Suppiluliuma’s attack on the Mitanni during the reign of Tushratta (frag. 26). The Hittites reached the capital Wasukanni and invited battle. The Mitanni declined. It was harvest time. The text is very broken, but one can imagine the devastation which ensued.39 The most famous section of these deeds is, however, fragment 28, during the siege of Carchemish, the appeal for a husband from the widow of the Egyptian 37 ‘Deportees provided an important source of manpower that was needed for agricultural and temple service, sometimes military service as well. Deportation of large parts of the population of subdued territories was a common way of diminishing the potential for rebellion in the long term’: Lorenz and Schrakamp 2011, 127. 38 Such texts accord ill with apologists who claim that Hittite war was ‘relatively humane’: Cancik 1976, 61. Is Assyrian cruelty so different? 39 On the Mitannian situation, Klengel 1998, 105.

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king.40 The deceased pharaoh is usually taken to be Tutankhamun; the queen is therefore Ankhesenpaaten. Suppiluliuma was convinced to accede to this amazing request after sending an envoy to investigate in Egypt and because of old treaties between the two countries. His son Zannanza was sent, but was murdered en route, before he arrived. The Hittite king’s grief was great. The result was enmity between these two powers for the next century. This is by far, historically speaking, the most sophisticated section of the ‘deeds’. This chronicle of the deeds of his father by Mursili is overwhelmingly an unrelieved list of destruction: city after city burned. Because so much of the text is damaged, the modern historian must fill out the story with Mursili’s plague prayers,41 the Amarna Letters (for Syrian history), historical preambles to the king’s treaties (especially for the vital Mitannian campaign), and the archives of Ras Shamra, but that is not the fault of the chronicle. We have enough surviving, however, to be sure how military campaigns (and that is virtually all that the ‘deeds’ comprise) were presented. An important question rarely raised is Mursili’s sources for this account of his father’s deeds. Cancik suggested treaties, correspondence, and, later (for the ‘catalogue-style’ of the Kaskan war, frag. 34), military diaries.42 One must surely add Mursili’s own recollections. The fragments of the ‘Manly Deeds of Suppiluliuma’ almost all come from the ‘Archive’, Building A in the south-eastern corner of the citadel, Büyükkale. Van Seters goes so far as to admit, however, that ‘why it (the Deeds) was written is not clear’!43 Cancik was, however, precise: Suppiluliuma came to power by a coup: the account of his successes was meant to deflect this charge. Klengel suggests that Suppiluliuma’s deeds during his father’s lifetime were meant to justify his succession; Alparslan suggests that Suppiluliuma’s suspect legitimacy led to an outbreak of the plague, so that there was much to justify.44 Mursili II (1321-1295) also wrote the account of his own reign:45 ‘The manly deeds of Mursili’, again in the first person. This has come down to us 40

Trans. Hoffner in COS 1 (1997), 190-191. Translation by Albrecht Goetze in Pritchard 1969, 394-396. On this there is an interesting essay by Abraham Malamat 1955. The explanation of a visitation of the plague under Mursili by a violation of the treaty with Egypt by his father is compared with a Biblical episode: famine under David because of Saul’s violation of a treaty (2 Sam. 21). 42 Cancik 1976, 153-155, 159. 43 Van Seters 1983, 111. 44 Cancik 1976, 156; Klengel 1998, 154; Alparslan 2013, 60. Van den Hout 2011, 61 tried to distinguish the ‘propaganda quotient’ of the Deeds of Suppiluliuma from public inscriptions. The former was ‘although, of course, highly biased, less straightforwardly propagandistic, that is aimed to impress a larger audience’ than the latter. 45 For modern analyses, see Bryce 1998, 206-240; Klengel 1998, 170-201, Collins 2007, 50-52. Cancik 1976, 9 declared that Mursili’s annals represented the high point of Hittite historiography—Klinger 2008, 32 agrees—, but Cancik is often referring more to Mursili’s treaties, because of their resumés of previous relationships: that is, however, nothing unprecedented: see Lagash and Umma (chap. 2). 41

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in two versions: the so-called ‘Decennial annals’ (DA),46 and the ‘Comprehensive annals’ (CA).47 The Decennial annals, not surprisingly, reveal much the same jejune traits as the annals of Suppiluliuma. These are at least annals, clearly arranged according to years. This shorter version (the ‘Decennial’) was produced because the main enemies faced by Mursili when he came to the throne, and who despised him as a ‘child’,48 had been by that time defeated. He stated clearly in the ‘epilogue’ that this was the record solely of his own achievements. This short version therefore celebrated the overcoming by the king of the perils confronting him on his accession to the throne as a very young man. This was achieved, naturally, by virtue of divine aid. This account may have been written to celebrate the king’s tenth anniversary:49 ‘Since I sat down on my father’s throne, I have ruled ten years as king. These enemy lands I overcame with my own hands… Whatever more the Sun-goddess

46 KBo 3.4, KUB 23.125: translation by Richard Beal in COS 2 (2002), 82-90, and in Italian by Giuseppe del Monte 1993, 57-72. Students must be warned that there is a long lacuna covering the end of year 7, year 8 and the beginning of year 9, which Beal fills in from the Comprehensive version, which makes comparisons here impossible! 47 Collins 2007, 50-52. Some have suggested that there are discrepancies between the two: Alparslan 2013, 58, but they are very minor. Cancik 1976, 58 stressed that unlike ‘editions’ of Assyrian annals, these two sets of annals were independent. The Comprehensive Annals have more material and are in a different style, naming many more people and places (104-111), but that is the natural consequence of the restriction of the Decennial Annals to the consolidation of the reign, and the very large lacuna (n. 46). On the other hand, there are elements in the Decennial version lacking in the Comprehensive: the letter to Uhhaziti (year 3) and the 4,000 transportees (year 4). A striking difference is the formula listing the gods who assisted the king in battle; the way years are indicated also is completely different (see below). This is the place to assemble some other traits of these annals made much of by Cancik as evidence that the Hittites could write ‘real’ history. Cancik 1976, 118-125 is highly impressed by the ability of these annals to depict two or three simultaneous actions (years 3, 5, 18): ‘an astonishingly complicated and capable business’! He also stresses the attention to background, by way of explanation (133): that Manapatarhunta had been expelled by his own people (year 4: del Monte 1993, 82), that Mashuiluwa had been made son-in-law by Suppiluliuma (del Monte, 83), and Aparru had been appointed governor by Mursili (year 1: del Monte, 128). These explanations must be judged minimal. He also emphasizes ‘excurses’ (137), not picturesque’ as in Mesopotamian historical records, but important explanation: Mt Arrinanda: ‘thick with vegetation, and high, on one hand…, on the other…, a mile high, and surrounded by sea’ (DA year 3: del Monte 1993, 80), Aripsa: ‘in the middle of a sea, and its population occupied rocky and high mountains’ (year 10: 99), and Pala: ‘a region in no way defended, with no fortress or place of refuge’ (year 15: 109). These are certainly useful notes, but few among the hundreds of places referred to. The most important other place is Carchemish, which is never explained. For Mursili’s reign, Bryce 1998, 206-241; Klengel 1999, 170-201; Freu 2007, 3.17-85. Klengel does not distinguish between the two sets of annals in his historical narrative. To make sense of the most complex geography, he also divides Mursili’s campaigns into their main theatres, skilfully interweaving the annals with the evidence of treaties. This, however, of course, obscures the chronological interrelationship of the campaigns. Bryce’s account is therefore more realistic and revealing; for example, the rebellion in Syria (year 7), while Mursili was still settling problems in Anatolia: Bryce 1998, 216. 48 Bryce 1998, 208 suggests that he was in his early twenties. 49 Van Seters 1983, 109-110.

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of Arinna, my lady, repeatedly gives me (to do), I will carry it out and put it down (on clay)’50 (conclusion).

There is much more by way of suggested causation. ‘Because my father was establishing garrisons in the land of Mitanni, he tarried in a garrison, and the festivals of the Sun-goddess of Arinna, my lady, lapsed’ (prologue).51 Mursili himself was at pains to stress, by contrast, his own devotion to Arinna. Lands rebelled and withheld troops (years 1, 2). Troops which belonged to Mursili ‘went’ to rival kings who would not return them (year 3). The storm-god shot a lightning bolt which hit an enemy city; its king fell ill, so that his son commanded in the subsequent battle and was defeated (year 3).52 Or the enemy attacked Hittite territory (year 6), or refused to return Hittite subjects (year 7). Mursili ascribes victories to the gods, the most famous example being what Guterbock called the ‘thunderbolt (kalmishana) phenomenon’ (above)—perhaps a natural event; otherwise there is simply the expected ‘devout acknowledgment of divine help’.53 Moderns can go beyond the text to add significant motives, in order to explain why Mursili had to demonstrate his manly deeds and the gods’ support. ‘First and foremost, his father and a brother [Arnuwanda] had died of the plague, brought back from a punitive expedition against Egypt’, a plague which was to ravage Hittite lands for twenty years.54 There is the same litany of the carrying off of booty (people,55 cattle and sheep),56 often described as ‘innumerable’, and the burning of towns, and crops. These annals have a highly formulaic style.57 The unrelenting description of a battle is: ‘I, My Majesty, fought them. The Sun-goddess of Arinna, my lady, the victorious Storm-god, my lord, Mezulla [the daughter of the Sun-goddess] and all the gods ran before me.58 I defeated the enemy…’

50 It is unfortunate that scholars can translate these final words also as ‘and lay it before the goddess’. 51 Suppiluliuma being in Mitanni is referred to again (years 5 and 7), but not detectably as a fault: it did, however, give Arawannans and Tipiyans a chance to attack elsewhere in his absence (cf. below, DA) 52 Hoffner 1980, 328 describes this as a ‘crassly folklorish’ element. 53 Güterbock 1983, 34-35. 54 Beal in COS 2 (2000), 82. The most notable evidence for this is the four famous prayers of Mursili for relief from the plague: an example, translation by Goetze, in Pritchard 1969, 394-396; Gary Beckman in COS 1 (1997), 156-160. 55 Sometimes 15,000 or 16,000, but 66,000 (year 4)—unless this is a suspiciously ‘round figure’. 56 On the importance of animals in the Hittite economy, Walter Dorfler et al. 2011, 115-117. 57 Collins 2007, 144 notes that the later annals are ‘considerably more formulaic’ than earlier ones. That is the opposite of what would be expected in the development of true historiography. 58 Del Monte 1986. Hoffner 1980, 314 notes that although elements of this formula had existed before, notably in the annals of Hattusili, this was the ‘full and fixed form’. Cancik 1976, 122 is forced to concede that this is a ‘stereotype’—surely a serious fault in any text claiming to be history.

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This is the fixed formula for divine help in the Decennial annals, repeated time and again. A new year is indicated by ‘in the following year’; the end of a year by the boastful formula: ‘All this I did in one year’. The years are, in fact, not counted regnally: that system of reference, which moderns use, is a modern addition. Once again we have a headlong summary of military operations, this time unfailingly successful. The only untoward event is the death of Mursili’s brother (above, year 9, but lost in a lacuna). The Hittite army was also capable of siege operations: Puranda (year 4). The king’s diplomatic correspondence is quoted (years 3, 7).59 We also learn of a time-honoured methods of control in conquered realms: two Hittite princes were installed as viceroys of Carchemish and Aleppo; a garrison was established in Arzawan territory (year 3); vassal kings were installed, in return for military obligations (year 4). All these matters are mentioned only en passant. It is modern scholars who must realize their importance.60 The ‘Comprehensive’ or ‘Detailed annals’ cover twenty-seven years.61 The formula which distinguishes a new year seems to be: ‘but when it became spring’. The end of the year is indicated by ‘I wintered at X’. These annals are in a very broken condition, but do not change in any way the impression of Hittite historiography already elucidated. Their basic pattern is a litany of destruction, which has to be read to be believed.62 A rare exception to this is the sparing of enemy temples—a prudent move.63 It must also be admitted that, as the years pass, Mursili comes to understand the value of sparing enemies and turning them into allies: Manapatarhunta (year 3), Taptina (year 9), the Azians, who submit and offer troops and the return of any Hittites among them (year 10), Mira, where the son of the rebel is installed (year 13).64 As always, victories are explained by the gods’ ‘going before’ the king. In one case a god sends a thunderbolt which breaks the knee of the enemy king, or the god sends a fog which renders the Hittite advance invisible—the fog lifts when the enemy are reached (!), or the weather god sends rain and cloud for the same purpose.65 The formula for divine help in battle has, however, completely changed from the Decennial annals: ‘The gods went before me: the strong 59

On the importance of diplomacy to the Hittites, Lorenz and Schrakamp 2011, 129-130. In terms of style, we note an example of Cancik’s beloved ‘hypotheticals’: Mursili might have fought Manapa-Tarhunta, but did not (year 4). The most striking example is, however, CA year 9 (del Monte 1993, 94-95): Mursili imagines what his detractors might have said had he undertaken certain campaigns! 61 Translation by del Monte 1993, 73-132. These constitute the ‘display example (ParadeBeispiele) of Hittite historiography’: Klinger 2008, 32. 62 Del Monte 1993, 115, 125-126, for example. 63 Del Monte 1993, 124. 64 Del Monte 1993, 82-83, 97-98, 99-100, 105-106. Cancik 1976, 118 makes much of this as a turn from military to political methods. 65 Del Monte 1993, 79, 97, 103. 60

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Tarhunta, my lord, the Sun-goddess Arinna, my lady, Tarhunta of Hattusa, Inara of Hattusa, Tarhunta of the army’ (passim).66 Seeking divine approval is important, by augury; the king obtains divine approval even for one of his generals, Nawanza67 Mursili’s piety, especially attention to festivals, is emphasized.68 On one occasion human help is sought, from Egypt—which did not arrive.69 Explanation of the causes of all these wars is rare; when offered, it is usually ‘rebellion’,70 or refusal to hand back Hittites who had moved to neighbouring kingdoms—a fascinating and never explained phenomenon. There is constant emphasis on booty—people and animals—carried back to Hattusa.71 This allows us to infer that such enrichment was a major motive in these campaigns, as with the Assyrians. On one occasion Mursili was so weighed down with booty, he could not continue the campaign.72 Conversations (real or invented?) and correspondence are quoted, usually of a startlingly naïve kind.73 No Hittite defeat is admitted, except, in a sense, these rebellions. The greatest disaster was the plague in Year 16.74 A family loss, however, is noted, obviously a heavy blow: the death in Year 9 of Mursili’s brother, Sharri-kusuh, king of Carchemish.75 Another family note is that Suppuliliuma married his daughter Muwatti to the king of Arzawa (year 12)—who was a ‘vassal’ but totally treacherous.76 Mursili boasts that his campaigns reached where no Hittite king had ever been before,77 indicating (if he speaks the truth!) some understanding of Hittite history. It has been suggested, indeed, that Mursili’s purpose was to show his father’s incompetence, and how the son had to solve all the problems left by his father!78 The evidence in support of this is the frequent statement that Suppiluliuma ‘whiled away his time’ in Mitanni,79 and that he appointed a nephew to rule Pala without any support (year 14).80 66 Cancik 1976, 143 puts this down to different ‘editors’ and ‘different religious outlooks’, but that still leaves us reeling at such a change. 67 Del Monte 1993, 94-95: consultation of birds and entrails; on campaign against Takashta, Mursili was ‘held back’ by a bird (108). 68 Del Monte 1993, 90, 91, 92. 69 Del Monte 1993, 85. 70 Del Monte 1993, 112, 118, 121, 124, 128. 71 On transportees, Bryce 1998, 236-238. 72 Del Monte 1993, 112. 73 Del Monte 1993, 80, 81, 82, 88, 97, 98, 100, 105-106. Cancik 1976, 138-143 declared all these speeches fictitious, as is usual in ancient historiography. Klinger 2008, 38 is highly suspicious. 74 Del Monte 1993, 115. 75 Del Monte 1993, 92. 76 Del Monte 1993, 101. Shades of the Amarna Letters! 77 Del Monte 1993, 108. Compare 104: as far as only Telepinu before him. 78 Del Monte 1993, 15. 79 Del Monte 1993, 87, 101, 119, The most important of these references is in Year 15 (109): ‘My father was in the Hurrian lands, and while he was fighting the Hurrians, and tarrying here, the Kaskan enemies arose en masse and wreaked damage on the Hittite lands, devastating a part and occupying and holding another.’ 80 Del Monte 1993, 109,

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An exercise seldom undertaken is a comparison of various accounts of the same matter. Klinger offers three examples, of which the most interesting is the triple account of Mursili’s dealings with Manapa-Tarhunta in year 4.81 In the Decennial Annals, this rival did not dare confront Mursili, but sent his mother (!) and various old men and old women to beg for mercy. They fell down at his feet; 4,000 Hittite deportees were returned. The Comprehensive Annals feature rather an exchange of correspondence, but the crucial role seems to be played by the rebel’s mother (no mention of others). The preamble to the treaty has the rather difficult picture of both Manapa-Tarhunta and old men and women (no sign of mother) sent by him falling down at Mursili’s feet, as well as a letter! The central point of negotiations seems to be return of deportees— but no number is given. These variations cause Klinger to stress the importance of literary topoi in Hittite historiography He goes so far as to suggest that ‘whether the course of events in concrete cases really occurred thus or differently plays no role or only a secondary one.’ There are some final questions: an attempt to follow these campaigns on any map is befuddling to the modern student: one wonders what the contemporary audience was supposed to make of it all. An equally important question is what the modern historian can understand of the strategies and policies of Mursili. The first ten years were devoted to reasserting Hittite power in Asia Minor: punishing and subduing Kaska and Arzawa.82 In Year 7, however, Syria revolted, backed by Egypt, two years later Mursili’s brother died, and the Assyrians attacked Carchemish. With the help of other generals, Mursili prevailed.83 The ‘Comprehensive Annals’ do not record any further large-scale expeditions, but incessant guerilla warfare on the Kaskan frontier.84 In sum, we are left to rely on conjecture and speculation. Modern assessment is therefore required. The picture is complex. The endless campaigns against the Kaskans led to no lasting conquests in the north.85 Rebellions were often ‘defeated’, only to flare up again: the ‘Upper Land’ and Nuhasse (both years 7 and 9).86 The ‘Arzawa problem’, however, was solved by year 12: this was Mursili’s most significant contribution to the consolidation of the kingdom.87 Summing up, Mursili re-established an empire which stretched from Middle Syria to the Black Sea, and from the Aegean to the Euphrates.88 81

Klinger 2008, 42-44: Hoffner in COS 2 (2002), 86; Del Monte 1993, 82-83; Beckman 1995,

83. 82 ‘Mursili had accomplished a feat which eluded his father Suppiluliuma after many years of campaigning in Anatolia—the final conquest and subjugation of all the lands making up the Arzawa complex’: Bryce 1998, 214. 83 These campaigns are lost in the large lacuna in the Decennial annals. 84 So Goetze 1975, 120-127. 85 Klengel 1998, 187-188. 86 Bryce 1998, 216-219. 87 Bryce 1998, 233-234. 88 Klengel 1998, 200.

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We return to the vital question of the audience of these annals. Mursili gives us a clue: he refers to ‘whoever hears these tablets’ (Comprehensive annals, year 7), meaning that they would be read out—but to whom and where? Cancic could suggest only the upper class (aristocrats, priests, officials of the court), noting that the sceptical are apostrophized at one point: ‘Ura was the main fortress in the region of Azi and was in a difficult place: whoever hears these tablets, let him go and see this city’.89 Hoffner was firm: ‘None of these texts is monumental. None was written on a stela for the general public to read… If the text itself was not to be visually displayed, there is still the possibility that it was to read aloud in public [as the state treaties with vassals]… The annals texts are another matter. No evidence suggests that they were to be read aloud before the assembled court… The opening and closing paragraphs [of Mursili’s Decennial Annals] suggest that the documentary record itself may have been made as part of the king’s discharge of indebtedness to the sun goddess.90 It is not too much to assume that the sun goddess herself was the primary intended audience. This is not to say that all Hittite annals were an account rendered to the gods. There is no similar indication for the annals of Hattusili I or for the other annalistic compositions.’91 Since they are found on tablets, del Monte argued, they were presumably preserved in a library92 and therefore not restricted to the eyes of the gods, as when inserted in the foundations of a building, but were meant for the very limited group of literates, both contemporaries and of later generations. Billie Jean Collins declared flatly: ‘they were apparently not composed for public consumption’—because ‘they were not propagandistic in purpose’!93 Van Hout, on the other hand, stated that the Deeds were ‘apparently meant to be executed in bronze’ (he provides no reference, but the Deeds of Suppiluliuma, frag. 28 specifies that an account had ‘not yet (been) made into a bronze tablet’). ‘It seems difficult for us to accept, though, that such works would have had no other use than being deposited in the temple to bear witness of divine support. Hittite texts sometimes do contain hints at public readings of certain texts [sic] and perhaps we should suppose a similar use of such historical accounts’.94 Since special value as evidence for the writing of history is often accorded to Hittite treaties, that is, their preambles,95 we may consider them here. A close reading of these preambles to Musili’s treaties does not, however, suggest an 89

Del Monte 1993, 89. So Klinger 2008, 34. 91 Hoffner 1980, 325-327. 92 Del Monte 1993, 19. Of the Decennial Annals, the provenance of the older finds is lost, but more recent portions were found in Building A of the Archive on the citadel, and the Great Temple archive: Beal in COS 2 (2002), 82. 93 Collins 2007, 143. 94 Van den Hout 2011, 61. 95 See n. 2, with Beckman 1995, especially 59-87. 90

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anxiety to record a history as such of the relations between the two nations involved, but simply a justification for the treaty in question, and a demonstration that it is the Hittites who have always behaved honourably in the past, and a hope that the other side will be reminded of past favours and be therefore all the more anxious to remain loyal to the new relationship. Niqmepa of Ugarit, for example, is simply reminded that he owes his throne to Mursili. The preamble to the treaty with Kupanta-Kurunta of Mira-Kuwaliya is much more complex. His uncle and adopted father had taken refuge with Suppuliliuma, who gave him his daughter in marriage, and Mursili supported him, and reestablished him as king of Mira, but Mashuiluwa revolted. Mursili nevertheless did him no harm, but he reminds Kupanta-Kurunta that if a father revolts, the son is held by the Hittites to be equally guilty. He could have been stripped of power, but instead Mursili has reinstated him. These preambles are easily seen to be cautionary tales from the past, in the hope that the other king has learned his lesson and will from now on be a faithful ally. In sum, an ample attempt by the Hittites to create historical records has been preserved, given their short-lived eminence. As history, however, they must be regarded as seriously deficient. ‘Hittite history is mainly a history of wars’, yet ‘the written sources do not give any information about the conduct of battles’!96 They are set out at least in annalistic form, but ‘the total absence of date lists, king lists, eponym lists and the like amply attests this [lack of] interest in matters chronological.’97 There is only an uncritical, self-indulgent list of endless victories, always owing to divine favour,98 and a shameless display of brutality and greed. It is striking that the only clue given why or how any king obtained this divine favour is the old cliché of regard for the gods.99 It would be highly revealing, we may be sure, if we had any accounts from the Hittites’ enemies for the same campaigns. We can, in fact, often reconstruct real history more easily from much earlier Egyptian and Mesopotamian records.100 The Hittite accounts, at the same time, include elements that prefigure Hebrew historiography.101 These records are, in the last analysis, ruled out as true history by the almost impossible claim that the Hittite army never suffered a defeat, and the 96

Lorenz and Schrakamp 2011, 125, 143. Hoffner 1980, 330. 98 ‘Thus the Hittites viewed history in much the same way as their ancient neighbours: the Babylonians, the Assyrians, the Egyptians and the West Semites. They saw their gods as intervening in the course of human affairs in such a way that the actions of men which pleased or displeased these gods inevitably influenced the subsequent course of history’: Hoffner 1980, 327. 99 Hoffner 1980, 316—an important insight. Hoffner goes on to defend this theological view of ‘history’, because ‘it seems to have been entertained … by many Hittite authors of historiographic [sic] documents’! That completely sidesteps the question of claims to rational credibility. 100 See chaps 1 and 2. 101 This has often been used to give them a higher ranking in pre-classical historiography.’ All in all, the historical writings of Mursili II show considerable historical sophistication’: Beal in COS 2 (2002), 83. 97

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non-explanation of this inevitable success by a repetition ad nauseam of a list of gods, who ‘ran before’ the king. These lists of deities, moreover, are given in two totally different forms in the two editions of the annals of the one King. What trust can be placed in records which are unstable in a matter of such fundamental importance to the Hittites? II Far to the east of Anatolia, Mesopotamia and even the Assyrians lay the vast plains of ancient Iran. Two peoples were linked in its early entrance on to the stage of history: the Medes and the Persians. The former were soon eclipsed c.550, when the Persians came under the rule of Cyrus, fifth king in line from the founder Achaemenes. Cyrus conquered Babylon and Asia, and thus founded the greatest empire of the ancient world, which was to stretch from the Aegean to India. When in 546 Cyrus conquered Lydia, the buffer between the Persians and the Greeks fell, and then also the eastern Greeks fell. This led inevitably to wars with the Greek mainland, two direct attacks (490, 480-478) which ended in failure, but which were followed by far more successful indirect intervention in Greek affairs from the Peloponnesian War through the fourth century. The whole vast edifice fell to Alexander of Macedon in the 330s. The chief god was Ahuramazda, and the king was his representative. The Persian kings reversed the brutal policies of empires such as that of the Assyrians, and were famous for their tolerant and efficient administration. And yet there is a paradox in our present enquiry. The Persians must have had a rich mythology, and a strong historical tradition telling of the early history of their people, the foundation of their kingdom, the story of kings such as Cyrus, and the many wars in the far corners of the empire. Not a word of these texts—if the accounts were committed to writing—has survived. The very considerable body of sources which we do have102 is composed of two main kinds. One is administrative documents—as we would expect from such an empire. For the history of the Persians, however, we rely entirely on Greek sources, notably the histories of a man born in their realm: Herodotos of Halikarnassos.103 We are thus able to discuss one text, and one alone, but it is the most famous of all: the Behistun inscription of Darius. This is a trilingual inscription, in Old Persian, the king’s own language; Babylonian cuneiform,104 the main 102

See especially Emilie Kuhrt 2007. As John Cook 1983, 12 in his discussion of sources admits: ‘most of this chapter is devoted to Greek writers’. 104 It should be noted that this Babylonian version in fact gives many more details than the Old Persian, especially regarding enemy casualties in all the battles: Pierre Briant 1996, 118; Kuhrt 2007, 154-156. 103

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Fig. 13: The Behistun Inscription of Darius.

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administrative language; and Elamite, the local language.105 It is carved on a cliff face high above the road level at Behistun,106 east of the central Tigris, far away from the capital cities such as Pasagardae and Susa, but on the main road from Babylonia to Media.107 It is totally inaccessible to human readers: sixty-six metres higher than the closest one can approach to it, ‘without some experience of rock climbing techniques’!108 The first copies were made in 1850 by Henry Rawlinson. It is obvious for whom the Behistun copy was intended, but in contrast to so many other eastern inscriptions, this one was also meant for the widest audience: Darius announces that he had copies ‘sent off everywhere among the provinces’. It is therefore the most widely known of all the texts which we are considering in this study. The reader cannot fail to realize that various messages are being driven home. First, Darius is a descendant of Achaemenes, the founder of the royal line; he is, in fact, ninth in line as king (§4). Second, he rules by the favour of Ahuramazda,109 who gave him control over all twenty-three provinces (§6).110 Third, all those loyal to Darius were rewarded; those who were ‘evil’, on the other hand, were punished. Darius meant what he said, as revealed by the fate of Fravartish (Phraortes) the Mede, when he captured him: ‘I cut off his nose and ears and tongue and put out one eye; he was kept bound at my palace entrance… Afterwards I impaled him at Ecbatana; and the men who were his foremost followers… I flayed and hung out their hides stuffed with straw’ (§32).111 Fourth, his predecessor Cambyses killed his own brother Bardiya112 before he went off to Egypt. This is the last place where Cambyses is mentioned, until his death, after a usurper, Gaumata the Magian,113 claiming to be Bardiya, first rose up, then seized the throne (§10-11).114 Fifth, ‘Gaumata’ is marked by illegitimacy, impiety and injustice.115 At the same time, Darius revealed more 105 It must be stressed that there are significant differences between the three, especially the Babylonian version. 106 Baga-stana means ‘place of the god’. 107 The standard translation was by Roland Kent 1953, 116-134; it may be replaced now by that of Kuhrt 2007, 141-158. 108 Sylvia Matheson 1972, 128. 109 Ahuramazda’s name occurs sixty-three times: Briant 1996, 126. 110 The Babylonian copy, of course, substitutes Bel-Marduk. 111 Albert Olmstead 1938, 31 rightly pointed out that these crimes against humanity prove the terror of this revolt to Darius. This victory was ‘of decisive strategic importance’: Briant 1996, 119. For other examples of Darius’ revenge: ibid., 123. 112 His Persian name was Bardiya, but he was known in Greek as Smerdis. If Cambyses’ successor was an imposter, he was in reality Gaumata the Magian. 113 The Babylonian version calls him not a magus but a Mede. According to Cuyler Young 1988, 55, a Magian was a Median priest. That Darius always refers to Gaumata as ‘the magus’ shows that he was his ‘most dangerous adversary’: Muhammed Dandamaev 1989, 91. 114 It is surely significant that ‘Gaumata’s’ rebellion is dated 11 March 522 and his seizure of power 1 July, but Darius still places the latter before Cambyses’ (undated!) death. It is more likely that Bardiya waited until Cambyses’ death, but that Darius lied about this: Briant 1996, 102. 115 Briant 1996, 103.

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than he realized: the disorder in Egypt stopped with Gaumata’s accession, and everyone supported him. The revolts were directed against Darius. Sixth, it was Darius alone who dared oppose Gaumata, although he was helped in killing him by ‘a few men’ (§13); it is telling that one has to wait until §58 to find their identities.116 Seventh, Gaumata was only the first, however, of nine rebels and pretenders, under whom ‘the Lie (drauga) waxed great in the land’ (§10).117 Eighth, these rebels were systematically suppressed, in a formula repeated like a mantra: ‘they joined battle; Ahuramazda bore me aid; by the favour of Ahuramazda my army smote that rebellious army exceedingly’ (§19 and so on). Ninth, all these actions were accomplished in one year (this claim is asserted no fewer than five times: §52, 56, 57, 59, 62). Tenth, finally, to the reader’s amazement, Darius asserts that what he has said is not a lie (no fewer than four times: §56, 57, 58, 63); in fact, he has omitted some matters for fear his claims might seem excessive (§58)! Despite—or rather because of—his obsessive anxiety to be believed, Darius’ account has been the subject of endless criticism from the beginning. First, on the matter of his legitimacy, the family tree of the Achaemenids is complicated. The royal line descended from Achaemenes six generations until Cambyses (529-522). Darius (522-486) claimed to be the ninth king, but he is not of that line. His claim requires that his great-grandfather Ariaramnes, son of the second king Teispes and brother of Cyrus I, and grandfather Arsames were both kings. He himself gives us the vital information, however, that his father Hystaspes had not been king (§35). Those who wish to support Darius’ truthfulness suggest that on Teispes’ death, the kingdom was somehow divided, and reunited only two generations later by Cyrus II the Great (559-529). The inscriptions which assert that Darius’ direct ancestors were kings have been claimed to be forgeries, ancient or modern, and there is difficulty in identifying the divided kingdom.118 The crux of the whole text, however, is that Darius’ predecessor, Cambyses, before he left for Egypt, murdered his brother Bardiya.119 Gaumata the Magian, then seized the throne. No one dared speak against him, out of fear. Darius alone besought the aid of Ahuramazda and ‘with a few men’ slew the imposter 116

Four of the other six are found among Darius’ generals: Briant 1996, 121. In general, Dandamaev 1989, 103-105. 117 Cook 1983, 52 calculates that ‘lie’ (noun and verb) and ‘liar’ occur thirty-four times in the text! 118 Young 1988, 24-25. The ‘awkwardness suggests that Darius’ genealogy has been manipulated to underpin his claim to have an indisputable family-right to the throne’: Kuhrt 2007, 152. Briant 1996, 110-111 has a very complicated explanation, which accords with difficulty with Darius’ claim to be the ninth king in line. Darius did not come to power because of his ancestral claims, suggests Briant; he established his dynastic rights as a result of his taking power (!). 119 He is named in various sources with a complexity to make one’s mind reel: Dandamaev 1989, 84-87, 91.

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and his foremost followers. He had ruled for three months. At this point the Histories of Herodotos intervene.120 His sources are obviously important. Herodotos knows the Darius version of history, but also relies on Egyptian informants, who hated the invader.121 He also would have known traditions current in his own time in Asia Minor, which he embellished with literary motifs. On the other hand, he is silent about the main subject of Behistun, the revolt of the empire!122 Cambyses led an ill-fated expedition to Egypt, and is depicted overall as a tyrant, committing many acts of impiety and injustice; according to the Greek historian, in fact, he became insane (Hdt 3.38). Herodotos is sure that he murdered his brother, Smerdis (3.30, 65), but this happened on his orders while he was in Egypt. The Smerdis who succeeded to the throne was therefore an imposter. Moderns suggest that it was unlikely that Cambyses did this, having no sons of his own.123 Cambyses died on his way home from Egypt, in Syria, as the result of an accidental wound in his thigh (Hdt 3.64).124 Darius’ statement in the Behistun inscription has traditionally been taken to state that Cambyses committed suicide, but the text is now understood to state simply that he died.125 Sources were clearly embarrassed by the claim in Darius’ account that an imposter could remain undetected, and for so long. Herodotos has a wonderful story that the imposter was finally revealed by his wife, who discovered while he was asleep (!) that he had no ears (3.69).126 Six Persian nobles had already resolved to kill Smerdis, and Darius was included in the group as an afterthought (3.70). This certainly contradicts Darius’ claims to pre-eminence in the plot. It is highly significant that Darius himself gives no indication of where he was during the reign of Smerdis.127 Smerdis, according to Darius, was a tyrant: he had destroyed cult-centres (ayadana), and confiscated from the people pastures and herds, household 120

Note that Herodotos can hardly be accused of hostility to Darius: Dandamaev 1989, 91. Young 1988, 53 goes so far as to say that we must not consider Herodotos a source independent of Darius. Richard Frye 1984, 98 claimed that Herodotos ‘does not conflict’ with Behistun! For the more usual emphasis on divergences, Briant 1996, 100. 122 Briant 1996, 114. The conspiracy of the Seven is common to Behistun and Herodotos, but the Greek historian adds the famous constitutional debate (for an interesting defence of the historicity of which, see Dandamaev 1989) and hippomancy. 123 Frye 1963, 86. 124 At Ecbatana in Syria; cf. Demotic Chronicle (Bibl.Nat.Pap. 245): before he returned to Persia; at Damascus in Syria (Jos. AJ 11.22). 125 This was until recently translated as ‘committed suicide’, but that is not what the Persian says: Briant 1996, 99; Kuhrt 2007, 153. 126 Cook 1983, 50 rightly comments: ‘some good Oriental story-telling here’. 127 It is a commonly assumed that he was with Cambyses in Egypt (Hdt 3.139): Roman Ghirshman 1954, 140, Young 1988, 57. Herodotos also has him with his father in Persia (3.70)— but his father was in Parthia (Behistun §36). Herodotos 3.67-72 makes Otanes the leader. Modern scholars are agreed that Darius was not the leader of the action: Dandamaev 1989, 105. 121

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slaves, and houses/domains.128 According to Herodotos, he was a popular king: he had granted every part of the empire three years’ freedom from conscription and tribute (3.67), and was greatly missed! There may be many strands of this conflict. Darius’ co-conspirators were all Persian nobles. Smerdis had apparently freed their slaves. There is also a Persian-Median conflict. And there is some religious clash which we cannot explain, although it would be easy to think that Darius was the conservative.129 After a reign of seven months, Smerdis was killed, along with many Magi (3.76-79).130 It is modern scholars who are for the most part highly suspicious of the claim that Smerdis was an imposter, because of its exaggerations and sensationalism, and the obvious problem how a usurper could remain undetected, in this case for some six months. The alternative reconstruction is that Smerdis was Cambyses’ real brother. Darius in this case killed the legitimate king to seize power for himself.131 The main supporting evidence for this scepticism is the sequel which occupies most of the Behistun inscription, namely that the whole of the empire— except Bactria—rose in revolt against Darius—not even Persia rallied to his cause132—and that he had to crush no fewer than nine rivals. No fewer than at least six of them (Gaumata, Nebuchadnezzar, Imanish, Phraortes, a second Bardiya and a second Nebuchadnezzar) were labelled by Darius imposters. The most interesting of these is the second Bardiya, yet another dynastic challenge to Darius.133 It is an interesting admission that after the crushing of Nebuchadnezzar, while Darius was in Babylon, ‘these are the provinces which became rebellious from me: Persia, Elam,134 Assyria, Egypt,135 Parthia, Margiana, Sattagydia, and Scythia’. Fravartish (Phraortes) the Mede, although Darius claimed

128 On this much debated section of the inscription, Dandamaev 1989, 109. Smerdis was an opponent of the nobility, rather than of the whole population—otherwise he would not have had its support. 129 Young 1988, 57. Frye 1984, 101 suggested that the confiscated property belonged to Cambyses’ officers in fief. Briant 1996, 104-105 argued that Smerdis confiscated the economic and social bases of his opponents, while granting relief from the ‘enormous levies’ of Cambyses for the Egyptian expedition. Dandamaev 1989, 95-102 rejected any ‘Median’ interpretation, because both Persia and Media accepted Gaumata (§11). 130 March-September 522: Dandamaev 1989, 92-93. 131 The exception is Frye 1984, 99, who finds such scepticism ‘curious in the history of Iran’! 132 Young 1988, 62. Bardiya had the immediate support of both the Persians and the Medes: Cook 1983, 52. Frye 1983, 100 stresses that these revolts were not to take the Achaemenid throne, but for independence. Darius’ rivals often connected themselves with the native dynasty which had been overthrown by Cyrus. Briant 1996, 120 emphasized discontent with the system of tribute and levies. 133 It is very telling that Darius does not, despite this, single him out among the ‘rebels’, not admitting this vital challenge, supported by the nobility and administration: Briant 1996, 121. 134 It was the most rebellious of all: no fewer than three revolts down to 520. 135 Despite this, it seems that Egypt did not rebel ‘in any serious way’, and Aryandes remained satrap for some time: Young 1988, 65.

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that he was an imposter, was supported by the Median army. Before this uprising was crushed, there were five battles in Armenia against an unnamed rival. Persia, Elam and Babylon rose twice. The number of times that the same rebellion had to be crushed demonstrates the determination and conviction of Darius’ opponents. There was also much interregional cooperation among the rebels.136 It is interesting that the most commonly mentioned person in the inscription is, of course, Darius, but in fact most of the opposition was crushed by his lieutenants, whom he does name. Darius in fact commanded only in Babylonia (December 522), then in Media (May 521).137 His account bears the traditional revelation of deceit: no defeat is acknowledged: ‘he was everywhere and always the victor’.138 These wars, according to his own obsessive iteration, were crushed within a single year.139 This assertion also has raised serious questions. The text is in anything but chronological order.140 Each success is, however, meticulously dated, except for three ‘rebels’ who were betrayed rather than defeated, in Elam: Acina (§16-17)—in October 522—and Martiya (§23), and Cicantakhma the Sagartian (§33). The most important undated event, however, is the death of Cambyses.141 This otherwise exactness was of no help to us until 1938; for only then did the excavations at Persepolis reveal the sequence of Persian months. Gaumata was killed on 29/9/522 (§13). The second rebel to be crushed was Acina (above). The last was Frada in Margiana on 10/12/521 (§38). Moderns who wish to support Darius’ claim about a single year make their own selection of battles to count.142 Darius, however, lists nine rebels, beginning with Gaumata (§52), exactly as shown in the relief at Behistun.

136

Briant 1996, 119. Briant 1996, 117. 138 Dandamaev 1989, 91. 139 He, in fact, varies the claim: ‘in one and the same year’ (§§56, 59, 62), cf. ‘in one and the same year after I became king’ (§52), which makes it even more difficult. Notice the stress on what he did in one year by the Hittite Mursili (above, p. 92). 140 See Kuhrt 2007, 140-141. A difficulty is caused by confusion between Darius’ accession year (522) and first regnal year (521). The events in Kuhrt’s chronological table are in the following order: §§ 13, 18-20, 45, 29, 25, 47, 35-36, 31, 26, 41, 27, 29, 28, 36, 42-43, 49, 33, 50! Briant 1996, 116 detects a regional basis in the texts, but a chronological order in the relief. 141 This was to make Gaumata more obviously a usurper: Kuhrt 2007, 153. The latest Babylonian document dated by his name is 20 September 522. On the documents, Dandamaev 1989, 92-93. 142 For example, Young 1988, 61: ‘by June of 521 the great revolt was in effect over’. Darius was calculating from his reaction to the revolt in Babylon in Nov.-Dec. 522. It was only to be expected that some apologist would argue that ‘Darius would hardly put on stone and parchment, and send throughout the empire statements which obviously could be proved false’: Frye 1984, 102. The last thing any common reader could do was make a chronological check on this labyrinth! Compare: the revolts continued for two years: Ghirshman 1954, 139. For a very clear narrative of the revolts, Dandamaev 1989, 114-131. 137

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What finally reinforces our feeling of distrust is Darius’ repeated need to stress his truthfulness. In contrast, Herodotos recorded his readiness to lie (3.74). In short, it is widely agreed that this document is a standard justification by a usurper. It is designed to terrify opponents, who are subjected to horrendous maltreatment, and to win supporters by rich rewards. It inevitably claims divine ratification. This is, by any account, one of the most remarkable ‘historical’ documents. It is of central interest to the modern historian of ancient Persia, because it is the longest Persian historical text. Yet it is suspect in every line. Darius’ achievement is stunning. He himself determined how he would record his genealogy and his deeds. ‘At the same time the memory of his royalty was fixed. No one, not even his successors (64), would have the right to question it on the cliff at Behistun; the history of historians is forestalled for all time.’143

143

Briant 1996, 127.

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There is one feature of Hebrew1 historiography which is not found before or after in historical writing. The gods were thought to play a role in history in both pre-classical and classical historiographies. In Hebrew history, on the other hand, God is centre stage. History is seen as the playing out of God’s will, of God’s plan.2 Extravagant claims have been made on this basis for the uniqueness of Hebrew historiography. ‘In the cultural context of the Ancient Near East Israel was, as far as we know, the only local branch to produce an historiography’.3 It transpires that the claims for the uniqueness of Hebrew historiography depend on a particular and highly skewed definition of that word. The records of Egypt and Mesopotamia, it is claimed, do not qualify as historiography, because they were concerned mainly with recent events, and did not develop extensive narratives about the distant past. Thucydides and Tacitus will also, in that case, be excluded! Most peoples of antiquity ‘were in no position to see great political events in terms of historical contingency, and did not find it necessary to fit these events into a wider pattern of historical cause and effect.’

In the case of the Egyptians, for example, it has been claimed: ‘At the most one can speak only of an attempt to establish an intelligible sequence of historical events by means of lists’4—as though that were all they provided by way of history. The Hebrews, on the other hand, were able to produce ‘reliable documents’5 going back earlier than any other people in antiquity, to the time of their migrations—as though the Egyptians and Mesopotamians did not have ‘documents’ going back in all probability to the third millennium. That the 1 The term ‘Hebrew’ has been chosen over perhaps the more commonly met ‘Israelite’ because of problems with definition and association of this latter. 2 Obvious problems arise if, as Roger Whybray 1968, 7 suggests, God is thought to work in a ‘hidden’ way. 3 Jacob Licht 1986, 109; so earlier Sigmund Mowinckel 1963, 8: historiography means ‘where the historical events are seen in the larger context’. The only ‘old civilisation’ which can compare with the Israelites in this regard is the Icelanders, with their sagas! 4 Gerhard von Rad 1966, 166, 167. 5 Note the usual highly tendentious use of the word ‘document’, to mean some privileged, totally reliable source, requiring no historical scrutiny, in contrast to literary ‘sources’. There is no such source: everything the historian may use, even an inscription or an archaeological artefact, is the product of human hand and therefore requires testing by all standard critical methods. The word ‘source’ should be used for all materials used by the historian.

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Hebrews had ‘an outstanding talent for narrative presentation’6 is a telling confusion. There are other qualities more important to an historian than being a good story-teller. Not all commentators, fortunately, have been so narrow-minded. ‘Thus it is that the books of Kings are not, as the Assyrian annals, full and detailed objective history, but an account of the vicissitudes of the kings of Israel and Judah, which involve those of their people, according as they notably exemplify the principles of reward and retribution following fidelity to, or flouting of, the covenant commitment.’7 To those acquainted with Assyrian annals, however, ‘objective history’ will seem a step too far! It is extraordinary that Hebrew ‘history’ began with the Creation of the world. The greatest historical undertaking of the classical world, by contrast, was the history of Rome by Titus Livius in 142 books, which began with the foundation of Rome (trad. 754 BC) and covered more than seven centuries down to 9 BC. Despite its portentous starting-point, however, Hebrew history was not a history of the world, but only a history of the Hebrews. Other nations are introduced only as they affect them. An attempt to write a history of the world was provided by Diodoros Sikulos, from the beginning of the world to 60 BC (completed around 30 BC)—but his Sicilian origins were all too evident! The earliest attempt at such a history, from Europe to Africa and Asia, focussing on the fifth century BC but with many digressions into the remote past, is, in fact, that of Herodotos. It is usually overlooked, moreover, that Hebrew historiography going back to the ‘creation’ involves fundamental problems: a failure to distinguish between the mythical and historical periods.8 The key to much analysis of Hebrew history as recorded in the Old Testament is, then, twofold: manipulated definitions of what historiography is about, and acceptance of the assumptions of that history as a matter of faith: ‘Israel was unique in the ancient Near East in its true “experience of the Divine in History”’; the God of Israel ‘pursues a deliberate long-term policy’.9 The eminent historian Gerhard von Rad put it thus: ‘The Israelites came to an historical way of thinking, and then to historical writing, by way of their belief in the sovereignty of God in history’.10 This is a clear admission that we have left history behind: we are now in the realm rather of theology.11 6

Von Rad 1966, 170. John Gray 1970, 4-5. 8 Mayes 2002, 68. 9 Licht 1986, 111. 10 Von Rad 1966, 170. Later (174) he admits that in historical writing ‘no sensational miracles are produced at the culmination of events’. A further worry is that this belief results in humans sinking to the status of puppets: von Rad (202) realizes this, but simply denies it! 11 Von Rad 1966, 202 makes the remarkable admission that the Succession Narrative (see below) contains matters which ‘no one can help feeling who has any real faith’! 7

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The repercussions of this ideological straightjacket are shocking. Von Rad denigrates Herodotos and even more Thucydides for their failure to acknowledge ‘metaphysical powers’ in history. There is, however, a corollary to this which has not been thought out. The uniqueness of Hebrew historiography is quite undercut. The course of history millennia earlier across the Ancient Near East had been completely subordinate to the power of deities such as Amon, Marduk, Ashur, and the Lady of Arinna. A further and natural development of this extravagant view is that Hebrew historiography is a totally discrete development, owing nothing to the many very developed cultures on all sides which had historical records for millennia. The mere statement of this view reveals it as mistaken, especially in the light of the generations spent in Egypt by the Hebrews and the adoption of so much of Canaanite culture.12 It is moreover contradicted by the texts, in very fundamental and obvious matters: the people demanded of Samuel a king ‘like other nations’ (1 Sam. 8.5),13 both David and Solomon required help from the Phoenicians for building projects (2 Sam. 5.11, 1 Kings 5.18), and the Temple followed Syrian plans.14 Even the names of administrative offices may be derived from Egyptian counterparts.15 Solomon’s wisdom is expressly compared with that of Egypt (1 Kings 4.30).16 The most important point to make, however, is that this theological view of Hebrew history is a fantasy. It was fully investigated and disproved by Bertil Albrektson.17 He showed that throughout Ancient Near Eastern historiography the gods were the determining agents, from the granting of kingship, to the winning of victories, to the destruction of a dynasty—of which anyone conversant with the texts would be cognisant. More important, however, was his demonstration that a dozen key references in the Old Testament provided no proof whatsoever of history as a divine plan.18 ‘That Yhwh has a plan means nothing more than that he intends something by what he does, that he carries out his purposes, both in mercy and in punishment.’19 The gods revealed themselves by their actions in the other cultures much as did the god of the Hebrews. There is, in fact, no other history from the ancient world—or the modern— which presents the student with anything approaching the same problems as does Hebrew historiography. Every fundamental matter is hotly contested: the sources, their number, their date, their limits, their characteristics, their 12

John Robinson 1972, 20-22; Otto Eissfeldt 1975, 560-569. ‘The Hebrews had taken over kingship from Canaan’: Robinson 1972, 52. 14 Siegfried Herrmann 1975, 178. 15 Whybray 1968, 3; Gray 1970, 132, 133; Robinson 1972, 57; Mordechai Cogan 2001, 201. 16 Cogan 2001, 221. 17 Albrektson 1967. 18 See Isaiah 5.19, 14.24, 25.1, 46.10, Mi. 4.12, Jeremiah 29.11, 49.20, 50.45, 51.29, Psalms 33.10, 106.13. Most of the passages adduced come from the prophets. 19 Albrektson 1967, 77. 13

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purpose. Even the meaning of the most basic words is disputed.20 One is beset by theorizing on every matter, principally to explain away problems, often in ways so sophisticated that they must be anachronistic.21 Before all that, however, the text has to be established and there are endless textual problems.22 One must admit, it seems, ‘a certain fluidity in the tradition, which was not yet finally fixed by the third or second century BC.’23 In the light of all these problems, it is not surprising that some have gone so far as to state that ‘the Biblical tradition does not present us with any critical historical production prior to the Hellenistic work of Jason of Cyprus’ (2 Macc. 2.23), and that ‘an equivalent to “history” does not exist in Hebrew, and a developed genre of historiography is particularly difficult to associate with the kind of prose narratives collected in the Hebrew Bible’. Biblical historiography is more ‘a frame of mind’, centring on ‘promise’, ‘covenant’ and ‘divine providence’.24 There have been schemes, not unattractive, proposed to chart the development of Hebrew historiography, from legends, to hero legends, to history proper. Others, however, counter that this neat progression is artificial, because the various genres coexist, and legends are not necessarily restricted to the earliest times.25 An obviously vital question is when exactly Hebrew historiography began. The ‘Deuteronomist’ is taken to be the earliest historian, not before 800 BC. Sigmund Mowinckel suggested that there would have been no need for ‘literature’ before the reign of David (c.1000): ‘what knowledge was necessary, and what people were interested to know existed as oral tradition.’ That literature would have included wisdom literature and state annals, but the beginning of Hebrew historiography was the ‘Solomon-saga’ (1 Kings 11.41).26 What must be stressed, however, is that the ‘final’ text as we have it in the various books of the Old Testament is the product of multiple authorship, at different periods,

20

Nagid is an obvious example, mostly translated as king: John van Seters 1981, 159; cf. a ‘particular kind of military and personal leadership’: Martin Sicker 2003, 165; others translate as crown-prince: Edward Lipinski, VT 24 (1974), 497-499, or just prince: Kyler McCarter 1980, 178; van Seters 1981, 144 (!), Sicker 2003, 104, or ‘ruler appointed by God’: Martin Noth 1960, 169! ‘A translation is virtually impossible’: Herrmann 1975, 137, with discussion. Nagid is certainly not king (melek). We fortunately have the exhaustive study by Tomoo Ishida 1999, 57-67: it was the term for the designation of a successor before his enthronement. Another example is ‘all the men of Judah’—which does not mean what it seems: Gray 1970, 84. 21 For example, that the critique of the monarchy at the time of Saul’s accession refers to the Akkadian akitu festival! 22 For understanding, consult Gray 1970, 25, 43-55. 23 Gray 1970, 25. 24 Thomas Thompson 1992, 3.207. 25 Van Seters 1981, 140. 26 Mowinckel 1963, 6, 12.

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and almost certainly for different purposes. Here is a truly unique feature of Hebrew historiography; for all the other texts we have considered and will consider seem to be the product of a single author. Hebrew history as represented in the Old Testament is long and complex. The problems of the Pentateuch and the Mosaic history, including the Exodus, are many. A period which by any calculation purports to be in the full light of history has therefore been chosen here for analysis: the origins of the Israelite monarchy, in 1-2 Samuel and 1 Kings.27 These books have been characterized, indeed, as ‘the period in which history-writing reached its pinnacle in ancient Israel’.28 They are ascribed to an editor identified as the ‘Deuteronomist’, responsible for all the books from Deuteronomy to 2 Kings. This author is characterized by three assumptions: first, the importance of cultic orthodoxy, or fidelity to the word of God; second, that that word was fulfilled through prophecy; and third, that retribution followed disobedience to orthodoxy.29 The most fundamental question is the nature of God himself. In these books, there is one description of him, in the Song of David: Smoke rises from his nostrils, out of his mouth come devouring fire, glowing coals and searing heat.30 He sweeps the skies apart as he descends. He rides on a cherub, and flies through the air. He fires arrows, and hurls lightning shafts. The breath of his nostrils is a blast, which can dry up oceans. He reaches down from the height and takes up David (2 Sam. 22.9-17). Even more remarkable is the clear admission that, although Israelite history is God in action, he has limited grasp of the outcome of his actions. He changes his mind about the institution of the kingship (see above). He repents of having made Saul king (1 Sam. 15.10, 35); that is, he had no idea what Saul would in fact do when he made him king. And he repents of sending the plague at the time of the census (2 Sam. 24.16)—either because it is too severe, or because he ordered the census in the first place. God declares that Solomon’s temple was ‘to receive my name for all time’ 27 The translation used here is The New English Bible, The Old Testament, Oxford and Cambridge 1970. 28 Van Seters 1981, 138, who also stressed the literary continuity of the books of Samuel and Kings. 29 Gray 1970, 9. The Quellenforschung in OT studies has reached uncontrollable and unintelligable limits. Every statement has been separated from every other and assigned to an everincreasingly complicated array of sources. See, for example, Halpern 1988, with sources such as H(Dtr)hez or E(Dtr)n. Suffice to say, after the pioneering work of Julius Wellhausen 1885, modern understanding begins with Martin Noth’s attribution to the ‘Deuteronomist’ of the history from Deuteronomy to 2 Kings, dated c.550 (‘exilic’). More recent arguments have claimed to backdate the earliest versions to the eighth or ninth centuries BC. On the features of the Deuteronomist, Gray 1970, 9. For a deft summary, see Mayes 2002, 69-72. Hubert Cancik 1976, 39 memorably called the Deuteronomist history ‘a monstrous prediction after the event’. None of this will be engaged with here. We have enough to deal with in reading the texts as they are now presented, as, therefore, their last ‘editors’ intended them to be. As Peter Ackroyd 1971, 4 wrote of 1 Samuel: ‘The most we can hope to do is begin from the book as we have it’. 30 For many parallel passages, McCarter 1984, 466-467, Moshe Weinfeld 1986.

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(1 Kings 9.3), apparently unaware that the temple would be destroyed in 587. He similarly established Solomon’s royal throne over Israel for ever, unless he disobeyed the commandments or worshipped foreign gods (9.5)—which is exactly what Solomon did. To Jeroboam he again promised an eternal dynasty— if he were obedient (11.38)!31 A unique characteristic of Hebrew historiography is the frequent and extended report of God’s will in his own direct speeches. How, then, was the word of God transmitted to humans? By ‘dreams, or Urim,32 or prophets’ (1 Sam. 28.6). The first method is explicitly mentioned elsewhere: ‘that night the word of the Lord came to Nathan’ (2 Sam. 7.4),33 as it did presumably to David’s seer Gad (24.11), and to Solomon (1 Kings 3.5-14). This ‘incubation’ was well known to earlier cultures, as was the transmission of divine will by prophets and Sibyls. Elsewhere visions are mentioned (1 Sam. 3.1). Once a woman prophesizes by calling on the dead, and raising the ghost of Samuel (28.2-35)!34 It is time to test the extravagant claims made above for the uniquely sophisticated level of Hebrew historiography. To do this, we must turn to an examination of the basic characteristics of the writing of history, not in modern times, but since the beginning of written accounts. The main instrument of causation in Hebrew historiography is punishment visited by God. Major examples will suffice. The priest Eli has two ‘scoundrels’ for sons, who are also priests. They do not follow established protocol in the portion of sacrifices allotted to them (1 Sam. 2.12-17). The result is that God promises that both sons will die on the same day (2.27-36). It is thus that Samuel becomes the priest. David’s criminality over Bathsheba is punished by God with the destruction of his family (2 Sam. 11-12). God’s purpose to destroy Absalom is obtained by thwarting Ahithophel’s good advice to kill only David and gaining support for Hushai’s plan to kill every one of his family and followers (17.1-14).35 The famine was sent by God because Saul had killed the allied Gibeonites (21.1-9)—but this is late in David’s reign (and as expiation, seven sons of Saul are thrown to their deaths—but five, in fact, are grandsons). Solomon’s wives corrupt him and he commits the gravest crime; that is, turning to foreign gods. God therefore raises up Hadad, king of Edom, and Rezon, king of Damascus, against him (1 Kings 11.14-25).36 There is a celebrated example here which has almost universally been seen as a contradiction: the cause of Saul’s destruction. First, Saul himself makes 31

Cogan 2001, 172 refers back to 1 Kings 2.4 for this problem. Sacred lots ‘put in the breastplate fastened on the ephod worn by the high priest’: Ackroyd 1971, 114. 33 Presumably in a dream: McCarter 1984, 209. 34 Not the ‘witch’ of Endor, but a necromancer, or ‘ghost-wife’: Herrmann 1975, 140. 35 Ackroyd 1977, 159: ‘It is quite evident that these are in reality separate and alternative traditions telling how the rebellion of Absalom was defeated. They are placed together and loosely linked’. In that case, the whole story makes no sense. 36 See below on anachronism. 32

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some sacrifice,37 and the result is that Samuel tells him from God that none of his line will succeed him (1 Sam. 13.9-14). Second, the Amalekites had attacked the Hebrews as they came out of Egypt. God’s judgement is transmitted by Samuel: ‘Spare no one: put them all to death, men and women, children and babes in arms, herds and flocks, camels and asses’ (15.3). In short, God decrees genocide. Saul, however, spares king Agag and the best of the sheep and cattle. Samuel therefore reports to him God’s judgement that the kingdom of Israel is today ‘torn from his hands’—and Agag is cut to pieces by Samuel (15.8-23). There seems obviously a major problem here: which of these two crimes dooms Saul?38 Samuel’s ghost, called up by the necromancer, asserts that it was the disobedience to God over the Amalekites (28.7-20)39— as one might expect in a society where the chief virtue is obedience to God. One needs, as always, to pay attention to the text. Only one commentator has seen the answer: McCarter observed that in the first case Saul was deprived of his dynasty, in the second of his own life and rule.40 The circumstances are, moreover, quite different: the first is a clash between king and priest, the second is disobedience to God.41 Despite all this, be it noted, Saul was an ‘upstanding Yahwist’!42 God determines events, especially the outcome of battles (he is, primarily, a war-god); for example, 1 Sam. 7.10, and all the victories of David (2 Sam. 8.8, 13). He also visits plagues on the enemy (tumours or haemorrhoids and rodents on the Philistines: 1 Sam. 5.6-12),43 and sends thunder and lightning to support Samuel (12.17): shades of the Hittites. That is not to say that human causation is absent: the reason for the establishment of the monarchy is the misbehaviour of Samuel’s sons (1 Sam. 8.1-5: compare the sons of Eli!). An eccentric form of causation is a variation on the ‘sacred spring’, where two cows are allowed to determine the placing of the Ark (6.7-16). 37 It is to be noted that Saul made the sacrifice himself because Samuel had not appeared by the time he promised: Maxwell Miller and John Hayes 1986, 123. How can McCarter 1980, 230 blame Saul for not keeping the appointment? 38 Noth 1960, 175-176 saw it as a quarrel between Samuel and Saul, and given the two versions, ‘it is impossible to establish the cause with any certainty’. Van Seters 1981, 146 suggests that they are simply doublets. 39 According to McCarter 1980, 423, in the original version, the ghost was anonymous. 40 McCarter 1980, 19, 229. Ackroyd 1971, 128 makes the very insightful observation that the author here falls into the simplistic trap of understanding success to mean divine blessing and failure divine judgement. 41 And yet Saul’s murder of the priests of Nob (1 Sam. 21.2-10) goes without any reaction from Yahweh. An example of modern misunderstanding concerns a tragedy: Michal’s childlessness, a punishment from God according to Cristiano Grottanelli 1999, 96. One of the most remarkable episodes in the whole of the early monarchy is 2 Sam. 6.21-23, the clash of Michal and David after his ‘capering’. The episode indicates that he obviously never touched her again. 42 Grottanelli 1999, 97. 43 McCarter 1980, 126 points out that plague was ‘the weapon of the gods’.

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Very important events are often, however, left unexplained. Saul lost his throne and his life by disobeying God by sparing the life of king Agag (1 Sam. 15.7): the obvious question is why he did this. Sicker offers the attractive suggestion that he meant to use him as a hostage.44 We are not told the immediate cause of the great struggle between Israel and the Philistines which cost Saul and two of his sons their lives. Sicker suggests that Samuel’s death was crucial, together with Saul’s insecurity and a decline in Israel’s military capabilities as motivations for the attack. The war was fought for control of the Jezreel valley, of vital military and commercial importance.45 Why did David appoint two chief or high priests, Zadok and Abiathar (2 Sam. 8.17)?46 Why did David behave as he did towards Bathsheba (11)?47 Why did Absalom rebel against his father (2 Sam. 15)? The narrative does imply that it was mainly a clash between leading individuals, but that is obviously inadequate; of policies, there is only an allusion to disquiet over the legal system (15.2). The root cause was not so much tension between Israel and Judah, since both kingdoms supported Absalom, as general resentment at the burdens imposed by David’s aggressive policies. And on a personal level, he had reason to fear that his father might pass over him.48 Why did a census bring plague (24)? There are two levels of answer here. God, after all, had ordered David to do it: he was ‘enraged at Israel because of some crime not named in the account as it has come down to us’. Yes, but what is the connection of census and plague? A census involved cultic purification, and its absence could result in plague.49 There is furthermore, one stunning example of this lack of explanation. The tradition on Samuel is ‘completely static. It enumerates what there was in Solomon’s time, and describes conditions in the state without consideration of the conditions which brought them into being.’50 This common failure to address the causes of major events leads us to consider other strange shortcomings of Hebrew historiography. 44 Sicker 2003, 114. I should like here to draw the reader’s attention to this work, which contextualizes and explains events catalogued so jejunely in the OT in a way no other history of Israel known to me does. 45 Sicker 2003, 120. Eissfeldt 1975, 578 simply asserts that the Philistines were the aggressors. 46 Sicker 2003, 140-141 suggests either a division of authority which enhanced that of David, or a concession to priests outside Jerusalem, since Zadok came from Gibeon. 47 ‘The narrator gives us no clue to David’s motives in his conduct towards Bathsheba. Indeed, the absence of such a clue is one of the remarkable aspects of the story’: McCarter 1984, 289, referring to Perry and Sternberg 48 Eissfeldt 1975, 586 (burdens); McCarter 1984, 357-359; Sicker 2003, 151 (succession). McCarter quotes Bright: ‘resentment of the intrusion of the state upon tribal independence, resentment of the burgeoning court and of the privileged position of David’s retainers’, the administration of justice (obviously), and the punishing levies. Whybray 1968, 17-18: the author has not explained things clearly, because he was not interested. 49 McCarter 1984, 518, 513. The problem of God’s command was noticed by the author of 1 Chron. 21.1: the command was given by Satan! Ackroyd 1977, 230-231 noted that a census was divinely commanded in Num. 1. Its main purpose was military. 50 Herrmann 1975, 174.

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Causation is one thing. Significance or consequence is another. So often the author(s) can only tell a story, without any understanding of its significance. There are many examples. The first falling out between Saul and Samuel over seemingly a technical matter (1 Sam. 13.9-14) is no such thing: there could not be a more fundamental conflict. It is a clash between political and religious authority, and the former has usurped the latter.51 One may go further. ‘The prophet is Yahweh’s official spokesman and thus is not to be gainsaid or disobeyed. Kingship … will be tolerated … only as subject to the controlling authority of the prophet.’52 The main and most serious foe of the Israelites is the Philistines. The defeat and death of Saul (1 Sam. 31) was catastrophic. ‘The Philistines had now attained their gaol, and the quest of sovereignty in Palestine appeared to have been settled in their favour once and for all. The final outcome of Saul’s short reign was as hopeless for Israel as it could possibly be.’53 In reference to this, it must be remembered that David, Saul’s armour-bearer, had already enlisted as a mercenary with a Philistine king (1 Sam. 27.2):54 again a matter reported as simple matter-of-fact, without any reflection on his trucking with, indeed serving, the national enemy. Even when he was elected king, he was still a Philistine vassal.55 The Philistines then again attacked and were twice defeated (2 Sam. 5.17-25). They were driven ‘from Geba to Gezer’. That is all we are told. In fact, it was the end of their supremacy. ‘Henceforth they were limited to their old possessions in the southern part of the maritime plain and formed one of the small neighbouring states which gave trouble to Judah and Israel as occasion offered but were no longer able to make any decisive historical interventions. David’s decisive victories over the Philistines were the fundamental and most lasting successes of a life that was rich in success.’56 There is more: ‘By establishing its ascendancy in central Palestine, Davidic Israel supplanted Philistia as heir to Egyptian suzerainty there.’57 When the authors do attempt to indicate significance, they are mistaken: the defeat of the Philistines means that ‘they were subdued and no longer encroached on the territory of Israel; and the hand of the Lord was against them

51

Sicker 2003, 111. McCarter 1980, 230. 53 Noth 1960, 178. Or as McCarter 1980, 444 put it: ‘The political consequences of the Philistine victory are such that northern Israel is left in an intolerable condition of military occupation.’ 54 Noth 1960, 180. For the full understanding of the double game David was playing, see Sicker 2003, 119. 55 ‘David had been able to accept sovereignty over Judah only with the consent of his Philistine feudal lords’: Eissfeldt 1975, 582. Sicker 2003, 126-127 suggests that the Philistines saw him as a loyal vassal, and indeed a counterpoise to the north. On the obviously apologetic intent, McCarter 1980, 416. 56 Noth 1960, 189. 57 McCarter 1984, 252. 52

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as long as Samuel lived’ (1 Sam. 7.13). What is our surprise to find, a few chapters on, a Philistine invasion, while Samuel was still alive (13.3).58 Military consequences are one thing. There are equally important political ones. When Saul’s son Eshbaal was made king in Israel (2 Sam. 2.8-9), that geographical name acquired henceforth two meanings: the entirety of the twelve tribes (17.11), and the northern kingdom as opposed to Judah, the southern.59 David made Jerusalem the capital. The meaning of this is not even hinted at by the texts. It was on the border between Judah and Israel, but it was ‘high in the hills, relatively isolated, not at the crossroads of the great trade routes… The focal point of state government and religious influence had finally been transferred to the hill country.’ This was ‘independent of the tribes and virtually without them.’60 This foundation was, therefore, of fundamental importance in preserving the unity of the two kingdoms under David’s rule.61 Economic history is even harder to comprehend. To the vast trading empire established by Solomon only scattered clues are provided: he built the city of ‘Tamar’ (1 Kings 9.18): this is usually taken to be the great trading city of Tadmor (Palmyra).62 The visit of the Queen of Sheba (Yemen) (10.1-10) also has trading significance.63 Chariots were imported from Egypt and horses from there and Kilikia (10.28-29),64 and a navy was built with Tyrian help and stationed in the gulf of Aqaba (9.26-7, 10.11, 22).65 These two matters (chariotry and trade) are clearly not central to the author’s picture of Solomon (see below). In other cases, the authors cannot even tell a story: the ‘overlordship’ of the Philistines in the time of the priesthood of Eli is not described, but only fitfully alluded to: appointment of military governors (1 Sam. 10.5, 2 Sam. 23.14), disarming of the conquered (1 Sam. 13.19-22), expeditions to collect tribute (13.16-18, 23.1-5).66 In other words, unpalatable facts cannot be faced. Saul’s campaign against the Philistines is told at length (13.3-14.46), while all his other victories are summed up in a few lines (14.47)! David is the great conqueror of empire, but we are similarly ‘very ill-informed about David’s wars of conquest’ (2 Sam. 8.1-14).67 The most important of those conquests was that 58

The contradiction was noted by Ackroyd 1971, 68. Noth 1960, 183-184; McCarter 1984, 357. 60 Herrmann 1975, 156-157, 162. 61 Stephen McKenzie 2011, 139. 62 Cogan 2001, 302 prefers Tamar, ‘a significant point on the southern border of the Promised Land’. 63 Gray 1970, 257. 64 On this trade and the prices, see Kenneth Kitchen 2003, 115. Gray 1970, 268-269 argued that misrayim (Egypt) was a corruption of musri (the Hittites), long-time breeders of horses, which Egypt was not; Robinson 1972, 133-134; Cogan 2001, 321 accepts musri at both 10.28 and 29. 65 Cogan 2001, 305-306. 66 Brought to our attention by Eissfeldt 1975, 571. 67 Eissfeldt 1975, 582; Gray 1970, 284-285 for some details. For an analysis based not on the texts but archaeology, Kitchen 2003, 102. 59

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of Jerusalem, which belonged to the Jebusites (5.6-8), a passage judged ‘brief and obscure’.68 A famine for three years under David was caused by Saul’s killing the allied Gibeonites (21.1-2), but there is no trace of this action in the surviving texts.69 A momentous change in Israelite warfare occurred under Solomon: he adopted a new arm, chariotry; not only that: it became ‘his principle military force’.70 The reader can only guess at the importance of this innovation from the statistics provided (1 Kings 4.26, 10.26). A most remarkable feature of Hebrew historiography is the almost total lack of chronology.71 This leaves the narrative as timeless stories. It is the very opposite of history. For two millennia before, historians in the Ancient Near East had employed the obvious method of regnal years, and this was, of course, available from the institution of the Israelite monarchy.72 What we have for the reigns of Saul and David are only the length of Saul’s reign (he was elected when he was one [sic] year old and ruled for two [sic] years (1 Sam. 13.1),73 of that of his son, Eshbaal,74 aged forty, for two years (2 Sam. 2.8-11), that of David, aged thirty: seven and a half years in Hebron—the leading city of Judah—(2 Sam. 2.11, 5.5, compare only seven: 1 Kings 2.11),75 and thirty-three in Jerusalem (2 Sam. 5.5, 1 Kings 2.11)—a total therefore of forty, and Solomon’s 68 Sicker 2003, 139 draws attention to the mention only of the ‘king and his men’, not the tribal levies; on the importance of the city, 139-140. ‘We do not know how David captures Jerusalem’: Hendrik Jagersma 1982, 101, who goes on to suggest that there was no fighting: it was achieved by diplomacy. Saul’s capital had been Gibeah, just to the north: Jagersma 1982, 89; Kitchen 2003, 97. 69 Ackroyd 1977, 196 admits that we have no record of the slaughter of the Gibeonites, but then claims that ‘we may reasonably assume that ancient readers were aware of the incident’! McCarter 1984, 444 compares the Hittite plague because Suppiluliuma had violated a treaty (Pritchard 1969, 394-396). 70 Eissfeldt 1975, 589. As Sicker 2003, 173 points out, the chariot corps was probably drawn from the Philistines and Canaanites, given the Israelite inexperience in such warfare. 71 The first securely dated event in Israelite history is the capture of Jerusalem by Nebuchadrezzar in 597 (Pritchard 1969, 564): Miller and Hayes 1986, 226. 72 Such a regnal year is used once in these three books (1 Kings 6.1). It may be noted, en passant, that the period of the judges is accorded in Judges four centuries by regarding them as a succession of leaders/rulers of all Israel, when they were often local leaders and contemporaries. They therefore are to be assigned two centuries (1200-1000): Eissfeldt 1975, 539, 553, 555. 73 The Masoretic Text gives his age as one year, emended to fifty: Ackroyd 1971, 101; compare thirty: Kitchen 2003, 83. His reign of two years is altered ‘on historical grounds’ to twenty: Noth 1960, 176; Eissfeldt 1975, 575; compare twenty-two years: Ackroyd 1971, 101; compare thirty-two years: Kitchen 2003, 83. McCarter 1980, 222 suggested that the numbers are deliberately lacking (?). 74 His true name is preserved in 1 Chron. 8.33, 9.39, but is distorted into Ishosheth here to conceal the worship of Baal! The Baal element cannot be a pseudonym for Yahweh! Ishosheth would mean ‘Man of shame’: Ackroyd 1977, 32; McCarter 1984, 85, by ‘dysphemism’! 75 Since Eshbaal reigned for only two years, the obvious question is what was David doing for the other more than five, before he became king in Jerusalem? 2 Sam. 4.5-5.5 jumps straight from Eshbaal’s death to David’s election. Sicker 2003, 134-137 proposes logically to backdate the episode of the Gibeonites, since it involved the death of Saul’s heirs, and that was a necessary condition of the offer of the northern throne to David.

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reign of forty years (almost exactly the same)76 (1 Kings 11.42); note that the pattern is broken: no age at accession is given.77 There is paradoxically also some strange exactness about certain other matters, notably sojourns: David was with the Philistines for sixteen months (1 Sam. 27.7), his son Absalom took refuge at Geshur for three years after killing Amnon for raping his sister Tamar (2 Sam. 13.38), then did not see his father for two years (14.28), then after four years sought leave to go to Hebron (15.7).78 A famine lasted for three years (21.1-9). The Davidic census took nine months and twenty days (24.8). The building of the temple began in the 480th year79 after the Exodus, in Solomon’s Year 4 (1 Kings 6.1) and was completed in seven years (6.38).80 The building of the temple and palace took twenty years (9.10).81 And yet, for example, in general terms, the tradition on Solomon ‘makes it impossible to review his reign in chronological order’.82 Surely, however, the most stunning failure in chronology is the total absence of the name of the pharaoh of the Exodus—with the modern consequences that everyone knows! The Biblical chronology, in fact, dates the Exodus two centuries too early (1 Kings 6.1).83 Another problem of chronology is sequence. Saul’s victory over the Philistines (1 Sam. 13.2-14.46) is placed long after his victory over the Ammonites (10.26-11.15), when it should be the other way around.84 He had to clear the Philistines out of his own Benjaminite area before he could venture against the Ammonites. On David’s being anointed as king of Israel, the Philistines attacked, but were defeated (2 Sam. 5.17-25). This must precede, not follow, David’s conquest of Jerusalem (5.6-10).85 The Gibeonites’ revenge (21.1-14) must precede its sequel, Saul’s surviving grandson (9).86 76 The vagueness and similarity are suspicious: the writers apparently had no precise information: Miller and Hayes 1986, 129. For an interesting table showing the frequency of forty years in the ‘schematic chronology’ of the OT, see Gray 1970, 3-4. The solution is simple: ‘Forty was the traditional number for a generation’: Robinson 1972, 147. Cogan 2001, 343 detects a different formula: ‘the successful completion of a full reign’. 77 Modern scholars usually date Saul c.1020-1000, and if the division of the kingdom is dated c.930, then seventy years cover David and Solomon: Eissfeldt 1975, 575, 582; Herrmann 1975, 187. The Anchor Bible Dictionary places David 1010-970: 2.41 (D. Howard), and Solomon 970/60-930/20: 6.105 (T. Ishida). The age of Solomon at his accession is estimated to be under adult age (Anchor Bible Dictionary). 78 ‘We may be tempted to ask why Absalom waited even four years before fulfilling his vow’: Ackroyd 1977, 18. 79 Therefore twelve generations: for example, Cogan 2001, 236. 80 ‘An ideal number’: Cogan 2001, 248. 81 The building of the palace, therefore, took almost twice as long as that of the temple! 82 Eissfeldt 1975, 588. 83 See especially Gray 1970, 160. 84 Miller and Hayes 1986, 126-128. McCarter 1980, 207 prefers to focus on the growth of the Saul legend. 85 Noth 1960, 188; McCarter 1984, 158; Miller and Hayes 1986, 155. 86 McCarter 1984, 263.

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Commenting on the second book of Samuel, Ackroyd admitted: ‘chronology is not a primary interest of the writer’! Chronology, in fact, does not matter: ‘as often in Old Testament presentations, where interpretation is an important factor, material is arranged in a meaningful way’!87 There is no way of conducting a rational discussion of history under these rules. Closely linked to lack of chronology is anachronism: Hannah’s prayer for a son mentions the king (1 Sam. 2.10). The critique of monarchy (8.11-18) is well illustrated by David’s crime with Bathsheba.88 And there is irrefutable evidence of post-exilic intrusion (1 Kings 8.46-50, 9.6-9).89 The charge against Solomon of worshiping foreign gods, under the influence of his wives (11.4) is anachronistic. ‘[R]oyal patronage of foreign gods probably would not have been regarded as apostasy in Solomon’s day… [T]he concept of exclusive Yahwistic monotheism was still many years, even centuries, in the future’.90 A disturbing feature is repetition.91 This may most naturally be regarded as the proof that—as commonly accepted—there have been many redactions of these texts, and these repetitions are the result of clumsy ‘joins’.92 Saul is instructed to go to Gilgal (1 Sam. 10.8: this is resumed in 13.8-9). David’s features fascinate the author: his ruddy cheeks and bright eyes (16.12, 17.42). Saul’s attempt to kill David by ineffectually hurling his spear at him is repeated (18.11, 19.10), as is the death of Samuel (25.1, 28.3).93 In the decisive victory over the Philistines, ‘two battles are briefly described, both set in the Vale of Rephaim’ (2 Sam. 5.17-25).94 The members of David’s administration are repeated (2 Sam. 8.15-18, 20.23-6).95 Barzillar’s age (19.32, 35) is given twice. David at death is twice described simply as ‘very old’ (1 Kings 1.1-4, 15: we are told elsewhere that he was 70: see above). Adonijah’s actions are described four times (1.5-10, 11-13, 17-19, 24-26).96 The crucial firm establishment of Solomon’s kingdom is repeated (2.12, 46). A remarkable example in a class of its own is the identity of the messenger who brings David news of Saul’s death: he declares himself a hated Amalekite (2 Sam. 1.8); later that evening David cannot remember (1.13)! 87

Ackroyd 1977, 138, 54. McCarter 1984, 290. 89 Gray 1970, 24 (exile as punishment), 228 (prayer in the direction of Jerusalem), 237 (the destruction of the Temple). The prayer was written by the Deuteronomic editor and placed in Solomon’s mouth: Robinson 1972, 109. 90 Miller and Hayes 1986, 202; also von Rad 1966, 203. 91 The two battles at Ebenezer (1 Sam. 4, 7) are quite different, contra Miller and Hayes 1986, 125. 92 Gray 1970, 6: ‘ill edited parallel sources in the account of the same events, which betray their presence by doublets and discrepancies’. 93 McCarter 1980, 388 is perplexed. 94 Have two traditions of one battle been combined? Ackroyd 1977, 60. 95 The latter is thought to be earlier, and the duplication was caused by moving around chap. 21: McCarter 1984, 257; McKenzie 2011, 142. For a good discussion Ackroyd 1977, 89-90. 96 Gray 1970, 17. 88

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Then there are doublets in the usual sense of the term: there are two righteous priests with unworthy sons: Eli (1 Sam. 2.12) and Samuel (8.1-3). Possible doublets result from topographical vagueness: there are four variants of the word for ‘hill’: Gibeah, Gibeath, Geba and Gibeon.97 As always attention must be paid to text, to avoid carelessly identifying events as doublets which are no such thing. An example is the marriages of David with Saul’s daughter Michal (1 Sam. 18.27, and 2 Sam. 3.13-16). He took her twice. The earlier case is when he was manoeuvering to gain the throne, the second is when he had gained it. Both were political marriages, but the circumstances were quite different (this matter, it should be noted, throws a very unfavourable light on David).98 Doublets are one thing. Actions are, in fact, often repeated three times: Samuel’s believing that Eli called him (1 Sam. 3.1-9), and the three districts crossed by Saul (9.3-5). The women’s song about David is repeated thrice (18.7, 21.11, 29.5). Three times men are sent to arrest David, and three times they fall into rapture (19.19-21), Jonathon sounds out his father three times (20.12), Saul fires three arrows (20.20), and David bows three times (20.41). A variant on this is the offer by God of a choice of disasters, lasting three years, three months, or three days (2 Sam. 24.13). There are also straight out contradictions. There is no more fundamental subject here than the appointment of the king. In the first place, the establishment of the monarchy to replace the judges is viewed hostilely by both the judges (naturally) and God (1 Sam. 8.6-22, 10.18-19, 12.7-11). Then, however, God changes his mind: the king will deliver his people from the Philistines (9.16), and he directs the choice of Saul through his prophet Samuel (10.1).99 There are, moreover, three accounts of how Saul became king: he met Samuel while searching for his father’s asses at Zuph and was anointed by Samuel as nagid the next day (1 Sam. 9.3-10.1); he was selected by Samuel as king by lottery (!) at Mizpah (10.20-24);100 and the people invested him in Gilgal (11.15).101 97

Miller and Hayes 1986, 129-130. The earlier is a later tradition according to Noth 1960, 184; McKenzie 2000, 84: the second is the true version; Sicker 2003, 131 realizes that they are not to be confused. McCarter 1984, 114-115 stressed that the divorce was not voluntary, so her husband could reclaim her (compare Code of Hammurabi 135). Her reclaiming was less happy: McCarter, 187-188 very insightfully understands that her husband’s tears imply her own; she remained childless. Cf. n. 41. 99 Ackroyd 1971, 73 suggested that the shortcomings could be illustrated by the late reigns of both David and Solomon. Kitchen 2003, 95-96 assembles a telling list of these problems with kings at unfortunate Ugarit. 100 Selection of a king by lot seems ‘particularly farfetched’: Miller and Hayes 1986, 138. McCarter 1980, 195 draws attention to other instances of lot: to identify a hidden offender (Joshua 7, 1 Sam. 14.38-44): a ‘subtle indication that [Saul] is an offending party by virtue of the election itself’. What reader would make this connection? 101 These three occasions are signalled, for example, by Rebecca Hancock 2011, 289, but defended as rational by Licht 1986, 107, who quotes Yair Hofmann that such clashes in OT 98

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McCarter alone notes that the anointing of Saul is secret.102 Herrmann is surely right in asserting that the two vital components were the anointing (divine sanction) and confirmation by the people:103 compare the appointment of Solomon (1 Kings 1.39), which by-passed the people completely.104 The selection by lot is the anomaly. Another contradiction here is that Saul at his anointment is ‘a young man living in his father’s house (1 Sam. 10.8), but seven days later he has a grown son (13.2-3)!105 Who killed the Philistine governor: Jonathon (1 Sam. 13.3) or Saul (13.4)?106 Saul is told that none of his family will succeed him (13.14)—but he is succeeded, albeit briefly, by his son Eshbaal (2 Sam. 2.8-11). How and when did David meet Saul? He comes as a harpist to soothe Saul, and becomes his armourbearer (1 Sam. 16.14-23); compare: the Philistines and Goliath appear, and David, a shepherd, and only a ‘lad’ (17.33) introduces himself to Saul (17.3138)!107 Was Goliath killed by David (1 Sam. 17), or Elhanan (2 Sam. 21.19)?108 Saul and his three sons are all killed in battle with the Philistines (1 Sam. 31.2); then Eshbaal appears (2 Sam. 2.8).109 Did Saul commit suicide (1 Sam. 31.4-5), or was he killed by an unnamed Amalekite (2 Sam. 1.6-10)?110 Absalom had three sons (14.7) or none (18.18). Did Solomon’s forced labour system rely on all of Israel (1 Kings 5.13), or draw only on the inhabitants of the Canaanite cities incorporated into Israel (9.20-22)?111 historiography may simply be caused by the lack of footnotes! Strange, the classical historians did not have footnotes either, but were able to signal and confront contradictions. McKenzie 2000, 29 sees it as Saul becoming king ‘in stages’, traditions ‘skilfully edited … into a single flowing narrative’. Ackroyd 1971, 92-93 does not resolve the contradictions, but waves them away as ‘rich traditions’. 102 McCarter 1980, 19, 187. 103 Herrmann 1975, 136. He also notes that Eshbaal is not shown undergoing either divine or human appointment. Eissfeldt 1975, 573 is in essential agreement: the theoretic foundation of Saul’s kingship was God’s choice, but its factual basis was the levy, previously called out by the tribes; and so Sicker 2003, 159: Saul was selected by a charismatic prophet and then confirmed by popular acclamation. 104 Jagersma 1982, 112. 105 McCarter 1980, 228. 106 McCarter 1984, 450. 107 The former is the ‘primary narrative to which the rest was added’: McCarter 1980, 282. The narrative cannot at 32 ‘pick up’ from 11, contra Ackroyd 1971, 144. The contradictions show that the story of David and Goliath was ‘an independent tale’ inserted later; the original shorter version, moreover, exists in the Septuagint. McKenzie 2000, 70-76 points out that there never was a soldier equipped like Goliath. 108 We cannot escape from the problem by the idea that Elhanan was his original name and David his throne name (compare Solomon: 12,25: Ackroyd 1977, 203)—because this is explicitly stated for Solomon, but nowhere for David. The problem is admitted by the invention of Goliath’s brother Lahmi (1 Chron. 20.15): McKenzie 2000, 76! 109 Even though they are listed five times(!) in the Bible, the names and number of Saul’s sons are uncertain: McCarter 1980, 256. 110 McCarter’s 1984, 62-64 solution is that the Amalekite was regarded as a liar. 111 Noted by Noth 1960, 211, Gray 1970, 155 made a careful distinction between serfdom for non-Israelites and ‘occasional regimentation’ for Israelites. Robinson 1972, 68-69 favoured 5.15,

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The question can finally be confronted: what exactly were the sources for the history of the earliest monarchy in Israel in the tenth century BC? One remarkable fact needs emphasis. Contrary to the practice of all surrounding kingdoms in the Ancient Near East, the kings of Israel left no historical inscriptions. That not one has survived allows us to be confident that none was ever composed.112 It is generally agreed that there are a number of narratives incorporated into the books which may have existed earlier independently. The two most important are, first, ‘David’s Rise to Power’ (1 Sam. 16-2 Sam. 5.10).113 This is a heavily apologetic account: in summary, David is innocent of the death of everyone in his path to the throne!114 The second is the ‘Succession Narrative’, most commonly so called, but also known as the ‘Court History’ (2 Sam. 91 Kings 2.46).115 Other obvious possible self-contained units are the story of David and Bathsheba (2 Sam. 11-12),116 and the revolt of Absalom (2 Sam. 13-20).117 Most valuable analysis here is provided by Steven McKenzie, citing the incredible story that the crown prince Jonathon would easily step aside for David; he suggests that Saul was not paranoid, but that David had plotted against him, that Saul’s supposed murder of the priests (1 Sam. 22.11-23) was aetiological, that David was responsible for Saul’s death (note 1 Sam. 24-2 Sam. 1, 16.8), that Abner was killed by Joab on David’s orders (he was not punished), just as David did not punish him for killing Absalom. Note the accusations of 2 Sam. 10.7-8, and David’s advice to Solomon (1 Kings 2.5-9).118 The ‘Succession Narrative’ was subjected to an extensive and illuminating analysis by Whybray. It is by ‘a contemporary, or near-contemporary, of David, arguing from the attitude of the Israelites to Rehoboam. Herrmann 1975, 177 solved the matter by identifying ‘all Israel’ as the northern state, excluding Judah, noting that the twelve administrative districts (1 Kings 4.8-19) refer to that; so Jagersma 1982, 110; McKenzie 2011, 144. Cogan 2001, 229 admitted no solution: ‘no amount of philological fine-tuning … will do’. 112 Kitchen 2003, 90-91 is not sure. As a corollary, neither David nor Solomon is mentioned anywhere in the literature of the Ancient Near East: Jagersma 1982, 119. 113 The end is fairly obvious, but the beginning is contested: 16.1? 15? 9? See von Rad 1966, 194: it began with the childlessness of the queen (2 Sam. 6.23); Gray 1970, 16; van Seters 1983, 264-271; McCarter 1984, 27-30, 64, 89-90, 120-122. 114 For a clear setting out of the accusations and the defences, see McKenzie 2000, 32-33. 115 Its limits are also debated. It ends with Solomon’s accession (1 Kings 2.46), but where does it begin? The conventional answer is 2 Sam. 9, but see van Seters 1981, 156-167. Ackroyd 1977, 10 is not sure that it ever formed a separate document, because of links (of course!) to earlier chapters. 116 According to McKenzie 2011, 153 to be dated after Absalom’s revolt, because there is no reference to it there; note that the story compromises the apologetic purpose of the revolt (171). On the importance of Bathsheba, 180-184. McKenzie suggests that she seduced David: she knew that she could be seen from surrounding rooftops, and she knew her fertility cycle. And the name she gave her son means ‘his replacement’! 117 McCarter 1984, 9-11. 118 McKenzie 2011, 77-127, 169. McKenzie further on (178-179) declares this last matter apocryphal: an invention to justify Solomon’s following of his father’s example.

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and a member of the court’.119 It abounds, indeed, in intimate conversations and scenes (especially 2 Sam. 12.1-15, 13.10-19, 19.5-7, 1 Kings 1.11-14), vital for character and causation, yet ‘most obviously based on imagination’.120 The author is uninterested in basic historical matters such as the cause of Absalom’s revolt. Whybray gives us a fine analysis of the high literary qualities of the text: the theme of ‘a man forced throughout his remaining years to witness in his own family the effects of that same violence and lust of which he himself was guilty’, as well as the reliance on dialogue, the skill in psychological portrayal of character. He proves extensive links with the Book of Proverbs: the work comes from the same scribal milieu. The author does not believe that God constantly interferes with the natural course of events: there are only three references (only 2 Sam. 11.27, 12.24, 17.14).121 In sum, it is an historical novel— but with a most blatant purpose as political propaganda: to justify Solomon’s claim to the throne.122 In that case, we need a context, and the succeeding narrative of Solomon’s purges shows how uneasily the crown lay on his head.123 Gray identified its main purpose as focussed on ‘the constitutional issue of dynastic succession as a crucial issue in Israel, where, as it proved, the majority still held to the tradition of the charismatic leadership of an individual designated by a prophet in the name of God and popularly acclaimed.’124 Ishida added that a feature of such apologetic sources was the contrast of the incompetence of the previous ruler, in this case David, and his other sons, although, paradoxically, the new king claimed to be his legitimate successor. The author ‘knew that Solomon had actually usurped the throne of David by a court intrigue, though he described it with ingenious obscurity’.125

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Jagersma 1982, 108 is one of the few to contest this: mainly because of 1 Kings 2, the description of Solomon’s purge of his enemies. The simple solution is to claim that this is a later addition. 120 Compare: a ‘seemingly contemporary, objective and detailed record, … unparalleled in contemporary Egypt or Mesopotamia’: van Seters 1981, 156. There are few accounts more suspicious than private death-bed arrangements about succession. The alliance of Nathan and Bathsheba is surprising, and the promise was extraordinary, since Solomon was not David’s eldest son: McKenzie 2011, 178. 121 Von Rad 1966, 198-202 rightly points out the importance of these three passages, but goes on to claim the Narrative as ‘in every sense … a theological history’. 122 Von Rad 1966, 194 therefore misses the point in thinking that the theme is ‘the question of who shall occupy the throne of David’! He also makes the amazing claim that ‘the writer does not explicitly state his purpose at the outset: he allows it to emerge gradually from the material itself’. (Real historians start with a question to be answered). Gray 1970, 17-18 recognizes many features of a novel: ‘vivid depiction of character and episode, with the wealth of colourful, circumstantial detail, dramatic direct speech and striking imagery’, but stresses, in addition, ‘the sense of historical perspective’. 123 Whybray 1968. It is significant that von Rad 1966, 189-191 emphasizes the literary features. 124 Gray 1970, 21. 125 Ishida 1999, 107-136. He gives a fine analysis of the two rival parties in David’s late reign, and rightly raises questions about the meaning of Adonijah’s feast.

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It is important to realize that this propaganda narrative written in the early years of Samuel is the oldest surviving Hebrew historical writing. The date is therefore later tenth century. For the reign of Solomon there is, remarkable to say, reference to the ‘annals’ of Solomon (1 Kings 11.41).126 Such a source presumably accounts for the sharp differences between the accounts of Saul and David, on the one hand, and of Solomon on the other. The last’s reign is dominated by technical details and lists, notably every specification in the massive building programme (1 Kings 5.1-16, 6.2-36, 7.1-50),127 lists of his officials (4.1-19),128 and the taxation system (4.22-23, 27-28). There are at the same time the strangest gaps: the same king had 700 wives,129 and the chief was an Egyptian princess (11.1-3)—but we are given the name of not one of them.130 In spite of all the details, however, the account of his reign is ‘quite unchronological in its arrangement’, so that it cannot have come from any ‘annalistic’ source.131 The so called ‘annals’ of Solomon were, therefore, no such thing. Modern judgements on the relative worth of these sources, however, vary wildly. An older verdict declared: ‘[F]or the earlier historical period up to and including Saul we have mainly popular stories and also traditions concerning pre-historical times, based on religious

126 A very different source is implied by Gray’s 1970, 23 preferred translation ‘the book of the acts of Solomon’. ‘If the recorded instances of Solomon’s practical sagacity are indeed from this source, then it was rather saga than factual annals’ (ibid., 298). There is later reference to ‘the annals of the kings of Israel’ (1 Kings 14.19) and ‘annals of the kings of Judah’ (15.7). On these later chronicles, see van Seters 1981, 174-185. 127 Gray 1970, 23 saw the technical account of the building of the Temple as ‘doubtless drawn ultimately from temple archives’. Later on, however, he approved of Noth’s theory that the account in chap. 6 was based on ‘the oral tradition of instructions to the various craftsmen’ (ibid., 157)! It is to be noted that the writer assumed that palace and temple were distinct, when they formed together a complex (ibid., 158). One thing is certain: in the seven chapters devoted to his reign, the building of the Temple is by far the single most important subject (ibid., 13); see also Cogan 2001, 237-247. 128 Gray 1970, 129-134: ‘ultimately from archival sources’. For difficulties with these lists Miller and Hayes 1986, 205-207; Cogan 2001, 200-211. 129 ‘[I]n primitive society the virility of the ruler is a happy omen for the welfare of the community’: Gray 1970, 274. 130 The chief, Egyptian wife was a daughter of Siamun of Dynasty XXI: Eissfeldt 1975, 588, following Malamat. Miller and Hayes 1986, 195, on the other hand, declared that any attempt to identify the pharaoh ‘simply misunderstands the fanciful nature of the material’. The Egyptologist Kitchen 2003, 108-112 decides the matter: the pharaoh was Siamun, in the light of his triumphal relief against the Sea Peoples. The woman certainly fascinated the authors: she is mentioned no fewer than five times (1 Kings 3.1, 7.8, 9.16, 24, 11.1)! On the motivation for both sides, see Sicker 2003, 168-170: Siamun was protecting himself against Philistine and Libyan threats. On the Israelite side it was controversial, given their relations with Egypt! The bride-price, Gezer, required Egyptian military penetration to the centre of Solomon’s realm. This is, however, a far cry from Amenhotep III’s terse note to the king of Babylon four centuries earlier: ‘From time immemorial no daughter of the king of Egypt is given to anyone’ (EA 4)! 131 Van Seters 1981, 183.

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confessions’. The tradition on David, on the other hand, is ‘for the most part, a historical record’.132

‘Modern criticism has isolated from their present context older narratives, or groups of narratives, which are undoubtedly nearer to the truth than the later literary developments in which they have been wrapped’.133 Examples offered are Saul’s victory over the Philistines (1 Sam. 13-14), David’s rise (2 Sam. 1-8): ‘completely trustworthy’, and Solomon’s building program (1 Kings 6-8). A more recent judgement contradicts this: ‘the various traditions that have been combined and intertwined to produce this David section can best be described, with some exceptions, as folk legends. Certainly they are not to be treated as historical record.’134

We can further define the nature of these sources, beyond the shortcomings already elucidated, to discover their fundamental nature. An unmistakable feature is the folkloristic, story-like narrative, quite foreign to any previous history, which reserved such stories for the distinct genre of literature. Such characteristics often demonstrate an origin in oral traditions.135 Unmistakable proofs of such oral sources are repetition: of an event and its report (for example, 1 Kings 1.38-40, 43-45) and two versions, one as sent, the other as received, of the same message (for example, 2 Sam. 11.20-22).136 A prime example of such folkloristic narrative is the way Saul was chosen as king, including the strayed asses and the encounter with the girls at the well (1 Sam. 9.3-14).137 ‘The story of the handsome young man who, seeking lost asses, finds a kingdom, is an old folk-tale’.138 Further examples are the vastly long story of the woman convincing David to recall Absalom (2 Sam. 14.1-20), and the mysterious story of the two messengers who come to tell David of the fate of Absalom (18.19-33). The narrative of Solomon ‘verges on the realm of saga’: his judgement (1 Kings 3.1624)139 and the visit of the queen of Sheba (10.1-13).140 There are also strong 132

Roth 1960, 179. Von Rad 1966, 180 asserted that there were ‘royal archives’ for the reign of David, for example, for the Ammonite war, into which the story of Bathsheba has been inserted. 133 Eissfeldt 1975, 539. 134 Miller and Hayes 1986, 152, cf. 153. 135 Van Seters 1981, 144: the story of Jonathon (1 Sam. 13-14). 136 ‘Repetition is a common device of a Hebrew story-teller’: Robinson 1972, 29. No, of any story-teller! 137 Van Seters 1981, 143. 138 McCarter 1980, 186. Or, ‘Saul searches for asses, associated with royalty: he finds kingship’: Ackroyd 1971, 75. 139 Herrmann 1975, 174; so Gray 1970, 298; 127: twenty-two versions of this ‘judgement’ can be found around the world! Robinson 1972, 54: ‘a stock example of judicial wisdom’. Cogan 2001, 196: ‘a folktale has been adopted’. 140 Robinson 1972, 126-128 noted that ‘legend alone would have been much more likely to create a king of Sheba’. And verses 11-12 are misplaced. Kitchen 2003, 116-117 upholds the historicity of the story on chronological grounds.

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poetic elements: the prayer of Hannah (1 Sam. 2.1-10), the dirge for Saul (2 Sam. 1.17-27), the song of David (22). A basic feature of folklore is fantasy. This also is present in the basic narrative. With his bare hands, Saul tears to pieces two oxen (1 Sam. 11.6). Jonathon and his armour-bearer make a two-man sortie, and terror grips the entire Philistine army, which begins fighting one another (14.1-15, 20).141 The bestknown example, of course, is Goliath and David (17), following a motif more than a millennium older in Middle Kingdom Egypt.142 A much greater element of the fantastic is revealed in the story of David’s hiding in the very cave in which Saul in pursuit of him comes to relieve his bowels. Instead of killing him as his followers urge, David cuts off a piece of his cloak as evidence that he spared him (24.1-22). A repetition of this theme is the entry by David and Abishai into Saul’s camp, where David again refuses to kill him, and this time takes his spear and water-jar (26.1-25)!143 We have nothing, however, from all the other histories discussed in the present volume comparable to the fantasy of David’s bride-price for Saul’s daughter: one hundred Philistine foreskins (1 Sam. 18.24-25). He in fact brought two hundred! Exaggeration is another major feature of folklore. The society depicted is one of incessant and vicious warfare, primarily between the Israelites and the Philistines. Exaggeration is often encountered here, especially in numbers: 30,000144 lost in a defeat by the Philistines (1 Sam. 4.10)—and this is all to kill Eli’s two sons! In his first victory over the Ammonites, Saul musters 330,000 men (11.8), the Philistines have 30,000 chariots [sic], 6,000 cavalry and untold infantry (13.5), while Saul has 600 men with no weapons (13.15, 22, 14.2).145 Saul levies 210,000 men against the Amalekites (15.4). Despite this, when they raid and carry off all the Israelite women, including David’s two wives, a party of only 400 is sufficient to gain total success (30). David defeats the Zohabites, capturing 1,700 horse and 20,000 foot, destroys 22,000 Arameans, and slaughters 18,000 Edomites: thus making ‘a great name for himself’ (2 Sam. 8.1-14).146 The 141 Von Rad 1966, 173 analyses Gideon’s much less spectacular victory over the Midianites, including the enemy’s panic (Judges 7.1-8.3): ‘This is a typical hero-saga and was never anything else’! Strange to say, even Sicker 2003, 112 seems to accept this uncritically. 142 See p. 18. 143 McCarter 1980, 387 is interested only in stressing the different details. 144 There is, of course, a way out—in fact, many. ‘To some extent we may suppose a symbolic use of numbers to suggest the greatness of disaster or of victory’: Ackroyd 1971, 50. To precisely what extent? And numbers with seven are ‘most often conventional’—meaning a very great number: Ackroyd 1977, 233. Or one thousand really means only somewhere between five and fourteen (!): McCarter 1980, 107. 145 There is always an escape: ‘The size of the Philistine force is certainly exaggerated; but such exaggeration serves to emphasize that Saul should have had absolute faith in God’: Ackroyd 1971, 105! 146 Sicker 2003, 147 accepts in David’s time a tribal levy of 24,000 men, in other words an army totalling almost 300,000 men!

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extent of Solomon’s empire is given as from the Euphrates to Egypt (1 Kings 4.21): it extended a fraction of that distance.147 His building programme also provides much exaggeration: for the temple, there were 70,000 hauliers, 80,000 quarrymen, 3,300 foremen (5.15-16).148 It was inaugurated with a sacrifice of 22,000 oxen and 120,000 sheep (8.63).149 Suspect also are the king’s daily rations (4.22-23).150 Solomon had 40,000 chariot horses and 12,000 cavalry horses (1 Kings 4.26): compare 1,400 chariots and 12,000 horses (10.26-29).151 In connection with such savage warfare, a concern is raised only once. David conducts annihilating raids in the Negeb, ‘leaving no one alive, man or woman’, bringing back only flocks and herds, and he was afraid of being denounced (1 Sam. 27.7-12). This cannot be called a moral concern: it is only fear of some punishment There are also simple methods to fill in details and to give immediacy to the narrative. Aetiology is used to explain the behaviour of the priests of Dagan (1 Sam. 5.5), the stone on the farm of Joshua (6.18), a saying about Saul and the prophets (10.10, 19.24),152 why Ziklag belongs to Judah (27.6), the method of the division of booty (30.25), the ‘Field of Blades’ (2 Sam. 2.16), the blind and the lame (5.8),153 ‘Perez-Uzzah’ (6.8), the tomb of Absalom (18.18),154 the poles of the Ark (1 Kings 8.8: from an eye witness in the Solomonic temple), and Cabul land (9.13).155 Etymology may be the key: Hannah prayed for a son, 147 Gray 1970, 140-142; Robinson 1972, 61: he was ruler of Palestine and Syria; Miller and Hayes 1986, 214-216. 148 Cogan 2001, 230-231 quotes Montgomery and Geliman’s suggestion that an editor added the two levies together: 30,000 and 150,000, which he calculated required 3,300 overseers. 149 The sacrifices ‘may be’ exaggerated, but if the whole community were involved ‘the number could well be accurate’: Robinson 1972, 112. ‘Most commentators discount the figures as editorial imaginings’: Cogan 2001, 289. It is interesting, then, that the dimensions of the temple are sober: 105’ (32m.) long, 30’ (9m.) wide and 45’ (114m.) high, according with comparable temples: Kitchen 2003, 122-127. 150 Gray 1970, 142 sees no exaggeration. Kitchen 2003, 133 calculates these rations in toto at nearly 600,000 litres per month. He then claims that this could be produced by a mere 1.7 kms of field. He compares Solomon’s monthly rations of 18,000 for the household with monthly rations at Mari (in the eighteenth century) for the royal household, of 6000-7500 litres, and at Ugarit in the thirteenth century of 98,000 litres a month for the palace. 151 Gray 1970, 143-144 admits exaggeration, and compares Ahab’s 2,000 chariots—king only of Israel—against the Assyrians in 853 (Pritchard 1969, 279), but contradicts this on p. 268. Robinson 1972, 133 supports the lower numbers in 10.26. Eissfeldt 1975, 589 suggests a probable average of 1,400 chariots and 4,000 horses; so Cogan 2001, 214. The stables uncovered at Megiddo would hold 150 chariots and 450 horses. 152 For some suggestions, Ackroyd 1971, 85. 153 And the story is wrong. The reference is not to an event, but ‘Israelite beliefs regarding purity and holiness’: McCarter 1984, 140; so already Ackroyd 1977, 57. 154 The implied connection between Absalom’s memorial and a ‘large pile of stones’ is ‘spurious—indeed, it is silly’: McCarter 1984, 407. 155 Not ‘sterile’, but mortgaged land: Gray 1970, 241. Cogan 2001, 300 notes that the idea of sterility went back to Josephos (AJ 8.142), compare ‘boundary land’ (Septuagint), and ‘binding land’, because feet stick in the mud (Rabbinical commentary).

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and when her prayers were answered, she called him Samuel, ‘because she asked the Lord for him’ (1 Sam. 1.20). This suggests that his name meant something like ‘asked of the Lord’. It means, in fact, ‘the name of the Lord’. The suggested etymology in reality applies to Saul (‘asked for’)!156 The question of the identity of the sources used by the Hebrew historians is fundamental. How few, however, have taken the vital next step: how those sources were handled. Andrew Mayes grudgingly admitted that ‘critical evaluation of the traditions of the past with respect to their historicity is difficult to find in the Old Testament’.157 The final question is what picture is left to us of each of these three kings of ‘United Israel’. Saul of the tribe of Benjamin is the founder, but essentially disobedient to God, so that he ends his reign and his life in ignominy.158 That has been challenged: ‘There is no lack of indications that Saul exercised a strong and successful rule, and that his fall was not due to his sinful behaviour but had all the elements of a personal tragedy.’159

The clue seems to be a clash of sources. Saul can be presented ‘with great sympathy as a pathetic and broken man for whom Samuel weeps [1 Sam. 15.10-35] and for whom the witch [sic] of Endor tenderly prepares his final meal. This is in contrast to the mad and ruthless figure of Saul in the story of David’s rise…’160 Understanding of the last period of Saul’s life, when he is so repulsive, is crucial. ‘The psychological effect on Saul of the split with Samuel was traumatic. To be repudiated by the very man from whose hands he had received the throne was a terrible blow…’161 Samuel was a greater threat to him than external enemies, because he was seeking a replacement, who was obviously a rival to Saul’s own son Jonathon.162 David of the tribe of Judah is the great creator of the impressive Israelite empire.163 There are, however, two contradictory accounts of him. One is ‘David’s Rise to Power’ which has him peacefully by invitation succeed Saul, and become the ideal monarch who always obeyed God, a model for all later 156 157 158

Ackroyd 1971, 26; Miller and Hayes 1986, 125. Mayes 2002, 68. McCarter 1980, 250 writes of the ‘headstrong manner that characterizes everything he

does’. 159 Eissfeldt 1975, 539: see 575-577. In the end he became ‘subject to fits of suspicion and depression which lead to frenzied acts of violence’. 160 Van Seters 1981, 148. That the final picture of Saul is positive: David’s lament (2 Sam. 1.1927), as claimed by Ackroyd 1977, 24 and Hancock 2011, 296, is countered by Jagersma 1982, 91: ‘It is particularly striking how favourably the picture of David is drawn over against that of Saul’, and Miller and Hayes 1986, 141: 1-2 Samuel is ‘essentially anti-Saulide’. 161 J. Kastein, History and destiny of the Jews, New York 1935, 29. 162 Sicker 2003, 116-117. 163 See the map in Oxford encyclopedia of the books of the Bible, 2.298, or Miller and Hayes 1986, 181.

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kings. In short, it is ‘to show the legitimacy of David’s succession to Saul as the rightful king of all Israel’.164 As we have seen, this highly apologetic text can be reinterpreted in an entirely opposite way—characteristic of such biased texts—to show David as a ruthless murderer. The ‘Court History’, on the other hand, has him gain control by military action, scheming and assassination; he is a man who takes by murder the wife of his leading warrior and thus brings disaster on his own house. Highly telling is the fact that he always had to rely on a bodyguard of foreigners (2 Sam. 8.18).165 Of great significance is the revolt of his own son Absalom, ‘probably early in his reign’, showing widespread grievances against David’s administration and support from even those close to the king, including the elders of Israel (17.5).166 He shows himself a fool regarding his sons: the rapist Amnon, the ‘rancorous and scheming’ Absalom,167 and the enfant gaté Solomon.168 He is, in fact, totally passive (13-20).169 The final picture, accordingly, is of an impotent old man confined to his bed and ‘kept warm’ by a young virgin (1 Kings 1.1-4).170 For Solomon, the ‘Court History’ is designed to legitimize his rule; for he was not in line for the throne.171 Apart from the endless details about his enormous building programme, the tradition emphasises his wealth (exaggerated to the point of the pathological)172 and his wisdom (1 Kings 3). The brutality of his elimination of every challenger at the beginning of his reign (2.22-38) is horrifying to a modern reader—but was justified in the eyes of ancient audiences because it had supposedly been recommended by David (2.5-9)!173 What cannot be denied, however, is the fact that he so exploited his people ‘through 164 McCarter 1980, 28. He notes (30) that not only the people, but Saul himself, his daughter and especially his son Jonathon approve of David. 165 They were Philistines and Cretans: Ackroyd 1977, 90. Sicker 2003, 155. 166 Herrmann 1975, 164-166; Miller and Hayes 1986, 175-178. 167 McCarter 1984, 352. 168 He ‘simply refused to address the question of the succession that became urgent’; he was a ‘doting and inept parent’: Sicker 2003, 159, 160. But why was Solomon finally chosen? His mother Bathsheba’s family connections are not made clear, but Sicker thinks that she was probably a Canaanite or Jebusite from Jerusalem, This would ensure Solomon’s acceptance there (164-165). 169 McCarter 1984, 305. Von Rad 1966, 195 sees him as portrayed ‘consistently in a warmly sympathetic light’! Compare ‘the guilt of the king himself provides “the motivating force of the whole story”’ (196). McKenzie 2011, states that he is shown as ‘too gentle and loving for his own good’ (164) but that his inaction is hard to believe (167). His passivity may be only part of the apology, but, in fact, it only opens him to graver criticism: unfit to rule. 170 ‘The provision of a virgin may have had a medical purpose’: Robinson 1972, 24. In that case, a more experienced woman may have been more effective. McKenzie 2011, 177, on the other hand, sees it as a virility test, which David failed, thus undermining his kingship. 171 He gained the throne by a ‘surprise palace coup’: Miller and Hayes 1986, 200. Van Seters 1981, 164 would see it as anti-monarchical! 172 Note that while the temple took seven years to build, the palace took thirteen! 173 Gray 1970, 15-16, on the other hand, is suspicious of the testament of a man in his dotage supposedly capable of ‘such shrewd political interest and insight’, and detects layers of later intrusion.

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forced labour and other despotic practices that the bulk of the kingdom chose to break away from Jerusalem at his death rather than continue under his policies’.174 ‘In fact Solomon represented the decadent successor who has entered upon a great inheritance and administers it with an outward show of brilliance but who in reality allows it to fall into deep decay…’175

In short, sorting out a clear picture of each king is anything but simple. Modern disagreements, in fact, totally opposite interpretations, show that the message is entirely garbled. Hebrew historiography claimed a central over-riding theme: the working out of the ‘Covenant’ between their god and the people. This is quite different from all earlier historiography, where the gods certainly played a role. History here equals God’s plan. This places Hebrew historiography in a category of its own: theology, in fact, rather than history. There are also contributions of folklore and fantasy. Questions are never asked: assumptions are made. Fidelity to the word of God as all important, although this is hard to maintain when God cannot foresee what is coming, or changes his mind. Disobedience brings punishment: that is the limit of causation. This is in stark contrast to earlier historiography which focussed on success, thanks to the gods’ support. There is an almost total lack of chronology. If the account of Saul, David and Solomon is meant to convey messages or models, they are ambigious. The basic theme is the ghastly struggles for succession.

174 Miller and Hayes 1986, 189. Sicker 2003, 174 suggests that the provisioning of the court seems to have fallen on Israel alone: Judah may have been exempted from the food taxes. In that case, another ill-advised policy. 175 Noth 1960, 216; so Robinson 1972, 2.

CHAPTER 6

HERODOTOS

The first Greek historian whose work survives is Herodotos of Halikarnassos,1 whose dates, derived from internal evidence, are generally given approximately (c.485-420s).2 He was sufficiently prominent to be exiled by the tyrant Lygdamis 1 Such is the traditional opening. Aristotle Rhet. 3.9.2, however, quotes Herodotos of Thurioi, but Plut. Mor. 604F shows that this was a change made by people who simply assumed that he wrote after retiring there (so Pliny NH 12.18). The Aristotle passage is an interpolation: Enoch Powell 1939, 63! The Budé edition, edited and translated by Philippe-E. Legrande, 1932-1954, however, changes the text accordingly! Halikarnassos was the capital of the old kingdom of Karia. Herodotos wrote not Attic Greek, but in the Ionian dialect, and not his own Dorian. The only ‘biography’ of Herodotos which we have is a short entry in the tenth century encyclopedia, the Suidas. It is finally time to translate this. ‘Herodotos, son of Lyxos and Dryo, from Halikarnassos, of distinguished parents; his brother was Theodoros. He moved to Samos because of Lygdamis, the third tyrant of Harlikarnassos after Artemisia (Pisindelis was the son of Artemisia, and Lygdamis his son). On Samos, he practised the Ionian dialect, and wrote a history in nine books, beginning with Cyrus the Persian and Candaules the king of Lydia. Returning to Halikarnassos, and driving out the tyrant, he then later realised that he was resented by the citizens, and he willingly went to Thurioi, the Athenian colony. He died there and is buried in the forum, although some say that he died in Pella. His books are inscribed to the Muses.’ Dionysios, On Thuc., 5 states that he was born shortly before the Persian wars, and survived into the Peloponnesian war. The Neronian chronographer Pamphyla accords with this, stating that he was born in 484 (ap. Gell. 15.23). There are also two essays on Herodotos: one by Plutarch, devoted to his ‘bias’ (Mor. 854-884), including a story from Diyllos of Athens that he was rewarded by the Athenians with 10 talents after a public reading, the other by Lukian, Herodotos or Aition, in which he claims that the historian read his histories at the Olympic Games! There is also an account by Marcellinus in his biography of Thucydides of his weeping at a reading by Herodotos, and an entry in Jerome’s Chronicle (under 445) about public readings in Athens. This whole idea is nevertheless controverted by Powell 1939, 32-34, but accepted by Felix Jacoby 1913, 366, William Pritchett 1993, 205, and made much of by Wolfgang Rösler in Bakker 2012, 79-94. Apart from his reading and travelling, Robert Fowler (in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 36) has allowed us to fill in a third major occupation in Herodotos’ life: talking! On his military experience, see below, p. 133. We are dealing now with the Greek world. Greek names must therefore logically be given in Greek form. The slack tradition of pretending that they are Romans derives from the need in the Renaissance, before the knowledge of Greek became widespread and because Latin was the language of educated Europe, to translate Greek sources into Latin. 2 We can attempt to detect dates in two ways: first, Herodotos’ own references. He refers to the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War in 431 (7.137), events of 431 (6.91, 7.233, 9.73) and 430/29 (7.137). And the only time when the guilt of the Alkmaionidai (6.121-4) was relevant was 432-429: Powell 1939, 83. Herodotos’ most outspoken judgement, that the Athenians saved Greece in the Persian wars, has most resonance immediately before the Peloponnesian War (Charles Fornara 1971, 40-44): the Corinthians claimed that the Persians failed by their own fault (Thuc. 1.69.5), while the Athenians replied that they were alone at Marathon, but saved all Greece at Salamis. If they had medized, or failed to fight, Greece would have been lost (Thuc. 1.73.4-74.1).

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(grandson of Artemisia), and took part, it seems, in his overthrow c.450. At some date, he moved to the Greek colony of Thurioi in southern Italy,3 which was founded in 443, where the ancient tradition claimed that he died, but moderns postulate that he returned to Athens by c.430, where he most likely died of the plague of 430-427.4 The nine books of his histories, in fact, survive intact. There is no other classical historian of whom this can be said—a testament to the value placed on his work during the dark post—classical centuries. The work begins in terms unprecedented thus far in historiography: ‘Of Herodotos of Halikarnassos5 this is the demonstration of his enquiry (histories apodexis), to prevent human deeds with time from fading (exitela) and in order that great and marvellous (thomasta) works, displayed (apodechthenta)6 by both Greeks and barbarians,7 should not cease to be famous (aklea),8 and especially the cause (aitie) why the Greeks and barbarians went to war against each other’ (1. intro.).

There is much that is so remarkable about these thirty-nine (in the original) words. The first words claim and reveal authorship. We have rarely been able to uncover the identity of the previous writers of such records. The very first word, in fact, is his own name! Second, his purpose is ‘enquiry’ (historia—the On the other hand, 6.98 refers to Artaxerxes (464-424), but obviously not necessarily to the last year of his reign, and the reference to the occupation of Kythera (8.235) does not necessarily refer to parallels in 424 (Thuc. 4.55): both contra Fornara 1971, 43. The text in its present form clearly relates to these events, but Herodotos must have been ‘at work for several decades’: Fowler in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 34; compare: ‘he composed his history c.445-428’: Philip Stadter, ibid., 242. Rösler in Bakker 2012, 81 has him inspired by the ‘impending’ Peloponnesian War and writing in Thurioi. The other clue to dates is reference by others to the histories. Powell 1939, 34-37 makes a good case for at least 3.119 being published by 441, if it was the source for Sophokles’ Antigone 904-920 (and note that Plut. Mor. 785B states that the tragedian wrote a poem for the historian c.442), and for the ‘Persian history’ being written in Athens, because of comparisons (1.98, 192; 2.7, 170; 4.99), and for the whole history being published by 426, because the opening chapters are satirized by Aristophanes, Akarnanians 523-528, produced in 425. Fornara 1971, 28, followed by Alan Lloyd 1975, 1.85, considers that Aristophanes’ target is not Herodotos, but Euripides’ Telephos, but that Herodotos 1.179 is parodied by Aristophanes’ Birds, 1124-1138, of 414. On the major question of Herodotos’ use of the conventions of tragedy, see Eleni Kornarou in Karageorghis and Taifacos 2004, 307-319, and Suzanne Said in Bakker 2012, 117-147. 3 Jacoby 1913, 205 argued that the whole Thurioi tradition was derived from that epithet! 4 Powell 1939, 85, 79, thus adding to the classic tradition for Thurioi or Pella! 5 He mentions his city four times (1.144, 175, 2.178, and 7.99), the last being the most engaged: Artemisia at Salamis. He does not give his patronymic. His parents are clearly non-Greek, attesting a not unexpected mixture of Greek settler and native Karian elements. It is unlikely, given his life, that Herodotos himself ever married. 6 There is an intriguing cross reference between apodexis and apodochthenta. 7 A word used by the Greeks for all non-Greek-speaking peoples, non-Greeks in short, onomatopoeic in origin, representing the gibberish (bar, bar) which they imagined these foreigners speaking—but the Egyptians did the same (2.158)! 8 Kleos (glory) is used only three times (7.220, 9.48, 78). Thomas Harrison in Bakker 2012, 561 notes as an illustration Herodotos’ attention in all battles to ‘discover the bravest and the most cowardly fighters’.

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Fig. 14: A marble bust, reputedly the portrait of Herodotos (Naples).

first use of this word):9 he begins with questions, not answers. We will see in the following nine books how far these enquiries led him. The historian will be shown in action, dealing with his sources. Herodotos’ main trait will be revealed: he is a man of infinite curiosity. Third, the results of those enquiries have led to a demonstration (apodexis): the assertion of ‘a mediating intelligence, the personal intervention of Herodotus in the presentation of the facts of the past.’10 Fourth, he will concentrate not merely on narration, but on causation—that is, explanation. And he does not automatically assume that a war between Greeks and (in this case) Persians was a result of the latter’s aggression: the cause remains to be identified.11 Our final impression, therefore, even 9

Fowler in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 32. Donald Lateiner 1989, 18. This book is the most useful monograph in recent Herodotean studies, because it contains insights on every page, and is indefatigable in the listing of evidence. It has a strong philological basis, but reveals matters of vital importance to historiographers. 11 Binyamin Shimron 1989, 110 notes the absence of any reference to the supernatural in the proem. Religious elements are undeniably present, however, in Herodotos (see below). On the unanswerable question of how Herodotos became an historian, Shimron 116-118 has some thoughts. 10

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here at the beginning, is of the historian’s remarkable self-confidence, curiosity and balance. Before beginning our discussion, some fundamental, and yet mostly overlooked, understandings must be emphasized. First, modern discussion of Herodotos’ history is conducted two and a half millennia after his own lifetime. We are descending on Herodotos with a battery of editions and commentaries, reference works, atlases and shelves of secondary analysis.12 It is as if a single witness were being cross-examined on the stand by hundreds of prosecutors, armed with advantages of which he is entirely bereft—and ignorant. Second, to speak bluntly, the demands made on Herodotos by modern critics are often ridiculous; for example, a comparison of his understanding of world geography and ours is totally absurd.13 To hold him up to ridicule for his errors here is an anachronistic enormity. It might be remembered that he did not have even a compass or a sextant on his travels.14 Third, it is totally overlooked that the attacks on Herodotos’ reliability are mostly exploitations of his own honesty: his citing of conflicting traditions and interpretations.15 Fourth, it is often stated, with total seriousness, that ‘his standards were not those of a modern historian’: he is a Greek confronting the non-Greek world, and he is blinkered by prejudice. Modern historians are, of course, by contrast, utterly accurate and objective: they have never heard of straightjackets, such as post-modernism or political correctness, or religious obsessions. Nor could there be any ephemeral fashions in our scholarship on Herodotos, views that were once trumpeted as definitive answers, but now entirely discredited, an historiographical embarassment.16 It must be admitted, in the first place, that Herodotos did not spring fully formed from the head of Zeus. He is the culmination of centuries of intellectual 12

See further Simon Hornblower in Bakker 2012, 373. Jack Balcer 1987 actually wheels in against him S. Thompson, Motif-index of Folk Literatur, 6 vols, Bloomington 1958! One has to make clear a fundamental law of historical method for amateurs: simply because an author tells a story which can accord with broader patterns does not mean that he is a fool—or a liar. 13 There is some understanding of this by Sara Forsdyke, in Bakker 2012, 521-522. Robin Osborne, in Bakker 2012, 501, for example, complains that he ‘made no attempt to provide an integrated chronology of the past’ and did not provide a list of Athenian archons (!): he was not, so to speak, a one-man Cambridge Ancient History, and did not think to save Elias Bickerman many problems; and that he ‘does not scrutinize inscriptions to deduce from them the events of the past’ (510-513)—if only he had been a student of D.M. Lewis; that ‘there is no sign that he trawled through [sic] Alcaeus’ poetry to see if it shed light on whether Boas or Pittacus was the man who answered Croesus’ request’ (513), and that he does not give an adequate account of the Greek cities in the archaic period (513-517)—as if that were his purpose: he is already ridiculed for ‘digressions’. Jan Harmatta, in Nenci 1990, 115-116, has identified also moderns’ technique of inventing Herodotos’ subject for themselves, and then claiming that he has not carried it out. 14 Kenneth Waters 1985, 6. And with a bibliography that exceeds all that of chaps. 1-4 combined, there will have to be choice. The author’s only concern is to cover a representative selection. 15 Paul Cartledge and Emily Greenwood in Bakker 2012, 352. 16 As a cheering example, see Pritchett 1993, passim: one of the indispensable Herodotean readings. The fantasies he demolishes beggar description. It is a great pity that his book lacks a bibliography.

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ferment in Ionia.17 Herodotos himself names probably the most important of these predecessors: Hekataios of Miletos (2.143: ridiculing his genealogy; 5.36, 125, his important role in Miletos at the time of the Ionian revolt—indeed, he was the ‘neglected wise man’; and 6.137 on the Pelasgians).18 Not to be overlooked as well are especially Hippokrates of Kos and the sophist Protagoras of Abdera.19 Herodotos’ history is primarily a history of war. An obvious question, therefore, is what experience he himself had of that. Henry Immerwahr incredibly labelled him a ‘non-military historian’.20 Others have accepted that he took part in the overthrow of Lygdamis,21 but the Suidas is very vague. We have, in the last analysis, only his history as evidence. The historian’s understanding of many technical aspects of the subject is impressive; for example, the Persian supply chain. He also represents vividly the chaos and terror of battle once joined.22 And he understands the developing nature of Greek strategies, influenced by the wars.23 All of this does not, of course, prove that he himself took part in any formal battle. It will be useful to offer a summary of this amazing combination of history, anthropology and geography, and much more: the first conflicts between Greeks and barbarians (1.1-5), the history of king Croesus (1.6-94: we begin here because he was the buffer between Greeks and Persians), Cyrus (Kurush), founder of the Persian empire (1.95-216),24 Cambyses (Kabujiya) and the Persians in Egypt and Africa (2.1-3.66: Persian expansion to the south),25 the 17

A very useful summary, Waters 1985, 13-21. Hekataios may also be concealed under references to the ‘Ionians’ or even the ‘Greeks’. In general, see Lloyd 1975-1988, 1.127-139. His importance is not in Herodotos’ reliance on him for this sentence or that, but his central position in the evolution from epic poetry to this historian. Lateiner 1989, 93-95; Kurt Raaflaub in Bakker 2012, 149-186. 19 See Lloyd 1975-1988, 1.156-170: even the longest ethnographic excurses—on the Egyptians and Scythians—may owe something to Hippokrates of Kos; Rosalind Thomas in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 60-75; Scott Scullion ibid., 200-201. How could anyone suggest, on the other hand, that Herodotos could be anything but a product of his own time (at his prime and writing in the second half of the century) and reflecting contemporaneous events and attitudes: Forsdyke in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 224-251. A careless reader could almost imagine that he had read Thucydides—because that is where most of the parallels come from! 20 Henry Immerwahr 1966, chap. 6. If this were so, he would parallel Livy. See also Waters 1985, 160-163. 21 Herodotos’ ‘baptism of fire’: Lawrence Tritle in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 209. 22 See Tritle’s whole essay: ibid., 209-223. 23 B. Meissner in Karageorghis and Taifacos 2004, 223-237. For Persian strategies, 7.49, 128, 235; Greek, 7.139 (isthmus), 220 (Thermopylai): Waters 1985, 126, 161. 24 This includes the history of the Medes (1.95-106): Pritchett 1993, 231-235 for modern appraisals; and the essay on Babylon (1.178-200), where the verdict has been mixed: ibid., 235242. 25 This includes a long account of the Spartan war on Samos (3.39-60). Herodotos states that he has written so much on Samos because of the Samians’ great engineering skills (3.60), but in fact Samos’ significance in the history lies in the fact that it was forced to betray its alliance with 18

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revolt of the Magi and the accession of Darius and his early reign (3.67-160),26 the Persian pincer-movement north into Scythia (4.1-144: the first Persian attempt on Europe) and south into Libya (4.145-205), further European campaigns (5.1-27), the Ionian revolt (5.28-6.42: the immediate cause of war),27 the Darius (Darayawush) war against Greece: Marathon 490 (6.43-140), the Xerxes (Ahasueris) war, 480-479 (7.1.-8.96), and the Persian retreat (8.979.122).28 We should also note a fundamental distinction between the ‘combination of history, ethnography and geography’ of the ‘Persian history’ (books 1-4) and the more straightforward history of the ‘Persian wars’.29 This still requires a further distinction. The History comprises, in fact, three sections, because the account of Darius’ war is completely different from that of Xerxes’ war. The former concerns one battle, and involves primarily Athens, with few complications, while the latter concerns battles on land and sea, and involves all of Greece. Xerxes’ war is therefore very controversial, and requires a much more complex narrative. The first half of the History concerns the Persians. The Persians, as far as we know, left no historical records. The only thing which claims to be such is the Behistun inscription, a blatant and mendacious justification for Darius’ coup d’état. The simple truth can be directly stated: ‘Herodotus remains the best and fullest source for Achaemenid history’. His account of Persia and its kings is ‘both compelling and profound’.30 Or, ‘if one is to write a narrative account of the reigns of Darius and Xerxes at all, there is no alternative to using Herodotus’ narrative as the core of that account.’31

Egypt and aid Cambyses in his invasion (3.44), and that it was the first European city captured by Darius (3.139). Immerwahr 1966, 21-22: ‘The conquest of Samos by the Persians under Darius initiates a long sequence of Persian campaigns ending with Marathon.’ Herodotos had spent time in Samos (Suidas). 26 So much attention is paid to Darius’ accession because it demonstrates the renewed legitimacy of the Achaemenids: Waters 1985, 36. 27 Herodotos considered the revolt ‘evil’ in its results: ta kaka (5.28). 28 See, for example, Immerwahr 1966, 80-147. Fornara 1971, 31 divided the history in two: the ‘Persian history’ (Books 1-6), and the Persian wars (Books 7-9). Lateiner 1989, 43 preferred a proem (the first sentence and 1.5.3-4), a preface (the rest of book 1 to 1.95), the history of Persia (1.96-5.97) and the Hellenic defeat of the Persian invaders (5.97-end). On the artistic ending of the history, see Lateiner 1989, 44-50. There is a double message in the last chapters: that the triumphant Greeks were capable of cruelty equal to that of any Eastern despot, and that the Persians were still a force to be reckoned with. 29 Powell 1939, 44. It is amazing what Angst this division has caused, with claims of a disjuncture between the ‘introduction’ and the account of the wars. The former goes far beyond what was necessary as an explanation of preceding Persian imperialism, and is closer to earlier Ionian genres, but who would not want to have it? 30 Michael Flower, in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 281, 278. For a defence of Herodotos on the Persians, Pierre Briant in Nenci 1988, 69-104, especially about the relations between the king and the aristocracy. Briant reveals the wealth of Herodotos’ informed detail. 31 David Lewis 1997, 345.

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No other people are given such historical coverage as the Egyptians (2.99141), and of their kings most attention is given to Sesostris (102-110).32 Much of this history is garbled, cry modern detractors—completely forgetting that what we think we know now has only been unravelled by unremitting toil over the last two centuries.33 It must, therefore, they continue, bear minimal relation to what was understood in the fifth century BC about the preceding two and one half millennia! The mistakes, however, are not those of Herodotos but his informants, notably the Egyptian priests, and Greek-speaking Egyptians.34 The inestimable value of Herodotos’ account is obvious, but has not been stated directly: we can see here what a foreign visitor to Egypt in the fifth century would have learned from his guides.35 The other dominant theme for Herodotos in Egypt is ‘wonders’ (2.35: thaumasia).36 The end of the History has often been questioned, suggesting that our text is incomplete. To the contrary, 479 marked the end of the wars that Herodotos planned to narrate. The ‘Persian wars’ continued, in fact, for another one and a half centuries. After 479, an entirely new phase began, with the Athenians taking over the leadership of the League, and creating their own empire.37 Herodotos admits to being fond of ‘additions’ (prosthekai: 4.30), which have been called exkurses, or digressions; for example, on Athenian history (1.5964,38 and 5.55-96), the history of Samos (3.39-60 and 120-149),39 within which is fitted the tyranny at Korinth (3.48-53), the contested accession of Kleomenes (5.39-48), the Alkmaionidai (6.125-131), or Xerxes at Sardis (9.108-113). These would be better considered contextualization. Obvious examples are the two on Athens: the first is background to Croesus’ desire to have her as an ally c.546, the other when Aristagoras sought her as an ally in the Ionian Revolt (499)!40 That said, the work is ‘a coherent sequence of strictly relevant parts. 32 Senwosret III of Dynasty 12, with contamination by Amenhotep III and Rameses II: Lloyd 1975-1988, 3.16-17. A telling footnote: Herodotos begins his Egyptian king-list with Min. In 1866 Auguste Mariette discovered in the temple of Seti I at Abydos the best of the king-lists—and the first king is Menes! 33 Going back, in fact, to that day in 1822, when Jean-Francois Champollion rushed in to see his brother in the Académie des Inscriptions, blurted out: ‘Je tiens l’affaire’ and fell in a dead faint on the floor. The texts of ancient Egypt were again open to us after millennia of silence. 34 John Wilson 1970, 7 stresses the defects of the latter. 35 ‘Many of the answers given to Herodotus are tendentious nonsense or arise from a fictional past. It is to his credit that he got so much right’: Wilson 1970, 2. Herodotos recognized that Egyptian history was much more certain in the preceding two centuries, after the Greeks came to Egypt (2.154). For the priestly bias of his information, ibid., 5-7. 36 See Lloyd 1975-1988, 1.141-147. Thaumasia is used only once elsewhere (4.53). 37 The precise conclusion is the Cyrus anecdote, a ‘quiet close’, modelled on the Iliad: Waters 1985, 57. 38 For deeper themes here, see Immerwahr 1966, 87. 39 In the view of Powell 1939, 52, Herodotos’ justification for this digression is unconvincing; these sections can be excised and the text runs on perfectly. 40 Powell 1939, 47 notes how these two digressions dovetail perfectly.

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We then find, instead of an uncontrolled desire to tell stories, an equally strong will to the limitation of material and form’.41 ‘The technique of Herodotus in introducing digression without losing his main thread is so perfect’, remarked Enoch Powell.42 In this connection, we should mention his cross-references. He can fulfil a promise in 2.161 at 4.159, and is able to remember what he has written long before (4.181, referring back to 2.42; 6.43 referring back to 3.80-82; and 7.93, referring back to 1.171). On the other hand, he never fulfilled his promise to tell of Assyrian history and the fall of Nineveh (1.106, and 184),43 and never managed to tell why Athenades slew Ephialtes (7.213). Many have claimed that Herodotos’ history is an uncomfortable juxtaposition of an ethnographical introduction which has gone out of control, and the subject which he announced in the proem, the wars of 490, 480-479. Ethnographical enquiries are admittedly on high show, but the first half of the work serves two important purposes: it relates the growth of the Persian empire before 490, and it gives the Greek audience a vivid picture of the peoples whom they combatted in those wars and at the same time serves as a counter-model for the definition of Greek identity.44 What for him was the proper subject of historie? There were limits. Those limits are implied at the very beginning of the History. After discussing all the mythological origins of east-west conflict down to the Trojan War, Herodotos states that he will ignore all this and name the first case: Croesus (1.5); that is, the first historical example.45 He refused to say more about the gods than compelled to do so by his account, but was happy to expatiate on human affairs (2.3-4: anthropia pragmata). When discussing thalassocracies, where Minos was famous (and contrast Thuc. 1.4), Herodotos specifies that Polykrates was the first he knew to have held such power, deliberately omitting Minos, because the Samian was the first human instance (3.122).46 And in discussing the genealogy of the Spartan kings, he would go no further back than Perseus: ‘because 41

Immerwahr 1966, 325. Powell 1939, 18. Jacoby 1913, 380 stated that ‘Herodotos’ entire art of organizing his material consists in how and at what points he is able to incorporate digressions’! 43 This made Powell 1939, 18 believe that that section had been deleted, especially since the ethnography section is preserved (1.192-200). 44 It was Jacoby 1913, 366 who imagined that Herodotos had long been gathering material and lecturing upon it before he came to edit it all as the history, and claimed that the first half of the histories was ‘a work of scissors [and paste]’ (361). His view dominated until the work of M. Pohlenz 1937. Rösler in Bakker 2012, 83 stresses that here is a ‘precisely calculated, highly disciplined plan.’ See also Irene de Jong in Bakker 2012, 245-266. 45 For an unconvincing protest, Harrison 2000, 198-205. Herodotos makes clear later that Croesus’ ‘first’ was in reducing the Greeks to tribute-paying status. 46 ‘[W]ithin the dependable spatium historicum’: Lateiner 1989, 123. Not that he omitted legends of Minos (1.171, 173, 7.169-171). There are serious differences between Herodotos and Thucydides on the strengths of the early Greek states: Hans van Wees in Bakker 2012, 337-343. 42

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no one is named as his human father’ (6.53). Here are crystal clear indications that there was a sharp line to be drawn between mythology and history.47 Since, like all other Greeks, he accepted the Trojan War as historical (2.120), the dividing line must have been fine! The very foundation of Herodotos’ History is, naturally, his sources. These depended, to an extent unparalleled in ancient times, in the first place, on his travels, the most detailed thing which we know about his life.48 There is no doubt that Herodotos frequently claims to be an eyewitness, employing the fundamental historical technique of autopsy, or at least the terms in which he describes things strongly suggest that he is relying on autopsy.49 In Asia Minor, his own part of Greece, he describes the tomb of Alyattes in Lydia (1.93),50 and carved figures (2.106), and on Samos, the statues of Amasis (2.182), and the altar to Zeus (3.142). He had measured the Pontos (4.86), and spoken to those who dwell along it (4.95). At Prokonessos he heard the story of Aristeas (4.14). In Greece proper, he was at Delphi: assessment of offerings (1.25); the vicissitudes of the bowls (1.50-51), cf. his clear statement that he had only heard about Croesus’ offering at Miletos, (1.92); the exact position of the offerings of Rhodopis (2.135); a close description of the shrines (8.39). At Thebes he saw Croesus’ dedications (1.52), and described the temple of Ismenian Apollo (5.59). In the north-west he visited Dodona (2.52). On Thasos he saw the temple of Herakles (2.44), and described the Phoenician mines (6.47). At Sparta he met Archias (3.55) and saw the inscription recording the fallen at Thermopylai (7.224); at the site of the battle itself he saw various inscriptions (7.228). On Delos he describes sacrifices (4.34), and at Zakynthos he saw pitch drawn from a pool (4.195). Of course, he knew Athens (the fetters of the Chalkidian prisoners on the Akropolis, and the bronze quadriga with the inscription (5.77)). He observed the Peneus valley in Thessaly (7.129). At the isthmus, he saw a Phoenician ship (8.121).51 In book II his itinerary in Egypt becomes much more extensive: Memphis (2.2, 3, 121, 136: he heard from the priests of Hephaistos there; 112: the temple 47 Pointed out by Jacoby 1913, 335, Lateiner 1989, 63, Raaflaub in Bakker 2012, 159, among others. Note also 2.154, for Egypt, but here not the division between mythology and history, but the reliability of the sources: the change in the Greek ones from the reign of Psamatik, 664-610! Also 2.43-45 (Herakles), 142-146 (men and gods in Egypt), 4.5 (Targitaus). 48 Some have claimed that he announced these programmatically in 1.5: he would ‘go through’ (epexion, from eperchomai) cities small and large. This is not supported by the lexika (LS, Powell) or commentaries, which translate as ‘describe’. 49 Lateiner 1989, 61 notes that this is especially relied on for geographical matters, although Herodotos uses the word autoptes only three times (2.29, 3.115, 4.16) in narrative. Autopsy is more used in ethnography (the early books) than accounts of battles: ibid., 146. 50 Pritchett 1993, 164-170. 51 Dio Chrysostom 37.7 claims that he also visited Korinth, as a lecturer, it seems, but failing to be paid, he made up the stories about the city at Salamis (8.94)!

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of Proteus; 153: the court of Apis); Thebes (2.3: he visited the city; 55: he consulted the priests there; 143: he saw the inner court of the temple); Heliopolis (2.3: he visited it), the Delta (2.12: he had seen that Egypt projects into the sea; 2.17: the three branches of the Nile); Sais (2.28: he spoke with the recorder of the sacred treasures of Athene there; 2.130-132: he saw the tomb of Mykerinus’ daughter and the statues of his concubines; 2.169: the tomb of Amasis; 2.175: the temple of Athene); Elephantine (2.29: he relied on enquiry); Giza (2.124-125: where writing on Cheops’ pyramid was interpreted for him; 2.127, and he measured that pyramid); Bubastis (2.138: his description of the temple of Artemis); Krokodilopolis (2.148: where he saw the labyrinth);52 and Buto (2.155-156: the shrine of Leto was the most marvellous thing that he saw).53 He visited the Egyptian-Palestinian border (3.12, where he saw the bones of those killed in battle), and Papremis in the western Delta (3.12: similarly, skulls of Persian dead). Beyond Egypt he mentions, as if visited, Cyrene (2.32). Of all his travels, Egypt amazed him (2.79): it contained ‘more monuments and marvels that defy description’ than anywhere else (2.35). In fact, ‘Egypt radically altered Herodotos’ and therewith the Greeks’ perspective on time, customs, religion and ethnocentric judgements.’54 In the East, he described Babylon (1.178-181) and Babylonia (193: criticizing those who have never been there).55 At Tyre, to which he sailed, he saw the temple of Herakles (2.44). To Arabia he went specially to see the bones of the ‘winged serpents’ (2.75)56 and in the gulf he described the naval landing ramps (2.159). At Kolchis he realized that the Kolchians were Egyptians (2.104). In Syria he saw the pillars with the inscriptions of Sesostris (2.106), and at Kyzikos in Phrygia he heard the story of Aristeas (4.14). The main places where book IV was set were clearly outside his ambit.57 He mentions the Scythian tombs at the river Tyras (the Dniester) (4.11), and he describes sacrifices to Thracian Artemis (4.33), at Exampeios, between

52

There is a whole monograph on this problem: Armayor 1985, rambling and repetitive, which claims that no archaeological sites accord with Herodotos; there are, indeed, many which have some connection: Hawara, Abydos and even Sakkara (the complex of Djoser and the galleries of the Apis). He is ignorant, moreover, of recent surveys which uphold the idea of a huge lake in the Fayum. 53 Powell 1939, 26 argued that Herodotos visited Egypt twice, once before 461 (only the Delta), and once after 455 or even 448 (to Elephantine), after his visit to Scythia (note 2.33-34). Lloyd 1975, 1.62 stressed that the only datable event in Herodotos’ account of Egypt was the battle of Papremis c.459 (3.12.4), but suggested that conditions were too unsettled for the historian to be there before another decade. He certainly visited Egypt before Babylonia, because of the cross references (ibid., 66). 54 Lateiner 1989, 64. 55 On Babylon, Kuhrt in Bakker 2012, 475-496, although her confrontation of the city and Herodotos is elusive: there are major topographical problems in the latter’s account. 56 See below, p. 163. 57 He seems not to have reached the northern shore of the Black Sea.

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the rivers Borysthenes (the Dneiper) and Hypanis (the Kuban), he saw a huge bronze cauldron (4.81),58 and on a rock by the river Tyras a footprint of Herakles (4.82). In the west, finally, at Metaponton he also heard the story of Aristeas (4.15), and compared the Iapygian coast with the Tauris (4.99). Did he know Sybaris and Kroton (5.45)? It is especially by scepticism regarding these travels that some moderns attempt to imitate the ancient criticism of Herodotos as the ‘father of lies’.59 In the first place, this man is, in fact, admitted by all to have moved from Halikarnassos to Athens to Thurioi: already an impressive trajectory.60 Second, there is a mass of evidence here which it would be hard to discount in its entirety. Third, it is no argument against a traveller that some details are mistaken: anyone can be deceived—even today—especially by guides’ tall stories.61 Fourth, a little context will be helpful. We might compare the Greek doctor Ktesias’ Indika (late fifth century), or Megasthenes’ visit to India, c.300.62 Fifth, the sceptics overlook the vital evidence that he is the first to admit ignorance: he admits that he has not seen the golden statue in a temple at Babylon (1.183), or the river Araxes (1.202). In Egypt, Elephantine was as far as he went (2.29), and he had not seen the statues of Mycerinus’ ‘concubines’ (2.130). He admits that in the west he knew nothing of the ‘Tin Islands’, and reveals that, despite making every effort (touto meleton), he could not find anyone who had seen with his own eyes (autopteo) a sea beyond Europe (3.115). Herodotos admits that he had no knowledge of the country north of Scythia because he could find no eyewitness (4.16: autopteo); of the ‘bald men’ in Scythia it is easy to obtain knowledge, because some Scythians visit them (admittedly with seven interpreters!), but nothing could be known to the north of the ‘bald men’ because no one can cross the mountains (4.24-25); and he had no knowledge beyond the Ister (Danube) (5.9). It is notable how often in Book IV he ends a chapter with the caveat ‘as far as we know’ (4.17, 18, 20). In the course of these travels, his main activity was asking questions, gathering evidence. Those who provided it vary from book to book, depending on the complexity of the narrative. In Book 1,63 the Greeks naturally are dominant: 58

Powell 1939, 25 stresses the ‘reality of the Scythian journey’. They constitute the least of his travels, but he is mostly exact about the Greek battlefields: Dietram Muller in Karageorghis and Taifacos 2004, 239-253. 60 Some sailors in the Athenian fleet may have traversed the Mediterranean in the fifth century, but their object was hostile. 61 An outstanding example is their story that the mad Cambyses killed the Apis bull (3.27-29), now disproved—but by archaeology in the nineteenth century, note! 62 Pritchett 1993, 266-290: plenty of people grotesquely deformed, and fabulous animals. The further away from the known world one went, the stranger the forms became. And this remained true until the nineteenth century. 63 The division into nine books is the work of Alexandrian librarians: Waters 1985, 56. 59

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the Delphians (1.20, 51), Milesians (1.20), Korinthians (1.23), Lesbians (1.24), Spartans (1.65, 70), Samians (1.70), Kolophonians and Ephesians (1.147), Cretans (1.171), and the Hellenes in general (1.75). Alongside them, however, are many others: the Persians (1.1), Phoenicians (1.5),64 Lydians (1.94), Karians (1.171), Kaunians (1.172), and Chaldeans (1.181-183). These sources include inscriptions: Lydian (1.93), and Babylonian (1.187).65 His exact source for some matters, however, is a puzzle: the conversation between Croesus and Cyrus (1.86), or the message inside the hare (1.124). Book II, his most polemical,66 naturally features Egyptian sources: notably their priests in general (2.10, 13, 19, 99, 107, 113, 118, 124, 126, 139, 142), but also specifically those at Memphis, that is, the priests of Ptah (2.3), Thebes, those of Amun (2.3, 54, 143), and at Heliopolis, those of Re (2.3).67 There are Heliopolitans (2.73: probably also priests),68 Bubastites (2.60), ‘interpreters’ (2.125: hermeneus), the ‘keepers’ of the Labyrinth (2.148), and finally Egyptians in general (2.15, 19, 28, 43, 50, 54, 63, 74, 104, 127, 147, 150). There is also a host of surrounding peoples: Greeks (2.17, 20, 28, 45), Ionians (2.15), Lydians (2.28), Mendesians (2.46), priestesses at Dodona (2.55), Arabians (2.75), Chemnians (2.91), Kolchians (2.104), Phoenicians (2.104) and Syrians (2.104). There are even Egyptian inscriptions (2.102-103: in Thrace;69 106: in Syria and Ionia;70 125, 136, 141)! The sources for book III are more limited: Persians (3.1, 86-87, 105), Egyptians (3.2, 16, 28, 30, 32), Ammonians (3.26), Greeks (3.32), Samians and Spartans (3.47, 55: the descendant of Archias, who died in the Samian war), and current practice (3.97: Persian taxation), as well as an inscription of Darius (3.88—a kind of simplified Behistun!).71 We can only speculate on his sources

64 ‘Punic matters are slighted throughout, a consequence perhaps of Herodotus’ travels’: Lateiner 1989, 60; Theodore Maurogiannis in Karageorgis and Taifacos 2004, 53-71: ‘he provides no organized description’, but recognizes their introduction of the alphabet (5.57-60). 65 Pritchett 1993, 170-173. 66 Lateiner 1989, 97—because there were ‘influential previous accounts’. 67 The various priesthoods were Herodotos’ main sources of information in Egypt: on religion, culture, history, geography, and relations with Greece: Lloyd 1975-1988, 1.90-91. 68 Many unspecified sources in Egypt were probably priests: Lloyd 1975-1988, 1.114-115. 69 In reality, of Darius: David Asheri in Nenci 1990, 151-152. 70 See Pritchett 1993, 106-112. 71 Did Herodotos know of it? It had been distributed around the Persian empire. ‘[I]t is certain that Herodotus did not know of it’: John Cook 1983, 18; ‘the main lines of his account of Darius’ accession were clearly very similar to that of Behistun’, and he may have seen one of the copies sent around the empire: Lewis 1997 (but originally 1985), 346; ‘it is entirely reasonable to assume’ that Herodotos knew not the Behistun original, but these copies, perhaps even at Halikarnassos: T. Cuyler Young in CAH 4 (1988), 53. The equestrian statue of Darius was perhaps of Ursa of Urartu, carried off by the Assyrians in 714: Pritchett 1993, 179. We have a specialist monograph on Herodotos and Behistun: Balcer 1987. He believes that Herodotos was mainly using oral sources, some of which were drawing on the royal inscription. Balcer’s method is chaotic: his judgement of no source is stable. He will use Behistun to check Herodotos!

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for the lists of the tribute-paying districts of that empire (3.89-97),72 and for details such as the status of Otanes’ family (3.83). He, in fact, named a possible Persian source: Zopyros, refugee in Athens, and grandson of the like-named grandfather, one of Darius’ most trusted men (3.160). Book IV concentrates on Scythia. The Scythians are a prime source (4.5-7, 24 [‘from whom it is easy to get knowledge’], 27, 105), and there were Greek traders (4.24), and others dwelling in Scythia (4.105); they were probably his interpreters here. One was none other than the Greek steward of king Ariopeithes (4.76), who informed Herodotos of the tangled royal genealogy.73 There were also the Greeks (4.8, 85, 109), the Eleians (4.30), the Delians (4.33, 35), the Spartans (4.77, 150), the dwellers around the river Tearos (4.90), the Taurians (4.103), the Theraians (4.150, 154, 155) and Kyrenaeans (4.154, 155),74 the Libyans (4.173, 180, 187, 191), and the Carthaginians (4.195), again, not to forget inscriptions: Persian-Greek of Darius (4.87, 91), and of Mandrokles of Samos (4.88, along with a painting of the bridge over the Bosphoros). There is even a poem by Aristeas of Prokonnesos (4.13). In Book V, he gives an exact account of the Royal Road from west to east (5.52-54), which, since he himself is unlikely to have been able to make this journey or use this means, must again rely on official sources.75 There are otherwise the Sybarites and Krotoniates (5.44-45), the Spartans (5.49), the Gephyraioi (5.57), the Athenians (5.63, 85), the Aiginetans (5.86), and the Argives (5.87). And more inscriptions: in the Propylaia at Athens for the Chalkidian war (5.27), and on tripods in the temple of Apollo at Thebes (5.59-61). For Book VI, he quotes Lakedaimonians, then Greeks, then Persians on the early kings of Sparta (6.52-54), ‘most Greeks’, the Athenians, then the Argives on the reasons for Kleomenes’ death (6.75), Kleomenes’ defence before the ephors (6.82), the Argives and the Spartans on Kleomenes’ madness (6.84), the Delians (6.98), Epizelos at Marathon (6.117), and the Greeks and the Parians on Miltiades’ disaster (6.134). Again there are inscriptions (recording the Samian captains at Lade who did not desert, 6.14). Book VII cites Medes (7.62), Bithynians (7.75), Phoenicians (7.89), Persians (7.12, 107), Argives (7.148), Sicilians (7.165), Carthaginians (7.167), Praisians 72

His account of the twenty tribute-districts (nomoi) recalls the twenty-three provinces in the Behistun inscription. There are problems: in Persian sources, Parthia/Hyrcania were separate from Areia, while the Levant and Babylon were joined: Amelie Kuhrt 2007, 675. It is simply asserted that Herodotos is not based on Persian sources: Josef Wiesehöfer 2009, 77. This essay provides a concise summary of the current knowledge of the very complex administration of the Persian empire, but it has a most pertinent justification: ‘nothing could be more basic to the design of a successful invasion of Europe than a well-filled treasury’: Waters 1985, 37. 73 On Herodotos’ Scythian sources, Harmatta in Nenci 1990, 123 (his account of their history is confirmed by other sources); Pritchett 1993, 191-197. 74 On the competing versions of the foundation of Cyrene, Osborne in Bakker 2012, 505-508. 75 Kuhrt 2007, 737: from Aristagoras’ map?

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(7.171), and Athenians (7.189). There is also, it seems, an eyewitness for the Persian crossing into Europe (7.55). As always there are inscriptions: a boundary stone of Croesus (7.30), the Spartan dead at Thermopylai (7.224), and the inscriptions there (7.228). As in his description of the Persian empire in book III, the incredibly detailed account of the Persian armada in 480 (7.61-99) has usually been understood to derive from Persian sources,76 as, presumably, the royal genealogy (7.11). The Spartan royal genealogy (7.204) must have local origins, but could have come from a literary source. Book VIII quotes Persians (8.38), Delphians (8.39), Athenians (8.41; 84, against Aiginetans; 94, against Korinthians), Dikaios, an Athenian with the Persians (8.65), Abderites (8.120), Pallenians (8.129), Potidaians (8.129), and Thebans (8.135)—and, of course, inscriptions: Themistokles on the rocks (8.22), and the Serpent Column at Delphi (8.82).77 And Book IX quotes Thersandros of Orchomenos, who attended a banquet with Persians and Thebans at Plataia, and spoke in Greek with a Persian (9.16). The lines before that battle are given on both sides with the greatest detail (9.28-32), and the speeches in a Persian war council are reported (9.41).78 Homer, of course, could not be omitted (2.116-117: Helen in Egypt, quoting Il. 6.289-292, Od. 4.227-230, and proving that the Kypria were not by him; 4.29: Od. 4.85, on horns of cattle; 4.32: Epigonoi, on the Hyperboreans—if Homer were in fact its author; and 7.161: quoting Il. 2.552-54). Homer may also have invented Ocean (2.23), he introduced the genealogy of the gods (2.53), and he praised Argos (5.67).79 Also quoted are Pindar (3.38), Hesiod (4.32), the poet Aristeas of Prokonnesos,80 author of the Arimaspea (4.13, 16), 76 Kuhrt 2007, 519-529 has no note on sources. Wiesehöfer 2009, 77 states that the description of the army is based on both Homer and Hekataios. Lewis 1997, however, provides a wideranging comparison of Herodotos’ Persians with the names in the Persian texts and finds a comfortingly high degree of correspondence. 77 Herodotos quotes inscriptions nineteen times in all. 78 All the same, ‘from the beginning to the battle of Salamis the external structure of the work is almost entirely based on the Eastern accounts, to which the Greek material is subordinated’: Immerwahr 1966, 40. 79 Christopher Pelling 2006 notes Homeric models such as the story of Croesus, and of Thermoplylai (where he indulges in disturbing disrespect), and the contests over rights to leadership. Deborah Boedeker in Bakker 2012, 97-116 identifies parallels such as great wars fought by a Greek coalition (Iliad), interest in exotic places and customs (Odyssey), concern with undying fame (Il. 7.91), great catalogues of forces, and battles over corpses (Leonidas’). A recently discovered second century BC inscription from Halikarnassos calls Herodotos the ‘prose Homer in history’: H. Lloyd Jones, ‘The pride of Halicarnassus’, ZPE 124 (1999), 1-26. Lateiner 1989, 92, however, judged that the ‘revered’ Homer and Hesiod ‘are mentioned only to be condemned’. Waters 1985, 1, 15 makes telling points: ‘No longer do particular spears strike or miss particular targets at the whim of individual deities, as in the epic, nor are favourite warriors spirited to safety in a cloud of temporary invisibility’, and ‘there is little observable difference in culture between Homer’s Greeks and his Trojans’. 80 Not to be confused with Aristomenes of Tauromenion (with acknowlegements to Maurice Bowra).

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and Simonides (5.102, 7.228). In addition, allusions are made to a number of authors: a poem by Archilochos (1.12), and another by Sappho (2.135), a lost play by Aischylos (2.156), Olen of Lykia’s hymns (4.36), Skylax the geographer (4.44), a poem of Alkaios (5.35), others by Solon (5.113), and Phrynikos’ lost Fall of Miletos (6.21). Unnamed Ionian geographers are mentioned (2.15), and unnamed poets on the early history of the Spartan kings (6.52). For Hekataios of Miletos, see above (p. 133). There is an unnamed source whom we may detect: Aischylos’ Persians!81 It is noteworthy that most of Herodotos’ sources are generic: ‘the Egyptians’, ‘the Persians’. And here a fundamental further refinement must be noted: his interlocutors were at all times the intellectual and social élite.82 Herodotos rarely names his source: Promeneia, Timarete and Nikandra, the Dodonian priestesses (2.55), Archias of Pitane (3.55), Tymnes, the royal steward in Scythia (4.76), Dikaios, the Athenian, exiled to Persia (8.65), and Thersandros of Orchomenos (9.16).83 A special category of sources throughout is oracles, with which Herodotos was obviously fascinated. Notable, not unexpectedly, is that of Delphi,84 but also other oracles in Greece (1.62: Amphilytos of Akarnania, ‘inspired by the gods’), in Ionia (1.158: near Miletos; 2.52, 9.93: at Dodona), unspecified (6.18, 98; 8.62, 141; 9.93), of Ammon (2.18) and others in Egypt (2.151, 155, 3.64), and at Paioneia on the Strymon (5.1), as well as a compilation by a certain Bakis (8.20, 77, 96; 9.43).85 This is a remarkable insight into not only the Greek mind, but also that of Herodotos—but Thucydides was having none of it (5.26). Moderns have detected origins for other sources. The story of Demokides (3.129-138) ‘can only be of South Italian origin’, as also the adventures of Doreius (5.39-48), the Samian settlement at Zankle (6.22-24), Gelon of Syracuse (7.153-167), and Cretan expeditions to Sicily (7.170-171).86 It is obvious that many of these sources are, in fact, oral, gathered by Herodotos by interview, during his travels. A major, if not the major, category of oral sources was the recollections of veterans who fought in the wars.87 The history was, indeed, ‘constructed without much, or sometimes any, help from written sources.’88 Another oral aspect of the history is the speeches, in keeping with the 81

Said, in Bakker 2012, 137-145, as all commentators on the play know. Hornblower in Bakker 2012, 376. 83 Lateiner 1989, 83. 84 1.47, 53, 55, 65, 66, 67, 85, 91, 167, 174; 3.57; 4.155, 156, 157, 159, 161, 163; 5.43, 67, 79, 82, 89, 92 [twice]; 6.34, 52, 66, 76, 77, 86, 135, 139; 7.220, 189?; 8.36, 51, 114; 9.33, 42, 93. Herodotos is, indeed, our best source for the responses of the Delphic oracle. He makes over eighty references to oracles: Waters 1985, 31; ‘a remarkable prominence’, 106. 85 Note that the Greeks also practised divination by sacrifice (7.219, 221). 86 Powell 1939, 67-68. 87 Tritle in Dewar and Marincola 2008, 213. 88 Lateiner 1989, 40. 82

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most basic canons of classical historiography. Some have claimed that they are all Herodotos’ own work: ‘to reveal character, to explain grounds of policy, or to elucidate strategical considerations’,89 or that ‘speech and dialogue, as an inheritance from epic and tragic poetry, are certainly Herodotus’ own free invention.’90 There is much more, however, to understand; for example, the use of direct and indirect speech. The latter, according to Donald Leteiner, is ‘much more likely to represent accurately the gist of actual words and discussions.’91 Gathering this enormous array of sources, of such varying nature, is one thing. How physically to manage them was an entirely different matter. Kenneth Waters alone broaches this. He could obviously not have kept all this information in his head. On what materials then did he record it (papyrus seems to be the logical answer), and how did he sort his records when he came to write up any section?92 These are questions we can only be aware of. Herodotos informs us fitfully of his historical method. He was, in short, feeling his way. This is in the strongest contrast with Thucydides, who sets out the essentials at the beginning of his history (1.22). Herodotos’ foundation is enquiry (1.105: pynthanomenos heurisko: ‘I find out by enquiry’; also 5.57), enquiry, indeed, ‘to the utmost’ (humeis historeuntes epi makrotaton, 4.192). He therefore went wherever it was possible to acquire the knowledge he sought (2.440). He was quite clear about the limitations of these enquiries (for example, 2.130: he had only the priests’ word). He understood why accounts were so contradictory: each side seeking self-justification (6.14). Enquiry was, however, only one of three methods: everything depended on ‘my sight (opsis), and judgement (gnome) and enquiry’ (2.99). One might respectfully rearrange this trio of tools: most of his account was enquiry, as he himself had already stated; then came his own witness, where possible, and finally, of necessity, he exercised his judgement on the results of both his enquiries and his own visual checking. Where a matter had already been, in his view, adequately discussed, he omitted it; he preferred to mention things which others had omitted (6.55). Once he specified that ‘probability’ (eikos) was his ally (7.239). Herodotos twice, in fact, gives us a key to the whole work: ‘for me it is a fixed principle throughout the whole of this history (logon) that I write down what is said to me by each as I heard it’ (2.123), and ‘I am obliged to tell what was told to me, but in no way am I obliged to believe it: let that saying hold good for the whole of my history’ (7.152).93 89

Hignett 1963, 34. Flower in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 278. There are, indeed, some speeches for which it would be hard to think of a real source, most notable the exchanges in the Persian royal bedroom (3.134), or Demaratos’ interview with Aristagoras (5.49-51). 91 Lateiner 1989, 20-26. 92 Waters 1985, 28. 93 Similar, but not so basic is 4.195, about maidens drawing up gold dust from a lake, using feathers smeared with pitch: ‘I do not know if this is true: I write what is said’. On this, 90

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The basic answer, however, to the question of his historical method is provided by the answer to the question, what Herodotos did with his sources. He does not follow the so-called classical model in citing them only when, as so often, they contradict each other—but also when they corroborate each other.94 He employed various rules for sorting out the contradictions.95 He chose the least exaggerated of four versions of Cyrus’ birth (1.95: not the flatterers of Cyrus). He chose the most credible (pithanotatos) source on Cyrus’ death (1.214) and on the Arabian and Cambyses (3.9). He declared roundly that many tales of the Greeks were foolish (mataia polla: 2.2), obviously on the grounds of sensational exaggeration. He is sure that the Greeks, however, should be believed before the Spartans on their history going back to Perseus (6.53), and that seems to be because all the other Greeks agreed on a version. He quotes Greek, Athenian, Argive and Spartan reasons for Kleomenes’ madness, and finally chooses the first (simply emoi de dokeei), after giving large coverage to the third (6.75-84). The Athenians claimed that the Korinthians deserted at Salamis, but that is denied by them and all the other Greeks, and Herodotos approves (8.94).96 In other cases, he added evidence to allow him to discriminate: that the Kaunians were Cretans was not supported by linguistic evidence (1.172), he offers two reasons against the theory that the Etesian winds cause the Nile flood (2.20), three reasons why the flood is not caused by melting snow (2.22), two reasons to disprove the story that the Egyptians sacrificed Herakles, which is ‘careless’ and ‘silly’ (2.45, anepiskeptos, euethes), and two reasons to disprove the Egyptian version of Cambyses’ mother (3.2). On the ages of the gods Pan, Herakles and Dionysos, he accepts Egyptian calculations against the Greeks (2.145-146), because of the former’s records. On the tales of both the Scythians and the Greeks on the origin of Scythia, Herodotos prefers a third version (unattributed), which he supports with Cimmerian archaeological and topographical evidence (4.11-12). It is, indeed, important to note how often he cites physical evidence; for example, the statue of Orion at Tainaron (1.24),97 the shackles at Tegea (1.66), the temples of Herakles (2.44), the pillars of Sesostris (2.103, 106), the statues of Mycerinus’ concubines (2.131), the bones of the fallen at Pelusium (3.12), Cimmerian forts (4.12), and Darius’ forts (4.125). He rejects both Theraian and Kyrenaean explanations of the name Battus, because it means ‘king’ (4.155). Pritchett 1993, 94-96. Lateiner 1989, 56 alerts us: ‘rather than finding universal laws, he savours singularity’. 94 ‘He was utterly dependent on his sources and in most cases unable to check them’: Shimron 1989, 80. The following pages will demonstrate that this is not true. 95 For generous lists, see Lateiner 1989, 69-75. Thucydides reveals conflicts twice (2.5, 4.122): Hornblower in Bakker 2012, 377! The following is the first attempt I know at a comprehensive analysis of Herodotos’ criteria. 96 That he and the others were right was confirmed in 1965: Pritchett 1993, 186. 97 On which, David Harvey in Karageorghis and Taifacos 2004, 287-306.

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Sometimes sheer logic intervened: He did not believe the Greek story of Thales’ rerouting the river Halys around Croesus’ army: he crossed by existing bridges (1.75). The oracles of Libya and Dodona were founded by Egyptian priestesses from Thebes, stolen by the Phoenicians, contrary to Greek stories of doves as founders (2.54-57), obviously a rationalization. He accepted the Egyptian stories about Helen’s coming to Egypt (2.120), because had she been in Troy, he reasons, the Trojans would have surrendered her to avoid destruction.98 The tale of the statues’ hands was ‘nonsense’ (2.131: phlyereontes), and Rhodopis could never have built a pyramid from her earnings as a ‘courtesan’ (2.134: the Greeks are thus wrong again). Reason again indicates that the Samian exiles could not defeat Polykrates (3.45), and that he bribed the Spartans to go away is a ‘rather foolish tale’ (3.56: mataioteros logos). The feathers in the air in Scythia must be snow (4.31): again rationalization. Atryandes’ expedition to Libya was not revenge but mere imperialism (4.167). Beyond the Ister may be uninhabited, but not because there are too many bees: it is too cold for them (5.10)! Reason proved that the Alkmaionidai could not have been traitors (6.124). The Thessalians say that Poseidon made the Peneus valley: they mean an earthquake (7.129). On the contradictions over who was the Greek traitor at Thermopylai, he sorts it out with logic: who was punished (7.214).99 Leonidas sent away the allies at Thermopylai not to save their lives, but because he realised that they were unreliable (7.220). Why did Demaratos warn the Spartans of Xerxes’ plans: ‘reason is my ally’ (7.239: to oikos emoi symmachetai). Reason (or rationalization) applies also in the case of Skyllias of Skione: faced with the story of his swimming underwater for ten miles, Herodotos’ declares that he came in a boat (8.8)! Xerxes must have returned to Asia by land, because the story of the storm at sea is so illogical (8.117119). No one tells why Mardonius (Marduniya) consulted oracles after Salamis, but it must have been about his current situation (8.133). The Spartans remained calm about Athens in 479, because they had walled the Isthmus (9.8). It is strange then that he does not rationalize the story of Sophanes’ anchor (9.74). He sometimes relies on ‘supposition’ or ‘reckoning’, or ‘guesswork’ (symballo): he compares the Nile to the Danube, ‘reckoning from the known to the unknown’ (2.33); he identifies the temple of Aphrodite the Stranger as that of Helen (2.112); he dates the appearance of Aristeas in Metaponton (4.15); he calculates where Darius bridged the Bosphoros (4.87), he assigns motives to Xerxes (7.24), he calculates the numbers of the Persian forces (7.184) and their provisions (187); and he decides why the Phokians would not take the Persian 98

This, of course, only increases the problem: Lateiner 1989, 81. Herodotos’ solution ‘will stand up to every test; his evidence is incontrovertible’: Shimron 1989, 11. 99

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side (8.30). This method, however, sometimes failed him: he cannot explain why the earth has three names (4.45), Sometimes he simply declares that he cannot accept any number of stories, but gives no reason; for example, he does not believe the Chaldean priests (1.182); ‘foolish’ Greek stories about Psammetichos (2.2: mataia polla); Egyptian tales of the phoenix (2.73), probably on grounds of sheer impossibility; that Rhampsinitus prostituted his daughter (2.121), probably on the grounds of unnatural behaviour; the tale of the ten years old Cambyses (3.3: obviously improbable); the story of the king of Arabia’s ‘aqueduct’ of skins (3.9), presumably on the grounds of physical impossibility; Egyptian stories about the tomb of Amasis (3.16: but they exaggerate [semnoun] because the story suits Amasis); the existence of one-eyed men (3.116), again quite implausible; Scythian tales about their origins (4.5), probably because it is obvious fantasy; that Necho’s fleet circumnavigating Africa on its return to Egypt had the sun on its right (4.42); Anacharsis’ report on the Greeks (4.77), dismissed as more Greek inventions, (pemplastai); and the tale about the Neuroi were-wolves, even though both Scythians and Greeks swore to it (4.105). Sometimes, but rarely, Herodotos presents various versions and chooses without explaining why. The best example is the origin of the Spartan kingship, with Spartan, Greek and Persian versions: he simply prefers the second (6.5155). A less important example is the nature of Militiades’ wound: having shown contradictions, he tacitly chose an answer (6.134, cf. 136). Herodotos sometimes admitted that he was entirely perplexed by conflicts among sources. The best example is the relations between Argos and Persia (7.148-152: note the length): he quotes the Argives, oracles, the Persians and other Greeks, but cannot even be sure what happened in 448, yet his discussion offers many reasons why the Argives dealt with the Persians.100 He cannot choose between two versions of how the blocks were lifted in building the pyramids (2.145). He simply leaves the two very different versions of Smerdis’ death (3.30); the Greek and Egyptian versions of the death of Cambyses’ sisterwife (3.32); whether Cambyses was sent mad by Apis or epilepsy (3.33); the two accounts of why Darius’ horse whinnied (3.85-87); the two accounts of why Polykrates was killed (3.120-121); conflicting estimates of the population of the Scythians (4.81); which of the Ionians fought well at Lade, because they all told a different story (6.14); whether the Pelasgians were expelled from Attika justly (as the Athenians claimed) or unjustly (so Hekataios) (6.137); whether Xerxes crossed the Hellespont on the second or the last day of the crossing (7.55); which of the Greeks began the battle at Salamis: the Aiginetans contradicted the Athenians (8.84); who buried Mardonius’ body (there were many claimants, seeking a reward), but he does name one: an Ephesian (9.84); 100

Shimron 1989, 11-12.

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and the site of Artayktes’ crucifixion (9.120). He declared that he neither believed nor disbelieved the story of Salmoxis in his cave (4.96), but he had at least chronological objections. There is, finally, an admission of great significance: in connection with his perplexity over the Sigynnai—‘anything can happen in the long course of time’ (5.10). Not to be overlooked, finally, are cases where Herodotos could say nothing— because he admitted that there was no record: the number of the individual contingents of the Persian invasion force (7.60), or how an agreement was reached between Artabazus and Timoxenos (8.128); presumably this applied also to the total of non-combatants and animals with Xerxes (7.187). Crucial also was autopsy (see above, p. 137). Its opposite in a certain sense was universal ignorance. The historian’s hands in that case were tied. This especially related to geographical matters (see below, p. 157). The very first example cited (1.1-5) alerts us finally in his handling of his sources to a fascinating insight. Herodotos very often lists any number of conflicting explanations, given to him by various participants. Even where he finally informs the reader of his own preference, in total contrast to Thucydides, he leaves the reader with the alternative explanations.101 This allows also the reader to make his or her own analysis. This is proven by 2.146: ‘regarding both (Pan and Dionysos), anyone is free to prefer the story one wishes’, and 3.122, on the two different causes alleged for Polykrates’ death: ‘one is free to believe which of the two one pleases’; 5.45: on the war between Kroton and Sybaris, ‘one is free to believe whichever of the two one pleases’; and 7.239: ‘One is free to accept whichever of them one believes’. Here is an extraordinary paradigm, not of the political experience of all Greeks, but at least of the Athenians, who were expected every day to be capable of assessing and judging, whether in the assembly, or the courts, or even at a dramatic festival! In sum, we note ‘the extreme care with which Herodotus indicates sources and cross-checks evidence’.102 The conclusions to be drawn are of the greatest importance. ‘It is the rare historiographer who recognizes that Thucydides and later historians only elaborated the fundamentals of historical criticism already implicit and sometimes explicit in the Histories.’103

101 ‘Herodotus minimizes the distance from his reader, whereas Thucydides maximises it’: Lateiner 1989, 25-26; ‘Thucydides suppresses magisterially the entire process of inquiry and presents only his weighed results’: ibid., 83; see also his ‘Talking to the reader’, 30-33. 102 Lloyd 1975-1988, 1.160, comparing Ionian science. He also (156-170) analyses Herodotos’ types of argument, such as induction, probability, empiricism, and analogy. Herodotos used the verb eikadzein (to guess) only once of himself (9.32 on the number of the Greek allies of Mardonius), but a number of times of others (1.68; 2.106; 4.123; 7.49, 239; 8.144; 9.17, 32, 45). There is also dokesis (a guess): only 7.185, again European troops. 103 Lateiner 1989, 56.

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We turn next, naturally, to causation.104 The most fundamental cause of all is the one which Herodotos sets out to discover at the very beginning: why the Greeks and Persians went to war. He recounts three national versions, but then declines to declare any one of them true (1.5)—although the burden of guilt clearly lies with the Greeks! Herodotos shows here his ‘disdain’ for the methods of epic poetry, subjective rationalisations, and ‘fictional, impossible chronological pseudo-precision.’105 He moves sharply down instead to lay the blame for the historical beginning of the conflict between East and West squarely on Croesus (1.5). Other important examples include: Alyattes of Lydia made peace with Miletos because of a trick played by the latter (1.22); Croesus invaded Cappadocia for three reasons (1.73), and was defeated by Cyrus because of his misunderstanding of the famous oracle (1.91).106 On the other hand, he is not sure why Cyrus put Croesus on the pyre, but gives various reasons why he saved him (1.86).107 Cambyses made his fateful attack on Egypt because Amasis had denied him his daughter in marriage (3.1). Darius invaded Scythia in revenge for the invasion of Media (4.1); although he could not defeat the Thracians because of their mobility (4.46), they could not destroy the invaders, because of their scorched earth policy (4.140). Persia claimed to invade Libya to avenge the assassination of king Arkesilaos, but really to conquer it (4.167).108 The Persian expedition against Naxos failed because Aristagoras fell out with Megabates (5.33). Aristagoras revolted from the Persians because of his failure at Naxos (5.35), thus beginning the Ionian Revolt.109 That revolt led to the sending by the Athenians of five ships: ‘these ships were the beginning of troubles110 for the Greeks and the barbarians’ (5.97).111 Here is 104 The basic word aitia occurs some twenty times in Herodotos, distributed fairly evenly across the books (but six times in Book 3): see Powell 1938, 9-10. Only once he qualified it: genomenon aitian (6.3), giving it the sense of ‘the real truth’. On aitia and prophasis, see below p. 153. 105 Lateiner 1989, 41. Some have rather thought that here at the very beginning is an admission of his uncertainty: ‘one of Herodotus’ trademarks’: Fowler in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 32. There are, however, major misunderstandings about Herodotos’ indications of doubt: Shimron 1989, 75-80, cf. Harrison 2000, 25-29. Legetai and the like is basically simply a way to introduce a source. 106 There is, however, a complication: his punishment was the unavoidable payment for crimes committed five generations earlier (1.13). 107 One being vengeance (tisis)—of the gods—, a word used only thirteen times (see especially 8.105 and below p. 153). 108 ‘There was not the slightest ground for Herodotus to conjecture such an ulterior motive’ (Powell 1939, 8)—overlooking Herodotos’ fundamental belief in Persian expansionism (see p. 153). 109 Herodotos explains the revolt not by a noble desire for freedom, but by the corrupt ambitions of Greek quislings. The reason for this is that the revolt failed: Forsdyke in Bakker 2012, 529. At the battle of Lade, similarly, sources were confused and inculpatory (7.14), but he seems to be using Samian sources (531). 110 A Homeric phrase (Iliad 5.63, 11.604): Lateiner 1989, 38. 111 Do not overlook ignoble impulses: the hopes of booty and conquest (5.49): noted by van Wees in Bakker 2012, 347.

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finally, it seems, the answer to the question which Herodotos posed five books earlier: the cause of the Persian wars. The origin of the long-standing enmity between Athens and Aigina was an unheralded attack by the latter (5.82). The burning of the temple of Kybele in Sardis during the Ionian revolt was the reason why the Persians later burned the sanctuaries in Greece (5.102, 7.8). The Spartan kings Leutychides and Demaratos fell out over a woman (6.65), and Kleomenes deposed Demaratos for his attack on him while in Aigina (6.61-66). The Persians sailed across the Aigaios Sea in 490, because they feared the voyage around Athos (6.25). Xerxes undertook the expedition of 480 because of pressure from Mardonius and Greek traitors (7.6); there were also dreams and visions (7.12-19)—although Herodotos has Artabanus explain dreams as simply what one has been thinking about in the day (7.16)! The Persian war council (7.8-11), however, throws a vital new light on the causes of the wars.112 Xerxes, now converted, and Mardonius are unabashed in their emphasis on unceasing Persian aggression and conquest. To this was added obviously the need to avenge the 490 defeat.113 Xerxes dug a canal though the peninsula of Mt Athos, when he could have sailed around, because of his pride (megalophrosyne: 7.24). Although he knows that the Athenians committed sacrilege in murdering envoys, Herodotos refuses to attribute the destruction of Athens to this cause (7.133).114 The Greek defence abandoned northern Greece because there was another pass besides Tempe (7.173). Themistokles had a double intention in his inscription for the Ionians (8.22). The Phokians always acted out of enmity for the Thessalians (8.30), but he is not sure why Xerxes ordered sacrifices on the Akropolis (8.54). The Greek fleet stayed at Salamis, for fear of alienating the Athenians (8.63). Xerxes retreated after Salamis because he was panic-stricken (8.103). Mardonius captured Athens out of perversity or pride (9.3), and ravaged Boiotia to have a retreat for his army (9.15). Herodotos begins by suggesting that he does not know why the Spartans no longer worried about the Athenians—but then solves it by noting that they had finished the wall across the isthmus (9.8)! He is not sure whether the bizarre test of the Phokians was a Thessalian inspired attempt to kill them, or Mardonius’ test of their bravery, but then quotes a message indicating that it was the latter (9.18). Masistes’ revolt would have been successful had he managed to reach the Bactrians and Sakai (9.110). 112

Immerwahr 1966, 128 rightly makes much of this; even earlier: the Lydians and Medes:

25. 113 Van Wees in Bakker 2012, 348 sums up: ‘Herodotus’ explanation of what caused the Persian Wars was scrupulously balanced and unpartisan to a remarkable degree’. 114 When Darius in 491 sent envoys around Greece to demand earth and water, most of the mainland and all the islands submitted (6.48-49), except the Athenians and Spartans, who murdered the envoys (7.133). A testing of the situation in the Aigaios Sea before the expedition makes sense. And there is no known protest by Athens and Sparta if their heinous breach of international law was an invention.

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The very first examples cited (1.1-5) show also that this is the appropriate place to stress the importance of women in Herodotos. They play an important role at many points, in particular as agents; for example, Candaules’ wife (unnamed!), Darius’ queen, Atossa, and Artemisia, queen of Karia, and Amestris, Xerxes’ wife. On merely a statistical level, Herodotos mentions women almost 400 times, and he ‘emphasizes their full partnership with men in establishing and maintaining social order’. Well over half are active. Women are usually shown as working within the constraints imposed upon them, while men frequently ignore these limitations, to their own destruction.115 This is in strongest contrast to Thucydides. Herodotos ‘portrays Oriental women less stereotypically and more generously than any other Greek historiographer’.116 Religious causes should be treated apart, given their interest. The History is ‘saturated with instances of divine intervention’.117 A miracle occurred because Croesus invoked the gods (1.87),118 Astyages was unbalanced by the god (1.127). Troy was destroyed by divine power (daimon: 2.120),119 and Babylon fell by divine intervention (theo: 3.153); by the same cause the Persian fleet rounding Euboia was destroyed (8.13: hypo tou theou).120 It is often unnoticed that, in crediting the Athenians as the saviours of Greece, Herodotos adds ‘after the gods’ (7.139: meta ge theous).121 He significantly tells the story, but cannot assert that it is true, that Boreas, the north wind, greatly damaged the Persian fleet, because he was the son-in-law of king Erechtheus (7.189)! No Persian was found in the temple of Demeter after Plataia, because the goddess denied them entry (9.65); Herodotos is, however, ‘nervous’: ‘if I must express an opinion on matters to do with the gods’. The double Greek victory at Plataia and Mykale showed that ‘divine intervention in human affairs is made clear by many proofs’ (9.100). Harrison notes that for Herodotos the divine in history is best revealed by reversals in human fortune: ‘The greatest of these reversals was the Persian expedition to Greece’.122 A special place must be given here to Herodotos’ ‘sense of fatalism’, which ‘colours his entire understanding of causation.’123 Fate cannot be excluded 115

Caroline Dewald 1981. Lateiner 1989, 135-140. 117 Harrison 2000, 32; Jon Mikalson in Bakker 2012, 187-198. 118 ‘While the allusion to the supernatural is clear, it is not spelled out’: Shimron 1989, 110. On the important topic of prayers, Harrison 2000, 76-82. 119 Herodotos uses daimon and theos interchangeably, but sometimes the former in a pejorative sense: Harrison 2000, 164-169. 120 Compare the sand storm which buried Cambyses’ army (3.26); the storm at Athos (6.44), the storm which smashed the bridges over the Hellespont (7.34), and the storm at Mt Ida (7.42). Artabanus had warned Xerxes (7.40)—but any Greek knew the dangers of the sea in this part of the world. Harrison 2000, 92-101 wishes to make all these cases of divine intervention. 121 And yet Mikalson (n. 97) notes that dedications made by the Greeks after the victory do not credit the gods; rather, they merely ask them to make it ‘a fair fight’ (6.11, 109, 8.13)! 122 Harrison in Bakker 2012, 578. 123 Harrison 2000, 223. 116

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(1.91: both moira in the abstract,124 which not even theos125 can evade, and the personified Moirai), Candaules was destined (chren) to suffer (1.8), as was Mycerinus (2.133: he had not done what was to chreon). Destiny destroyed Polykrates (3.43: tou mellontos ginesthai pragmatos) and Cambyses (3.65). Some people were destined (dein) ‘to end badly’: Apries (2.161), Miltiades (6.135), and Artaynte (9.109), and Demaratos’ kingship must (edei) end (6.64). Artabanus in vain tried to turn aside ‘necessity’ (to chreon: 7.17). Destiny also explained the fate of whole cities: Babylon was fated (morsimon) to be captured (3.154), Korinth must (edei) suffer (5.92).126 A number of people are punished because of crimes against the gods; for example, Aristodikos of Kyme was destroyed because of his impiety (1.158159: asebeia). Troy was destroyed because of Paris’ violation of hospitality (2.113-120: ergon anosion). Cambyses was sent mad because of the injustice of killing the Apis (3.29: adikema), and died because of his fratricide (3.65). Kleomenes’ madness was a punishment for his deposition of Demaratos after bribing the Delphic oracle (6.84). Glaukos of Sparta was deprived of descendants, because he betrayed a trust (6.86). The Aiginetans were cursed and expelled, because they violated sanctuary (6.89). Panionios was punished barbarously for his unholy deeds (8.106: anosia). Xerxes failed, according at least to Themistokles, because of his impiety: desecrating temples (8.109: anosion). The Persians at Potidaia were destroyed by a flood, because they had profaned a temple there (8.129). Artyaktes had desecrated a sanctuary of Protesilaos (9.116). Herodotos’ most outspoken personal declaration comes at the end of his argument about Helen: ‘I plainly state my view that the divine (daimon) arranges that the utter destruction of Troy should make it abundantly clear to all men that for great wrongs, the punishments are equally great by the gods. This my declared opinion’ (2.120).127 Herodotos uses the concept of arrogance (hybris) which is followed by divine punishment a dozen times: notably Croesus by divine nemesis128 (1.34), Cambyses (3.80), Xerxes (7.16), and Pausanias the Spartan (8.3), but he understood it well: the death of Cyrus (1.204), of Croesus (1.207), and of Cambyses (3.36). A close parallel to hybris is the ‘excessive vengeance’ of Pheretime of Cyrene (4.205). Closely connected with the above is Herodotos’ painting of 124

Otherwise used rarely by Herodotos: for persons ‘fulfilling their destiny’ (3.142, 4.164). Immerwahr 1966, 311 writes of Herodotos’ ‘rationalization’ of the gods into a ‘semi-abstract divine’. Abstract perhaps, but none the less potent. 126 And yet, at the same time, human causation was often sufficient: the divine causes are ‘parallel’ (Immerwahr 1966, 312, Harrison 2000, 235): for example, Demaratos’ deposition, given the hatred of him by Kleomenes and Leotychidas, 127 On the difficulties inherent in this ‘system’, Harrison 2000, 110-115; notably, ‘there is no statute of limitations for divine retribution: something unfortunate is bound to happen, sooner or later’ (113)! 128 The only use of the word by Herodotos; Scott Scullion in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 196. 125

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the portraits of the Persian kings. Cyrus is an obsessive conqueror, described by his fatal opponent, Queen Tomyris, as ‘insatiable for blood’ (1.211). Cambyses is repeatedly declared insane.129 Darius ‘falls between the opposites of paternal, benign ruler and despot’.130 Xerxes is cruel, cowardly and erratic.131 Revenge (tisis) is also a cause in a dozen cases. Gyges’ murder of Candaules and usurpation was avenged five generations later (1.13), Cyrus feared retribution for burning Croesus (1.86), Psammetichus took vengeance on those who had expelled him as king (2.152), the killing of Oroites, Persian satrap of Lydia, avenged Polykrates’ crucifixion (3.126, 128), the Thebans sought revenge for their defeat by the Athenians (5.79), Leotychides the Spartan king was banished in revenge for his treatment of Demaratos (6.72), and Kleomenes was sent mad for the same reason (6.84). Oracles (see above, p. 143) must also be included under causation, because generally the instructions of the god were followed. Not to be overlooked in Herodotean causation is also ‘environmental determinism’. Striking examples are his ascription of Egypt’s contrary customs to its unique climate and river (2.35), his attribution of the excellent health of the Libyans and Egyptians to the equity of their climate (2.77), and his very concluding remarks on the Persians (9.122). On the other hand, the bravery of the Greeks came not from the poverty of their soil, but was self-created (7.102). We all regard it as a giant step forward in causation when Thucydides distinguished immediate cause (prophasis) from real or fundamental cause (aitia). Herodotos does not make such an explicit distinction, but we can detect it in operation. Herodotos many times uses the word prophasis as ‘excuse’, that is, declared reason, as distinct from true reason.132 The immediate cause of the wars was the Ionian Revolt, which was instigated by Histiaios, because of his treatment in the aftermath of the Scythian campaign—which was the first Persian invasion of Europe—but the underlying cause was the common Oriental drive to expansion: 1.153, 190 (Cyrus), 3.17 (Cambyses), 3.134, 4.118, 6.94 (Darius), 7.8, 138 (Xerxes).133 This has been challenged as an Herodotean fantasy, on 129 ‘The account concentrates on his sadistic, sacrilegious behaviour and his military failures’: Lateiner 1989, 170. 130 Wiesehöfer 2009, 69. Compare Waters 1985, 144-145: imperialist and unscrupulous, but a good administrator. 131 For example, of the sixteen cases of lashing in the history, seven come from Xerxes: Lateiner 1989, 153. And no episode of cruelty stands out to compare with the punishment of Pythius (7.38-39), or of autocratic logic to equal Xerxes and the storm (8.118-119). On Xerxes, see further Waters 1985, 146-147, Heleen Sancisi-Weerdenburg in Bakker 2012, 579-590. 132 For prophasis as the stated reason, for example, 1.29 (why Solon left Athens), 4.135 (why Darius left men behind in Scythia), 4.167 (why the Persians attacked Libya), 6.94 (why Darius attacked Athens), 6.133 (why Miltiades attacked Paros), 6.137 (why the Athenians drove out the Pelasgians), 8.3 (why the Athenians took command of the Greek forces in 478). 133 Herodotos emphasized ‘on every possible occasion the theme of the antagonism between East and West’: Powell 1939, 52; ‘The conclusion of Scythia is dovetailed inseparably with the

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the grounds principally that Persian sources never admit anything like this—an obvious absurdity.134 These sources are very limited in genre, and lack historical focus. It is the evidence on the ground which counts: the thrust as far as India in the east, and the ‘pincer movement’ in the west: into Egypt and Thrace. This was the greatest empire known to the world before Genghis Khan. Was it acquired by accident?135 And let us not forget the conquest of Samos c.519/517 (3.140-149), the expedition with Darius’ approval c.500 to take Naxos and even Euboia (5.31-32), and the demand for submission of all the Greeks (6.48-49) before the invasion of 490, which was supposedly to punish only the Eretrians and Athenians, for supporting the Ionian revolt. Persia was defeated at Marathon by the Athenians and Plataians, but Xerxes’ response was to wage war on the whole of Greece. We have, however, all this while overlooked the obvious complement to Herodotos’ opening question, that is, why the Greeks and Persians went to war: however did the Greeks, against all the odds, repulse the invaders? Donald Lateiner is one of the few historians to raise this; he therefore may answer it: ‘Their unique combination of intelligence, independence, and adaptive organisation, their sense of human limit and recognition of the need for moderation, their dedication to self-rule will be decisive.’ He goes on to add sheer bravery (tolma).136 Persian failures, on the other hand, must not be neglected: in naval and land strategy (7.49).137 There was, indeed, not enough food or even water for such a huge host (7.127, 187, 8.115). And hidden away in Aristagoras’ speeches is the idea that the Persians were armed only with bows and short spears and not protected by any armour (5.49, 97). This is supported by the battle of Plataia (9.62-63). Herodotos furthermore placed great emphasis on Greek

commencement of the Ionian revolt’: ibid., 59. Fornara 1971, 24, on the other hand, claimed that this Leitmotif, so important in Books VII-IX, was not borne out in the ‘Persika’ (for him the first six books); cf. ‘The idea of Persian conquest plainly acquired a life of its own’ from Book IV (ibid., 34). ‘[T]wo interlocking lines of historical causation run through the Histories’: the Persian invasion is punishment of the Ionian revolt, and the long-standing Persian intention to add all Europe to their empire: Flower in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 276-277. Harrison in Bakker 2012, 554, notes that one of Herodotos’ principal themes is ‘the Persians’ continued expansion beyond their allotted territory’, and that the kings’ lust for expansion was an actual feature of Persian court ideology’ (577). There is, admittedly, counter-evidence provided by Herodotos: e.g. 7.5-7: Xerxes, after his father’s death, had first to reconquer Egypt, but then had to be persuaded to honour his father’s intentions by Mardonius and a variety of Greek quislings: van Wees in Bakker (2012), 343-348 is a rare noticer. It is a rare slip of Waters 1985, 127, not to understand the two levels of causation in Herodotos and see them as contradictions! 134 Wiesehöfer in Karageorghis and Taifacos 2004, 209-221. 135 Wiesehöfer 2009, 75 suggests, for example, that the empire was formed ‘less as a direct result of the Persians’ own military initiative than of gradual geographical expansion’! Some clichés never die. 136 Lateiner 1989, 159-160. Note especially 7.102 (Demaratos). 137 Lateiner 1989, 185.

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superiority at sea (7.139, 144).138 Beyond that, however, is the fundamental Persian failure to exploit the Greek disunity, on the one hand, and on the other, the lack of any real, that is, effective system of counsel to advise the king.139 Vital to history is chronology.140 There are few absolute dates in the History, and they depend on modern scientific calculation. They are eclipses: the famous one of 28 May, 585, foretold by Hekataios of Miletos (1.74), the total eclipse at Susa, 18 April 481 (7.37), and the partial eclipse in central Greece, 2 October, 480 (9.10). Herodotos was writing a ‘universal’ history and could obviously not rely on the dating system of any one state in his story. He had a number of alternatives. The simplest technique was ‘era dating’ and the simplest of all was ‘before the present’: it was 2,300 years since the founding of Tyre (2.44), Homer and Hesiod lived four centuries ago—‘the day before yesterday’! (2.53), and Herakles nine centuries ago (2.145). It is intriguing that the Trojan War is mentioned for chronology only here, and that vaguely: more than 800 years ago. He could date by generations:141 for Lydia twenty-three years (1.7), and for Egypt thirty-three years (2.142).142 There is clearly a contradiction here. The longer count seems to be Herodotos’ own preference.143 The Trojan War was three generations after Minos (7.171). And the Greeks suffered more in the three generations of Darius, Xerxes and Artaxerxes than in the previous twenty (6.98), that is, back to c.1200 BC. Preclassical historical records had told the history of monarchies.144 They therefore used regnal years. King-lists were basic also to Herodotos’ history. The Lydians and Medes feature in Book I; of the Lydians, he gave the total (505 years) for the Mermnads (1.7), and lengths of reign for Gyges (1.14), Ardys and Sadyattes (1.16), Alyattes (1.25), and Croesus (1.86). Of the Medes, he was able to do likewise for Deiokes and Phraortes (1.102), Cyaxares (1.106) and Astyages (1.130); and the total reign of the Medes (1.130). The Persian kings also naturally are specified in order, with lengths of reign: Cyrus (1.214), Cambyses (3.66), Darius (7.4), and Xerxes (7.7). In book IV is inserted a detailed list of the kings of Cyrene with lengths of reign (4.159). A detailed 138

Shimron 1989, 89-92. Harrison in Bakker 2012, 565-569. 140 On problems facing Herodotos, see Waters 1985, 156. Lateiner 1989, 114-125 shows the paucity of dates available to Herodotos. On the twisted history of modern analyses of Herodotos’ chronology, Justus Corbet in Bakker 2012, 387-393. 141 Herodotos ‘sixteen times sensibly satisfies himself’ with dating by generation: Lateiner 1989, 119. 142 ‘The only direct statement of generation dating in the whole of Greek chronography’: Ball 1979, 276, who downplays Herodotos’ use of this system, but admits 2.53, 145, and 9.26. That the Egyptian calculation (2.142) is twenty-six years (!) short is hardly a problem over more than 11,000. 143 Lloyd 1975-1988, 1.180. And the Spartan king lists employed a generation of forty years (179). 144 See chaps 1-5 above. 139

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genealogy of the two houses of the Spartan monarchy is given: the Agiads (7.204), and the Eurypatrids (8.131), but without dates.145 The most taxing example under this heading was, of course, the Egyptian king-list, not only the two and a half millennia from the Unification, but especially for the earliest of these rulers. No wonder he misplaced the pyramid builders (dynasty 4)!146 Tyrants are also given with length of ‘reign’: Arganthonios, tyrant of Tartessos (1.163), Peisistratos of Athens and sons (5.65), and Kypselos of Korinth (5.92). There are also synchronisms of rulers (1.12, 20, 67). So much for the first half of the History, the clash of dynasties. The chronology of the Persian wars presented very different problems. Herodotos prefigures Thucydides. He uses years and seasons: ‘next year’ (6.31), ‘this year’ (6.42): both 493; ‘at the beginning of spring’ (6.42-43): 492; ‘next year’ (6.46): 491; after the defeat at Marathon, three years’ preparation by Darius for another invasion (7.1): 489-487; ‘in the fourth year’, the revolt of Egypt (7.1): 487; ‘next year’, the death of Darius after thirty-six years’ reign (7.4): 486; the year after Darius’ death, the defeat of Egypt (7.7): 485; ‘four full years’ preparations by Xerxes (7.20): 484-480; ‘at the beginning of spring’ (7.37): 480, which he also dates by the archon eponymous Kalliades (8.51); ‘at the beginning of spring’ (8.130): 479. There is, therefore, no date for Marathon, where the archon eponymous would obviously also have been highly appropriate. For the rest Herodotos is obviously trying to be accurate about years, but the reader would clearly have to be most acute, first to notice these signposts, and second to interpret them. Herodotos might here have used Olympiad dating—but that was Polybios’ solution three centuries later. He often gave the duration of events: Peisistratos’ second exile (1.62: this alone out of all the complicated chronology of his rule),147 the Lydian famine (1.94), Assyrian rule over Asia (1.95), Scythian rule over Asia (1.106, 4.1), the Phokaians’ control of Corsica (1.166), the Samians in Crete (3.59), the sieges of Babylon (3.152-153), of Barce (4.200), and of Miletos (6.18)—he is fascinated by sieges—Xerxes’ work at Mt Athos (7.22), the three months’ march down into Greece (8.51), and the ten months’ gap between the two occupations of Athens (9.3). Other intervals are much vaguer: many years after Xerxes’ invasion (7.137: 430), many years later (7.151: 464), not many years before Xerxes’ invasion (8.27: c.485).148 145 Lloyd 1975-1988, 1.181, suggesting that Herodotos expected his readers to have access to Hekataios’ list of the Spartan kings! 146 Lloyd 1975-1988, 1.185-193, who notes the ‘traumatic effects of the new knowledge of the millennial past of Egypt’ (176)—most famously on Hekataios. 147 According to Immerwahr 1966, 87 it is because the focus here is on struggles that lead to revolution and which continue after the assumption of power. 148 Immerwahr 1966, 114 suggested in a footnote that from the Ionian Revolt, Herodotos began to count in years (499-479), and by the end was using summer and winter, so that he is the model for Thucydides—unfortunately, all without documentation.

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Not to be overlooked, finally, are dramatic and symbolic synchronisms: the battles of Salamis and Himera (7.166), Thermopylai and Artemision (8.15), and Plataia and Mykale (9.90, 100). Herodotos’ geographical observations are highly interesting.149 The world was surrounded by Ocean, and the Caucasus is the greatest and tallest of mountains (1.203). Egypt was the ‘gift of the Nile’ (2.5). He wrote, naturally, much of the river (2.11-13, 28-34): the Delta was once a gulf (2.11, 15), and no one knew its source (2.34):150 two of the three Greek theories about the Nile were not worth mentioning, while the third was most erroneous (2.20, 22). He thought that the Danube flowed across Europe from the Pyrenees to the Black Sea (2.33); it is ‘the greatest of rivers known to us’ (4.48), and he knows why it has a constant flow (4.50), he believed that lake Moeris was man made (2.149).151 In Egypt he knew of the Oasis (el Khargeh) seven days’ journey west of Thebes (3.26), but it was four months from Elephantine to the land of the ‘Deserters’ (automoloi) (2.31)—beyond that, again no one knew anything. Book IV is the most remarkable for Herodotos’ geographical essays. A striking description is given of trade routes from the north to the Aigaios Sea (4.33). His fullest (and boldest) description of the world is 4.36-41, but he does not know why the continents are named after women, or why the boundaries are set where they are (4.45). There is a most detailed description of all the eight rivers of Scythia (4.4857), of which the Borysthenes (Dnieper) is the most useful (polyarkestatos), although no one knew anything of it after forty days’ voyage (4.53), as well as the Black Sea (4.85-86), and Scythia (4.101). He is proud to say that he knows the names of all the peoples across the top of Africa (4.185). No one, however, knew anything beyond India to the east (4.40), or the boundaries of Europe (4.45), or beyond the Danubian Thracians (5.9). He gives a detailed description of Mt Athos (7.22) and of central Greece (7.198-200).152 As Kendrick Pritchett summed up: ‘We may poke fun at his geography and his concept of the oikoumene, until we read the Alexandrian historians, Eratosthenes and Strabo.’153 Herodotos himself is on high show. He offers philosophical observations: human prosperity, he avers, is always mutable (1.5),154 which he restates at the 149

On Herodotos’ geography, see Immerwahr 1966, 315-317; Waters 1985, 158-159. His interest in the Nile leads James Fromm, in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 180-181, to declare that ‘Where terrestrial matters are concerned … Herodotus’ scientific curiosity and powers of observation are remarkably keen, unequalled by those of any extant Greek writer before Aristotle’. 151 Lake Moeris lies in the Fayyum depression, which is not artificial, but was formed naturally by wind-erosion: Lloyd 1975-1988, 3.126. 152 On the importance of boundaries in Herodotos, Lateiner 1989, 127-135, notably the parallel moral and physical transgression: Croesus crossing the Halys, Cyrus the Araxes, Darius the Danube, and Xerxes the Hellespont! 153 Pritchett 1993, 264-265. And for Herodotos’ topography of the Persian wars, ibid., 290-328, especially Plataia and Thermopylai. 154 Powell 1939, 55. This is echoed by Croesus, quoting Solon (1.86). 150

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end of the first book: ‘human affairs are on a wheel which turns and does not allow the same people always to be happy’ (1.207: Croesus);155 humankind is beset by many troubles (3.33),156 if we knew other people’s troubles, we would be glad to keep our own (7.152); there is no mortal who is not allotted at birth some measure of misfortune, and the greater the man, the greater the misfortune (7.203). The most revealing of Herodotos’ views on this kind of matter, however, is the famous interview of Croesus with Solon (1.30-32): the discussion centres on the meaning of worldly happiness (olbos). Heaven is jealous and loves to trouble human affairs; mankind is totally subject to chance (symphore); no one could be sure of his or her fate until he or she died well; wealth means nothing.157 Some readers may be tempted to dismiss these observations as ‘commonplace’. That would be to discard ideas central to Herodotos’ thought.158 On many matters he offers decided views: Croesus wronged the Greeks without provocation (1.5), the Greeks have long been distinguished from foreigners by their greater cleverness (dexioteron), and the Athenians were the most intelligent of the Greeks (1.60); before Lykurgos’ reforms, Sparta was the worst governed of all Greek states (1.65); bridges existed over the Halys (1.75); Ionia had great physical advantages (1.142), but had the Ionians migrated to Sardinia they would have been the most prosperous of all the Greeks (1.170); and the battle in which Cyrus died was the most violent fought between barbarians (1.214). The Egyptian calendar is superior to the Greek (2.4); Ionians and Greeks159 did not know geography (2.16); the Greeks knew nothing about Egyptian customs (2.45); contrary to Egyptian claims, many must have died in a religious ritual, the battle at Papremis (2.63); the Egyptians are the healthiest of all people, next to the Libyans (2.77: the latter are the most healthy, 4.187);160 Sesostris invaded no further than Scythia and Thrace (2.103); the Kolchians are Egyptians (2.104); and the Cyprian poems cannot be by Homer (2.117). Egyptian skulls are stronger than Persian (3.12); the Egyptians lied about the burial of Amasis (3.16); Cambyses was mad (3.25, 29, 30, 33, 38); the ‘Persian debate’ really did take place (3.80, and he can prove it: 3.83,

155 In the light of all this, we may be hesitant to agree that ‘rarely are the gods described as intervening in human affairs’: Lateiner 1989, 65. 156 On the importance of the exchange between Solon and Croesus, see Pelling in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 104-106. 157 Ideas from ‘early Greek wisdom literature’: Immerwahr 1966, 156. This is Herodotos’ ‘law of history’: Fornara 1971, 64. Waters 1985, 99, on the other hand, rightly cautions against failing to notice when ideas are put in others’ mouths. 158 Waters 1985, 105. And it would be to forget that the idea of the instability of fortune was dear also to Polybios (1.4.1-5): Lateiner 1989, 42. Harrison 2000, 31-63 shows how persistent are these Solonian themes in the History. 159 One of various disparaging comments about the Greeks (see below, p. 162). 160 See above, p. 18.

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6.43);161 Polykrates was the most magnificent of Greek tyrants (3.125); and Oroites’ death was revenge for Polykrates (3.126, 128). Scythian oxen grow no horns (4.29); Scythian ‘feathers’ are snow (4.31); the most stupid of all men live by the Black Sea (4.46); the Ionians were cowards and slaves (4.142); and no part of Libya equalled Asia or Europe, except Kinyps, between the two Syrtes (4.198). The Thracians formed the biggest nation in the world, second only to the Indians, and would be invincible if they were united (5.3);162 the Macedonians were Greeks (5.22); the Gephyraioi in Athens, who claimed to be Etruscan, were, in fact, Phoenician in origin (5.57); Kleisthenes the legislator was imitating his grandfather in Sikyon (5.67, 69); Athenian women’s dress in Herodotos’ time (minus the lethal brooches) was not Ionian in origin, but Karian (5.88); and the best plan for the Karians was that of Pixodaros (5.118). No two cities were as friendly as Miletos and Sybaris (6.21); Histiaios would have been saved had he been brought to Darius (6.29); and the Alkmaionidai could not have ‘medized’ (6.121-124). Xerxes became king through the influence of Atossa (7.3); the Persian armament was the greatest known to history (7.20)—a judgement which obviously rattled Thucydides (1.1); Xerxes’ whipping of the Hellespont was both barbarous and impious (7.35); the Persian devastation of Athens was not a punishment for impiety (7.133); the two Spartans who sacrificed themselves in Persia were worthy of all admiration (7.135); the Korkyraians were lying temporisers (7.168); Leonidas sent away the allies at Thermopylai because he saw that they were untrustworthy (7.220); and Xerxes dealt outrageously (paranomese, that is, para nomon) with Leonidas’ body; for the Persians above all men honoured brave warriors (7.238). The best fighters at Artemision were the Egyptians and the Athenians (8.17); the Peloponnesian states that stood apart from the war, in fact, aided the Persians, he declared, ‘speaking freely’ (8.73); Aristeides was the ‘best and most just man’ in Athens (8.79); Xerxes could never have stayed in Greece after Salamis (8.103); the Thracian king’s punishment of his sons was ‘monstrous’ (hyperfues: 8.116); and Hegesistratos’ self-mutilation was ‘beyond description’ (9.37). At Plataia Pausanias won the most glorious of victories (9.64); the fate of the battle depended on the Persians; for their allies fled (9.68); the bravest enemy fighters were the Persian infantry and Sakai cavalry, and of the Greeks the Spartans (9.71); the proposal to mutilate Mardonius’ body was most impious (anosiotaton: 9.78); while the best fighters at Mykalai were the Athenians, and of these the bravest was Hermolykos (9.105).

161 Immerwahr 1966, 101 defends it because of the outcome and evidence for democratic tendencies in Persia (6.4). See also Lateiner 1989, 163-186: ‘the author’s perception of actual regimes shaped the arguments imaginatively presented here about various systems of government’ (165). 162 Thucydides (2.97) transferred the judgement to the Scythians!

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To be considered apart—and Herodotos himself reveals its special place—is his judgement on who saved Greece from Xerxes (7.139). He knows that his view will upset many—but it was the truth. The saviours were the Athenians; for walls (the Spartan strategy) were useless when the king commanded the seas.163 Not to be overlooked also: the Athenians waived their claim to command at sea, seeing that otherwise Greece must perish (8.3). He sometimes claims special knowledge; for example, on amphorae in Egypt (3.6), and on the anatomy of the camel (3.103). He is quite capable, on the other hand, of confessing his own ignorance. Discussed here are matters which he raises, apparently from his own understanding, without citing any source conflicts:164 on the language of the Pelasgians (1.57: see below); the relationship of Kaunians to Karians (1.172); whether the division between artisans and warriors came from Egypt (2.167); the names of the peoples beyond the Atlantes (Gibraltar) (4.185); whether the Libyans are the healthiest of all peoples because of cauterization (4.187); whether the Sigynnai are, as they claim, Median colonists in Thrace (5.9); whether Pausanias was betrothed to Megabates’ daughter (5.32); the identity of the family of Isagoras, the Athenian politician (5.66); whether Kleomenes told the truth (6.82); which Persian governor brought the best army to Sardis (7.26); why Xerxes cast items into the sea (7.54); whether Boreas answered the Athenians’ prayers (7.189); and why Xerxes made offerings on the acropolis (8.54). At the battle of Salamis he could not always say how they fought on either side, or why Artemisia sank Damasythimos’ ship (8.87); how many islands contributed to Themistokles’ war-fund (8.112); why the Thessalians made a feint attack on the Phokians (9.18); and the reason behind Leutychidas’ proclamation to the Ionians (9.98).165 In a special category are a few matters which Herodotos claims to know but will not reveal: the name of the man who changed the inscription on a dedication at Delphi (1.51), and the name of Sataspes’ eunuch (4.43). In the same category seems to be his failure to specify why the Athenians were punished (7.133).166 In a separate category, however, is his refusal to state how high millet and sesame grew; ‘for I know well that, for those who have not visited Babylonia, what I have said regarding corn has aroused great disbelief’ (1.193). Herodotos, in short, was well aware of the reaction of some to his histories.

163 Demaratos’ assertions to Xerxes that the Spartans were sure to oppose him, even if all the rest of the Greeks submitted (7.102) does not compare, pace Fornara 1971, 50. Waters 1985, 121-125 disproves Athenian bias in the History. For the chapter as an example of how Herodotos ‘could recognize and handle central and complex questions’, Lateiner 1989, 81-82. ‘The crowning achievement of Herodotus’ political thinking’: Shimron 1989, 2. Great importance is therefore to be attached to Themistokles’ contribution in building the fleet in the 480s (7.144): Harrison in Bakker 2012, 568. 164 On that situation, see above, p. 145. 165 See Lateiner 1989, 84-90 for lists of 150 instances of alternative versions. 166 A religious reason: the burning of the temple at Sardis (5.102).

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Herodotos has special interests in ethnography:167 the customs of the Persians (1.131-140),168 the Babylonians (1.195-200),169 the Egyptians (2.35-50, 59-64, 77-98),170 the Scythians (4.5-82),171 the Libyans (4.168-199),172 and the Thracians (5.4-8). He is especially interested in origins; for example, of the Karians (1.171), Scythians (4.5-13), and Phrygians (7.73, 8.138). It is no surprise that his vivid interest in the customs of other peoples produced in Herodotos a tolerance which must have been unique in his time.173 He approves of Persian customs (1.136-137), and of Babylonian marriage auctions (1.196), but he does not like the idea of sacred prostitution (2.64). He compares Spartan customs with Persian and Egyptian (6.59-60), and acknowledges that Persian administration brought peace to the Ionians (6.42). The skills of the Phoenicians are praised (7.23). All these observations on non-Greek peoples demonstrate Herodotos’ lack of favouritism towards the Greeks. The most memorable example, however, of his attitude to custom is 3.38 (cannibalism). This is a fine example of his interest in the debate over which was more powerful: physis or nomos, with his preference tending towards the latter (‘nomos is king’, quoting Pindar: 3.38).174 Even more important, it shows that Herodotos was ‘conscious of the relativism of ethnocentric standards’. In short, he can be considered also ‘the father of ethnography’.175 167 For a most useful overview, see Klaus Kartunnen in Bakker 2012, 457-474. Herodotos’ main interest is nomoi. 168 Herodotos admired the Persians beyond all other foreigners (1.71, 136, 3.15, 9.122). That was qualified, however, by the cruel and erratic conduct of their autocrats (4.,84, 7.27-28): Lateiner 1989, 152-153. 169 Kuhrt in Bakker 2012, 475-496: there are major problems with Herodotos’ description of customs (especially 496!). 170 Linked with the attacks on his travels is scepticism about his ethnography. A notable example is the urinary customs of the Egyptians (2.35): there are in fact parallels: Lloyd 19751988, 2.149-150. On Herodotos in Egypt, a useful (and positive) summary by Lloyd in Nenci 1990, 215-244, or in Karageorghis and Taifacos 2004, 43-52, or (again), in Bakker 2012, 415-435. Lateiner 1989, 150-151 notes that Herodotos considered the Egyptians inflexible (2.77, 79, 80, 91, 4.76), in contrast to the adaptable and therefore more successful Persians (1.135). 171 For what fascinated Herodotos in the Scythians, see Lateiner 1998, 155. The Scythian logos is almost entirely ethnography: very little attention is paid to the campaign: Pritchett 1993, 204205; in general, 204-226, documenting the acceptance of Herodotos’ account by leading specialists, especially on burial rites. The obvious must be stated: the description of Scythia is fundamental to understanding why Darius’ expedition here failed(!): de Jong in Bakker 2012, 254. 172 See Pritchett 1993, 254-259 for interesting modern confirmations of Herodotos’ notes. The faunal map has changed completely since his time, and his account is therefore ‘irreplaceable’. 173 Waters 1985, 110 with many examples. 174 Thomas in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 69: Herodotos may have been influenced by Sophists’ debates. Remarkable also is his understanding that the value placed on metals is not intrinsic (3.23): Tim Rood, ibid., 298. On the importance of nomoi, note especially Herodotos’ definition of ‘Greekness’ (8.144). 175 Reinhold Bichler in Karageorghis and Taifacos 2004, 106, 91; Karytunnen in Bakker 2012, 474. It is one of his ‘astonishing abilities to give us the impression of a world-wide view with such limited instruments’, meaning that he describes only about twenty major nations! His ethnography has ‘inspired more excavations and archaeological surveys outside of Greece than any other author in history’: Pritchett 1993, 206-207.

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In a special category, however, should be assembled Herodotos’ explicit deflations of the Greeks—or, more gently, his putting Greek customs in a broader context. He asserts that Greek games were derived from Lydia (1.94); that characteristics of Greek armour derived from Karia (1.171); that the system of twelve gods was borrowed from Egypt (2.4); that Greeks took Herakles from Egypt, not the other way around (2.43); that the names of all the gods came from Egypt (2.50);176 that the Athenian form of Hermes was Pelasgian (2.51); that Greek poets took over Egyptian astrology (2.82); that the Greeks learned geometry from Egypt, but the measurement of time from the Babylonians (2.109); that the Greeks took both the helmet and shield from the Egyptians (4.180); that even the robe and aegis of Athena were copied by the Greeks from the Libyans, who also taught the Greeks to drive four-horsed chariots (4.189!); that the Greeks were taught writing by the Phoenicians (5.58-61); and that Athenian women’s dress derived from Karia (5.88).177 Although he did not ever claim to know any language but Greek, he is also keenly interested in language and its history.178 What language the Pelasgians spoke, he could not say (1.57), but in fact, he collects evidence that allows him to say that it was not Greek; the Greeks have always spoken the same language (1.58), and adopted their alphabet from the Phoenicians (5.58); the four dialects used by the Ionians (1.142); the relationship of Kaunian and Karian (1.172); and the saga of Psammetichos’ attempts to find the first language (2.2). Foreign words naturally fascinated him: in Egyptian: asmakh, ‘those who stand at the left hand of the king’ (2.30); champsai, crocodiles (69); kyllestis, loaves of bread (77); kalasiris, linen tunics (81); kiki, castor berry (94); baris, a boat (96); and piromis, a good man (143).179 He also used Persian words, akinakes, a short dagger (3.118, 7.54), rhadinace, oil (6.119), orosangai, benefactors (8.85), angareion, a stage on the post (8.98), and tycta, a royal supper (9.110).180 He even lists Scythian (4.27, 110), and Libyan words (4.155, 192). He was also interested in names: those of Persians (1.139, 148, 6.98),181 and of Arabian (3.8) and Scythian deities (4.59). 176 This is a puzzle, since he knew perfectly well that the Egyptians called Zeus Amun and Dionysos was Osiris, and believed that everything about the Greek deities was invented by Hesiod and Homer (2.53)! See Scullion in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 198-200. 177 All simply examples of post hoc propter hoc for Lloyd 1975-1988, 1.147-149. van Wees in Bakker 2012, 324-325. 178 Lateiner 1989, 101. Or, as Waters 1985, 18 put it: ‘he knew little Egyptian and less Babylonian’! 179 smhy = deserters; crocodile = msh; unleavened bread = krsht; the Calasiries were soldiers (2.164), from shri, young, who wore such a garment; castor oil plant = kaka; boat = br; good man = pa rmt. 180 He is mostly correct: akinakes: Kuhrt 2007, 533, 564; rhadinace:?; orosangai = OP varusanha, ‘renowned’: Kuhrt 2007, 636; angareion: angaros was the swift mounted rider, cf. Greek angellos; tycta: on this there is disagreement: Kuhrt 2007, 569; cf. from taug: Wiesehöfer 2009, 79. 181 He is badly astray on the Persian kings: Cyrus = Kurush; Cambyses = Kabujiya; Darius = Darayawaush, meaning ‘He who holds from the good’; Xerxes = Khshayarsha ‘He who rules over

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The above list of his judgements reveals that one of his main interests was the natural world. Notable examples are Arion and the dolphin (1.23-24),182 the flooding of the Nile (2.28-34), Egyptian zoology (2.65-76, 92-95),183 especially the ‘winged serpents’ (2.75),184 the desert ants bigger than foxes (3.102),185 the camel (3.103), and the generation of animals (3.107-109). Those who have hastened to ridicule him should have learned caution by now; for patient and learned commentators have often vindicated him: the ‘two-footed mice’ (4.192) are jerboa. Context is again vital: when he ‘gives an account of foreign flora and fauna, Herodotus reveals both his strengths and weaknesses as a protobiologist, a century before Aristotle and Theophrastus made the study of nature a recognisable scientific pursuit.’186 The matter of Herodotos’ religious beliefs has attracted continuous attention.187 The main evidence, and it is on a large scale, is in causation.188 Here we simply add several important categories of evidence. He believed in portents (teras): sacrificial vessels boiling without fire (1.59), horses eating snakes (1.78), a mule giving birth (3.153), the earthquake on Delos in 490 (6.98), a mare giving birth to a hare (7.57), unnatural phenomena at Delphi as the Persians approached (8.37: because fallen rocks were still to be seen, 39), and the ‘magic bread’ of Perdikkas (8.137), but he only reports the jumping fish in the pan (9.120), and does not believe that the Aiginetan images fell on their knees as the Athenians were trying to drag them away (5.86).189 Book II is noteworthy for the number of times he shows caution in making religious judgements (2.45, 46, 47, 51, 61, 65, 81, 86, 132, 146, 170, 171),190 but he will assert that the Greeks were right to worship Herakles in two forms: heroes’ or ‘Hero among kings’, and Artaxerxes = Artachschathra, ‘He who exercises lordship through truth’. The third and fourth, despite appearances, are therefore not connected. That all Persian names end in ‘s’ is true only for their Greek forms! 182 Herodotos was once ridiculed for this: see Pritchett 1993, 16-25. 183 Note his admission that he had never seen the phoenix (2.73), nor, obviously, the hippopotamus (2.71). 184 This has been a major stick with which to beat Herodotos. The problem has now been solved by Thomas Braun in Karageorghis and Taifacos 2004, 265-283, with a little help from Wadjet of Buto. 185 Pritchett 1993, 90-94: marmots? 186 See James Romm, in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 178-191, at 181. 187 Waters 1985, 108-110; the supernatural is almost absent in the second half of the History: Shimron 1989, 56; Harrison 2000, 64-103; for an instructive analysis see Scullion in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 192-208, who, however, draws attention to the total absence of the gods in the ‘programmatic’ first twelve chapters, and cautions against seeing sacrilege punished everywhere rather than arrogance. And, remarkable to say, there are only three deities mentioned by Herodotos when he is speaking in his own voice: Herakles (2.43-45), Talthybios (7.134-137), and Demeter (9.65) (ibid., 198). 188 Above, p. 151. 189 The eclipses of 7.37 and 9.10 are not called portents (Shimron 1989, 38), but are both interpreted as such by the ‘recipients’; cf. the scientific account of 1.74, guided by Thales. 190 See Lateiner 1989, 64-67.

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as god and hero (2.44), and is willing to equate Egyptian and Greek deities (2.156). This book introduces ‘divine deeds’ (theion to pragma): the divine conception of Ariston (2.69), the recovery of Polykrates’ ring (3.42), and the ship encountering the retreating Korinthians—which Herodotos, in fact, undercuts by denying the circumstances (8.94). The story of the transformation of Agetos’ wife (6.61) introduces the subject of divine epiphany191 in the History, a feature of the later books; here Herodotos inserts several times only ‘it is said’. He is bold enough to disbelieve the Chaldaean claims that a god visited his shrine in Babylon (1.182). The story of Demaratos’ heroic father (6.69) is told without any qualification. Herodotos recounts ultimately from Epizelos himself his blinding in a close encounter with a divine hoplite at Marathon (6.117). The Persians stated that, fleeing from Delphi, they were pursued by two giant hoplites; the Delphians identified them as the local heroes (8.38-39): Herodotos quotes the two sources. At Salamis, ‘it is said’ (no closer identification of source), a woman was seen reproaching the Greeks for not engaging (8.84), and finally also at Salamis, the passengers of a mysterious boat berating the Korinthians for fleeing; it was assumed to be divine (theion), because it told the outcome of the battle (8.94). There is also a most intriguing reference (2.51) suggesting to some that Herodotos was an initiate of the cult of the Kabeiroi.192 There were, Herodotos asserted, ‘many proofs of divine intervention’ in events (9.100: ta theia ton pragmaton). The gods, he thought, greatly punished great wrongs (2.120), punished violent vengeance (4.205), and always warned cities and nations when disaster threatened (6.27).193 The most striking religious pronouncement of Herodotos is simply this: ‘all men understand equally about the gods’ (2.3).194 What other Greek of his time can we imagine capable of such tolerance? What of oracles?195 It is amazing that the message never penetrated, given the disastrous consequences of this naiveté, that first impressions were to be controlled by careful analysis; Herodotos does, after all, repeatedly describe oracles as being of double meaning (kibdylos, 1.66, 75; amphidexion, 5.92). He also admits that they could be forged (7.6: empoieon, interpolation), was perfectly aware that even the Delphic oracle could be corrupted (6.66), and that 191 192

Harrison 2000, 82-92. ‘[N]ot necessarily initiation’ cautioned Lateiner 1989, 65; but accepted by Harrison 2000,

189. 193 In the light of all this, it is impossible to accept Lloyd’s definition of Herodotos as a ‘phenomenalist’: ‘The things of the metaphysical world will be ignored because reason cannot reach them and they cannot therefore be objects of historie’: Lloyd 1975, 1.159, followed by Lateiner 1989, 65, and Thomas in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 62. 194 ‘He never disparages the religious beliefs of others’: an important observation of Lateiner 1989, 65. 195 See above, p. 143, for their importance as sources and causes: Harrison 2000, 122-132.

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in the most important event of the whole history, the defeat of Xerxes, the oracles were proven wrong (7.139)! Worst of all, some oracles were designed deliberately to lead humans to destruction (1.159, 2.139). Herodotos offers no judgement on the most famous oracle of the whole History (1.53), only twenty chapters later claiming that Croesus ‘misunderstood’ (1.71, hamarton); there is equally no suspicion of the most obviously forged oracle (Croesus’ ‘test’ oracle: 1.47-48). He offers a ‘key’ (8.77): he could not gainsay them as untruthful and he did not wish to overthrow them when they spoke explicitly (enargeos); that is, when their predictions proved true.196 The fact, therefore, that some oracles had seemed reliable meant obviously that all could not be dismissed. In politics, it would be a serious mistake to call Herodotos a democrat:197 the many are easily fooled (5.97).198 Freedom (eleutheria) is the crucial state commended by him (1.62, 95, 126),199 and what it meant is easily found: before Croesus all (Ionian) Greeks were free (1.6): that is, able to choose their own government. He himself had fought against tyranny (one-man rule), although he hated stasis: civil strife is worse than united war to the same degree as war is worse than peace (8.3). The political principles which he valued are clear: Otanes, in contesting monarchy and aristocracy in Persia, lauded the principle of isonomia (equality before the law, 3.80).200 Herodotos declared that Athens excelled all her neighbours once she was free of the tyrants,201 and stated categorically that isegoria (equal [rights of] speech) is a ‘good thing’ (chrema spoudaion) (5.78).202 And Spartan freedom was governed by respect for the law (nomos) (7.104); Sparta was famous for its eunomia (good laws, 1.30). The whole History, in fact, is an unabashed tribute to the advantages of freedom over tyranny or slavery.203 He had his own experiences in Halikarnassos on which to draw! And yet there is another horrifying motif running through the last three books: the selfishness, disunity (even in Athens, 6.109), cowardice, and even treachery of the Greeks as they faced this, their greatest challenge.204 This demonstrates Herodotos’ understanding of one of the most 196

Thus Cartledge and Greenwood in Bakker 2012, 358. Jacoby 1913, 46. Herodotos uses the word demokratia only twice (6.43, 131). 198 To which may be added, although not in the historian’s own voice: ‘nothing is more foolish and violent than a useless mob’ (3.81: Megabyzus). 199 This is the key: Fornara 1971, 48-51. 200 Lateiner 1989, 185-186. 201 Herodotos never gave any credit to Greek tyrants: Lateiner 1989, 170-171. For Herodotos the defining characteristics of tyrants are trickery and brutality: Forsdyke in Bakker 2012, 525. 202 Lateiner 1989, 184. 203 A motif which begins with the Scythian campaign: Immerwahr 1966, 175. Herodotos provides a ‘multi-faceted condemnation of one-man, totalitarian governments’: Lateiner 1989, 36; Raaflaub in Bakker 2012, 173-174. 204 See Immerwahr 1966, chap. 5, passim (!) and Harrison in Bakker 2012, 506-507: ‘The theme of tension between the two leading cities of Greece, Athens and Sparta, is one that runs throughout the Histories’. 197

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fundamental laws of history: that the highest intentions and motives may lead to the most base consequences, and vice versa. The most striking demonstration that the historian is omni-present, however, is the fact that, for the first time in any historical record, we find the author using the first person pronoun: ‘I think’, ‘I suppose’, ‘it is my opinion’, ‘I conjecture’, ‘I would say’, ‘I do not believe’, ‘I agree’, ‘I am rather of the opinion’, and so on, even ‘I laugh’!205 We come finally to the central questions. First, for whom was the History intended, as audience?206 The answer at the first level is obvious: it was for Greek-speakers. In addition, however, Herodotos had much to do with Athens, and made clear references to her.207 At the same time, one of his most fundamental passages (7.139) shows that he expected non-Athenians to be among his readers, and not always uncritical.208 And he was right: he was read, among Greeks, by Aristotle of Stagyra/Athens,209 Plutarch of Chaironeia, Lukian of Sarmosata, and even Photios of Byzantium in the ninth century!210 Second, why did Herodotos write the History? The first answer to that depends on when he was writing, that is, the world which he was trying to explain, or which gave him insights into the past. It is certain that he lived into the 420s.211 In this case, it is inevitably the contrast between the two wars, the Persian and Peloponnesian, which inspired him: the defence of freedom and the unity, often endangered, in the defence against the Persians, and the deadly internecine trauma of the Peloponnesian War. This had been caused by the descent into tyranny in the interval between the two wars by, in his view, the main champion of freedom in the former (1.73-74, cf. 8.3).212 What a rich and sophisticated analysis Herodotos provides! 205

Think or suppose (dokeo: 2.11, 12, 13, 15, 50, 53, 63, 93; moi dokei: 2.24, 25, 49, 77, 98, 109, 116), am of the opinion (echo gnomen: 2.27, 56), conjecture (symballomai: 2.33), say (ego phemi: 2.49), do not believe them (emoi men ou pista legontes: 2.73), agree (prostithemai: 2.120), am rather of the opinion (7.220); laughter (4.36). For the examples of gnome in Book II, see Lloyd 1978, 1.86-88. For the neglected theme of humour in Herodotos, Shimron 1989, 58-71; Harrison in Bakker 2012, 563. 206 An enquiry seldom addressed: Rood in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 296-300. Pritchett 1993, 328-330 uses audience as a powerful argument against invention. 207 See Powell 1939, 36-37. 208 On his portrayals of Greek states, Stadter in Dewald and Marincola 2006, 242-256. With Sparta, he ‘focusses on the actions and quarrels of the kings’; with Athens, he admires her ‘freedom and dynamism’. His audience was meant to be Panhellenic: Raaflaub in Bakker 2012, 179. 209 Aristotle in all his voluminous works refers only eight times to Herodotos, quoting only books 1-3, but referring twice to the amusing view that Ethiopian semen was black: Hdt 3.101 = Arist. Hist.Anim. 3.22, Gen.Anim. 2.2, and declaring Herodotos mythologos for the story of the swallowing of milt: 2.93 = Arist. Gen.Anim. 3.5. 210 Photios, Bibl. 60. 211 See above, n. 2. 212 For an eloquent case for reading Herodotos against his own time, Raaflaub in Bakker 2012, 164-172.

CONCLUSION

There is a repeated mantra relating to all the preclassical peoples whose historical records we have been discussing, which has been the source of a fatal misunderstanding: They were ‘interested in history’. This seems assured—and why not. They were all founders of highly advanced and long-lived societies, even of mighty empires. It would have been strange, for example, if the Egyptians or the Babylonians had no realization of the antiquity of their origins and that the present was not derived in some way from the past and constituted a development from that past. There is a second mantra, repeated equally often: that modern scholars are able to use the texts written by these pre-classical societies in order to reconstruct their history. The professional historian can, indeed, use almost any evidence from the past as an aid to the reconstruction of that past, even if the last thing intended was such an historical record. There will be no debate about the truth of these two assertions: that (almost) all peoples have an interest in the past and that their records, of any kind, are useful, even vital, in the modern reconstruction of their history. These two matters are, however, completely different from the attendant assumption that the records they left are history in any fundamental sense. The assumption dominating this whole analysis must be confronted. Is a modern analysis of pre-classical historiography, an analysis which perforce must be influenced by both classical historiography and more modern ideas of this matter, of necessity simply anachronistic, the imposition of modern views on cultures of the long-distant past? This is a tormenting question. It must be answered. A modern historian attempts not only to set events in their right sequence, but also to explain them, how they came about. The historian knows that a political revolution occurs because opposition is finally brought to the point of action, and that that opposition plans with sufficient care, so that its reaction cannot be repressed. Political upheaval was a very common event in the ancient world, and these same realities applied. The usurper of power may chant that ‘Ahuramazda bore me aid’ as often as he likes, but it is patently obvious that a man like Darius understood perfectly well what was required to bring about the overthrow of the existing regime in Persia and his own installation. The ancient world was also one of chronic warfare, settled by battles. Everyone from the commander down to the common soldier knew that battles were lost when one side was numerically vastly inferior to their opponents, or when its leader’s tactics were inadequate. We should not be in any doubt, in short, that

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everyone, even in the remote past, understood the way real life operated.1 Their inadequate historiography, in this case, operated in a parallel universe. We can approach the question from another angle. The earliest civilizations, such as the Egyptians and the Mesopotamians, attained amazing competence in very technical fields. One thinks of Egyptian architecture in the third millennium, such as the pyramids, and the amazing exactness of their construction in terms of levels and orientation, and the mastery of the assembling of the huge blocks, or the evidence we have for Egyptian surgery, which could carry out trepanning. The Mesopotamians were remarkable for their attainments in mathematics and astronomy. These were subjects in which no fantasy intruded, and there was no possibility of divine intervention to explain how things eventuated. Even on a much more mundane level we cannot escape the same conclusions. As John van Seters stated: ‘The Babylonians and Assyrians did believe in the consequences of human actions totally apart from any consideration of divine intervention, as evident in their law codes. It is pointless to cite here the countless letters and records of legal transactions from Mesopotamian which illustrate the plain fact that people were held accountable for their actions.’2

This observation can be applied to all aspects of everyday life in all the cultures we are discussing. There are, of course, textual difficulties in all written records, the result usually of physical deterioration in the inscription on stone or clay. We are, however, dealing with what is assumed to be a single original version, which can with ingenuity usually be restored. There is clearly one category of the above texts which is in a unique class: the Old Testament. Every aspect of the physical text here and how it came to be written is contested, and so then is its interpretation, as the above analysis and commentary demonstrate. This is because every word is steeped in ideology. No comparable uncertainty or controversy plagues any other preclassical text. There is a common characteristic which unites all the histories which we have been discussing so far. In the marvellous words of David Luckenbill, ‘history begins with the vanity of kings’.3 All the pre-classical civilisations were monarchies. Whatever history they composed was dominated by one overriding concern: it must serve the king. This condition constituted an iron-clad 1

This reveals also the fatal flaw in the charlatanry of ‘post modernism’. Van Seters 1983, 123. Luckenbill 1924, 8 solved another related matter of uncertainty. ‘I am aware that it is not good form to sit in judgement on the kings of old whose deeds we pass in review; that these worthies must be studied in the light of their own times; etc.… If Assurnasirpal, Tiglath-Pileser, Sennacherib, and the rest insisted on spreading the accounts of their barbarities all over the walls of their palaces, why should we refrain from calling them barbarians?’ And as for contemporary values, he compared the ‘humane and paternal imperialism’ of Hammurabi, and the rejoicing on the fall of Nineveh. 3 Luckenbill 1924, 1. 2

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political control. As if that were not enough, alongside this restraint there was another even higher. Human life was controlled by a pantheon of deities. The state—and the king—existed to serve them, and they brooked no disrespect. They were, in fact, extremely dangerous. These two controls were the fundamental conditioners of preclassical history. They constituted a pair of the thickest blinkers restricting the vision of anyone attempting any record of history, much less any attempt to make sense of that record.4 When we reach Herodotos, we have come a long way and many millennia from Memphis and Thebes, Ur and Babylon, Hattusis and Nineveh, and Jerusalem. These societies share the characteristic of being monarchies. It is no surprise, therefore, to enter an entirely different world with Herodotos, a world with a variety of constitutions. As Burr Brundage expressed it succinctly: ‘written history in the ancient Near East was first an instrument of rule and appeared prominently when there was a specific need to strengthen and celebrate kingship’. Real history could be born only when ‘history was written about kings and not by kings’.5 And there are other vital changes in subject matter: Herodotos drew a line between what we would call mythology and history. This distinction was not crystal clear to the Greeks: the two overlapped, but he realized perfectly well the very different kind of evidence which applied to history. His preference was for ‘human affairs’. Furthermore, the overriding focus of all earlier history had been war, because it was meant to glorify warrior kings. Now for the first time we have a history which, although stimulated by a world war, embraced a wealth of subjects beyond war, in truth every conceivable subject which could capture the curiosity of a highly intelligent and cosmopolitan man.6 Subject is one thing. The most fundamental changes, however, are in outlook and method. First and path-breaking, in the History of Herodotos, is the fact that there are not simply answers, there are questions, questions to which the answers are not already known, and which can only be answered by enquiry, the enquiry of a free man, who can move freely—as obviously Herodotos did— and converse freely. Second, that enquiry, by definition, caused problems. Different people told the enquiring historian different things. The historian is aware, for the first time, that sources are problematic: they can be flatly contradictory. This is his message from the very beginning: the different national accounts of the origin 4 In short, as Helmut Freydank 1984, 387 concluded, preclassical historiography was caught between two opposing constraints: ‘On the one hand this historiography was engrossed with religious concepts, on the other it was captive to an empiricism directly founded on the practical.’ 5 Brundage 1954, 200. 6 This induced the analyst of Hittite and Biblical historiography, Hubert Cancik 1976, 19, to declare that history is not history without conflict. He had spent too long studying the Ancient Near East!

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of the conflict between East and West. Who is to sort out all these problems? It is the task of the historian. Far from being a naïve or mindless collector of tall stories, Herodotos was a most industrious and indefatigable man, whose mind was never still. Every conversation which he had seemed to raise new problems. If X said one thing and Y another (and Z something else again), how could one choose? He is constantly attempting to solve these contradictions— and he mostly succeeds. Third, the sources he gathered are a major part of his narrative. This has never been the case before in the history of historical writing—and was not a method favoured by his successors, who preferred to make their own assessment of conflicting sources and leave the reader with only the results. There is in Herodotos, therefore, even more remarkable to note, another judge involved. He continually leaves all the divergent sources on show. The obvious reason for this is to allow the reader to make his or her own judgement, to participate with him in assessing them. The proof of this is that, indeed, on a number of occasions he precisely invites the reader to do so. What would the preclassical chroniclers have made of this? There is, in this connection, one quite unnoticed distinction between preGreek and Greek historiography (and Roman, for that matter), which could not be more fundamental and revealing. Listed in every one of the above first five chapters are endless problems signalled by modern scholarship. With classical historiography, one does not have to wait for the moderns: the main problems are signalled by the historian himself! Fourth, we have an announced human individual as the author. This is not true of any previous historical record, although they must, by definition, be the product of a human being. There could not be a more significant difference: history is now the acknowledged work of a named author. This is the corollary of the free enquiry identified above. That has important consequences. For the first time the historian announces not only what he knows, but also what he does not know. There is finally something else of the greatest significance. This first history is also history on a world scale.7 The chronological span may be limited, essentially some seventy years (550-479), but the geographical span of the content is enormous. All previous historical records are in essence parochial, either because of their geographical limits (even Thutmose’s intrusions into Asia) or because of the attitude of the recorders, who are partisan, always defending automatically the interests of their own gods, ruler, nation or city. Herodotos

7 ‘Herodotus’ work is a universal history on a massive scale’: Fornara 1971, 1. Van Wees in Bakker 2012, 334 stresses ‘Herodotus’ willingness and ability to reconstruct and synchronize—as far as we know from scratch—any sort of world history at all, let alone one which was roughly accurate for the last 300 years or so, and dared to reach back more than eight centuries.’

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tells the story of his world from Italy in the west to India in the east, from Thebes in the south of Egypt to Scythia in northern Europe. His work was therefore infinitely more difficult than that of Thucydides (the history of a Greek war of fewer than thirty years), Livy (the well-explored Roman world, although his history is the most extensive chronologically, some eight centuries from mythical origins to his own time) or Tacitus (Rome for a century—despite his complaints about the difficulty of court history). Scope is one thing. Even more remarkable is Herodotos’ free and flexible outlook on the world: he can apportion credit or blame to any people, any nation, any city, or any person he wishes, in accordance with his investigations.8 And his concept of the inhabited world (the oikoumene) makes him a forerunner of cultural anthropology.9 Herodotos’ history is original in another important sense. Earlier historical records did not, of course, fail to illustrate eternal truths as they understood them, notably in human relations with the gods. ‘The use of political thought to interpret history and demonstrate its immediacy and relevance for present and future’ was Herodotos’ crucial contribution.10 As Donald Lateiner expressed it: ‘No theorist of historiography preceded him and provided rules’.11 Herodotos was, indeed, the father of history.12

8 The most notable example is that Herodotos ‘at least made a very serious attempt to give the Persians a fair deal’: Sancisi-Weerdenburg in Bakker 2012, 583. Plutarch (Mor. 857A), indeed, accused him of being philobarbaros. Fornara 1971, 26 added a further innovation of Herodotos: ‘he created history with direction, with meaning.’ It is obviously not true that pre-classical historiography intended ‘merely to describe’—to the very contrary. It was the predetermined meaning which created difficulties. The difference was that, for Herodotos, meaning was derived from his own investigations. 9 Harmatta in Nenci 1990, 117. 10 Raaflaub in Bakker 2012, 185. 11 Lateiner 1989, 57; so Waters 1985, 35. 12 So Cicero dubbed him (leg. 1.5)—not that he did not include innumerabiles fabulae—as well as calling him princeps for his eloquence (de orat. 2.55).

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—, ‘History and ideology in Assyrian royal inscriptions’, in Assyrian royal inscriptions: new horizons, Rome 1981, 13-33. —, ‘Autobiographical apology in the royal Assyrian literature’, in History, historiography and interpretation, ed. H. Tadmor and M. Weinfeld, Jerusalem 1983, 36-57. Tadmor, Hayim and Weinfeld, Moshe (eds), History, historiography and interpretation, Jerusalem 1983. Thompson, Thomas, ‘Historiography (Israelite)’, in The Anchor Bible dictionary, 6 vols, New York 1992, 3.206-212. Van de Mieroop, Marc, History of the ancient near East, Oxford 2004. Van den Hout, Theo, ‘The written legacy of the Hittites’, in Insights into Hittite history and archaeology, ed. H. Genz and D. Mielke, Leuven 2011, 47-84. Van Seters, John, ‘Histories and historians of the Ancient Near East: the Israelites’, in Orientalia 50 (1981), 137-185. —, In search of history. Historiography in the ancient world and the origins of biblical history, New Haven 1983. Vaux, Roland de, ‘Palestine in the early Bronze Age’, in CAH 1.2 (1971), 208-237. Waters, Kenneth, Herodotus, London 1985. Weinfeld, Moshe, ‘Divine intervention in war in ancient Israel and in the Ancient Near East’, in History, historiography and interpretation, ed. H. Tadmor and M. Weinfeld, Jerusalem 1983, 121-147. Weissert, Einanthan and Onasch, Hans-Ulrich, ‘The prologue to Ashurbanipal’s Prism E’, Orientalia 61 (1992), 58-77. Westenholz, Joan, Legends of the kings of Akkade, Winona Lake 1997. Whybray, Roger, The Succession Narrative, a study of II Samuel 9-20; I Kings 1 and 2, London 1968. Wiesehofer, Josef, ‘The Achaemenid Empire’, in I. Morris and W. Scheidel (eds), The dynamics of ancient empires, Oxford 2009, 66-98. Wilkinson, Toby, Royal annals of ancient Egypt, London 2000. Wilson, John, Herodotus in Egypt, Leiden 1970. Wiseman, David, ‘Assyria and Babylonia, 1200-1000’, in CAH 2.2 (1975), 443-481. Woolley, Leonard, Ur of the Chaldees, revised by P.R.S. Moorey, London 1982. Young, Dwight, ‘A mathematical approach to dynastic spans in the Sumerian king-list’, JNES 47 (1988), 123-129. Young, T. Cuyler, ‘The consolidation of the empire and the limits of growth under Darius and Xerxes’, in CAH 4 (1988), 53-111.

INDEX d = divinity; g = geographical name. A Aanepada: 34. Abishai: 124. Absalom: 110, 112, 116, 119, 120, 121, 125, 127. Acina: 103. Adab (g): 48. Adad (d): 63, 66, 67, 84. Adad-nirari I: 77. — II: 59. — III: 76. Adasi: 75, 87, 90. Adaush (g): 64. Adonijah: 117. Africa: 157. Agag: 111, 112. Ahab: 125. Ahuramazda (d): 97, 99, 100. Aigina (g): 150, 152, 163. Aischylos: 143. Aka/Agga: 34-36. Akkad/Agade: 40-46, 75, 81. Akshak (g): 48. Akurgal: 36, 40. Aleppo (g): 88, 92. Alkaios: 143. Alkmaionidai: 135, 146, 159. Alyattes: 137, 149, 155. Amalekites: 111, 117, 119, 124. Amarna Letters: 84, 93. Amasis: 138, 147, 149, 158. Amenemhet I: 14-16. — II: 13. Amenhotep III: 122. Q.Amestris: 151. Ammonites: 116, 124. Amorites: 76. Amun (d): 23, 24, 26, 28, 107. Anacharsis: 147. Q.Ankhesenpaaten: 89. annals: Egyptian: 8-13, 21-28. — Assyrian 59-80, 106, 122. Anu (d): 49, 63, 66.

Apishal: 75. Apries: 152. Arabia (g): 72, 138, 147, 162. Aramaeans: 65, 68, 124. Archias: 140. Archilochos: 143. Arganthonios: 156. Argos (g): 147. Ariaramnes: 100. Arinu (g): 65. Arion: 163. Ariopeithes: 141. Aripsa (g): 90. Aristagoras: 135, 144, 149, 154. Aristeas: 137, 138, 141, 142, 146. Aristeides: 159 Aristodikos: 152. Ariston: 164. Aristophanes: 130. Aristotle: 166. Arkesilaos: 149. Armenia (g): 103. Arnuwanda: 88, 91. Arrinanda (g): 90. Arsames: 100. Artabanus: 150, 152. Artabazus: 148. Artaxerxes (Artachsckhathra): 130. Artayktes: 148, 152. Artaynte: 152. Q.Artemisia: 130, 151, 160. Artemision (g): 157, 159. Arvad (g): 71. Arzawa (g): 85, 88, 92, 93, 94. Asheri: 71. Ashur (d): 44, 57, 62, 64, 66, 67, 78, 79, 107. Ashur-nadinapli: 76. Ashurbanipal: 59, 60, 61, 68-74. Ashurdan: 78. Ashur-dugul: 75. Ashur-nirari II: 77. — V: 78.

182

INDEX

Ashur-rabi I: 76. Assyria: 59-80. — succession: 76. Assyrians, cruelty: 67, 68, 74, 168. ‘Assyrian king-list’: 74-79. Astyages: 151. Atalur (d): 84. Athens/Athenians: 129, 135, 136, 141, 147, 149, 150, 151, 156, 158, 159, 165, 166. Atlantis (Gibraltar) (g): 160. Q.Atossa: 151, 159. Atryandes: 146. Awan (g): 48, 51. B Babylon (g): 52-58, 61, 71, 72, 78, 103, 133, 138, 139, 151, 152, 160, 161, 162, 164. Bactria (g): 150. Badtibirak (g): 48. Bardiya: 99, 100, 102. Barzillar: 117. Bathsheba: 110, 112, 117, 120, 121, 123, 127. Battus: 145. Bauto (g): 138. Behistun Inscription: 97-104, 140, 141. booty: 28, 45, 61, 67, 84, 88, 91, 93. Boreas: 151, 160. Borysthenes (Dneiper) (g): 139, 157. Breasted, James Henry: 21. Bubastis (g): 138. C Caananites: 107, 115, 119, 127. Cambyses (Kabujiya): 97, 100, 101, 102, 103, 133, 134, 139, 145, 147, 149, 152, 153, 155, 158. camels: 73, 160. Candaules: 129. 151, 152. Carchemish (g): 22, 65, 87, 88, 90, 92, 93, 94. Caucasus (g): 157. causation: — Egyptian: 7, 8, 15, 16, 18, 24-25. — Mesopotamian: 33, 35, 37, 38, 43, 45-46, 49, 51, 56-58. — Assyrian: 62, 64, 70-72, 76. — Hittite: 84-85, 88, 90-91, 92-93.

— Hebrew: 110-112. — Herodotean: 149-155. ‘Cedar Forest’: 43. census (Egyptian): 11. Cheops (Khufu): 138. chronicles: 42, 55-58. chronology: — Egyptian: 10, 12, 13, 19. — Mesopotamian: 33, 40, 41, 43, 46, 50, 52-56, 57. — Assyrian: 62, 68, 74, 77, 78, 79-80. — Hittite: 82, 83, 84, 86, 96. — Persian: 103. — Hebrew: 115-117. — Herodotean: 155-156. Cicero: 171. Cimmerians: 70, 71, 145. ‘Coffin Texts’: 14. Cretans: 127. Croesus: 71, 133, 135, 136, 137, 140, 142, 146, 149, 151, 152, 155, 157, 158, 165. ‘Curse of Agade’: 45-46. Cyaxares: 55. Cyrene (g): 138, 141, 155. Cyrus (Kurush) II: 97, 100, 145, 149, 153, 155, 157, 158. D Dagan (d): 43, 125. Damascus (g): 101, 110. Darius (Darayawaush): 99-104, 134, 140, 141, 145, 146, 147, 149, 150, 153, 155, 156, 157, 167. David: 107, 108, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 123, 124, 126-127. Deiokes: 155. Delos (g): 137, 163. Delphi (g): 137, 142, 160, 163, 164. Demeter (d): 163. Demokides: 143. deportation: 88. Der (g): 61. Dikaios: 143. Dilmun (g): 42, 43. Diodoros Sikulos: 106. Djahy: 21. ‘documents’: 105. Dodona (g): 137, 143.

INDEX

Dorieus: 143. Dunanu: 71. E Eanatum: 36, 37, 38, 39, 40. Ecbatana (g): 101. Edomites: 124. Egypt: Old Kingdom: 6-13. — Middle Kingdom: 14-20. — Empire: 21-28, 34, 100, 101, 102, 106, 107, 114, 133, 135, 137, 140, 153, 154, 155-156, 157, 158, 160. ‘egyptianness’: 18-19. Ekallate (g): 75. Ekur: 43, 45-46. Elam (g): 42, 44, 45, 53, 55, 61, 70, 71, 72, 102, 103. Elephantine (g): 138, 139, 157. Elhanan: 119. Eli: 110, 114, 118, 124. Enakali: 37, 39. Enanatum: 38, 40. Enkidu: 35. Enlil (d): 37, 38, 43, 45-46, 63, 64. Enlil-nasir: 76. Entemena: 36, 38, 39. Ephialtes: 136. Epizelos: 164. eponymn lists (Assyrian): 79-80. Eratosthenes: 157. Eriba-adad: 77. Eridu (g): 48. Erishu I: 75. Esarhaddon: 59, 62, 69, 78. Eshbaal: 114, 115, 119. Eshnunna (g): 53, 55, 63. Etana: 49. Euphrates (g): 22, 26, 63, 65, 84, 94, 125, 161, 162, 165. evocation: 67. Exampeios (g): 138. Exodus: 109, 116. F Fenkhu: 14. Frada: 103. ‘Flood’: 48, 49-50, 51, 52. G Gaumata: 99-100, 103.

183

Gephyraioi: 159. Gibeah (g): 115. Gibeonites: 110, 115, 116. Gideon: 143. Gilgamesh: 49. Gilgamesh, Epic of: 34, 48, 53. ‘Gilgamesh and Aka’: 34-36, 50, 57. Girish-hurdura: 35. Glaukos: 152. Goliath: 119, 124. Grayson, Kirk: 59. Guedina (g): 36. Gutians: 45, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 57, 76. Gyges: 70, 71, 153, 155. H Habhu (g): 64. Hadad: 110. Halikarnassos (g): see Herodotos. Hammurabi: 35, 53, 55-55, 76, 78, 158. Hamusa (g): 66. Hannah: 117, 124, 125. Hattusili I: 81, 82-86. Heb Sed: 10, 11. Hebrews: 105-128. Hegesistratos: 159. Hekataios: 133, 142, 147, 155, 156. Helen: 142, 146, 152. See also Troy. Heliopolis (g): 137, 140. Herakles: 145, 155, 162, 163. Hermolykos: 159. Herodotos: — biography of: 129-130, 166. — 1.1: 130-131. — portrait of: 131. — character of: 131. — predecessors of: 132-133. — military experience of: 133. — summary of: 133-134. — as the source for Persian history: 134. — on Egypt: 135-137, 138. — ‘additions’/‘digresssions’ in: 135. — cross references in: 136. — sources of: 133, 137-144, 170. — travels/autopsy: 137-139. — inscriptions in: 140, 141, 142. — speeches in: 143. — historical method of: 144-148, 169170.

184

INDEX

— oracles in: 143, 146, 164. — causation in: 149-155. — aitia: 149, 153. — tisis: 149, 153. — women in: 151. — religious views of: 151-152, 163. — storms in: 151. — fatalism in: 151. — ‘environmental determinism’: 153. — Persian expansionism central to: 153154. — Greek victory, explanation of: 154155. — chronology: 155-157. — eclipses in: 155, 163. — geography: 157. — personal judgements: 157-160. — ignorance admitted: 160. — ethnography in: 161. — languages, interest in: 162. — tolerance of: 161, 171. — nomoi, crucial to: 161. — Greeks, attitude to: 162. — Persian kings’ names in: 162. — natural world in: 163. — portents in: 163. — divine epiphany in: 164. — political views of: 165. — audience of: 166. — time of writing: 166. Hesiod: 142, 155, 162. Hestiaios: 153, 159. Himera (g): 156. Himuili: 88. Hippokrates: 133. History, definition: 1-2. — requirements: 3. Hittites: 64, 68, 81-97, 114. — treaties: 95-96. Homer: 34, 142, 149, 155, 158, 162. hunt: 66. Hurrians: 84, 85, 88. Hyksos: 20, 21. Hystaspes: 100. I Il: 38. Inanna (d): 45. India: 157. Ionia (g): 140, 148, 158, 159, 160, 162.

Ionian Revolt: 134, 135, 149, 153, 154, 156. Isagoras: 160. Ishdish (g): 64. Ishme-dagan I: 77, 78. — II: 76. Ishosheth = Eshbaaal. Ishtar (d): 41, 63, 64, 83. Ishtar-duri: 73. Isin (g): 48, 52, 53. Israel, appointment of king: 118. — definition: 114, 120. Ister (Danube) (g): 139, 146, 157. J Jacobsen, Thorkild: 34. Jebusites: 115, 127. Jeroboam: 118. Jerusalem (g): 114, 115, 116, 117. — Temple: 107, 116, 122, 125, 127. Jonathon: 118, 119, 123, 124, 126, 127. Joshua: 125. Judah (g): 114, 128. K Kadesh (g): 81. Kadmuhu (g): 64. Kalliades: 156. Kandilanu: 78. Karia (g): 160, 161, 162. Karnak (g): 23. Kaskans: 84, 88, 89, 93, 94. Katiti (g): 84. Kaunians: 145, 160. Keshu (g): 18. Khilakku (g): 71. Khumbankhaltash: 72. Kikkia (g): 75, 114. ‘King of Battle’ epic: 44. King-lists: see Assyrian, Sumerian. Kipshuna (g): 66. Kirbit (g): 70. Kish (g): 34-36, 39, 42, 43, 48, 49, 50, 51. Kleisthenes: 159. Kleomenes: 135, 141, 145, 150, 152, 153, 160, 164. Kolchis (g): 138, 158. Korinth/Korinthians: 135, 137, 145, 152. Korkyra (g): 159. Kramer, Samuel Noah: 34. Krokodilopolis (g): 138.

INDEX

Kroton (g): 148. Ktesias: 139. Q.Kubaba: 48, 49, 51. Kupanta-karunta: 96. Kypselos: 156. Kyzikos (g): 138. L Lade (g): 147, 149. Lagash (g): 36-40, 42, 51, 57. Larak (g): 48. Larsa (g): 48. Lebanon (g): 23, 63. Leutykidas: 150, 153, 160. Libya (g): 149, 153, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162. Liluri (d): 84. Livy: 106, 133, 171. Luckenbill, Daniel: 59. Lugal-banda: 49. Lugal-shaengur: 39. Lugal-zagezi: 40, 42, 43. Lukian: 129, 166. Lydia (g): 97, 155, 156, 162. Lygdamis: 129, 133. M Magan (g): 43. Malgia (g): 53. Mammali: 88. Manapa-tarhunta: 94. Mannaeans: 71. Marathon (g): 129, 134, 141, 156, 164. Marduk (d): 57, 58, 107. Margiana (g): 102, 103. Mari (g): 42, 43, 48, 49, 51, 53, 54, 55, 59, 63, 76, 79, 125. Martiya: 103. Mebaragesi: 49, 51. Medes/Media: 59, 103, 133, 149, 155. Megabatus: 149. Megiddo (g): 21, 23, 26-27, 125. Meluhha (g): 43, 45. Memphis (g): 70. Merodach-balodan: 55. Mesalim: 34, 36, 37, 39, 40, 51. Mesopotamia: Early Dynastic: 34-40. — Dynasty of Agade: 40-46. — royal titles: 34. — council of the gods: 37.

185

— achievements: 168. — see also Babylon. Merenre: 7. Mezulla (d): 84, 91. Michal: 111, 118. Miletos (g): 133, 149, 156, 159. Milidia (g): 65. Miltiades: 147. Minos: 136, 155. Mitanni: 22, 26, 27, 59, 81, 85, 86, 88, 91. Murattash (g): 64. Mursili II: 81, 86, 89-96. Mushku: 64. Musri (g): 65. Muwatti: 93. N Nabataeans: 72. Nabu-bel-shamat: 72. Nairi (g): 65, 66. Naram-Suen: 45-46, 62. Nathan: 121. Nawanza: 93. Naxos (g): 149, 154. Nebuchadnezzar: 102, 115. Necho: 70, 147. Negeb (g): 125. Nergal (d): 63. Neterimu: 11. Nile: 10, 12, 13, 145, 146, 157, 162. Nineveh (g): 44, 56, 59, 136, 168. Ningirsu (d): 36-40. Ninhursag (d): 38, 39. Ninurta (d): 45, 64. Ninurta-apli-ekur: 76, 78, 79. Nippur (g): 43, 45, 51. Niqmepa: 96. Nur-dagan: 44. O Ocean: 157. omens: 31-32, 58. oracles: 143, 146, 152, 164-165. See also Delphi, Dodona. oral sources: 123. Oasis: 157. Orion: 145. Oroites: 153. Otanes: 101, 141, 165.

186

INDEX

P Pala (g): 90, 93. ‘Palermo Stone’: 8-13. Palmyra (g): 164. Panionios: 152. Papremis (g): 138, 158. Paros (g): 153. Parthia (g): 102. Pelasgians: 160, 162. Peneus (g): 146. Perdikkas: 163. Pelusium (g): 145. Persia/Persians: 97-104, 133-136, 140-143, 145-156, 158-161, 162, 164-166. — strategy: 133. — expansionism: 153. — ‘Persian debate’: 158. — army: 159. Pheretime: 152. Philistines: 111, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 123, 124, 127. Phoenicians: 107, 137, 140, 146, 159, 161, 162. Phokis (g): 146, 150, 160. Photios: 166. Potidaia (g): 152. Phraortes: 99, 102, 155. Phrygia (g): 161. Phrynikos: 143. Pindar: 142. Piopi: 6, 7. Pixodaros: 159. plague: 86, 89, 91, 93, 111, 112, 130. Plataia (g): 142, 151, 154, 157, 159. Plutarch: 129, 130, 166. Polybios: 158. Polykrates: 135, 146, 147, 148, 152, 153, 159, 164. Purushanda (g): 44. Puzur-ashur: 78. Puzur-Sin: 77. pyramids: 1, 8, 147-155, 168. ‘Pyramid Texts’: 6. Q Qedem: 18. Qumanu: 65. R ‘Rassam Cylinder’: 69.

Retenu (g): 16, 18, 21. Rezon: 110. Rimsin: 53, 56. S Salamis (g): 129, 145, 147, 150, 156, 159, 160, 164. Salmoxis: 148. Samaria (g): 62. Samos (g): 129, 133, 135, 137, 141, 149, 154, 156. Samuel: 107, 110, 111, 112, 113, 117, 118, 122, 125, 126. Sappho: 143. Saraush (g): 64. Sardis (g): 150, 160. Sargon of Agade: 40-45, 49, 50, 52, 57, 84. Sargon of Assyria: 42, 55, 59, 60, 61, 62. Sattagydia (g): 102. Saul: 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127. Scythia (g): 102, 134, 138, 141, 145, 146, 147, 149, 153, 156, 157, 159, 161, 162. Sennacherib: 59, 60, 61, 72. Senwosret I: 14, 15, 16-20. — III (‘Sesostris’): 135, 136, 145, 158. Shalmaneser I: 78. — III: 80. — V: 55, 62. Shamash (d): 54, 63, 64. Shamash-shamukin: 71-72. Shamsi-Adad I: 60, 76-77, 78. — IV: 76. — V: 62, 76. Sharri-kusuh: 93. Sheba, queen of: 114, 123. Shubaru (g): 64. Shubat-Enlil (g): 63. Shuruppak (g): 48. Siamun: 122. Sigynnai: 148, 160. ‘Silver Mountans’ (g): 43. Simonides: 142. Sin/Suen (d): 64. Sinuhe: 16-20. Sippar (g): 48. Skylax: 143. Skyllias: 146. Smerdis: 101-102, 147.

INDEX

Sneferu: 11, 12. Solomon: 107, 110, 114, 115, 116, 117, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 127, 128. Solon: 143, 153, 157, 158. Sophanes: 146. Sophokles: 130. Sparta: 135, 137, 139, 141, 142, 143, 146, 147, 150, 155, 158, 159, 161, 165. ‘Stele of the Vultures’: 36, 38. Strabo: 157. Subarea (g): 45. ‘Sumerian king-list’: 42, 46-52, 57, 79. Sun goddess of Arinna (d): 83, 84, 85, 90, 91, 93, 95, 107. Suppiluliuma I: 86-89, 93, 96. Sybaris (g): 148, 159. Syria: 83, 84, 85, 107, 138. T Tabal (g): 71. Taharqa: 69, 70. Tamar: 116. Tandae: 70. Tandamane: 70. Tarhunta (d): 93. Tegiai: 145. Telepinu: 88, 93. ‘Telepinu decree’: 82. Terqa (g): 76. Teumann: 71. Thales: 146. Thasos (g): 137. Thebes (g) in Egypt: 70, 137, 138, 140. — (g) in Greece: 153. Themistokles: 142, 150, 152. Thermopylai (g): 137, 142, 146. Thersandros: 142, 143. Thessaly (g): 137, 160. Thrace (g): 149, 154, 159, 161. Thucydides: 106, 107, 129, 133, 135, 136, 143, 144, 145, 148, 151, 153, 156, 159, 171. Thurioi (g): 129, 130. Thutmose III: 21-28, 85. Tiglath-Pileser I: 59, 64-68, 76, 79. — III: 76. Tikulti-ninurta I: 78, 80. Tjanany: 24. Tomyris: 153. topoi: 29, 94.

187

Troy: 137, 151, 152, 155 (see also Helen). Tuddiya: 77. Tudhaliya II/III: 86. — (brother of Suppiluliuma): 86. Tutankhamun: 89. Tuttul (g): 43. Tymnas: 143. Tyras (Dniester) (g): 138, 139. Tyre (g): 114, 138, 155. U Uaite: 142-143. Ualli: 71. Ugarit (g): 96, 118, 125. Umma (g): 36-40. ‘Upper and Lower Sea’: 42, 65, 66. Ur (g): 39, 42, 48, 51. Ur III: 46, 48, 52, 75, 79. Urartu (g): 73. Urlumma: 37, 38, 40. Urnanshe: 36. Uruk (g): 34-36, 42, 48, 49, 51. Urukagina: 40. Urzubaba: 48. Ush: 36, 37, 40. Ushpiya: 75. Utnapishtim: 48. Utuhegal: 49, 52. W Wasukanni (g): 88. Weni: 7-8. Woolley, Leonard: 34, 51. X Xerxes (Khshayarsha): 134, 135, 146, 147, 148, 150, 152, 153, 155, 156, 157, 159, 160, 165. Y Yhwh: 109. Z Zadok: 112. Zakynthos (g): 137. Zankle (g): 143. Ziklag (g): 125. Zinnana: 89. Zohabites: 124. Zopyros: 141.

ORIENTALIA LOVANIENSIA ANALECTA 1. E. LIPIŃSKI, Studies in Aramaic Inscriptions and Onomastics I. 2. J. QUAEGEBEUR, Le dieu égyptien Shaï dans la religion et l’onomastique. 3. P.H.L. EGGERMONT, Alexander’s Campaigns in Sind and Baluchistan and the Siege of the Brahmin Town of Harmatelia. 4. W.M. CALLEWAERT, The Sarvangī of the Dadupanthī Rajab. 5. E. LIPIŃSKI (ed.), State and Temple Economy in the Ancient Near East I. 6. E. LIPIŃSKI (ed.), State and Temple Economy in the Ancient Near East II. 7. M.-C. DE GRAEVE, The Ships of the Ancient Near East (c. 2000-500 B.C.). 8. W.M. CALLEWAERT (ed.), Early Hindī Devotional Literature in Current Research. 9. F.L. DAMEN, Crisis and Religious Renewal in the Brahmo Samaj Movement (1860-1884). 10. R.Y. EBIED, A. VAN ROEY, L.R. WICKHAM, Peter of Callinicum, Anti-Tritheist Dossier. 11. A. RAMMANT-PEETERS, Les pyramidions égyptiens du Nouvel Empire. 12. S. SCHEERS (ed.), Studia Paulo Naster Oblata I. Numismatica Antiqua. 13. J. QUAEGEBEUR (ed.), Studia Paulo Naster Oblata II. Orientalia Antiqua. 14. E. PLATTI, Yahya ibn ῾Adī, théologien chrétien et philosophe arabe. 15. E. GUBEL, E. LIPIŃSKI, B. SERVAIS-SOYEZ (eds.), Studia Phoenicia I-II. 16. W. SKALMOWSKI, A. VAN TONGERLOO (eds.), Middle Iranian Studies. 17. M. VAN MOL, Handboek Modern Arabisch. 18. C. LAGA, J.A. MUNITIZ, L. VAN ROMPAY (eds.), After Chalcedon. Studies in Theology and Church History. 19. E. LIPIŃSKI (ed.), The Land of Israel: Cross-Roads of Civilizations. 20. S. WACHSMANN, Aegeans in the Theban Tombs. 21. K. VAN LERBERGHE, Old Babylonian Legal and Administrative Texts from Philadelphia. 22. E. LIPIŃSKI (ed.), Phoenicia and the East Mediterranean in the First Millennium B.C. 23. M. HELTZER, E. LIPIŃSKI (eds.), Society and Economy in the Eastern Mediterranean (1500-1000 B.C.). 24. M. VAN DE MIEROOP, Crafts in the Early Isin Period: a Study of the Isin Craft Archive from the Reigns of Išbi-Erra and Šu-Ilišu. 25. G. POLLET (ed.), India and the Ancient World. History, Trade and Culture before A.D. 650. 26. E. LIPIŃSKI (ed.), Carthago. 27. E. VERREET, Modi Ugaritici. Eine morpho-syntaktische Abhandlung über das Modalsystem im Ugaritischen. 28. R. ZADOK, The Pre-Hellenistic Israelite Anthroponomy and Prosopography. 29. W. CALLEWAERT, M. LATH, The Hindī Songs of Namdev. 30. A. SHISHA-HALEVY, Coptic Grammatical Chrestomathy. 31. N. BAUM, Arbres et arbustes de l’Égypte ancienne. 32. J.-M. KRUCHTEN, Les Annales des prêtres de Karnak (XXIe-XXIIIe dynasties) et autres textes relatifs à l’initation des prêtres d’Amon. 33. H. DEVIJVER, E. LIPIŃSKI (eds.), Punic Wars. 34. E. VASSILIKA, Ptolemaic Philae. 35. A. GHAITH, La Pensée Religieuse chez Gubrân Halil Gubrân et Mihâ᾿îl Nu῾ayma. 36. N. BEAUX, Le Cabinet de curiosités de Thoutmosis III. 37. G. POLLET, P. EGGERMONT, G. VAN DAMME, Corpus Topographicum Indiae Antiquae. Part II: Archaeological Sites. 38. S.-A. NAGUIB, Le Clergé féminin d’Amon thébain à la 21e dynastie. 39. U. VERHOEVEN, E. GRAEFE (eds.), Religion und Philosophie im Alten Ägypten. Festgabe für Philippe Derchain zu seinem 65. Geburtstag. 40. A.R. GEORGE, Babylonian Topographical Texts. 41. A. SCHOORS, The Preacher Sought to Find Pleasing Words. A Study of the Language of Qohelet. Part I: Grammatical Features.

42. G. REININK, H.E.J. VAN STIPHOUT (eds.), Dispute Poems and Dialogues in the Ancient and Mediaeval Near East. 43. C. TRAUNECKER, Coptos. Hommes et dieux sur le parvis de Geb. 44. E. LIPIŃSKI (ed.), Phoenicia and the Bible. 45. L. ISEBAERT (ed.), Studia Etymologica Indoeuropaea Memoriae A.J. Van Windekens dicata. 46. F. BRIQUEL-CHATONNET, Les relations entre les cités de la côte phénicienne et les royaumes d’Israël et de Juda. 47. W.J. VAN BEKKUM, A Hebrew Alexander Romance according to MS London, Jews’ College no. 145. 48. W. SKALMOWSKI, A. VAN TONGERLOO (eds.), Medioiranica. 49. L. LAUWERS, Igor’-Severjanin, His Life and Work — The Formal Aspects of His Poetry. 50. R.L. VOS, The Apis Embalming Ritual. P. Vindob. 3873. 51. F. LABRIQUE, Stylistique et Théologie à Edfou. Le rituel de l’offrande de la campagne: étude de la composition. 52. F. DE JONG (ed.), Miscellanea Arabica et Islamica. 53. G. BREYER, Etruskisches Sprachgut im Lateinischen unter Ausschluß des spezifisch onomastischen Bereiches. 54. P.H.L. EGGERMONT, Alexander’s Campaign in Southern Punjab. 55. J. QUAEGEBEUR (ed.), Ritual and Sacrifice in the Ancient Near East. 56. A. VAN ROEY, P. ALLEN, Monophysite Texts of the Sixth Century. 57. E. LIPIŃSKI, Studies in Aramaic Inscriptions and Onomastics II. 58. F.R. HERBIN, Le livre de parcourir l’éternité. 59. K. GEUS, Prosopographie der literarisch bezeugten Karthager. 60. A. SCHOORS, P. VAN DEUN (eds.), Philohistôr. Miscellanea in honorem Caroli Laga septuagenarii. 61. M. KRAUSE, S. GIVERSEN, P. NAGEL (eds.), Coptology. Past, Present and Future. Studies in Honour of R. Kasser. 62. C. LEITZ, Altägyptische Sternuhren. 63. J.J. CLÈRE, Les Chauves d’Hathor. 64. E. LIPIŃSKI, Dieux et déesses de l’univers phénicien et punique. 65. K. VAN LERBERGHE, A. SCHOORS (eds.), Immigration and Emigration within the Ancient Near East. Festschrift E. Lipiński. 66. G. POLLET (ed.), Indian Epic Values. Ramayana and its impact. 67. D. DE SMET, La quiétude de l’Intellect. Néoplatonisme et gnose ismaélienne dans l’œuvre de Hamîd ad-Dîn al-Kirmânî (Xe-XIe s.). 68. M.L. FOLMER, The Aramaic Language in the Achaemenid Period. A Study in Linguistic Variation. 69. S. IKRAM, Choice Cuts: Meat Production in Ancient Egypt. 70. H. WILLEMS, The Coffin of Heqata (Cairo JdE 36418). A Case Study of Egyptian Funerary Culture of the Early Middle Kingdom. 71. C. EDER, Die Ägyptischen Motive in der Glyptik des östlichen Mittelmeerraumes zu Anfang des 2. Jts. v. Chr. 72. J. THIRY, Le Sahara libyen dans l’Afrique du Nord médiévale. 73. U. VERMEULEN, D. DE SMET (eds.), Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras I. 74. P. ARÈNES, La déesse sGrol-Ma (Tara). Recherches sur la nature et le statut d’une divinité du bouddhisme tibétain. 75. K. CIGGAAR, A. DAVIDS, H. TEULE (eds.), East and West in the Crusader States. Context – Contacts – Confrontations I. 76. M. BROZE, Mythe et Roman en Égypte ancienne. Les Aventures d’Horus et Seth dans le papyrus Chester Beatty I. 77. L. DEPUYDT, Civil Calendar and Lunar Calendar in Ancient Egypt. 78. P. WILSON, A Ptolemaic Lexikon. A Lexicographical Study of the Texts in the Temple of Edfu.

79. A. HASNAWI, A. ELAMRANI, M. JAMAL, M. AOUAD (eds.), Perspectives arabes et médiévales sur la tradition scientifique et philosophique grecque. 80. E. LIPIŃSKI, Semitic Languages: Outline of a Comparative Grammar. 81. S. CAUVILLE, Dendara I. Traduction. 82. C. EYRE (ed.), Proceedings of the Seventh International Congress of Egyptologists. 83. U. VERMEULEN, D. DE SMET (eds.), Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras II. 84-85. W. CLARYSSE, A. SCHOORS, H. WILLEMS (eds.), Egyptian Religion. The Last Thousand Years. 86. U. VERMEULEN, J.M. VAN REETH (eds.), Law, Christianity and Modernism in Islamic Society. 87. U. VERMEULEN, D. DE SMET (eds.), Philosophy and Arts in the Islamic World. 88. S. CAUVILLE, Dendara II. Traduction. 89. G.J. REININK, A.C. KLUGKIST (eds.), After Bardaisan. Studies on Continuity and Change in Syriac Christianity in Honour of Professor Han J.W. Drijvers. 90. C.R. KRAHMALKOV, Phoenician-Punic Dictionary. 91. M. TAHTAH, Entre pragmatisme, réformisme et modernisme. Le rôle politicoreligieux des Khattabi dans le Rif (Maroc) jusqu’à 1926. 92. K. CIGGAAR, H. TEULE (eds.), East and West in the Crusader States. Context – Contacts – Confrontations II. 93. A.C.J. VERHEIJ, Bits, Bytes, and Binyanim. A Quantitative Study of Verbal Lexeme Formations in the Hebrew Bible. 94. W.M. CALLEWAERT, D. TAILLIEU, F. LALEMAN, A Descriptive Bibliography of Allama Muhammad Iqbal (1877-1938). 95. S. CAUVILLE, Dendara III. Traduction. 96. K. VAN LERBERGHE, G. VOET (eds.), Languages and Cultures in Contact: At the Crossroads of Civilizations in the Syro-Mesopotamian Realm. 97. A. CABROL, Les voies processionnelles de Thèbes. 98. J. PATRICH (ed.), The Sabaite Heritage in the Orthodox Church from the Fifth Century to the Present. Monastic Life, Liturgy, Theology, Literature, Art, Archaeology. 99. U.VERHOEVEN, Untersuchungen zur späthieratischen Buchschrift. 100. E. LIPIŃSKI, The Aramaeans: Their Ancient History, Culture, Religion. 101. S. CAUVILLE, Dendara IV. Traduction. 102. U. VERMEULEN, J. VAN STEENBERGEN (eds.), Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras III. 103. H. WILLEMS (ed.), Social Aspects of Funerary Culture in the Egyptian Old and Middle Kingdoms. 104. K. GEUS, K. ZIMMERMANN (eds.), Punica – Libyca – Ptolemaica. Festschrift für Werner Huß, zum 65. Geburtstag dargebracht von Schülern, Freunden und Kollegen. 105. S. CAUVILLE, Dendara. Les fêtes d’Hathor. 106. R. PREYS, Les complexes de la demeure du sistre et du trône de Rê. Théologie et décoration dans le temple d’Hathor à Dendera. 107. A. BLASIUS, B.U. SCHIPPER (eds.), Apokalyptik und Ägypten. Eine kritische Analyse der relevanten Texte aus dem griechisch-römischen Ägypten. 108. S. LEDER (ed.), Studies in Arabic and Islam. 109. A. GODDEERIS, Economy and Society in Northern Babylonia in the Early Old Babylonian Period (ca. 2000-1800 BC). 110. C. LEITZ (ed.), Lexikon der ägyptischen Götter und Götterbezeichnungen, Band I. 111. C. LEITZ (ed.), Lexikon der ägyptischen Götter und Götterbezeichnungen, Band II. 112. C. LEITZ (ed.), Lexikon der ägyptischen Götter und Götterbezeichnungen, Band III. 113. C. LEITZ (ed.), Lexikon der ägyptischen Götter und Götterbezeichnungen, Band IV. 114. C. LEITZ (ed.), Lexikon der ägyptischen Götter und Götterbezeichnungen, Band V. 115. C. LEITZ (ed.), Lexikon der ägyptischen Götter und Götterbezeichnungen, Band VI. 116. C. LEITZ (ed.), Lexikon der ägyptischen Götter und Götterbezeichnungen, Band VII. 117. M. VAN MOL, Variation in Modern Standard Arabic in Radio News Broadcasts.

118. M.F.J. BAASTEN, W.T. VAN PEURSEN (eds.), Hamlet on a Hill. Semitic and Greek Studies Presented to Professor T. Muraoka on the Occasion of his Sixty-Fifth Birthday. 119. O.E. KAPER, The Egyptian God Tutu. A Study of the Sphinx-God and Master of Demons with a Corpus of Monuments. 120. E. WARDINI, Lebanese Place-Names (Mount Lebanon and North Lebanon). 121. J. VAN DER VLIET, Catalogue of the Coptic Inscriptions in the Sudan National Museum at Khartoum (I. Khartoum Copt.). 122. A. ŁAJTAR, Catalogue of the Greek Inscriptions in the Sudan National Museum at Khartoum (I. Khartoum Greek). 123. H. NIEHR, Ba῾alšamem. Studien zu Herkunft, Geschichte und Rezeptionsgeschichte eines phönizischen Gottes. 124. H. WILLEMS, F. COPPENS, M. DE MEYER, P. DILS, The Temple of Shanhûr. Volume I: The Sanctuary, The Wabet, and the Gates of the Central Hall and the Great Vestibule (1-98). 125. K. CIGGAAR, H.G.B. TEULE (eds.), East and West in the Crusader States. Context – Contacts – Confrontations III. 126. T. SOLDATJENKOVA, E. WAEGEMANS (eds.), For East is East. Liber Amicorum Wojciech Skalmowski. 127. E. LIPIŃSKI, Itineraria Phoenicia. 128. D. BUDDE, S. SANDRI, U. VERHOEVEN (eds.), Kindgötter im Ägypten der griechischrömischen Zeit. Zeugnisse aus Stadt und Tempel als Spiegel des Interkulturellen Kontakts. 129. C. LEITZ (ed.), Lexikon der ägyptischen Götter und Götterbezeichnungen, Band VIII. 130. E.J. VAN DER STEEN, Tribes and Territories in Transition. 131. S. CAUVILLE, Dendara V-VI. Traduction. Les cryptes du temple d’Hathor. 132. S. CAUVILLE, Dendara V-VI. Index phraséologique. Les cryptes du temple d’Hathor. 133. M. IMMERZEEL, J. VAN DER VLIET, M. KERSTEN, C. VAN ZOEST (eds.), Coptic Studies on the Threshold of a New Millennium. Proceedings of the Seventh International Congress of Coptic Studies. Leiden, August 27 - September 2, 2000. 134. J.J. VAN GINKEL, H.L. MURRE-VAN DEN BERG, T.M. VAN LINT (eds.), Redefining Christian Identity. Cultural Interaction in the Middle East since the Rise of Islam. 135. J. MONTGOMERY (ed.), ‘Abbasid Studies. Occasional Papers of the School of ‘Abbasid Studies, Cambridge, 6-10 July 2002. 136. T. BOIY, Late Achaemenid and Hellenistic Babylon. 137. B. JANSSENS, B. ROOSEN, P. VAN DEUN (eds.), Philomathestatos. Studies in Greek Patristic and Byzantine Texts Presented to Jacques Noret for his Sixty-Fifth Birthday. 138. S. HENDRICKX, R.F. FRIEDMAN, K.M. CIAŁOWICZ, M. CHŁODNICKI (eds.), Egypt at its Origins. Studies in Memory of Barbara Adams. 139. R. ARNZEN, J. THIELMANN (eds.), Words, Texts and Concepts Cruising the Mediterranean Sea. Studies on the Sources, Contents and Influences of Islamic Civilization and Arabic Philosophy and Science. 140. U. VERMEULEN, J. VAN STEENBERGEN (eds.), Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras IV. 141. H.T. DAVIES, Yusuf al-irbīnī’s Kitab Hazz al-Quhuf bi-arh Qasīd Abī aduf (“Brains Confounded by the Ode of Abu aduf Expounded”). Volume I: Arabic text. 142. P. VAN NUFFELEN, Un héritage de paix et de piété. Étude sur les histoires ecclésiastiques de Socrate et de Sozomène. 143. A. SCHOORS, The Preacher Sought to Find Pleasing Words. A Study of the Language of Qoheleth. Part II: Vocabulary. 144. M.E. STONE, Apocrypha, Pseudepigrapha and Armenian Studies. Collected Papers: Volume 1. 145. M.E. STONE, Apocrypha, Pseudepigrapha and Armenian Studies. Collected Papers: Volume 2.

146. M. CACOUROS, M.-H. CONGOURDEAU (eds.), Philosophie et sciences à Byzance de 1204 à 1453. Les textes, les doctrines et leur transmission. 147. K. CIGGAAR, M. METCALF (eds.), East and West in the Medieval Eastern Mediterranean I. 148. B. MICHALAK-PIKULSKA, A. PIKULSKI (eds.), Authority, Privacy and Public Order in Islam. 149. E. CZERNY, I. HEIN, H. HUNGER, D. MELMAN, A. SCHWAB (eds.), Timelines. Studies in Honour of Manfred Bietak. 150. J.-Cl. GOYON, C. CARDIN (eds.), Proceedings of the Ninth International Congress of Egyptologists. Actes du neuvième congrès international des Égyptologues. Grenoble, 6-12 septembre 2004. 151. S. SANDRI, Har-pa-chered (Harpokrates). Die Genese eines ägyptischen Götterkindes. 152. J.E. MONTGOMERY (ed.), Arabic Theology, Arabic Philosophy. From the Many to the One: Essays in Celebration of Richard M. Frank. 153. E. LIPIŃSKI, On the Skirts of Canaan in the Iron Age. Historical and Topographical Researches. 154. M. MINAS-NERPEL, Der Gott Chepri. Untersuchungen zu Schriftzeugnissen und ikonographischen Quellen vom Alten Reich bis in griechisch-römische Zeit. 155. H. WILLEMS, Dayr al-Barsha Volume I. The Rock Tombs of Djehutinakht (No. 17K74/1), Khnumnakht (No. 17K74/2), and Iha (No. 17K74/3). With an Essay on the History and Nature of Nomarchal Rule in the Early Middle Kingdom. 156. J. BRETSCHNEIDER, J. DRIESSEN, K. VAN LERBERGHE (eds.), Power and Architecture. Monumental Public Architecture in the Bronze Age Near East and Aegean. 157. A. CAMPLANI, G. FILORAMO (eds.), Foundations of Power and Conflicts of Authority in Late Antique Monasticism. 158. J. TAVERNIER, Iranica in the Achaemenid Period (ca. 550-330 B.C.). Lexicon of Old Iranian Proper Names and Loanwords, Attested in Non-Iranian Texts. 159. P. KOUSOULIS, K. MAGLIVERAS (eds.), Moving Across Borders. Foreign Relations, Religion and Cultural Interactions in the Ancient Mediterranean. 160. A. SHISHA-HALEVY, Topics in Coptic Syntax: Structural Studies in the Bohairic Dialect. 161. B. LURSON, Osiris, Ramsès, Thot et le Nil. Les chapelles secondaires des temples de Derr et Ouadi es-Seboua. 162. G. DEL OLMO LETE (ed.), Mythologie et Religion des Sémites occidentaux. 163. N. BOSSON, A. BOUD’HORS (eds.), Actes du huitième congrès international d’études coptes. Paris, 28 juin - 3 juillet 2004. 164. A. BERLEJUNG, P. VAN HECKE (eds.), The Language of Qohelet in Its Context. Essays in Honour of Prof. A. Schoors on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday. 165. A.G.C. SAVVIDES, Byzantino-Normannica. The Norman Capture of Italy and the First Two Invasions in Byzantium. 166. H.T. DAVIES, Yusuf al-irbīnī’s Brains Confounded by the Ode of Abu aduf Expounded (Kitab Hazz al-Quhuf bi-arh Qasīd Abī aduf). Volume II: English translation, introduction and notes. 167. S. ARGUILLÈRE, Profusion de la vaste sphère. Klong-chen rab-’byams (Tibet, 1308-1364). Sa vie, son œuvre, sa doctrine. 168. D. DE SMET, Les Épîtres sacrées des Druzes. Rasa᾿il al-Hikma. Volumes 1 et 2. 169. U. VERMEULEN, K. D’HULSTER (eds.), Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras V. 170. W.J. VAN BEKKUM, J.W. DRIJVERS, A.C. KLUGKIST (eds.), Syriac Polemics. Studies in Honour of Gerrit Jan Reinink. 171. K. D’HULSTER, J. VAN STEENBERGEN (eds.), Continuity and Change in the Realms of Islam. Studies in Honour of Professor Urbain Vermeulen. 172. B. MIDANT-REYNES, Y. TRISTANT, J. ROWLAND, S. HENDRICKX (eds.), Egypt at its Origins 2.

173. J.H.F. DIJKSTRA, Philae and the End of Ancient Egyptian Religion. A Regional Study of Religious Transformation (298-642 CE). 174. I. UYTTERHOEVEN, Hawara in the Graeco-Roman Period. Life and Death in a Fayum Village. 175. P. KOUSOULIS (ed.), Ancient Egyptian Demonology. Studies on the Boundaries between the Demonic and the Divine in Egyptian Magic. 176. A. KARAHAN, Byzantine Holy Images – Transcendence and Immanence. The Theological Background of the Iconography and Aesthetics of the Chora Church. 177. J. NAWAS (ed.), ‘Abbasid Studies II. Occasional Papers of the School of ‘Abbasid Studies, Leuven, 28 June - 1 July 2004. 178. S. CAUVILLE, Dendara. Le temple d’Isis. Volume I: Traduction. 179. S. CAUVILLE, Dendara. Le temple d’Isis. Volume II: Analyse à la lumière du temple d’Hathor. 180. M. ZITMAN, The Necropolis of Assiut. 181. E. LIPIŃSKI, Resheph. A Syro-Canaanite Deity. 182. C. KARLSHAUSEN, L’iconographie de la barque processionnelle en Égypte au Nouvel Empire. 183. U. VERMEULEN, K. D’HULSTER (eds.), Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras VI. 184. M. IMMERZEEL, Identity Puzzles. Medieval Christian Art in Syria and Lebanon. 185. D. MAGEE, J. BOURRIAU, S. QUIRKE (eds.), Sitting Beside Lepsius. Studies in Honour of Jaromir Malek at the Griffith Institute. 186. A. STEVENSON, The Predynastic Egyptian Cemetery of el-Gerzeh. 187. D. BUMAZHNOV, E. GRYPEOU, T.B. SAILORS, A. TOEPEL (eds.), Bibel, Byzanz und Christlicher Orient. Festschrift für Stephen Gerö zum 65. Geburtstag. 188. J. ELAYI, A.G. ELAYI, The Coinage of the Phoenician City of Tyre in the Persian Period (5th-4th Century BCE). 189. F. HAGEN, J. JOHNSTON, W. MONKHOUSE, K. PIQUETTE, J. TAIT, M. WORTHINGTON (eds.), Narratives of Egypt and the Ancient Near East. Literary and Linguistic Approaches. 190. V. VAN DER STEDE, Les pratiques de stockage au Proche-Orient ancien du Natoufien à la première moitié du troisième millénaire avant notre ère. 191. W. CLAES, H. DE MEULENAERE, S. HENDRICKX (eds.), Elkab and Beyond. Studies in Honour of Luc Limme. 192. M. MARÉE (ed.), The Second Intermediate Period (Thirteenth-Seventeenth Dynasties). Current Research, Future Prospects. 193. I. JACOBS, Aesthetic Maintenance of Civic Space. The ‘Classical’ City from the 4th to the 7th c. AD. 194. H. KNUF, C. LEITZ, D. VON RECKLINGHAUSEN (eds.), Honi soit qui mal y pense. Studien zum pharaonischen, griechisch-römischen und spätantiken Ägypten zu Ehren von Heinz-Josef Thissen. 195. I. REGULSKI, A Palaeographic Study of Early Writing in Egypt. 196. S. CAUVILLE, Dendara XIII. Traduction. Le pronaos du temple d’Hathor: Façade et colonnes. 197. M. KUHN, Koptische liturgische Melodien. Die Relation zwischen Text und Musik in der koptischen Psalmodia. 198. B. SNELDERS, Identity and Christian-Muslim Interaction. Medieval Art of the Syrian Orthodox from the Mosul Area. 199. K. CIGGAAR, V. VAN AALST (eds.), East and West in the Medieval Eastern Mediterranean II. 200. E. LIPIŃSKI, Studies in Aramaic Inscriptions and Onomastics III. 201. S. CAUVILLE, Dendara XIV. Traduction. Le pronaos du temple d’Hathor: Parois intérieures. 202. K. DUISTERMAAT, I. REGULSKI (eds.), Intercultural Contacts in the Ancient Mediterranean. 203. F.S. JONES, Pseudoclementina Elchasaiticaque inter Judaeochristiana. Collected Studies.

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